I see one of Sir John’s soldiers strike a Frenchman in the head with a poleax. The axhead crashes thunderously against the back of the man’s helmet. The nasal helm crumples and a stream of blood arcs like a fountain over the battlefield. Another Englishman sends a soldier to the mud with a spear thrust, then stamps his bootheel upon the man’s face again and again until the skull shatters.
A sword is not the best weapon in this sort of battle, but I take my share of Frenchmen. One of them lunges at me with a poleax, so I crab my horse to one side. I grab the man’s wrist and hack off his forearm with one swing. He looks me in the eyes and shrieks.
I ride along the lines, slashing down at the French. Most of my blows strike mail. But the sword Sir John gave me is a good, heavy blade, and French bones crack under its weight. I hammer a French helmet. The soldier jerks upright and falls on two bodies next to him. Two footmen finish him with axes.
I pause and stare out over the battle. My soldiers are almost upon us.
Somewhere in the fray a soldier screams that he can’t see. Another just screams and screams. Cries come from every direction, punctuated by the percussive clamor of ax and sword. Snippets of them rake my ears.
“Hit him! Hit him! Hit him again!”
“Tuer ce salaud!”
“Yield! Yield! I yield!”
“Stephen!”
“Kill them! Kill them! Send them to hell!”
“Remise! Remise!”
Too many voices. Too much chaos. Lines have broken. The French don’t know which enemy to face. Sir John’s soldiers swing murderously with their axes, splitting armor and spines. Vast swaths of the French army’s right wing break off toward the east, away from the battle. Sir Gerald gives chase with the English knights and they slaughter whomever they catch. Another roar goes up from the soldiers. The plaguers have reached the battle lines.
I don’t know what I expected to see. Perhaps something biblical. Lucifer’s armies descending upon mortal man. The battle of Judgment Day. Thunder. Brimstone. Naked angels soaring down on rainbows. I’m not certain. But I know that what I see defies all expectations. Not because of the horror. But because of the lack of horror. I see warfare. Humans killing humans. Soldiers tearing soldiers apart. Mine simply have less armor.
It is no different than any other battle I have witnessed.
Chapter 16
The battle doesn’t finish. It dies.
Sir John’s men stop fighting the French at some point. What remains of both armies unites against the demons that I have unleashed. I fight them, too. As do Tristan and Morgan. Sir John’s soldiers and the Frenchmen have armor and weapons, but my soldiers don’t die easily. It is a long contest. And it no longer resembles a normal battle.
A Frenchman and an Englishman hold an afflicted woman by the arms while another Frenchman shatters her skull with a war hammer, swinging again and again until she stops moving. An Englishman begs someone to kill him as a mob of plaguers rip him to pieces with hands and teeth. A dozen afflicted men and women hunch at the belly of a fallen horse and feed while the horse kicks weakly with its legs. I cut down an afflicted man who walks toward me with an ax in his back. Morgan slices off the top of a man’s head, then makes the sign of the cross over the man’s body. Tristan hacks and hacks with his new sword. I can’t see his face, because of his helmet, but I am sure there is no humor there on this morning.
When the last of my plaguers has been put down, there are seventy-eight Englishmen left on the field, and about half as many Frenchmen. I know there will be more casualties. Many of the soldiers left standing bear wounds inflicted by my demons. They, too, will have to be put down.
I kneel in the mud, exhausted, and pray that God will forgive me. It is possible that He will, but Sir Gerald, apparently, will not. He screams so loudly that the sound echoes across the valley, then he runs in my direction, his armor jangling. I look up and he kicks me, sending me into the wet earth. Tristan tackles Sir Gerald. Sir Gerald falls on his back, his helmet rolling away, and Tristan pounds him with gauntleted fists until Morgan drags him away.
Tristan screams at Gerald: “Get up! Get up you swine-turd!”
Sir Gerald, bleeding from nose and cheek, screams in my direction. “Murderer! You have brought shame to your lineage! You have…you have …”
“Kept my word,” I say quietly. I rise and let the soft rain wash the grime from my armor. “The French are gone.”
Gerald’s shoulders heave. He does not try to stand. His eyes close, and when he opens them, tears brim. “You have killed Sir John! He is dead because of you!” He weeps and covers his face. I exchange glances with Tristan and Morgan.
The king is dead.
I am losing count of all the offenses that I pray God will pardon. I find it hard to care. Elizabeth is my God. And she will forgive.
We find our horses and leave quietly while Sir Gerald weeps. No one tries to stop us. Far below, on the muddy estuary, the French ships list in the English clay. The tide is creeping back from the North Sea, but the ships will never return to France. They burn in the rainy channel, set ablaze by English soldiers.
It won’t matter if some of the French find their way home. England is locked again. I hope a few of them do make it back to the Continent. The tales they tell will end the war.
We aim our horses toward Elizabeth and leave the Battle of Lighe behind. Hadleigh Castle fades into the mist, but I know we will not get far on this day. My bones throb from the battle. Sir Morgan took a spear in his left arm during the combat. We must rest.
We ride for two miles in a steady rain before I reach my limit.
“There’s a castle northwest of here,” I say. “Rayleigh. It’s not far.”
Tristan smirks. “Robert de Burgh’s castle? You want to spend the night as a guest of Lord Robert?”
“No,” I say. “I would rather eat haggis. But the castle will be safe and dry. Robert is half-mad but he’s not a monster.”
We ride for another half mile, and shapes appear from behind a copse of yew trees to the north. They are riders, six of them, wearing armor and cantering toward us. I recognize the de Burgh lozenges on their tabards as they surround us. They level their lances in our direction.
“What’s this?” I ask. “I am Edward Dallingridge of Bodiam. Get those lances away and take us to Lord Robert at once.”
The knight directly opposite me removes his helmet and bows his head. He has long black hair that spills over his shoulders. “I am Frederick of Brentwoode. And I shall indeed bring you to Lord Robert. Where you will be tried for treason.”
“Tried…for treason?” Morgan stammers over the words.
“Yes,” Frederick says. He smiles wickedly. “Tried and executed.”
Chapter 17
Frederick of Brentwoode is sloppy. The spaulders sitting on his shoulders are loose and clank loudly with each stride of his horse. The seams of his armor are caked in dust that has settled among oil and was never scoured away. All of these knights are similarly unkempt. They are a dingy, sloppy, loose-strapped mob. Robert de Burgh is old but he was never untidy. I wonder why he would allow such unkempt knights in his service.
I have heard that Rayleigh Castle is not the most picturesque in England, but nothing prepares me for what I see when it rises into view. As we approach the ancient motte and bailey, I begin to understand why Sir Frederick and his men are not concerned about their appearance. And I begin to wonder truly about Lord Robert’s sanity.
The castle sits on a spur of land overlooking the valley of the River Crouch. There is no keep, only a crumbling stone tower that stands on the massive motte. Eight filthy buildings of wood and stone litter the bailey at the base of the hill. A winding stone wall rings both the mound and the inner bailey, but sections of that wall have crumbled into loose stone piles. Silt and debris fill the defensive ditches beyond that wall.
Sir Frederick must see something in my expression. He points toward the castle. “Lord Robert is going to redig t
he trenches,” he says. “And raise the motte.”
But it’s not the hill I am focusing on. It’s not the crumbling tower or the fragmented stone walls or even the decaying buildings in the bailey. I can stare at nothing but a new wooden palisade that has been raised around the entire castle, just outside the broken stone walls. It is a barrier of wooden stakes, the only viable defense left at Rayleigh. And I cannot take my eyes from it. Because upon every fourth or fifth standing stake of that palisade sits a human head.
“I would have gone with finials,” Tristan says. “But it does have a savage sort of charm.”
Sir Frederick points to a section of the palisade. “There’s room for three more heads over there.”
A throng of people mill at the palisade’s gatehouse. At first I assume them to be afflicted, but as we get closer I see that they are healthy villagers.
One of the knights in our column dons his helmet and gallops toward them with lance lowered. The crowd scatters.
“Why not just let them in?” I ask.
Sir Frederick laughs. “Because they’re peasants.” He goads his horse into a canter and urges us to keep up. Four of his knights lope behind us to make sure we comply.
We ride to the gateway in a long column and I look up at the wooden wall before riding through. Some of the heads on the stakes have rotted almost to skulls. Others look as if they were planted within the week. I cannot tell if these people were afflicted or not. Death makes plaguers of us all.
There is a crowd inside the bailey gathered around an arena made of great logs driven into the earth. The logs rise to shoulder height and span an area large enough to house ten horses. Twenty or thirty men peer over the rim of the structure and cheer. Lord Robert is there too, a withered old man in a stained fur cloak. A chair has been set on a high platform for him outside the wall. He slouches in the chair, his feet level with the log tops, and peers into the ring like a spectating cadaver. Something inside the makeshift arena roars, an animal scream. I can feel the power of it in my stomach.
Sir Frederick sees my interest. “Have a look,” he says.
I do. Two brown bears battle inside the enclosure. Both animals are collared and chained to thick stakes at the center of the arena. One of them, a massive beast with darker fur, has its jaws locked under the snout of the other and rakes with massive paws. The smaller bear roars, but it is not the same sound I heard a moment ago. This roar is a shrill cry, and I understand that this animal is afflicted. This plague knows no boundaries.
“Lord Robert had them brought here from Germany,” Frederick says. “We had six. These are the last two. We had one that could dance.”
The contest is savage and short. They pound at one another. The larger bear shreds at its opponent with razor-like claws, leaving ragged trails through its greasy fur. The plagued animal shrieks and tears great gouges from the other’s shoulders but can’t break free. It falls upon its back on the ground, bellowing and pawing meekly. The larger bear braces its back legs and pins its opponent. Then it shakes its head from side to side, its jaws still locked, until the smaller animal can only twitch and make faint clicking noises, its oily black eyes closing slowly.
The victor howls. It shuffles away from the body and howls again. Perhaps I am growing sentimental as I age, but its cries sound mournful to me. The bear’s chain is tangled with that of the dead creature. It lopes toward the wall, as far as the links will allow, and strains. The animal rises on two legs and places one great paw upon the logs. It huffs and sends another roar into the skies of Rayleigh. I don’t want to watch anymore. The lumbering animal spins in a hulking pirouette, its chains jangling. It returns to the fallen foe, prods with a paw and howls once more.
Sir Frederick forces us to remove our armor and give him our new swords before we can enter the great hall. It takes some time, so that when we enter, Lord Robert has been helped into a throne set upon a steep dais. The steps are so steep that I have to look up to study him. I would think him dead in that chair if not for the baleful eyes tracking me. Sir Frederick climbs the steps and whispers to him. They both look in our direction and scowl.
Robert’s great hall is as filthy as the rest of his castle. Soiled thresh underfoot. Packs of dogs circling and snarling at one another. A fire burns from a wide hearth to the right of Lord Robert’s throne, the smoke from the flames wafting into the hall in coils.
Two long tables rest on either side of the chamber, and the men who watched the bear fight now sit at the benches, eating. They stare at me and my knights the same way they stared at those bears. I wonder if they want us to dance.
Sir Frederick descends from the dais and takes position behind us.
“More traitors.” Lord Robert tries to stand but his arms don’t appear strong enough to push him out of the chair. “Traitors! The three of you!”
I march the aisle between the two rows of tables toward Lord Robert. Tristan and Morgan walk with me, and Frederick follows closely. I step over a lump of dog feces that steams upon the damp thresh. The stink of it makes me want to gag. Tristan tugs on Morgan’s tunic so that the big knight stumbles and treads on the dog droppings.
When I am five paces from the dais I halt and meet Lord Robert’s gaze. “Is this how the great Lord Robert treats his visitors?”
“Dreadfully sorry. Was I being rude?” Lord Robert sweeps his arm grandly. “Welcome. Welcome to my dung-pit.”
One of the men at the table laughs. Lord Robert points a hooked finger toward me. “But you, you are not visitors. You are my prisoners, you see? And tomorrow I will have your heads ripped from your shoulders and I will stake your skulls upon my wall.”
“I don’t think he can make it to the walls.” Tristan’s whisper carries across the silent hall. I can’t tell if it was intentional, but I want to clout him either way.
Lord Robert scowls at the remark. Sir Frederick spins Tristan around and drives a fist into his stomach. I turn on Frederick but think better of it.
Morgan helps Tristan to his feet. “I’d have done that to you myself if he didn’t.”
I step forward. “Lord Robert, on what grounds do you accuse us of treachery?”
“I have a manor in London,” he says. “A lovely place, with orchards and gardens. And a couple servant girls with tits bigger than their heads.” He laughs, a panting laugh, and glances at his men. They laugh with him. “But I can’t get to London, you see? They say the bridges are blocked. I can’t reach my manor house, or my orchards, or my servant girls. I was going to take the stones from this dung-pit and build a church somewhere. Buy my way back to heaven, you see? But I can’t do that, now can I? No. This dung-pit is my home now. And it’ll be my grave.”
Morgan wipes his boot against the thresh to clear the feces from his boot. “When God lifts this plague,” he says, “you will return to your orchards.”
Lord Robert laughs again. “This is no plague. This is witchcraft! Those pagans in the west, they did this, you see? With their ceremonies and their idol worshipping. They brought this down on us!”
“And I will personally make sure that they answer for it,” Tristan says. “By your leave, my lord.” He bows and whirls toward the door, but Sir Frederick shoves him back toward the dais.
“You’ll not go anywhere,” Lord Robert growls. “You will die in this dung-pit. Just like me.” He points toward the door of the great hall. “Sir John of Mucking, now he has a castle. Makes this place look like a cow pie. But it is not his castle, you see? It is not his. He has taken King Richard’s castle and calls himself a king now! He is a king at Hadleigh while I…I sit here!”
“In your dung-pit,” Tristan says.
“Why can’t you go to Hadleigh, my lord?” I ask. “You have more right to it than Sir John.” I consider telling Lord Robert that Sir John is dead, but I am not certain if it will help us or make things worse.
“Oh, I sent four knights to Hadleigh. I sent them to tell Sir John that he must leave King Richard’s castle at once! That it
did not belong to him, you see? But only my loyal Sir Christopher came back.” He looks at the table to our left, and a balding man with a scar on his cheek smiles and holds his hand up. He looks familiar but I can’t place him. “The other three knights broke their oaths and stayed. May God put a pox on their souls for leaving! But Sir John, he sent a message with Christopher. He said that I was welcome at Hadleigh as long as I did my share of work. And as long as I gave him all my knights. All my knights! To a whelp from Mucking with no titles!”
Morgan leans toward me and mouths “Dead,” his eyes searching mine. I shake my head almost imperceptibly. If we tell Lord Robert about Sir John’s death, we will have to describe our involvement with him.
Lord Robert continues. “I can’t go to Hadleigh and get my men back. But I can take his, can’t I? Eight of those heads on the palisade belonged to his soldiers. My men patrol, you see? And when they see Sir John’s men, they bring them here. And those men become decorations on my walls.”
Slowly, very slowly, he points three fingers at us.
“No, no,” Morgan says. “We’re not…You have it wrong.”
“The three of you have renounced King Richard!”
“None of us have renounced Richard,” I say. “And we are not Sir John’s men.”
“Truly?” Lord Robert asks. “How very odd, because Sir Christopher says he saw you at Hadleigh Castle yesterday, you see?”
I remember now where I saw Sir Christopher.
“He pretends to be Sir John’s man,” Lord Robert says. “But he is loyal to me.”
“I am!” Christopher shouts. “Most assuredly.”
“Sir Christopher says that all three of you swore your allegiance to Sir John. And that you called him king.” As he speaks, a runnel of mucus oozes from his nose and stops just above his lip. He seems unaware of it.
Tristan dabs at his upper lip with a finger and clears his throat.
The Scourge (Kindle Serial) Page 8
