The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (21 page)

She takes the phial with trembling
hands and gives him a smile that seems to light her face. “I can do all things
through him that strengthens me.” I’m not certain if she is referring to God or
Morgan. I turn away before Morgan can respond with his own verse.

The villagers step forward to the
stump, one by one, and open their mouths. Sir Thomas taps a single drop onto
their tongues. Many of his people say “Amen” out of habit, even though this
isn’t the Eucharist.

For the villagers of Danbury,
Mary’s blood offers more hope than any fortress or band of knights ever could.
It doesn’t matter if the blood does what is claimed. They believe that it will.
And that is enough.

Sir Thomas steps
down from the stump and joins us after the last of the gathered villagers is
given their dose. He got what he needed, and he repays us with what we need. He
leads us to another chamber in his manor house, an armory, and he chooses a
selection of items from the racks therein. A sword. A poleax. Three suits of
chain mail. Three daggers. And a breastplate and helmet each for Morgan and
Tristan. Then he takes us to the kitchens and orders the servants to prepare a
sack of dried meats for our journey.

“The Lord brought you to Danbury to
save my family and my people,” Thomas says. “I pray that he looks out for you
in your travels.”

“He has, and I trust he will
continue to,” I say, and I mean it. I think of all the horrors that have
confronted us on our journey and I know that we have had help. Someone has
cared for us. Someone has guided us through the insanity of the last few days.
I say a silent prayer of thanks to St. Giles, the patron saint of madness.

Tristan holds up his poleax. “This
is a fine weapon,” he says. “But I was hoping for a little bit of
God’s Love
.”

It takes me a moment to realize
that he is talking about the ten-shot hand cannon in the gun room. I can’t tell
if Sir Thomas understands, because he completely ignores the question, as he
has ignored Tristan since our conversation in the great hall.

“Thomas,” I say. “Promise me that
you will fall back to the fortress when the plague finally comes to Danbury.”

Sir Thomas shrugs. “This is Eden.
God and the Virgin Mary will keep the plague at bay.”

I scratch at my neck and hold my
tongue, but I know Thomas is wrong. Not even God could keep the serpent out of
the Garden. And five phials of Mary’s blood won’t keep Satan out of Danbury.

I sleep well that night until just
before first light, when the pounding starts. The clamor catches me in a dream.
I am with Elizabeth again, but I have committed a great crime and justice has
come for me. At first, the pounding on my door is that of soldiers come to take
me from her.

But it is not soldiers that pry me
from Elizabeth, it is Tristan. His blows shake the oaken door and his cries
hold a note of terror that wrenches me from sleep. I leap naked from the bed
and throw open the great iron-hinged slab of oak. Tristan — also naked — is
spattered with blood and reeks of honey mead.

He runs inside, slams the door shut
and replaces the long beam of wood that bars it. He tugs on the latch to ensure
that no one can get in, then falls back against the door, his chest rising and
falling with each breath. His eyes are red and crusted with sleep.

“Plaguers got into the village.” His
voice is loud and unsteady. “They’re everywhere. They got Lilly.”

“Lilly?” I remember Tristan
disappearing with her before I retired to my chamber.

“Yes. She has plagued.” He breathes
erratically and rubs at his face, smearing blood across his cheek. I have
rarely seen Tristan in a state such as this. He shakes his head. “I told you
that peddler was a fraud.”

I grab Tristan’s chin and force him
to look at me. “Tell me what happened.”

He nods and struggles to control
his breathing. “I…I slept in Lilly’s chamber last night.” He takes a deep
breath. “Morgan told me not to. He said God would punish me. Brimstone and all
that. But I did it anyway. We fell asleep late and when I woke up, Lilly was
standing by the washbasin and the door was open. I…”  His eyes grow distant and
his mouth twists with horror at the memory. “I was so tired. I walked to her
and put my hand on her shoulder. And I…I kissed her neck…Christ almighty,
Edward, I kissed her neck!”

I see where this is heading.

“She turned to me,” he says. “And
her eyes…she was…She growled at me, like… …like a cornered badger.” He runs a
hand across his forehead. “She must have woken early and left the room. And
something…one of those things…”

“Tristan,” I say. “How is that
possible? Are you saying the plaguers got into the manor?”

“Yes! They are all over the manor.
I…I had to…Lilly…she came at me…” His breathing speeds up again. “She’s gone
now.” He takes several deep breaths. “Afterward, I looked out the window, and
the afflicted were everywhere. Hundreds of them. It must be that pack from the
willow.”

I am already donning my trousers.
“Morgan is downstairs. We need to fetch him.” I gesture toward the two piles of
armor and weapons on the floor; I stored them in my room for safety. Tristan
lifts a padded gambeson and thrusts his arms and head into it. He’ll have to
wear the mail with no trousers.

When we are armed and armored, we
remove the bar and yank the door open. Tristan holds the poleax high over his
shoulder as I peer out into the hallway. I see Joseph, the reeve, shuffling
toward us. The morning light reflects from his eyes and I see no whites. He
snarls as he lumbers toward me. I back into the room and Tristan drives the
spike of his poleax deep into Joseph’s skull. The reeve twitches, then topples awkwardly.
Blood leaks from his shattered skull and pools swiftly across the floor.

We walk cautiously into the
hallway. A woman — from the kitchen staff, by the look of her apron — crouches
by the open stairs, feeding upon a man whom I can’t identify. She hisses, then
stands and runs at us. Red boils pepper her face and neck. I hold my sword in
two hands and swing sideways, slicing through her neck and spraying the hallway
with blood. She tumbles to the ground. Her head bounces and rolls along the
wooden floor until it comes to rest against a wall.

“You fool.” Tristan’s smile has
returned. “Who’s going to cook now? You need to think things through more
carefully, Ed.”

I peer over the carved wood
railing, down to the foyer, and see blood smeared across the floor. Someone
screams in the distance.

I shout for Morgan as we run down
the broad wooden steps. The seeds of a horrifying thought bud in my mind. I
pause on the stairwell. “Tristan, you said that Lilly was plagued when you woke
up?”

“Yes.” He smiles again. “And I
thought waking up next to Emma Corbin was as bad as it would ever get.”

It is nice to see that his humor is
back, but I am certain what I say next will drive it from him again. “How could
Lilly have plagued so quickly? It takes hours for humans, doesn’t it?”

“She probably…” He trails off and
frowns. “She must have woken very early.”

Shuffling footsteps echo below us.
One of the servants lurches across the limestone floor of the foyer. It is the
fat one who carried the swan pastries to us when we first arrived at the manor.
She walks with hunched shoulders; her head lolls to one side.

I look into Tristan’s eyes. “So
Lilly walked outside the chamber, got bitten, escaped her assailant, then
returned to the bedchamber? You are saying that Lilly waited in the chamber
without waking you until she turned?”

“No…Well, maybe she…”

“Was she bleeding when you found
her? Was she bit?”

As Tristan thinks about this, the
kitchen servant spots us and staggers toward the stairs. I run down the last
few steps and kick her in the chest. She falls backward, sprawling on the floor
in a mass of jiggling flesh. I crush her neck with my boot.

“I don’t recall her bleeding, now
that I think on it.” There is no humor in his face. I know he is entertaining the
same thoughts that I am, now. And I know he is fighting that conclusion just as
hard. “Maybe some blood splashed onto her. From the willow.”

“Maybe,” I say. But it has been more
than twelve hours since the willow. Too long for the affliction to set in. And Tristan’s
reasoning doesn’t explain the other plaguers in the manor and outside.

I study Tristan and think about how
he spent his night. And another dark thought comes to me. So dark that it
quickens my breath. I look at him closely.

“What?” Tristan asks.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Let’s find
Morgan.”

I run along the carpeted long
gallery, leaping over the body of Ralf the burgher, until I reach Morgan’s
chamber. The door is open. No one is inside. “God’s blood.” I tear the blankets
from the bed to make sure he is not there. Tristan enters the room slowly.
Beneath the visor, his eyes have a distant look to them. He is no doubt coming
to the same realization that I had moments before.

“Ed, do you think…Do you think she
was plagued already? When…when I was with her?” His voice sounds small and
uncertain in the helmet. I think about David Lords and his brothel of plaguers.

“No,” I say. “I think you’re right
about the willow. I think she probably got blood in her mouth or her eye. Maybe
it takes longer to plague when you aren’t bit.”

“Yes,” Tristan says. “Maybe.” But
his eyes are still distant.

I run back along the gallery, the
new mail scrishing against my breastplate, and I open the towering front door
of the manor a crack. My gasp echoes in the great helm.

Satan has come to Eden.

Plaguers shamble
past the manor house. Scores of them. And there are many more in the distance. They
lurch among the fields and cottages. A scattering of Sheep lie dead in the
manor’s fold, and dozens more of them bleat and huddle against the fence.
Plaguers feed upon carcasses and fall upon the living lambs. There are many of
them, but they are not numerous enough to be the ones from the willow.

I recognize many of them. Too many.
I saw these plaguers last night on the village green. I watched them take one
drop each of what they thought was the blood of the Virgin Mary. They trusted
it would protect them. But whatever was in those phials has done the opposite.

Tristan pulls the door open wider
so he can look too. After a moment I shut it again quietly. Tristan removes his
great helm and sits on it, then runs a hand through his hair.

“This was us,” he says. “We did
this.”

I nod.

“She was infected when I was with
her,” he says. “Last night.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tristan,” I say. “Have
you vomited? Are you feverish?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t feel
at the pinnacle of health, but I haven’t vomited. And I don’t think I’m
feverish.”

“If those phials made them sick, it
would have been hours before the sickness could have affected you from…from any
personal contact.”

He nods, but he doesn’t seem
convinced. He runs his hand absently through his hair, forward and backward, then
he looks up abruptly. “Matilda. Morgan is probably with Matilda.” He rises and
dons his helmet again. I nod. If Morgan woke to find plaguers in the manor, he
would have run to Matilda first.

“Where does Matilda sleep?”

Tristan shrugs. “In a bed, I
imagine.”

I brush past him and into the great
hall, then out through the opposite door. I dash through the library and into a
hallway that branches into a cluster of four rooms.

“Morgan!” I throw the first door
open. Cecilia and her child stumble toward me, hissing. Their eyes are eternal
darkness. I shut the door and hear them clawing at the other side.

“Morgan!” I try to put the child
out of my mind.

A door to my left opens and Morgan
leaps out with an iron bar in one hand. His other hand holds a phial with the
wax seal removed. He shuts the door and gives us a concerned look. “How did
they get inside the manor?” he says.

Tristan lunges forward and knocks
the phial from his hand, then crushes it beneath his heel. Morgan howls and
shoves Tristan backward, then falls to his knees. He tries to scoop up the
ceramic bits and the red fluid that has splattered upon the floor.

“
What are you doing
?” Morgan’s
voice cracks with his shout.

I take his arm and pull him to his
feet, but he drops back to one knee and tries to sop the fluid with his
fingertips. “The blood of Mary!”

Tristan helps me drag Morgan away
from the broken phial.

“Morgan, it’s not the blood of
Mary,” I say.

“It is! It came from Rome! It is
her blood and she will protect us!”

“No, Morgan,” I say. “I wish it
was. I truly wish it was. Have you taken any of it?”

“How do you know that it’s not?”
Morgan asks. “How could you possibly know?”