“I want to speak with Abbot Braumin.”
“Then come in.”
Roger looked at Dainsey. “What of her?” he asked.
“She cannot enter,” Castinagis said again. “Nor can she remain within the gatehouse. Send her back out, beyond the flower bed.”
Roger considered the course. Things beyond that flower bed were not pretty, with plague victims milling about and—since the town guard would come nowhere near them—lawlessness abundant. He had to take Dainsey back to their rented room at the Giant’s Bones, he knew.
“Tell Abbot Braumin that I will soon return,” he said to Castinagis, lowering his voice to show his anger. “Alone.”
“If you go back beyond the flower bed, then you will be subjected to another spiritual inspection before you are allowed to enter the abbey,” came Castinagis’ unyielding response.
“I will be gone but a few minutes,” Roger argued.
“A few seconds would be too long a time,” came the answer, and the panel at the end of the corridor slammed shut.
Roger’s heart sank with that sound. He had hoped that he, as a personal friend of Braumin’s, would find some assistance here, some of the compassion that St. Precious was not lending to those other unfortunate victims. He had hoped that his connections with the powerful churchmen would save Dainsey.
But now, even though he hadn’t yet uttered one word to Braumin, Roger was being forced to face the truth, the fact that not Braumin, not Viscenti, not any of them, would do anything at all to help Dainsey, that her affliction would bring to her the same end as everyone else so diseased.
It took Roger a long while to find enough strength to lead his dear Dainsey back out of St. Precious. Never in his life, not even when he had been caught by Koskosio Begulne of the powries, had he felt so helpless and so wretched.
“There’s not many goin’ into the city o’ late,” the ferry pilot said to the leader of the curious group of men as they neared the Palmaris wharf. They wore robes like those of Abellican monks, except that theirs were black with red hoods instead of the normal brown on brown. “Den o’ sickness, it is!” the pilot said ironically with a cough.
“Do you think you can hide from it?” the leader of the group, Marcalo De’Unnero, said to the man, his voice a tantalizing whisper. “The rosy plague is a punishment from God, and God sees all. If you are a sinner, my friend, then the plague will find you, no matter how deep a hole you find to climb in.”
The pilot, obviously shaken, waved his hands and shook his head. “Not a sinner, I ain’t!” he cried. “But I’m not wantin’ to hear ye no more.”
“But hear me you must!” De’Unnero said, grabbing the man by the front of his dirty tunic and lifting him up to his tiptoes. “There is no place for you to hide, friend. Salvation lies only in repentance!” he finished loudly, and all the hundred red-hooded men behind him, the Brothers Repentant—their numbers swollen by the rush of eager townsfolk to join their ranks, for they, after all, by De’Unnero’s own words, held the secret to health—cheered wildly.
“Repent!” De’Unnero yelled, and he drove the man to his knees.
“I will, I will!” the terrified pilot replied.
De’Unnero lifted his other hand, which was now the paw of a tiger, so that the pilot could see it clearly. “Swear fealty to the Church!” he demanded. “The true Church of St. Abelle, the Church of the Brothers Repentant.”
Eyes wide at the sight of the deadly appendage, the poor pilot began to tremble and cry, and he even kissed De’Unnero’s hand.
Behind De’Unnero, the Brothers Repentant howled for blood. They began jumping so violently that the ferry rocked dangerously. They began punching each other; several stripped off their black robes and walked through the rest of the gathering, accepting slap after slap so that their bare skin reddened.
“We are your salvation,” De’Unnero said to the trembling man.
“Yes, master.”
“Yet you took our money for passage,” De’Unnero went on.
“Kill him, Brother Truth!” several men yelled.
“Take it back!” the pilot begged, pulling his purse from his belt and thrusting it into De’Unnero’s hand. “I swear, Brother Truth, if I’d’a known, I’d not taken a copper bear. On me mum’s soul, I swear.”
De’Unnero took the purse and eyed the pilot dangerously a bit longer. Then he shoved the man down to the deck. “Get us in to dock,” he said disgustedly, and he moved forward. The city was coming into clear view now, the buildings showing through the morning fog.
His anger was feigned, though, for in truth, the former Bishop of Palmaris was in a fine mood this particularly sweet day. He and his ferocious brood had swept across the southland, all across Yorkey, scouring town after town of infidels, and taking care to avoid any Abellican abbeys—with the sole exception of Abbot Olin’s St. Bondabruce. As De’Unnero had guessed, Olin had been quite sympathetic to his cause, and while the man hadn’t openly endorsed the Brothers Repentant, hadn’t even let them into his abbey, neither had he opposed them and he had secretly met with De’Unnero. That meeting had gone wonderfully, as far as De’Unnero was concerned, for he hadn’t missed the intrigue on Olin’s face when he had hinted that he might know the way to Pimaninicuit, the far-off isle holding the treasure equivalent of the hoards of a hundred, hundred kings on its gem-covered beaches.
But those were thoughts for another day, the fierce master knew. For now, before him lay the most coveted jewel, the city of his greatest triumph and greatest defeat. Here lay Palmaris, mighty Palmaris, thick with the plague and ripe for the words of the Brothers Repentant.
Marcalo De’Unnero had not forgotten the treatment the folk here had given to him, nor the stern words of Abbot Braumin when the fool had expelled him from the city.
No, De’Unnero had not forgotten anything about Palmaris, the city in which all of this trouble with the plague had really begun. The city where Markwart and the old ways had been abandoned for this new foolishness. The city that embraced Braumin, and thus Jojonah and thus Avelyn and their insane ideas that the Church should be the healer of the common folk.
De’Unnero spat as he considered the irony of that goal. Where were the healers of the common folk now, this kinder and more compassionate Church? Hidden away, by all reports, behind thick walls and stinking flower beds.
Their cowardice would be their undoing, De’Unnero knew. Their cowardice would deliver the desperate, abandoned people of Palmaris to him, would make them heed his words of potential salvation.
Then Abbot Braumin and his foolish friends would come to understand what their errant beliefs had bought them.
Yes, this was a particularly sweet day.
Roger suffered through the indignity of another spiritual rape in the gatehouse of St. Precious, then stormed out when at last he was cleared to enter.
“Where is Abbot Braumin?” he demanded of Brother Castinagis, who was again manning the gate.
Castinagis snorted and shook his head, patting poor Roger to calm him. “He will see you,” he assured the man, but Roger shoved him away.
“He will hear me!” Roger retorted. “And woe to those who turned Dainsey away!” Roger turned and stomped off, heading for the main building and the office of his friend.
“Abbot Braumin already knows,” Brother Castinagis called softly behind him, stopping Roger in his tracks. “He knew even as we were inspecting you and the woman, even as we were following his orders that no one enter St. Precious without such inspection. He knew that your woman friend was turned away before it ever happened. Do not look so surprised, Roger! Have you forgotten that similar treatment was afforded Colleen Kilronney when Jilseponie brought her to our door?”
“B-but …” Roger stammered, and his thoughts were all jumbled. “I am your friend.”
“Indeed,” said Castinagis, with no trace of sarcasm, “a valued friend, and it pains me, as I’m sure it pains Abbot Braumin, that we cannot help your woman companio
n. Do you not understand? This is the rosy plague; we have no weapons against it.”
“What am I to do?” Roger asked. “Am I to sit by and simply watch Dainsey die?”
“You would be wiser by far to stay here with us,” came a soft voice behind them. Roger turned to see his old friend Braumin Herde emerging from the building. The man had aged noticeably in the last year, the first signs of silver streaking his curly black hair, and deep lines running out from the sides of his eyes. “There are plague houses which will make your Dainsey comfortable. I can arrange it. You need not return to her.”
Roger stared at him incredulously.
“There is nothing you can do for her,” Braumin went on. He moved closer and tried to put a comforting arm on Roger’s shoulder, but Roger danced away. “And contact with her greatly endangers you.”
“There must be some answer …” Roger started to argue, shaking his head.
“There is nothing,” Abbot Braumin said sternly. “Only to hide, and you must hide with us.”
“Dainsey needs me,” Roger argued.
“You will do nothing more than watch her die,” Castinagis said.
Roger turned back to him, his expression grim and determined. “Then that is what I must do,” he declared. “I must watch her die. I must hold her hand and bid her farewell on her journey.”
“Those are a fool’s words!” Castinagis cried.
Roger started to shout back at him, but he hadn’t the strength. He stuttered over several beginnings, but then just threw his hands up and wailed. Then, his legs giving out beneath him, he fell to his knees, sobbing. Both monks rushed to him immediately.
“I will arrange for her care,” Abbot Braumin promised.
“You will stay with us. Among friends,” Castinagis added.
Roger considered their words, their good intentions, for a brief moment; but any comfort or hope they tried to impart was fast washed away by an image of Dainsey, Roger’s dear Dainsey, the woman he had come to love so dearly, lying feverish on a bed and calling out for him.
That was a cry that Roger Lockless, whatever the potential danger, could not ignore.
“No!” he growled, and he stubbornly pulled himself up to his feet. “No, if you cannot help her, then I will find someone else who can.”
“There is no one,” Braumin said softly. “Nothing.”
“Then I will stay with her,” Roger snarled back at him, “to the end.”
Castinagis started to say something, but Abbot Braumin cut him short with a wave of his hand and a nod. They had seen this behavior before, of course, in Jilseponie, and so it was not unexpected that one who was not of the Church could not see the greater good against the immediate pain.
Roger started to walk away but stopped suddenly and wheeled about. “I wish to marry her,” he said—and it was obvious that the thought had just then come into his mind—“formally, before the eyes of God.”
“She cannot come here,” Brother Castinagis said.
“Will you do that much for me, at least?” Roger asked Braumin. “Perform the ceremony from across the tussie-mussie bed.” He stared hard at his friend.
Castinagis, too, looked at Braumin.
“I would prefer that you not return to her,” the abbot of St. Precious said. “You ask me to sanction a union that cannot last out the rest of the summer.”
“I ask you to confirm our love before God’s eyes as something sacred, for that it is,” Roger corrected. “Can you not even do that much for me?”
Abbot Braumin spent a long time thinking it over. “If I believed that there was some chance that I might convince you to abandon this lost cause, then surely I would,” he said at last, “but if you are determined to remain beside the poor woman, then better that it be a union sanctioned by God. Go and bring her to the tussie-mussie bed, and be quick, before I become convinced that I, too, am playing the part of the fool.”
Roger was on his way before Braumin even finished.
Chapter 34
Angry Sheep
“DO NOT,” FRANCIS WARNED THE IRATE MAN WITH WILD, BLOODSHOT EYES AND telltale rings on his bare arms. The monk stepped in front of the man, blocking his path to the tussie-mussie bed and St.-Mere-Abelle, for Francis understood all too clearly that the brothers atop the wall with crossbows and gemstones were very serious about killing him if he approached.
“You cannot hope …” Francis started to say, but the wild man, the man who had just watched his only son carted off to the common grave, wasn’t listening. He came forward like a charging bull and swung his heavy arms furiously.
Too furiously, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial, ducked the blow and hooked the arm as it swept above him, pushing it down and, with a simple step and twist, put himself behind his attacker. Before the outraged commoner understood what hit him, Francis had the man’s right arm bent up behind his back, while Francis’ left arm was across the man’s neck. Despite his great rage, the man was helpless.
The man tried to pull straight ahead, but Francis slipped one foot in front of him, and down they went, heavily, Francis landing atop the facedown commoner.
“I’ll kill ye all!” the man raged. “I’ll kill ye to death! I will! I will.…” His voice trailed off as he broke into sobs. “I will.”
“I understand,” Francis whispered. “Your son … I know your pain.”
“How could ye?” came a question from behind.
“What’re ye or any o’ yer stinkin’ monk friends knowin’ o’ anythin’?” demanded another. Francis felt a boot come down heavily on the small of his back.
And then they fell over him, only a pair of men, but many others were cheering them on. They tore Francis free of the sobbing man and brought him up roughly. Though he managed to get in one quick punch against one man and a pair of sharp kicks to the other’s shin, he knew that they had him caught—and understood that others would come help them if he wriggled free.
“Get him and kill him!” one man cried.
“Death to ’em all!” shouted another. Then the mob swirled about Francis, and then … parted, for shoving her way through it came Merry Cowsenfed, cursing and spitting with every step. When one man gave a particularly loud and threatening shout Francis’ way, Merry promptly smacked him across the face.
“What’re ye all gone mad?” she screamed, her unusual ire calming the crowd. “This one’s been helping us every day, and came out to us healthy! Can any o’ the rest of ye say that ye’d be so generous if ye didn’t think ye yerself had the plague already? Ah, but what a lot o’ fools I got meself caught up with! To be hittin’ so on poor Brother Francis!”
The murmuring of the crowd died away, each person turning to the next, as if waiting for instructions.
Then the two men holding Francis roughly pushed him free. “Bah, Merry’s right,” said one. “This one ain’t done nothin’ earnin’ him a beatin’.” He turned ominously toward St.-Mere-Abelle. “But them others …” he snarled, and the crowd erupted into ferocious cheers behind him. The man Francis had downed clawed his way back to his feet and reiterated his hatred for the Abellican monks.
Again, Francis rushed to the forefront. “They have crossbows and gemstones!” he pleaded. “They will kill you all before you ever get near the wall. And look at that wall! How do you plan to get over it? Or through it? A team of To-gai-ru ponies could not run a ram through that door, I promise you!”
Every point he made was perfectly valid, every one enough of a detriment to turn aside any reasonable person. But these were not reasonable people. No, they had lost everything, and in the pain and hopelessness of that moment, Francis’ words rang hollow.
And so they started off, and so did Brother Francis—but not physically. The monk reached into his pouch and clenched his hand about his soul stone, falling into its magic, freeing his spirit from his body. He went right for the apparent leader of the mob, the man who had torn him from the grieving father.
He did not want to possess
the man, but Francis did send his spirit into him. And once inside the man’s thoughts, the monk began to impart images and sounds of slaughter, of men running, screaming, while magical fires bit at them and peeled away their flesh. He showed the man a scene of bodies piled twenty deep atop the tussie-mussie bed. He showed …
And then the connection was broken, suddenly, Francis’ spirit sent careening back to his body. He blinked his eyes, working hard to recover from the shock, fearing that the slaughter had already begun.
But the mob was still there, hardly moving, just staring at their leader, who stood openmouthed, staring blankly at the towering wall and at the deadly monks standing atop it.
Merry Cowsenfed was at his arm all the while, tugging hard and pleading with him to turn about.
The man, seeming unsure, glanced back at Francis.
“They will kill you,” Francis explained, “every one of you.”
The man closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides, but whatever the level of rage within him, he could not ignore the simple fact that they had no chance even to get anywhere near their enemies. No chance at all.
The man growled and lifted his clenched fists into the air, but then he walked back from the tussie-mussie bed—the battle line, it seemed—and roughly jostled through the crowd.
Francis breathed a profound sigh of relief, but he soon became aware that many of those around him weren’t very happy with this outcome. Some cursed and shook their fists at him, though most did turn back, grumbling and shaking their heads.
In Francis’ estimation, they had just avoided a complete slaughter. He sighed again and nodded to Merry, then turned to find a wrinkled old woman, her face as sharp as Yorkey cheese, glaring at him.
“Bah, but ain’t ye spittin’ pretty words,” she said. “Is that why they sent ye out, Brother Francis o’ St.-Mere-Abelle? To talk pretty and keep us walkin’ dead folk in our place?”
Francis couldn’t find the words to answer her.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 52
