Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (36 page)

I am flying.

My way is whirlwind and thunder.

And tonight, I will storm a monastery.

Tonight, I will howl like a tempest.

Tonight my sword will flash like lightning.

The Old Testament billows in my soul again and, tonight, anyone who stands in my way will die.

With many blood
.

My horse froths and blows and, after three miles, breaks its gallop. I allow a respite, and we trot until the southern gate of St. Edmund’s Bury rises like a monolith in the distance. Moonlight paints the edges of the gatehouse silver. Torches flickering on either side of the portcullis add an orange hue. Just past that gate is a road that juts, like a dagger blade, toward the monastery. I know a thousand plaguers gather around the walls of the abbey. They are all that stands between Sir Gerald and my Elizabeth.

I wonder where his forces are. Probably locked in fortified buildings, watching the roads and waiting to kill me. The plaguers were once my enemies, and Gerald my ally. But I led an army of plaguers onto an English battlefield, and everything changed.

Champion of the Dead
.

It is terrifying how quickly things change.

I tap the reins and pat my horse’s neck until he comes to a restless halt. The others gather at my side. I wheel my horse so the others can see my face.

 “Once we’re in, we will circle around to the tunnel, find my wife, and go home.” Fire courses through my veins as I say it. We are a half-mile from Elizabeth, and her cure hangs from my neck. “If there are guards at the gate, I will speak with them. The rest of you will keep your mouths shut. Is that understood?” I stare at Tristan. He sees the resolve in my eyes and swallows whatever comment he was going to make. Frederico looks at me with squinted eyes. I place a finger on my lips. “No speako.
Silenzio
.”

He places a finger over his own lips and nods. “No speako.”

We ride at a walking pace toward the town. Spires and towers from the monastery glitter in the moonlight. The portcullis barring my way is the very gate to Heaven, because my eternal bliss lies just beyond. I wonder if there is an earthly Saint Peter guarding this gate.

We come within a dozen yards of the walls before a voice calls out.

“Stop and identify yourselves!”

 “I am Sir John of Meddestane,” I shout. “Open the bloody gates.”

My Saint Peter steps from the gatehouse and stands in the arch. Flickering shadows from the steel portcullis carve his face into squares. He has a jutting chin that makes his profile look like a crescent moon. A baggy suit of mail hangs from his thin frame. “I’ll need you to speak the words, sir.”

The skin around my neck grows warm. He wants words. Of course they would ask for verification. I am a fool for thinking they would allow us in simply because we wear the three cocks.

“The words?”

“Yes, sir, the words. We can’t open the gates without them. That comes straight from the king.”

“Which king?” Tristan asks.

“King Gerald, of course.”

A few of the Genoese chant together. “Iffa you hava cannon pointed atta Gerald, do not—”

Tristan waves a hand wildly at them. “No, no. We don’t need that now. Quiet. No speako.”

I stare at Tristan and he pretends not to notice.

The guard either did not understand the Italians, or does not care about them. He sets his gaze on me. “The words, sir?”

Sweat beads on my scalp. “The words.” I clear my throat. What words would Sir Gerald use to safeguard his camp? I think about Gerald. Who he is. What he stands for. You never truly know someone until they become your enemy. And then you learn far more than you should.

“The words,” I repeat.

The watchman scratches at his enormous chin. If I give the wrong phrase, the guards will sound the alert. There will be no second chance.

Moonlight battles the wavering glow of torches upon the stones. Another soldier peers out of the gatehouse. They are growing suspicious. Richard’s army marches closer with each breath and I am thwarted by words. I am pinned between anvil and smith’s hammer, trapped between two madmen, and not a single idea comes to—

In these times of madness, only madness will save us
.

The words flare in my mind like a burning hedge.

What other words could there be?

I open my mouth, but Morgan speaks first.

“Death to Sir Edward of Bodiam.”

“Morgan, no!”

But it is too late. Saint Peter has judged me, and I have been found wanting. The guard motions into the gatehouse.

I send a withering glance toward Morgan, look back at the portcullis and snarl. The Old Testament rises like brimstone in my heart. I will pull down the gates of Heaven if I must. I will tear the bars away, one at a time. I will kill every man standing between me and my angel. I will—

A sonorous clank rings out from the gatehouse. Chains rattle. A wheel clatters rhythmically and the portcullis rises.

My hand tightens on my sword’s grip. Tristan’s horse sidesteps, and blows. The Italians look to one another in confusion.

Morgan does not move. He and his horse are statues before the gate.

Saint Peter steps aside stiffly. “Thank you, Sir John. The words are correct. You may enter.”

Morgan’s expression is as close to a smirk as he ever gets.

“God told me,” he whispers.

I should have trusted him. If there is a man who knows how to get into Heaven, it is Morgan.

Chapter 44

We ride slowly along Southgate Street. My hands tremble against the damp reins. The muscles in my legs twitch with every few steps, and it takes all of my will to keep from driving my one remaining spur into the horse’s flank and galloping toward the hidden entrance. Elizabeth is here. Close enough to hear me if I called. Close enough to see me if she stood upon the curtain walls of the abbey. But Sir Gerald’s men are close, and so I must plod along as if I have no fire in my veins. Every clopping step of my horse upon the cobblestones is a torture, like water drops from a leaky thatch when you cannot sleep.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

It is agony.

“Everyone be calm and silent,” I say it to the others, but I think I am saying it more for me. “Do not draw attention.”

The town is empty. All of the inhabitants are dead. Or gone. Or afflicted. Only the plague lives here, now. The plague, a monk and a nun. Brother Philip and Sister Mildred are the last healthy denizens of St. Edmund’s Bury. They live in the monastery and promised me they would watch over Elizabeth. Thousands of plaguers insulate them from the rest of the town, so I doubt they are even aware that Gerald’s men hold the gates.

Water gurgles in the distance. Southgate Street crosses the River Linnet somewhere ahead, although I do not plan on crossing the river upon this street. I know of a small bridge to the east, on Raingate Street. Saint Botolph’s Bridge. It is small enough that Gerald’s men may not be posted there.

I will say a prayer to Saint Botolph himself as I cross. He is the patron of travelers, and with the journeys I have endured these last weeks, I believe I have earned his attention. Perhaps he will—

A scream shreds the silence, echoing across the town and startling me so much that I fumble at my sword’s hilt. Morgan’s horse spins and bucks. Tristan’s blade rings as he wrenches it free of its sheath. But by the time I pry Saint Giles’s sword out, I realize that I will not need it.

None of the Italians have drawn their weapons. Frederico rubs at the bridge of his nose. Tarviccio covers his eyes with his hands.

“Tarviccio!” I call. “I said silence, didn’t I? I said keep calm, didn’t I? Tristan, tell them what I said.”

“Yes of course,” Tristan replies. “Because while you and Morgan were scouting Richard’s army, I learned Italian.”

I look at Frederico and point to Tarviccio. “He is going to get us all killed.
Morte
.” I add the last word in French in the hopes that it might help.

“
Morte
?” Frederico replies.

“
Morte
.” I loll my head to one side and thrust out my tongue. “
Morte
.”

“Ah!
Morto
.” Frederico holds up his unloaded crossbow and points it at Tarviccio. “Killa de hairless carrot farmer?” He shakes his head. “
Nessuno uccide miei uomini
.”

“I don’t want you to kill him,” I say. “Just forget it. Forget it.”

We keep the horses still and listen for approaching men. A dog barks in the distance. One of the Italians belches quietly. A plaguer howls from somewhere near the abbey. We hear no footsteps. If Gerald’s men are coming, they are coming in silence. But I do not think they will come. A terrified scream in the night has become as common in England as the cry of an owl or the shriek of a hungry fox. I mourn for my kingdom.

We slip our horses between a tiny farm cottage and a boat maker’s workshop just south of the River Linnet, and ride across overgrown fields to Raingate Street. Saint Botolph’s Bridge is as frail looking as I remember. I do not know if it can support horses, but it does not need to. I want to attract as little attention as possible, so from this point, we will walk.

We dismount. I hand my horse’s reins to Francisco, the fat crossbowman, and point to a line of oaks along the river. “Tie them all up and wait here with them.”

Francisco takes the reins and looks to Frederico. The two Italians look at me.

I make expansive gestures in a tying-up-horses fashion. “Tie them up at those trees.” I push my palms downward several times. “And wait here.”

They look at each other. Frederico speaks a few words in Italian, and the fat man pulls the first two horses toward the trees.

The River Linnet joins the Lark a few hundred paces from this spot, and the hidden tunnel is a few hundred paces along the Lark. I search in the darkness for the willow that marks the prior’s secret entrance, but I cannot make it out from here.

Francisco and the other Italians tether our horses to the oaks. Tristan and I don our helms, and Morgan straps on a bascinet he salvaged from the battle at Rougham. The Genoese begin loading their crossbows. They are a clatter of windlasses against wooden stocks, of chains cranking, and grunts.

“Why are they doing that?” I ask Tristan.

“Well, the windlasses are used to pull back the bowstring of their crossbows,” he replies.

“Tristan, I’m not in the proper state for jokes. Why are they loading?”

“I’ll find out.” He turns to Frederico. “Why are you loading?”

Frederico cranks at his windlass and frowns. “
Che
?”

Tristan nods sagely and salutes me. “They are loading because of
che
.”

“God’s teeth, Tristan, I thought you would learn to communicate with them. Have you learned nothing of their language?”

“I have.” He clears his throat and recites in horribly accented Italian. “
inculare tutto.
”

I know I should not ask. “And what’s that mean?”

He holds up a finger. “Bugger it all.”

It takes a frustrating amount of gestures to make Frederico understand that I want Francisco to stay with the horses. The fat Italian seems to protest at first, but Frederico speaks sharply and the complaints stop. They are a disciplined lot, these Genoese.

We leave one of Sir Gerald’s tabards with Francisco, and after teaching him to say, “Death to Sir Edward of Bodiam,” we leave him sitting on a stump. He stares after us, arms folded.

Saint Botolph’s bridge groans as I walk across it. I stop at the middle and say a short prayer to the patron saint of travelers. I ask that he see me safely through to the end of my journey, and I beg him to allow the Syrian cure to heal Elizabeth. I have traveled hundreds of miles, faced seas of afflicted humans and animals, defeated a French army, slayed a dragon, fled from plagued lepers. So many dangers. And yet, I have not known a terror as great as I feel now, a mere three hundred yards from my beloved. The ampoule that holds Elizabeth’s cure feels like a jabbing finger at my throat.

We walk across a field where cattle once grazed. Ranks of curving ribs glint in the moonlight like giant harps, and skulls lie scattered among the high grasses. It is all that remains of the unfortunate cows.

Hooves ring out in the distance, upon the cobbles of the town. We all drop to a knee and wait to be discovered. I stare toward the monastery, but can see only its spires and battlements. A thousand plaguers pounded and scratched at the walls of the abbey last time I was here. I have no doubt they are still there, in the dark.

I wait a long time after the hoof beats fade before rising again and marching toward the Lark. It takes an eternity to cross the field, and another to reach the lone willow. Its branches slump downward, listlessly pointing out the hidden entrance sunk into the side of the riverbank.

I glance toward the monastery. The plaguers are still hidden from me—by darkness and trees and buildings—but I can hear them now. Snarls and howls. They sound like chanting demons from this distance, but I know they are not. Perhaps demons have taken possession of their bodies, but it is sickness that has allowed such possession. And the holy water around my neck can burn the demons out.