The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (27 page)

“You won’t like my answer.” Tristan aims the hand bombard at him.

Gerald’s mare sidesteps. Sir Gerald studies the weapon, then glares at Tristan.

“What crimes have we committed?” I ask.

“There are too many to list, Sir Edward.”

“I can list them,” Tristan says. “Destroying a French army. Killing a mad lord who, coincidentally, was executing your knights, Sir Gerald. Closing down a brothel of plaguers.” He jabs the gun toward Sir Gerald. “And saving a farmer’s daughter from a giant.” I look at Tristan. He glances my way and shrugs. “More or less.”

“Shall I start
my
list, Sir Tristan?” Gerald spits when he speaks this, and a run of saliva dribbles from his chin. “Unleashing the plague upon an army of England. Lying to a commander of English forces.” He leans forward in the saddle, nostrils flaring. “And killing King John, ruler of Essex.”

“Ruler of Essex?” I say.

“Edward didn’t kill Sir John,” Tristan says. “It was a plaguer with a wool cap and no nose.”

“Stop talking, Tristan,” I say.

“I saw it,” he replies. “A group of plaguers held Sir John down and the one in the wool cap — ”

“Enough!” Gerald rides closer, then pulls his mare back when Tristan steps forward with the hand bombard.

“I’ll decide when it’s enough,” Tristan says.

“You fired that already,” Geraldreplies. “You cannot fire it again.” But his darting eyes tell me he is not certain.

Tristan does not hesitate. “Do you see those ten holes facing you, Sir Gerald? I can discharge this weapon ten times. That’s enough to kill every one of you. And it’s not an easy death. The iron slugs are searing hot. They make scorching holes in you that melt your body from the inside, until you die in torturous pain. Horrible, torturous pain. The kind of pain you truly don’t want to die in.”

The knights around Gerald back their horses away another few steps and glance toward one another. Gerald scowls at them. He goads his horse forward. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then you can be the first to die,” I say. “Or, if you prefer, you can ride back to Hadleigh and put us out of your mind forever. Those are your choices.”

Sir Gerald studies us for a long moment. He can’t know for certain that the weapon won’t fire again. No sane person would take the risk. But this is Sir Gerald, the man who dragged a plaguer behind a horse for five miles, then set him on fire.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Kill me.”

Tristan jabs the gun forward again but Gerald doesn’t move.

We have lost.

“Very well,” Tristan says. “Remember, you could have saved yourself.” He holds his gauntleted hand above the touchhole. “Say hello to Sir John for me.”

Tristan taps the touchhole with his finger.

Nothing happens.

Sir Gerald laughs.

Until the explosion knocks him off his saddle.

The knights scatter at the sound of the cannon, then seem to catch themselves and return. Two of them leap from their saddles and run to Sir Gerald’s side. The wind blows the smoke toward the knights, and when we can see again, a familiar voice rings out from behind us.

“I hit him! I hit him!”

I glance back toward the forest. Zhuri stands behind a patch of hawthorn a few paces away, shaking the Spanish cannon in the air, a bright smile on his bearded face. “I finally haven’t missed!”

Tristan points the hand bombard at the knights again. “I finally
didn’t
miss
,” he calls back. “I thought you were going to Chelmsford?”

Zhuri wades through the brush and joins us. “You are my comrades. I had a moment of weakness when I saw those knight charging, but I would never abandon you. And I take great offense that you think I would.”

“Oh, so you ran into plaguers then?” Tristan asks with a smirk.

“Dozens of them,” Zhuri replies with another smile. “All along the town road.”

Three of the knights draw swords and advance, but Tristan puts his finger over the touchhole of his cannon. “Which of you wishes to die next?”

They hesitate. One of them, a man whose helmet is crested with a boar, gestures toward Tristan with his sword. “That won’t fire again,” he says, then points at the Spanish gun in Zhuri’s hand. “And neither will that.”

“But this one might,” Morgan says. He hefts the four-foot iron cannon from his horse’s saddle and levels it toward the three knights. The weapon looks staggeringly large in comparison to Zhuri’s. You could fit a small lemon into that metal cylinder.

The three knights step backward and hold their hands to the side in a gesture of acquiescence. The massive gun trembles in Morgan’s hand. Tristan wedges his shoulder under it and Zhuri walks to Morgan’s side with the firing cord.

“All of you will get on your horses now and ride back to Hadleigh,” I say. “You will not bother us again, or you will die like Sir Gerald.”

Sir Gerald rises to his feet.

“Oh.” It is all I can think to say.

He takes a hesitant step forward. Morgan and Tristan pivot to train the gun on him.

Gerald’s breastplate is crumpled, with a deep pit at the center where the slug has embedded itself. Most of the slug. A part of the iron lump must have broken off when it struck, because a long furrow runs up the metal, and Gerald’s forehead is awash with blood. A swathe of his scalp has been sheared off, near his temple, and a long patch of hair with it. He looks more insane than ever.

Gerald rubs at his forehead, then stares at his hand. After a moment he runs the bloody fingers over his cheeks and chin, painting his face red. He does it slowly, as if in a trance, his gaze fixed on us.

Zhuri takes a step backward. “He is mad.”

Gerald smiles and opens his mouth but I stop him before he can speak the line about madness. “The next shot will take your head, Sir Gerald.” I let my gaze sweep across the gathered knights. Some are mounted, some stand behind Sir Gerald, but all of them dart glances at the four-foot cannon. “Get on your horses. All of you. Get on your horses and ride away from here.”

“That cannon is not even loaded,” Gerald says.

“Are you a man of faith?” Morgan asks. He gestures toward the gun with his chin. “I have blown a plaguer into mist with this weapon. I am curious what it will do to a knight.”

Gerald doesn’t speak. Blood drips from the wound down to his chin. “We can storm you. You have only one shot.”

“And that shot will strike you, Sir Gerald,” Morgan says.

“I think it might mist today,” Tristan says. “What do you think, Sir Gerald?”

Gerald stares at the cannon. He might be mad, but the prospect of getting shot with a four-foot cannon vastly improves one’s sanity.

“Go back to Hadleigh,” I say. “Sir John’s death was an accident of war. I am sorry it happened, but it did. Mourn him. Return to Hadleigh and build your new kingdom in his name.”

Gerald backs away slowly. “I know where you are going, Edward,” he says. “You cannot hide from me. I will descend upon you when your cannons are put away. And when you are captured, I will peel the skin from you in tiny strips. I will laugh and hurl salt toward your fleshless body.”

“
At
your fleshless body,” Tristan says.

Zhuri snorts.

Gerald’s eyes narrow and for a moment I think the idiots have goaded him into attacking, but he jerks the reins of his horse and rides toward the Roman road, scattering rabbits from his path. The other knights fall in behind him, glancing back at us as they go.

Morgan lowers the cannon to the ground.

“That was very quick thinking, Morgan!” Zhuri says.

“I can take no credit for it,” Morgan says. He looks at me. “It was St. Giles, Edward. St. Giles spoke to me.”

If he had mentioned anyone but St. Giles, I would have dismissed it as madness. The madness that rises from grief. But Elizabeth said St. Giles would always watch over me. I stare into Morgan’s eyes. Perhaps it is madness. But madness has kept us alive so far.

Tristan laughs and is about to retort, but then he sees the tears in Morgan’s eyes.

“St. Giles has given me a purpose,” Morgan says. “He told me that I must cleanse this land of evil. And I will do it. I will do it in Matilda’s name.”

No one speaks for a time. We watch as Sir Gerald and his men grow smaller with distance.

Tristan digs out a sharp stone from the grass. He kneels and scratches at the metal of Morgan’s gun. When he is done he tosses the stone away and claps the dust from his hands. I look at the thick iron cylinder of the cannon and read what Tristan has written:

matilda
.

I first visited Chelmsford four years ago, and it wasn’t my decision. For many years the town was a breeding ground for discontented peasants seeking to overthrow the ruling classes. Many of those peasants marched to London and rioted. King Richard, just a boy then, rode out and quelled them with promises. And shortly after the riots, Richard marched to Chelmsford and ostentatiously revoked those promises.

I was called to Chelmsford, like many other knights, to witness Richard’s shredding of the charter that he had signed in front of the violent peasants. That night, he told me at feast that the peasants revolted because of the Black Plague — the plague that came before this one. “There aren’t enough workers to harvest,” he told me. “The peasants know they are a commodity, so they press their advantage and try to bully their God-given superiors.”

I don’t know much about God, but I know a bit about taxes. And I know that a third poll tax on peasants who can scarcely feed their families will never be cheerfully embraced.

I look at the stone bridge that leads over the River Chelmer and into the town. There are neither peasants nor God-given superiors around Chelmsford. Only plaguers. They are the new rulers of England, and no one rises against them.

We cut down a half dozen of the afflicted on the Roman road and gallop past the rest, with Zhuri screaming the entire way. The Moor rides behind Tristan on the half-lame horse we acquired in Danbury.

I sigh and think of Elizabeth as we cross the stone bridge into Chelmsford. We should be riding toward St. Edmund’s Bury, but we are here instead.

The town is mostly fields and vineyards and thatched homes. There is a friary to the south that will likely be well defended, but we turn north, toward the church.

“Gregory had better be there, Morgan,” I say.

“He’ll be there.”

We canter past a throng of plaguers feeding on a dead goat. One of them looks up as we pass.

“Even if he did visit that church,” Tristan says, “what makes you think he will still be there?”

Morgan doesn’t say anything, but he glances skyward.

“St. Giles told you?” Tristan struggles to keep from laughing. “You two are awful chatty these days.”

“He told me to come to this church,” Morgan says. “You don’t believe me?”

“If Gregory is at the church, I might raise an eyebrow,” Tristan says. “But he will not be there.”

Milling plaguers spot us and gain purpose. They make for us like stray dogs catching the scent of a butcher’s cart. We pick up our pace.

“You have not told me why you want to kill him,” Zhuri says.

Morgan doesn’t reply.

“Because he is selling plague,” Tristan says.

“Selling plague?”

“Yes. Except he calls it the blood of St. Mary the Virgin.”

Morgan points to a steeple in the distance.

“There it is,” he says. “That is where we will find Gregory.”

“That is the church?” Zhuri asks.

Morgan nods. “The church of St. Mary the Virgin.”

I hadn’t remembered the name of the church. We all look at Morgan.

Tristan raises an eyebrow.

We open the door to the church stables and lock our horses inside, with the saddles still on. I don’t plan to be here long.

There are dozens of dead bodies around St. Mary’s, but none of them move. It is a strong church, with thick walls of flint, and a limestone tower. I put my ear to the arching, iron-studded doors and hear faint voices.

“I don’t know if Gregory is here,” I say. “But there are people inside.”

I pound on the thick oak.

“I don’t see his wagon,” Tristan says.