We crest a small hill crowned with oaks and spot the nunnery. The walled convent used to lie among green fields and hickory rows, but today there is nothing but charred earth in a wide circle around it. We storm down the hill toward the convent. Countless skeletons lie blackened and smoldering upon the scorched ground, curled in on themselves in the agony of death. The nunnery itself does not seem affected by the fire. The limestone walls stand untouched. No smoke rises from the arched, tile-roofed buildings of the convent.
“It would seem they had plaguer problems,” I say.
“Demons,” Belisencia says. “They had demons at their gates.”
We ride through the circle of death, our horses picking paths through the charcoal husks that once were humans. Perhaps they were not plaguers. Perhaps the nunnery was attacked.
Two soldiers gaze at us from the wall. One calls down and the wooden gates creak open slowly. Our horses amble inside and two soldiers with spears approach as the gates close again behind us.
“Dismount and remove your clothing,” the first man says.
“We’re not plagued,” I say as we dismount. “Tell Sister Margaret that Sir Edward of Bodiam has returned with what he promised.”
The soldiers look to one another and back to me. One of them runs off toward the chapter house.
“What do you think of your new home?” Tristan says to Belisencia.
Belisencia looks around and shrugs. “It is a nunnery. They all look the same.”
“Will you stay here then?” Tristan asks.
“I do not know,” she says. “I miss my home. I may return to Hampshire.”
“Hampshire?” Tristan says. “What is your family name? I know Hampshire well.”
“Hampshire is lovely,” she says. “I wonder how badly the plague has affected it.”
“What is your family name?” Tristan says it firmly this time.
Someone shouts my name. I look toward the dormitories and see a familiar face. It is my friend, Zhuri, the Moor. He sprints the last ten paces and nearly knocks me over with his embrace.
“Edward! Tristan! It is wonderful to see you!” Zhuri still keeps a short and meticulously groomed beard, but he wears a leather gambeson from the garrison and tall brown boots. He almost looks like an Englishman.
We met Zhuri in Danbury, at a manor house that became overrun with plaguers. Zhuri escaped with us and we traveled to Hedingham, where he has remained to watch over our afflicted friend, Morgan.
“We thought the monastery had been fired,” Tristan says as Zhuri embraces him.
“We are fine,” Zhuri replies. “A mob of plaguers found us. The walls at the nunnery are not completely sound, so we decided to strike them before they discovered a way in.” Zhuri glances toward the gate, his lips clenched tightly. “May Allah forgive us.”
“He will,” Tristan says. “You look well, Zhuri. I trust living in a fortress that houses three-dozen women and only a handful of men has been satisfying?”
Zhuri smiles. “It has Tristan. It has.”
“You were right to strike first,” I say. “I don’t like the way the stones lean on the eastern wall. They’ll tumble if enough pressure is put on them. “Thank you, Edward. I will let the nuns know.” Zhuri claps me on the shoulder. “Tell me, Edward, did you find her? Did you find your Elizabeth?”
I say nothing. We found Elizabeth. Locked in a hall with dozens of plaguers. Three men in that hall had shown signs of plague, so the monks at St. Edmund’s Bury sealed the doors, locking everyone inside. Dooming the lords and ladies of Suffolk—and one angel from Bodiam—to either death or plague. I found my Elizabeth. And I suppose I should be happy that it was plague and not death.
Zhuri sees my expression and bows his head. “I am so terribly sorry,” he says. “Is she alive, Edward?”
“She is alive”—I take a breath to steady myself—“but she is not herself.”
“My sorrow has no words, dear friend,” he replies. “Perhaps I can provide a small amount of cheer.”
I look into his eyes. “Cheer?”
He smiles. “I have acquired some information that may bring you a gleam of hope. But first…” He turns to Belisencia with a dashing smile and a deep bow. He takes her hand and kisses it several times. “Who do I have the pleasure of setting my eyes upon?”
Tristan takes Belisencia’s hand from Zhuri’s. “That’s Belisencia. And she is promised to a doctor in Maplestead.”
“Do not listen to him,” she says, smiling at Zhuri. “He is full of lies.”
“My lady,” Zhuri says, “I learned long ago to ignore the words of Sir Tristan. I am Zhuri of Granada.”
“Belisencia,” she replies, “of…Hampshire.”
“Tell me the information.” My voice is gruffer than I intended. It chases away their smiles. Zhuri nods and glances back as the doors to the rectory open and Sister Margaret emerges. “Do you remember the witch Isabella?” he whispers.
I cannot possibly forget Isabella. A woman we rescued in Chelmsford. After saving her, we discovered that she was spreading the plague, selling poisonous phials like the ones Tristan still carries. It was her afflicted dogs who put Morgan in the wine cellar of this nunnery. And it was Isabella who spoke to us about the alchemist and a possible cure for the plague. The witch was killed in a gun explosion not long after setting her dogs on us, and pieces of her body may still litter the northern reaches of Waltham Forest.
“What of her?” I ask.
“Do you remember she said that an alchemist had the cure for the plague?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re trying to find the simpleton that Isabella spoke of. The man who works for the alchemist.”
Zhuri beams. “I know where he is,” he says. “I know where the simpleton lives.”
Sister Margaret arrives with another nun and two soldiers. We greet her and I hand over Saint Luke’s thighbone. Margaret speaks to me; her tone is a grateful one, but I do not hear her words.
Zhuri has found the simpleton.
We are one step away from the alchemist. One step from a cure. I imagine myself pouring drops of elixir into Elizabeth’s delicate mouth. I see her waking. Her long fingers reaching up to touch my face. A smile playing across her lips. I know what I will say to her when she wakes. I will gaze into her blue eyes and say, “Je suis apprivoisé.” I am tame. She will call me a wonderful fool, wrap one arm behind my neck, and kiss me. I can feel her warm body against mine, feel the tears of joy stinging my eyes.
“Are you not well, Edward?” Sister Margaret asks.
I take a breath and wipe at my eyes. “I had a wound that festered,” I say.
“Father in heaven!” Margaret says. “Let me see it.”
I show her my wrist. The tail of a maggot pokes out from the cut. Or perhaps it is the head. “It is healing,” I say.
“Yes,” Tristan says. “He received the kiss of life, didn’t he, Belisencia?”
“Maggots?” Sister Margaret shakes her head. “You should put moldy bread on it. And spider webs. I will have someone tend to you.”
We follow her toward the dormitories.
Tristan grows sober. He puts a hand on Zhuri’s shoulder as we walk. “How is Morgan?”
Zhuri does not speak at first, and when he finally does, he looks furtively at Sister Margaret’s back, then whispers, “You should go find the simpleton first thing in the morning. I was preparing to go before the plaguers found us. We must find that cure.”
I do not like Zhuri’s evasiveness. I stop walking. “Zhuri, tell us about Morgan.”
Zhuri takes a deep breath, rubs at his face. He will not meet my gaze. “He is not well, Edward.” Zhuri glances toward the hall that houses the nunnery’s wine cellar. “He is dying.”
Chapter 23
We walk down the stone steps leading to the wine cellar. The smell of old wood, earth, and lye brings back memories of that terrible day when we locked Morgan in a chamber of this cellar. My heart pounds as I descend the stai
rs. Morgan has a young daughter, Sara, in Hastings. And I am responsible for what happened to her father.
Mea maxima culpa.
Screams ring out in the darkness. Savage screams with no humanity left in them. I hold a candle in front of me and breathe heavily from the exertion of descending the tall steps. The door to Morgan’s chamber is closed, but the casks that we barricaded it with are gone.
Zhuri brushes past me when we reach the bottom, holding his own candle. He opens the door and peers inside, then steps into the room. Light flares as he fires a lantern and I get my first look at Morgan since we left him. And what I see makes me fall to my knees.
Morgan is rotting.
They have tied him down onto a wooden platform lain over two rows of casks. Large swaths of his skin are black. Black like the rotted peels of Spanish bananas. Black like the scorched skeletons huddled outside the monastery. Broad patches of his beard have fallen out. The skin on his hands has been torn to bloody shreds, and a wound along the side of his chin reveals the white bones of his jaw among mangled red meat.
“Morgan…” I walk to his side. He growls and strains against the ropes. His eyes are so black and smooth that I see myself reflected in them. His chest rises and falls erratically. He tries to scream again but his strength fades halfway through and the cry ends with a groan.
“Why is he so bad?” I ask. “Why did this happen so quickly?”
“He was battering himself to pieces on the door,” Zhuri says, “so we tied him down. I do not know what is wrong. But I know he is dying. He gets weaker every day.”
I stare at Morgan, and I see Elizabeth, tied with padded silk to a mattress in St. Edmund’s Bury. Is her skin black like Morgan’s? Does she struggle for breath too? The room seems to sway. I feel sick.
The lantern gutters. Zhuri taps it and the flame grows stronger, but it gutters again. “It’s almost out of oil.”
“You said…” I am short of breath. Speaking is a struggle. “You said you know where the simpleton lives.”
“Yes,” Zhuri says. “Some pilgrims stopped here two days ago and spoke of an alchemist living in a fortress. They did not speak favorably of him.”
“They wouldn’t.” I recall the alchemist I saw burned at the stake when I was a child. Prayer is the only true and righteous weapon against illness. “I don’t want details, Zhuri. Just tell me where the simpleton is.”
“I would have spoken with him already, but the plaguers found us first. They surrounded the convent. We finally set fire to them this morning.” He shakes his head. “It was a horrible sight, Edward. It is the worst thing I have ever done.”
“Zhuri,” I look into his eyes, “where is the simpleton?”
“The pilgrims said he lived in a place called Bewer,” Zhuri says. “That’s what the simpleton told them. I searched the maps in the library for hours before I realized that he probably meant—”
“Bure,” I say and run for the stairs. I imagine Elizabeth’s long fingers shredded to the bone. Her slender chest rising and falling erratically. I take one last look at Morgan, tied to the casks. He, Tristan, Zhuri, and Belisencia are lit by the guttering orange glow of the lantern. The oil will run out soon.
“Where are you going?” Zhuri shouts. Tristan and Belisencia chase after me.
“To find the cure!” I call back. The steps are difficult to climb at a run. I grow fatigued as I reach the top and lean against the wall to catch my breath.
“Edward,” Tristan says, “you need to rest. It makes no sense to leave now. The sun will set in less than two hours and Bure is ten miles away.”
“I can travel ten miles in less than two hours,” I say.
“You won’t make five miles in your condition, Ed,” he replies.
“I’ll be fine.” I have to be. Morgan is dying. Elizabeth may be, too. The oil is running out.
“Edward.” Tristan shakes his head. “We can ride in the morning.”
I think of Morgan dying in the wine cellar. It is my fault. I was selfish. I should never have brought others with me on my errand. I look at Tristan; he would do anything I ask of him…except stay behind. “Very well,” I say. “We’ll leave in the morning.” I try to sound sincere.
We eat a simple meal of bread and leek stew in the great hall. Sister Margaret and three other nuns join us. I speak to Zhuri, recounting our adventures since leaving him. Tristan and Belisencia sit next to each other. Belisencia had a bath in the dormitory and two of the sisters combed out her hair. She wears new robes, too, and looks quite lovely. Tristan’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his hair when he saw her. The two of them laugh throughout the dinner, poke fun at one another, and their hands touch accidentally every so often. I do not know how they truly feel about each other, but seeing them laugh together makes me think of my Elizabeth. She always makes me laugh, my angel. I hope I will hear the chime of her laughter again, soon. When she wakes, I will never leave her side again.
Je suis apprivoisé.
After the meal, Sister Margaret has a nun tend to my wound. The portly woman plucks the maggots from my wrist and tells me the creatures have done a good job. “The wound has been cleansed of dead flesh.”
She douses the injury with more wine and applies a salve that she says is made from bread mold and cobwebs. A proper remedy, just like the battlefield surgeons make. She wraps the wound with bandages and gives me a small bottle of the salve to take with me. “Clean the wound with wine and apply the salve every day,” she says before leaving. “With God’s help, you will defeat the festering illness.”
Sister Margaret loans Belisencia a novice’s room and has beds made up for Tristan and me in the dormitory. There are already three-dozen men from the village sleeping in the dormitory, most on the floor, so Tristan and I give up our beds and lay on blankets upon the rushes.
“How’s the wound?” Tristan asks.
“Better,” I reply. “I found a good doctor.”
“She didn’t mind that you were born under House Gemini?” Tristan chuckles.
“And her breath was better, too.” I try to sound cheerful, but Elizabeth haunts me tonight.
“Belisencia is coming with us,” Tristan says.
“Is she?” I ask. “She still wants to spread the word of Hugh the Baptist?”
“No,” he replies. “I don’t think she truly believes that anymore. I don’t think she knows what to believe.”
“Tristan, that plaguer, Hugh, he didn’t bite her.”
“I know,” he replies. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, Edward. And I can’t come up with any answers.”
I, too, have thought long and hard about the events in Hugh’s temple: the talking plaguer; his refusal to bite Belisencia; Matheus’s confusion. I, too, have no answers. Perhaps Matheus was right. Perhaps we are in purgatory.
Tristan’s breathing becomes deep and regular. I count to two hundred, holding Elizabeth’s glove to my nose as I do, then rise as quietly as I can. My head still hurts and I have trouble finding my balance in the darkness, but I make my way out of the dormitories. I creep quietly to the stables. A soldier sits on a stool and challenges me when I approach.
“I am Sir Edward of Bodiam,” I reply. “I need my armor.”
The soldier leads me to the last stall, where my armor and that of Tristan has been scoured of rust and hung on pegs. I grow winded as I strap on the various plates and have to ask the guard for help. It takes a long time to get the harness on. When I am done, I ask him for a lantern. He hesitates, then pulls one down from a peg on the next stall and gives it to me. I thank him and walk to the stall that holds my horse.
“Do you need help saddling him?”
It is not the guard speaking. I sigh.
Tristan and Belisencia sit on a bench just inside the door. They are in their bedclothes.
“No, Tristan,” I say. “I need the two of you to go back to sleep.”
“I think I am sleeping,” Tristan says. “This must be a bad dream. My friend Edward D
allingridge would never abandon me in a nunnery.” He thinks about what he said. “Although, I suppose there are worse places to be abandoned.”
“You cannot do this alone,” Belisencia says. “The Bible says, ‘Three are better than one. For if they fall, they fall together. But woe if one should fall alone.’”
I try to make sense of the quote. Tristan looks equally mystified.
“That’s not quite right, my lady,” the soldier says. “‘Two are better than one, for if one falls, the other will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up.’”
“Yes, that is what I meant,” she says.
“What kind of a nun are you?” the soldier asks.
“One who will lift up her friend when he falls,” she says.
“Morgan fell,” I say, “and I can’t lift him up. I don’t want the same fate for the two of you.”
“God has blessed Morgan with a trial,” Tristan says. “If He chooses to bless me, too, then that is His choice, not yours.”
“Hallelujah,” Belisencia says.
Tristan and I look at her, but she is serious. Tristan laughs and we say it together: “Hallelujah.”
I know it is selfish, but I am glad for their company. If I fall, Elizabeth and Morgan will need someone to lift me up again. I know now that Tristan and Belisencia will be there to do it. “Don’t try to leave us again, Ed,” Tristan says, “or I will tell everyone that you buggered a cow.”
I shrug. “Least it wasn’t a horse.”
We laugh. It feels good to laugh, even though the black mist of Elizabeth’s sickness coils in my stomach.
The soldier looks at me with horror. I shrug again. “She was a beauty, that cow. You’d have done the same.”
Tristan laughs loud and long. Even Belisencia chuckles.
“Off to bed with us,” I say.
“You won’t try to leave us again?” Belisencia asks. “That wasn’t a nice thing to do.”
“No, I won’t try to leave you again.” I nod and look into her eyes so she can see the gratitude that I cannot express. “Mea maxima culpa.”
Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Page 13
