Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2)

by Roberto Calas

  “Because I don’t know where to find those things,” I say. “But I can bring you dragon blood. How much do you need?”

  “We might as well bring him the entire dragon,” Tristan says.

  “Too right, Tristan. We’ll bring you the entire dragon.”

  The alchemist shakes his head, his lip drawn into a snarl. “You are fools. Where do you intend to find a dragon?”

  I smile at him and cross my arms. “You are a simple scholar. It is beyond your comprehension.”

  “No offense meant,” Tristan adds. “Such things are simply not in your realm of understanding.”

  We sleep that night in one of the dorters on straw-filled mattresses meant for monks. There are twenty-six beds arranged in two rows in the long chamber. I wonder what happened to the monks.

  I think for a time about the dragon blood. It sounds foolish now that I consider it carefully. The alchemist, Dominic, is right of course. He is not making a witch’s spell. He is making a medical tincture. And medical tinctures do not rely upon dragon blood or bat wings or bear bollocks. But I have to believe it can work. If it does not, my only hope lies in tracking down Gregory the Wanderer and obtaining the cure from him. And Gregory the Wanderer is not an easy man to find.

  Tristan creeps out of bed sometime in the night. I know where he is going. I feel an urge to stop him, to protect Belisencia’s honor, but I do not think she wants her honor protected. And in this time of darkness and misery, how can I disapprove of two people seeking happiness in one another?

  I think of Elizabeth again and feel the wash of hot tears in my eyes.

  I wake from a nightmare of grasping hands and hissing mouths into the far worse nightmare of my life without Elizabeth. I check that my weapons and armor are beneath my bed. Tristan is back in bed, facedown and snoring. I let him sleep and walk down the day stairs into the cloisters, where I hear voices. Belisencia sits on the grass with three servant girls and one of the two halberdiers who earned my suspicions yesterday. The five of them eat bread and strawberries and walnuts. Belisencia’s smile is a spring that has bubbled up from the depths of her soul.

  “Good morning to you, Sir Edward.” She practically sings it.

  I grunt a good morning and take a seat.

  “Are we leaving today?” Belisencia asks.

  “Looks that way.” I stare at the halberdier—a thin, auburn-haired man with eyes that bulge—and take a husk of bread from a basket on the grass.

  Footsteps sound in the arcade. The second of the two suspect halberdiers steps into the garth and freezes in place when he sees me. He is even thinner than the first and has a nose so long you could churn butter with it. He looks like he wants to flee, but he simply exchanges a look with the other halberdier and joins us.

  Gooseflesh rises on my arms. There was true fear in the man’s eyes. I want to get our horses and leave the abbey right now, but I know I am overreacting. These men would not be the first commoners to fear me. Perhaps they heard about my outburst in the alchemist’s tower.

  “I’ve done nothing but travel since I met Tristan and you,” she replies. “It’s madness.”

  One of the halberdiers shrugs and speaks through a mouth full of bread. “Im dese dimes of madness, ondy madness will dave us.”

  I stop chewing and stare at him. My breath quickens. I try to convince myself that I am being foolish. “What did you say?”

  He holds up a forefinger, swallows, then says, “In these times of madness, only madness will save us.”

  I rise slowly. “Where did you hear that?”

  He shrugs, his smile drying up. “I…I just…I don’t know. I’ve just…heard it somewhere.”

  I throw the loaf of bread at him. “Where did you hear it?”

  He bats the bread away, flinches at the tone of my voice. “I…don’t remember,” he holds up a hand toward me. “Calm yourself. It’s just a saying.”

  It is indeed just a saying. Sir Gerald’s saying.

  I recall the lone horseman I saw riding south yesterday when I looked out the tower window.

  “Belisencia, get Tristan!” I run through the arches of the arcade.

  “What?” She remains seated, her face twisted with confusion.

  “We’re leaving. Now!” I yank the door to the church open and run through the nave, feeling like a fool for reacting like this. Perhaps the expression came from a poem that many people have seen. Perhaps I should read more books. I throw open the front doors of the church.

  Yes, I am a fool. But only because it took me so long to react.

  A long column of horsemen file through the inner gatehouse. I run south, toward the river, but a dozen men in brigandine and kettle helmets race toward me from the docks. I break toward the north wall. I can loop around. If I reach the stables I can…I can… I’m not sure what I can do, but I must try something. Belisencia peers out through the church doors.

  “Get Tristan!” I shout. “Head for the stables!”

  I curve around the north side of the church and run as fast as I can. Fatigue sets in swiftly. My wound is better, but I am not fully healed yet. My pace slows as fire sweeps through my lungs. I hear the deep thud of hoofbeats behind me. A fit of coughing forces me to slow even further. Two horsemen holding spears rumble past and wheel to face me. I fall to my knees, coughing. Spearheads gleam before me.

  “This one might die before we can kill him,” one of the horsemen says.

  The horsemen lead me back to the church doors. Belisencia and the two halberdiers are in the company of the soldiers that I saw arriving from the docks. At least twenty horsemen have assembled halfway between us and the inner gatehouse. Two standards flutter above them. The first is a lion and staff, which I do not recognize. But I know the second very well: the three roosters. Sir Gerald of Thunresleam.

  The doors to the church swing open and a group of soldiers in chain-mail tunics walk outside. Two of them hold Tristan. I close my eyes. We are surrounded, they have Tristan, and I am a fool for leaving my weapons in the dorter. At least I could have died fighting.

  “Tristan!” Belisencia tries to run to him but a guard holds her back. “Who are they?” Her voice trembles. “Why do they have Tristan?”

  “They are Sir Gerald’s men,” I say. “We might have mentioned Sir Gerald on our travels. Insane. Cruel. Wants us dead.”

  “No!” The thick tears leap from her eyes. “How did he get into the monastery?”

  I watch the horsemen make their way toward us. “How do most enemies breach enemy walls?” I pound one of the halberdiers in the face as hard as I can, shattering his broomstick nose. He drops to the earth like pigeon shit as Sir Gerald’s men take hold of me. “Someone on the inside opens the gates.”

  Chapter 52

  Most of the horsemen stop a dozen paces from the church, but two of them amble closer until they are directly in front of us. Both are fully armored. The first rides a dappled charger and wears one of those hideous new hounskull helmets with the muzzle-shaped visors. The other rides a monstrous black destrier and wears a bascinet helm. The visor of this man’s helmet has been replaced with a steel mask made to look like an animal face—a roaring ape of some sort. I have not seen the helm before, but I have seen the black destrier.

  Sir Gerald has been on the wrong end of cannon blasts the last two times we met. The most recent was the gun explosion that killed Isabella the Witch and ravaged part of Gerald’s face. His new helmet hides the scars of that meeting. There will be torture in store for us. I do not know what kind of torture, but I imagine it will make Alexander the Cruel seem saintly.

  “Sir Edward.” Gerald’s voice trembles, although I cannot tell if it is with excitement or hatred. “Sir Tristan. How wonderful to see old friends.” His voice sounds tinny from behind the mask.

  “What’s that on your face?” Tristan says. “A baboon?”

  The steel mask turns toward Tristan. “It is the great gorilla of the Africas. The most powerful creature of the jungle.”


  “Is that how you see yourself?” Tristan laughs and points to the three roosters of Gerald’s crest. “You Thunresleam knights and your little cocks. Always getting above yourselves.”

  Sir Gerald turns to the man at his side. “I shall wear his tongue as a pendant before the day is done.”

  “Release him,” I say. “Tristan had nothing to do with Sir John’s death.” Sir John, Gerald’s hero, died at the Battle of Lighe, fighting a French army. The same French army whose survivors Alexander the Cruel strapped to wagon wheels. But the French did not kill Sir John. He was torn apart by plaguers that I led to the battlefield.

  Mea maxima culpa.

  The ape mask turns toward me. “There is more than enough guilt for both of you.” He gestures to the man at his side. “This is my new ally, King Brian.”

  The man raises his dog-face visor and frowns. “Am I allowed to call myself a king?” Sweat glistens on his trimmed, black beard.

  “Of course you are,” Gerald replies. “King Brian of Yarmouth. Those with land and castles are the new kings. We must each carve out our kingdoms.”

  The man nods. “As you say.” He leans forward in the saddle and addresses us. “I am Brian Hastings, King of Yarmouth. And any enemy of King Gerald is an enemy of mine.”

  Belisencia sucks in a sharp breath and slips behind Tristan.

  Gerald points to the halberdier behind me. “You there. I need to take these two men somewhere. A place where I can peel their skin off and urinate on the pulp.” He cackles and looks at King Brian. “You can piss on them, too. We can piss on them together!”

  King Brian’s smile is a strained one. “Very kind, really, but—”

  “No, no, I insist. It will seal our alliance. A symbolic gesture. Pissing on our enemies together.”

  King Brian shrugs meekly. “I suppose.”

  “You can take them to the undercroft of the dorter,” says the halberdier. “There’s a tub there.”

  Someone shouts “No!” from inside the church. The alchemist steps outside and blinks against the sun. “No. Take them to the cellar of my tower. There is only one door and no windows. No chance for them to escape.”

  “You filthy bastard!” I lunge toward him but soldiers pull me back and drag me away from the church doors.

  “Who are you?” Sir Gerald asks.

  “I am Dominic of Norwich, granted this monastery by the earl of Warwick.”

  “And why do you wish these men harm?”

  “Because you do, your highness. And in these dark times we must bow to the new order of things. I wish to keep the monastery and to be allowed a continuation of my studies. In return, I will serve you however I can.”

  “We should have let you burn!” Tristan shouts.

  “The monastery belongs to King Brian now,” Gerald says. “You may appeal to him. But in the meantime.” He claps his hands together. “Guards, bind Sir Edward and Sir Tristan and take them into the cellar of the tower.”

  We are pushed toward the church. Belisencia tries to follow but two soldiers bar her path. “Tristan!” she shrieks. “Tristan!”

  King Brian stands in his stirrups and points to Belisencia. “Wait!” The guards stop. “I know that woman.”

  All eyes fall upon Belisencia, who wipes at her tears roughly and spits toward King Brian. “You know who I am, but you do not know me. You never have.”

  “She’s comely,” says Gerald. “Who is she?”

  “She’s—”

  “Elizabeth of Lancaster,” Belisencia spits. “Countess of Pembroke. Cousin to King Richard, and sister to Henry of Bolingbroke.”

  “Elizabeth of Lancaster?” The thoughts jumble in my head too quickly to make sense of things. “You’re…you’re…”

  She looks at me, and more tears fall from her eyes. “Daughter to John of Gaunt. Though I hold little love for him.”

  “You’re John of Gaunt’s daughter?” Tristan asks.

  “And wife to my cousin, John Hastings,” King Brian adds. “She escaped from his household and has been missing for months. We shall be rewarded for her return.”

  “Wife?” Tristan’s voice is sharp as a razor. “You have a husband?”

  Belisencia, or Elizabeth, or whoever she is, reaches past the guards and runs a hand along Tristan’s face. “I can explain it. I can explain all of it.”

  Sir Gerald laughs. A loud, uninterrupted stream of madness. “This is…this is the best day of my life. I could not have planned it any better. Take them away.”

  We are shoved through the church doors. Belisencia shouts after us. “It’s not as it seems! Tristan! Tristan!” The boom of the closing church doors cut off her scream. The guards bind our wrists with iron manacles and we are dragged through the dark nave toward the octagonal tower. The alchemist walks ahead of us, holding a set of keys, the jingle of them echoing in the church.

  “The peasants were right!” Tristan shouts. “You are Satan’s dog! Burning is too good for you!”

  “Why?” I shout. “Why betray us?”

  The alchemist stops at the beveled archway leading to the tower stairs and looks back at me. “You are fighting men,” he says sadly. “It is beyond your understanding.” He takes a candle from a sconce on the wall and walks down the stairs.

  The cellar is a low-ceilinged room. So low-ceilinged that I have to duck as they shove me inside. Tristan does the same. It smells of feces and urine in the room.The alchemist reaches in and lights a torch on the wall beside the doorway. It is a large room despite the low ceiling. The torchlight does not illuminate much of it, so the alchemist steps inside and extends his arm. The candlelight shines on something cylindrical to our left. The smell seems to emanate from there.

  “Do you see it?” The alchemist whispers. He slips a dagger into my hands. “Do what you must. Then get to the top.”

  An instant later the two guards enter the room. I fumble to hide the dagger beneath my wrists.

  One of the guards, a fat man with a tangled beard, covers his nose. “Oi, but that’s a horrid smell!”

  “A hermit lived here,” the alchemist replies. “I’m afraid we never cleaned this chamber when we took over the monastery.”

  The two guards flip a penny to see which one will stay in the room. The portly one loses and groans; the other laughs and takes position outside the door. As the alchemist departs, he glances to my left one last time. The door creaks shut and the lock clanks true. The portly guard pounds on the door. “It ain’t right leaving me here with this smell!”

  The lock clanks again and the door groans open. “What are you thumping about?” the other guard asks.

  “It ain’t right, this smell!”

  “You lost square. Shut your mouth and do your job.” The door slams shut again and the lock slides into place.

  The fat guard waves us away from the door. “You two stand over there, right? Don’t come near me.” He puts the back of his hand to his nose and grimaces. “God’s Thumb, this smell is awful. This is the worst post I’ve ever had.”

  It’s about to get worse for him. I flip the dagger so the blade is out and find the man’s throat with my eyes. I have to be quick and cut deep or he will cry out.

  An instant before I raise the dagger, something in the room growls deeply. A long, winding, animal growl that echoes in the circular chamber.

  Chapter 53

  I hide the dagger again and stare into the darkness.

  “What the bloody hell was that?” the portly guard asks.

  Whatever made the noise is on the opposite end of the room. The three of us huddle against the door and stare into the darkness. Something laughs. A woman’s laugh. Musical. It continues for a long time, growing higher and higher pitched until it becomes a shriek. And when the shriek ends, the echoes throb in the low chamber. Something pants in the darkness.

  “Oh Jesus,” the guard says. He bangs on the door behind him. “Oh bloody Christ.”

  A woman’s whisper slips from the darkness: “I love you.”


  I hear Elizabeth in that voice. It is a knife thrust through my heart. The woman giggles, and there is malevolence in the sound. Evil.

  “Who’s there?” the guard calls out. He continues to pound on the door as he speaks.

  Another long growl rolls out from the other end of the room. “I will care for you always,” says the woman. More laughter.

  The words batter at my conscience. I think of Elizabeth waiting for me in the monastery. Wondering if I would come to save her. And I never did.

  I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I’m so sorry. Mea maxima culpa.

  “Eat my fingers. Please. Won’t you eat my fingers?” A thunderous roar nearly knocks us over. The voices and sounds blend into one another. It seems impossible, but the same creature is making all of those sounds. More laughter echoes across the chamber. Scraping footsteps approach us.

  “Christ in heaven, it’s coming for us!” shouts the guard.

  I have known abject terror many times in my life. But never has the sweat risen on my body so swiftly. Never has the fire of terror burned through my limbs quite so fiercely. I want to pound at the door and scream. But all I do is suck in deep breaths of the damp, dusty air.

  The portly guard pounds on the door. “William, open the door! Open the bloody door!”

  William calls back from outside, but the door is so thick that I cannot understand what he says; I can only hear his laughter.

  “The torch,” Tristan whispers. “Take the torch, you baboon.”

  The guard pulls the torch from the sconce and aims it toward the sounds. Something scuttles on all fours through the light and disappears in shadows. Something pale and filthy and skeletal. The three of us jump back at the sight.

  The guard swings the torch to one side then the other, creating long, swirling shadows. The light flashes from withered and bleeding eye sockets. No eyes. Just black, scabrous holes like open graves. A face that has lost much of its skin. Wisps of hair like windblown scraps of hay. A shriveled mouth opens and hisses, then the creature is gone.