Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) (11 page)

“Do you know why God brought this plague upon us?” Matheus asks.

“Horse buggery,” Tristan says.

“No,” Matheus replies.

“Because we have sinned,” Belisencia says. “We have sinned, and this is our punishment.”

Tristan glances at me, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. I respond in the same way. It is an old signal from our days in France. It means action. The guards have lost interest in us. They watch the baptisms. I glance at the outbuilding, only a few dozen paces away, and nod.

We leap to our feet and sprint toward Hugh the Baptist’s temple. Despite our armor, we do it so quickly that no one has time to react until we are halfway there.

The two mercenaries are the first to respond. They run to intercept us. Tristan draws open the door to the outbuilding. I know he wants a hostage, and Hugh is the perfect choice. I stop outside the temple, but I have no time to pivot toward the oncoming soldiers. One of the mercenaries explodes into me and we crash to the clovered grass. The second mercenary pulls at Tristan before he can get inside the temple. Tristan locks his fingers against the doorjamb.

I try rolling to my feet but another soldier throws himself onto me. More soldiers help pull Tristan from the door. All of them tumble to the ground beside me when Tristan’s fingers lose their grip. Armor flashes. Men grunt. Fists swing. Someone’s blood splatters against my cheek. A booted foot knocks a man away from the scrum. I swing with all my fury at an olive-skinned face near me. My blow is hard enough for the jolt to travel all the way up to my elbow.

And then it is over. Spearheads glint before my eyes. Swords are drawn. A dark-haired mercenary holds a hand to his cheek and stares at me with murder in his eyes. The door to Hugh’s temple is open still. I peer inside. A man sitting in a chair leans toward me, just a silhouette in the tiny building. The sun catches a corner of the man’s misshapen, scarred mouth. The skin is wrinkled and brown and split around the lips. He whispers something as a soldier shuts the door.

Matheus looks down at Tristan and me, shakes his head.

“Hugh the Baptist will bring peace to your souls,” he says. “He will free you from your darkness.”

Chapter 15

Two soldiers remove my gauntlets and bind my hands behind me with thick linen cords. I wince as the cords bite into the wound on my wrist. The soldiers do not take any notice of the festering gash, but the pain from the cords is so great that tears come to my eyes. They bind Tristan’s hands as well but leave Belisencia unfettered.

I cannot seem to catch my breath. Perhaps I am too old to be wandering the countryside in armor.

Matheus barks an order to one of his soldiers: “Fetch the tapestry.”

The soldier nods and runs into the manor house, holding his scabbarded sword with one hand so that it does not flap. He returns with a rolled tapestry.

Matheus leads us toward a small church on the manor grounds. Eight soldiers, including the two foreign mercenaries, join us on our walk. The mercenary I struck in the scuffle watches me the entire way, snarling anytime I look toward him. He has close-cropped black hair and an old scar at the corner of one eye. His cheek is swollen and blue and bears a lobstered imprint from a finger of my gauntlet. I wonder at his nationality. Spanish or Italian maybe. Both breeds are fiery. This one seems an inferno.

“Where are we going?” Belisencia asks.

“Sir Tristan wanted to see hell,” Matheus says.

“I’ve seen hell,” Tristan says. “It’s full of crying women.”

The church is similar to the one in Edwardstone, only smaller. Long and stony, with a square Norman tower at one end. The double doors open with a clank of iron latches and the creak of old oak. The smell of stone dust and lamp oil wafts from inside. The cool air of the church feels good against my skin, and I realize that I have been sweating. I wonder if I am developing a fever.

Matheus leads us up the spiral stairs of the tower. The steps curl anticlockwise, as stairs do in most fortifications. Elizabeth wanted the stairs in our castle at Bodiam to curl clockwise. She said she wanted our stairwells to be different. It is one of the few times that I overruled her without trying to see her point. Stairs must be anticlockwise so that defenders are able to swing their swords freely from above. Attackers climbing the stairs have the wall at their right side, so they can only thrust. Tristan once joked that the French should train their soldiers to fight left-handed. But the Church would, of course, be outraged by such a thing. The left hand is the devil’s hand, and all who favor that hand are evil. Elizabeth is left-handed, so this is another of the many subjects upon which the Church and I disagree.

We reach the crenellated summit and stare out at the Suffolk landscape. Lush, green fields and forests spread before us. Matheus’s plaguers drag ploughs across his furlongs and grind wheat with their endless circles at the mill. Smoke rises in columns at intervals where villages and towns burn. Fire is a potent weapon against the plague, but it is indiscriminate. Its hunger rivals that of the plaguers.

“Do you see them?” Matheus asks. “In that village, do you see them moving?”

I look closely. Plaguers in a settlement less than a mile away. I can just make out their lurching steps.

“Demons,” Matheus says. “There are scores of them out there. The village is called Boxford, and it was home to one of the largest foundling home in Suffolk. Dozens of children lived happily there, cared for by monks. But look at it now. Look at it. The demons killed all the children and feed on their bodies still.”

We stare in silence.

“I understand all of England is like that,” Matheus says. “The dead walk and eat human flesh. Towns burn. The populations of entire villages live cramped inside churches and castles. Everyone lives in fear.”

He motions to one side and the soldier holding the tapestry steps forward. Another soldier holds one end and they unroll the fabric. The two men pull the tapestry tight. Belisencia gasps, which is precisely what I feel like doing. I study the tapestry, then look out across the landscape of Suffolk, then back to the tapestry once more.

“You see it?” Matheus says. “Do you see it?”

I see it.

The tapestry looks like the view from this tower. The most striking things in the woven artwork are the plaguers. Perhaps they are not plaguers in the tapestry, but they certainly look like them: staggering, angry creatures that once were human. Lurching bloody monsters that claw and snarl. Towns burn behind them. Humans weep and hold their dead and dying close or shelter inside castle walls. The skies are dark and, in what I can only ascribe to divine coincidence, clouds above us roll over the sun and darken the landscape as we watch.

Matheus smiles, but it is a sad smile. “Do you want to know what God said to Hugh the Baptist?” He pauses dramatically. A scream shreds the pause as another pilgrim meets Hugh. “He said that we are already dead. All of us. That we are in purgatory, unable to find our way to heaven.”

Not even Tristan responds to this.

Matheus points to the tapestry. “This was woven more than a hundred years ago. It was made at the request of Joseph the Devout, who in his lifetime had more than two hundred holy visions. Even Pope Nicholas III consulted with Joseph.” He touches the weaving with his fingers. “And this, this is Joseph’s vision of purgatory.”

Belisencia kneels and crosses herself. “Oh Holy Father,” she says, tears welling. “Oh Jesus, our Lord and Savior.”

Tristan studies the tapestry, one hand on his chin. “The people’s heads are too large,” he says. “I’m not impressed with the artistry.” He pauses. “Or does that come later? Will our heads swell?” He makes a show of touching his head at various spots. “Edward, does my head look bigger to you?”

“Shut your mouth, Tristan,” I say. He believes in nothing, Tristan. As I stand and stare at this tapestry, I wish I, too, could believe in nothing. But the sight of this artwork sends chills crawling like demon fingers along the skin of my back. I am so hot and unsteady that I feel like shedding my armor. If I am in purgatory, then where is Elizabeth?

Tristan points to a soldier with a bulbous forehead. “Dear God!” he shouts. “It’s started! That poor man!”

Matheus stares at Tristan with a look of infinite patience, then speaks.

“You wanted to see hell, Tristan?” He points toward Boxford and the smoke columns in the distance. “That is hell. Hell surrounds us. There is no plague. There are only the saved and the unsaved. Those whom you call ‘afflicted’ have ascended to the Kingdom of Heaven. And the rest? They are lost in the darkness. You are up to your necks in hell, my friends, and the fiery waters continue to rise. There is only one way out. You must take it before your souls drown and the devil claims you for eternity.”

“In these times of madness,” Tristan says, smirking, “only the plague will save us. So why have you not been saved, Matheus?”

“I will be, Sir Tristan,” he replies. “I cannot wait for the day. But God and Hugh need a king here to help guide the lost back to their home.”

Belisencia’s fingers coil in her hair. Her green eyes are wide and shine with tears. “We…we are dead?”

“Yes, Sister,” Matheus says. “And God waits for you.”

“But…if the afflicted have gone to heaven, why do they still walk?” she asks. “Why do they not die?”

“Because this is hell, Sister. And when the spirit departs the body in hell, demons take its place. The bodies lurch and stagger because demons fight amongst themselves for control. Like snails fighting for a shell.”

Belisencia’s hair flutters in the wind. I stare out into the village. Is Elizabeth in heaven? Am I searching for something that she does not need? Am I searching hell without purpose? If I must afflict myself to reunite with my angel, then I will let the demons tears my body apart. And I will smile as they do it.

But what if he is wrong?

“I always…” Tristan scratches at his neck. “I always imagined hell with a bit more…well…fire. What was all that bollocks about fiery lakes and brimstone?”

“The fire is inside us, Sir Tristan. We burn with fear and shame. Do you not feel a smoldering within you?”

“Yes,” Tristan says. “I thought it was the dried venison from the bandit camp.”

“Listen to him!” Belisencia weeps and falls to her knees. Her hands claw at Tristan. “Look at the tapestry! Look out there!”

“You try to deflect the truth with your humor, Sir Tristan,” Matheus says. “Do not harden your heart. Who do you know that has been afflicted? Are they not the devout? The innocent? The meek? The best of us?”

This last remark brings sweat to my brow. Elizabeth. Morgan. Matilda. I think of the priests and bishops. Of the monks and the holy devout. These are the people this plague has taken. Dear Lord, could Matheus be right? Is my Elizabeth waiting for me? I stare up into the sky, as if I might see her beckoning.

“You are right, Matheus,” Belisencia says. “It is the most devout who are taken. I have sinned, so I remain here in purgatory. I have sinned.” Belisencia tightens her lips and stops talking. I see the struggle on her face.

Matheus strokes her chin.

“Must you touch her so much?” Tristan asks.

“We are all sinners, Sister,” Matheus says. “It was only by Christ’s sacrifice that our sins were forgiven. We must make our own sacrifice. We must show God that we have faith. This plague is a test, my child. A trial of faith for those whom Saint Michael found unworthy of either heaven or hell.”

“Hallelujah,” Tristan says.

“God is merciful.” Matheus keeps his eyes on Belisencia. “He has given us another chance. We must repent of our sins and show Him that we trust Him completely. Only then will He raise us to heaven.”

I am uncertain what to think. This plague has seemed like a nightmare. Something unreal. A feverish hallucination. Are we dead already? Is this purgatory? I stare out at Boxford and watch a group of plaguers fighting over something that was once alive. Does hell truly rise around us? It is not a difficult thing to believe.

“You said earlier that you would burn us as heathens if we rejected the word of God,” Tristan says. “Seems a bit excessive to kill us when we are already dead, doesn’t it?”

Matheus nods. “A clever insight, Sir Tristan.” He looks out toward the village again. “If we burn your bodies in purgatory, your soul will remain in purgatory until it is swallowed by hell. If you reject the word of God, then you sentence yourselves to eternal torment. It is not something I wish to do, but Hugh has decreed it should be so.”

“Where is this Hugh?” Tristan asks. “I have a suggestion concerning his name.”

“I will take you to see Hugh now,” Matheus says. “He will free you from the darkness.”

“We don’t wish to see Hugh,” I say. “We don’t believe you.” Although, in all honesty, I am not sure if that is true. If what he says is correct, it would answer many questions. But then it is the job of religion to find answers. Tristan once said that religion was created because humans cannot bear an unanswered question, that superstition grows in the unknown like mold in the dark. “We will not let you afflict us.”

Matheus looks at each of us and sighs. “None of you wishes salvation? None of you seeks the Kingdom of Heaven?”

Tristan shrugs. “Not if it’s full of monks and priests.”

Belisencia says something quietly, but I cannot make it out clearly.

“You can’t manipulate us into doing your bidding,” I say.

Belisencia clears her throat and speaks more clearly. “I will do it.”

Tristan and I stare at her, then at one another.

“Take me to Hugh the Baptist,” Belisencia says. “I wish to leave purgatory.”

Chapter 16

“Are you mad, woman?” Tristan points to the plaguers in the distant village. “You will become like them. A drooling fool.” He considers this, then adds, “More than you already are, at any rate.”

“I forgot,” she replies, her words hard and biting. “Tristan of Rye is always right. He knows the truth when so many others do not.”

“That’s not entirely correct,” Tristan replies. “I was wrong once, about six years ago. Do you remember that, Edward? In Rouen?
That
was a long night.”