“I have never called Sir John a king,” I say. “And I would ask that Sir Christopher come here and repeat his false words in front of me, my lord.”
Lord Robert rises to his feet with a long groan. He studies the stairs, then begins a slow, halting descent. His foot slips and he falls back onto the steps with a shriek, then slides down to the bottom. “Frederick! Frederick!”
Sir Frederick runs to Lord Robert’s side and helps him to his feet. The old man grimaces and massages his hip as Sir Frederick helps him to the benches on our left. The knight lifts the tablecloth and puts it in the old man’s hands, then gestures that he should wipe his nose with it. Lord Robert dabs at the snot on his upper lip. When he is done he turns to us, and his eyes are almost completely hidden beneath his brows.
“You have consorted with a known traitor! You dined with him. You stayed in his castle. And you sat in on a council meeting! Do you deny any of this?”
“No, my lord, but — ”
“What say you, council? What say you of the treacherous Sir Edward and his traitorous knights?”
“Guilty!” the men shout as one, their voices echoing off the walls.
Lord Robert nods solemnly.
“You called us traitorous knights,” Tristan says. “I don’t think you are meant to include the verdict when you call for a vote.”
“Shut your mouth!” Lord Robert rises to his feet and points at Tristan. “Shut it! Shut it! Shut it!”
“He does that to everyone, my lord,” Morgan says.
“The lot of you, silence! The court has ruled. You are guilty!”
The men cheer again. I wait for them to settle down before I answer Lord Robert. “How many lords are in this room?”
“What?” Lord Robert walks toward me, hunched over and leaning on Sir Frederick.
“I should like to know how many lords are in this room. We are knights and gentlemen. As such, only a court of lords has the authority to rule on our guilt. You know this, Lord Robert. So I ask again, how many lords are in this room?”
Lord Robert’s eyes bulge. He peers at Sir Frederick, who stares back with tight lips. There are restless murmurs in the hall. The men are losing interest in the conversation. They have ruled that we are guilty but we have not yet been trussed. The bears are not dancing.
Lord Robert returns to the table. He and Sir Frederick lean their heads toward one another and whisper, darting glances in our direction. They appear to reach a conclusion, because Lord Robert smiles wickedly and Sir Frederick helps him stand.
“You are correct,” Lord Robert says. “We do not have a court of lords here. But these are terrible times. Our Heavenly Father has taken so many lords to his breast. There is no telling when such a court can be convened. And since we do not have the facilities to confine you here…”
For a brief moment I think the old man is going to let us go. I even start planning our route northward, out of Rayleigh. But Lord Robert wants blood. He wants spectacle.
“…we shall have a trial by ordeal!” Lord Robert smiles again. “We shall throw a spoon into a cauldron of boiling oil. If you are innocent, then God will let you draw it out with your bare hands.”
The men at the tables cheer. Their shouts echo across the chamber again and startle a rutting hound. I look at my knights. Even Morgan looks uncomfortable with this idea.
Tristan shakes his head. “Welcome to the dung-pit.”
Chapter 18
Sir Morgan opens his Bible and closes his eyes. His lips move in silent prayer. I think the fool believes God will keep his flesh from burning if he prays hard enough.
“He’s not listening,” Tristan says.
Morgan opens his eyes. “I am praying to Saint John the Evangelist, Tristan. He was thrown into a vat of boiling oil and God spared him. And if we pray, God may spare us too.”
Lord Robert and his men sit quietly at the tables waiting for the oil in the massive cauldron to boil. Sir Frederick taps a spoon absently against the scarred tabletop. A man with no shirt and a staggeringly large belly stares into the pot and wipes at his nose periodically.
How long we wait like this I don’t know. Long enough for Sir Morgan to flip through fifteen pages of his Bible. Long enough for me to dwell on the barbarism of these sorts of trials.
I haven’t heard of a trial by ordeal in more than thirty years. But I have heard stories. Half of the peasants who faced such ordeals never recovered from their burns, even if they completed the task and so proved themselves innocent. I wonder if Lord Robert will salve our burns if we succeed.
“It is ready!” The fat man laughs and his jowls jiggle. “The oil, it has come to a boil!”
Sir Christopher slides a timber through the cauldron’s handle and, with the help of another knight, lifts it off the hook from which it dangles. They set the pot at the foot of the dais and stand behind us with spears in their hands. Sir Frederick helps Lord Robert to his feet again, and the two take positions behind the cauldron. Robert’s men form a half circle around us.
I can smell the pungent fish oil. Lord Robert nods to Frederick, who smiles and holds up the iron spoon he was tapping. He waves it with a flourish, then drops it into the cauldron.
“Oh Christ.” Sir Tristan backs away from the oil, but a broad-shouldered knight drives a spear shaft crosswise into his back.
“You do not find this humorous anymore, Sir Tristan?” Lord Robert smiles wickedly, displaying his few remaining teeth. “Maybe you should go first. God likes a sense of humor.”
“That’s…that’s not what Morgan says.” He can’t seem to look away from the boiling oil. “I’m not…we’re not Sir John’s men. I despise him. You have to believe us.”
Robert’s men laugh, but only briefly. Their gazes are locked on Tristan and the cauldron. Sir Christopher shoves me and Morgan forward so we can see the oil.
Sir Frederick crosses to the table and steals a chicken leg from one of the plates and returns. He holds it in the air so everyone can see, then drops it into the pot. The oil seethes and crackles. It sears the leg instantly. The smell of burning meat and fish oil mingle. Bits of skin turn brown and peel away. The scalding oil shrivels and blackens the shank, and, by the time it has settled on the bottom, only bone and charred scraps of flesh remain.
Tristan grabs at his hair and backs away from the cauldron. “Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ.”
I want to scream out that Sir John is dead. That Lord Robert is insane. I want to rip a spear from the hands of one of the knights and try to fight our way out. But I know that none of it will help.
Morgan shouts, “This is no time for blasphemy, Tristan!”
Tristan, his face a mix of fury and terror, turns on Morgan. “This is precisely the time for blasphemy, you pox-pricked tewel! Jesus God! They’re going to turn my arm into a chicken bone, and you’re shouting about blasphemy?”
“The Holy Ghost has spoken to me, Tristan. God will spare you, as he did St. John. You will not be injured. But you must not blaspheme.”
“If God saves me, I’ll join the bloody priesthood!”
The men around us laugh. Lord Robert chuckles too and motions to the knight behind Tristan. “Sir Charles, if you would?”
The knight shoves with his spear. Tristan sets his feet but they slide along the floor. Dirty thresh piles over his boots. “No!” he shouts. “Wait! Wait!”
I shove Sir Charles. Sir Christopher pounds me in the head with the shaft of his spear. The blow makes me dizzy, but I continue pawing at Charles, so Christopher slams the shaft into my back. I fall forward onto my knees, so I am staring directly into the pot.
The tips of Tristan’s boots touch the cauldron. “I’m not ready!” he screams. “I am not bloody ready!”
Sir Charles draws a dagger and holds it to Tristan’s throat.
“But we are ready,” Lord Robert says. “Fetch the spoon, or we take your head.”
Tristan looks at the oil. He bites at his lip and turns his head away. The dagger draws blood.
“Stop it, you shit-monger, I’ll do it! I’ll bloody do it!”
Tristan stares into the oil for a long moment. Sweat has dampened his hair. He grimaces, glances at me and Morgan. Morgan lifts his palms into the air and raises his gaze skyward.
Tristan raises a trembling hand over the cauldron. His fingers are reflected in the oil, directly over the spoon, which lies face up beneath a foot and a half of scalding oil. Bits of chicken sizzle on the surface of the oil. Tristan takes a long rattling breath.
And reaches toward the spoon.
Episode 3:
Historical Note
In this episode, Sir Edward and his knights find themselves in Rayleigh Castle, a place that most likely was half ruined by their day. The castle at Rayleigh, built just after the Norman Conquest, was given to the de Burgh family by King John in the early thirteenth century. Robert de Burgh comes from a real family but he is not a real person, and his castle would most likely have been in King Richard’s holding by the time of this story. You can still visit the site of the castle in Essex. It is called Rayleigh Mount now, because only the motte and ditches remain, but it is preserved in a way that allows you to imagine what once was there.
In the story, Lord Robert keeps brown bears in his castle and fights them against one another. As much as I would like to say I’ve made that up, I can’t. Bear fighting and bearbaiting were quite popular among the English aristocracy. They must have been horrific things to witness. Bears were chained to stakes in arenas called “bear gardens,” and packs of dogs were set upon them. I can only imagine the wild state of the bears that lived this sort of existence.
The last thing I would like to touch upon is trial by ordeal. These sorts of trials were common in the early Middle Ages, although by Edward’s time they would mostly have disappeared. My thought in the reemergence of this sort of thing is this: during truly dark times, people and cultures seem to regress. The courts and laws of England are no longer available in Edward’s England. Society is reverting to something more primitive and savage and, lacking an authority, relies on God to render judgments. So trial by ordeal returns.
The ordeal that Edward and his knights are threatened with in this episode is slightly different than the traditional ordeals. It is true that typically these sorts of trials involved the burning of flesh in some way — pulling a stone from a pot of boiling oil, walking across burning coals, moving a red-hot ingot from one side of a room to another with bare hands — but that was not usually the extent of the trial. The wound was the important thing. If there was no wound, then obviously God had protected the accused and he or she was innocent. If there was a wound, it would be wrapped and watched. If the wound healed within a certain amount of time — usually three days or so — then that, too, was a sign of innocence. But if the wound was still festering after the allotted time, then God had not protected the accused. And the unhealed wound became the least of their problems.
Episode 4
Chapter 19
Tristan’s fingers pause and tremble just above the surface of the scalding oil. In another moment I will hear his screams as he maims himself. As he maims himself for me.
I am responsible for this. I brought him here.
There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for Elizabeth. No pain I wouldn’t suffer. I would die a thousand fiery deaths to see her face again…but Tristan shouldn’t burn with me.
I shout before I even decide to shout. “Stop!”
My scream rings out across the room and startles Lord Robert. I shove Tristan from the cauldron and he sprawls to the filthy thresh. Sir Christopher slams me with the shaft of his spear. I whirl on him as he winds up for another blow, and I grab the weapon. We struggle for control and he makes the mistake of bracing his legs wide. I kick him in the groin with all of my strength. Sir Charles locks one arm around my neck as Christopher falls. I have time to snap the spear over my knee before Sir Frederick joins the fray. He pounds my cheek with a blow so powerful that I see Elizabeth in her wedding dress. It takes three heartbeats for my vision to return. My cheek feels like broken glass, but it was worth the pain. It was worth it because I saw Elizabeth again, and because Sir Christopher writhes on the ground, hands buried in his crotch.
My knees have no strength, so Sir Charles holds me up as Sir Frederick pulls back his fist for another blow. I hold up my arm. “Wait…wait.”
Lord Robert stays Frederick’s hand. “Do you wish to go first then, Sir Edward?”
In these times of madness only madness will save us.
I regain my feet and shrug off Sir Charles’s arms. “If that’s what your men want.”
“It is what I want, Sir Edward.”
I turn to the half-circle throng of his men behind us. “Do you want to see me burn my arm?”
They don’t seem sure how to respond, so I scream it. “Who wants to see me burn my arm?”
The men look to Sir Robert and cheer, but not loudly.
“I will put my arm in that cauldron. I will give myself a burn and fetch that spoon. Perhaps you would like to see me stub my toe as well. Would you like that?” I smile wryly. “Should I stub my toe as well?”
Lord Robert crosses his arms. “Sir Edward, stop stalling or I will lose my patience.”
“I only thought your men would like some real entertainment. Not some peasant half-measures.”
I step to the cauldron and strip my sleeve. The scent of seared chicken sickens my stomach. I stare into the filthy oil and wonder what my flesh will smell like when it burns. A layer of brown froth rests against the pot edges.
“This is not entertainment, Sir Edward. This is God’s justice.”
“Amen,” Morgan says.
Tristan shoots Morgan an angry glance.
“Of course it is.” I take a breath and raise my hand over the cauldron. The heat from the scalding oil warms my palm. “And it will be over in a few quick moments.”
I peer at Lord Robert and see the indecision in his shifting lips. “Very well,” he says. “I will humor you, Sir Edward. What did you have in mind?”
I draw my hand back. “It seems to me that it is a simple thing to fetch that spoon. My arm will burn. I may lose the use of it, but I am a knight, I will get the spoon whether I am guilty or innocent.”
“I am listening.”
If Lord Robert wants to see me dance, I will dance for him. By God, I will dance for him.
“The Lord can’t judge us as he would judge peasants. If you want Him to judge us, then you must allow a proper test. You must allow us…” I turn to the men assembled around us and bellow, “A trial by combat!”
The cheers resound across the hall.
“I thought it was a good idea, Ed.” Tristan speaks to me over the logs of the arena. He is on the outside. His ankles are tied with rope to those of Sir Morgan. They have about a foot of slack between them. Sir Charles and another knight stand guard over them.
I thought it was a good idea too. In retrospect, I realize it was a terrible idea.
Sir Christopher was the one who spoke against us, so I had hoped to fight him. I know that I can send that fool to his death. But it was not to be. I used Lord Robert’s men to get what I wanted and in return, Lord Robert used them to get what he wanted. He let them choose my opponent, and their choice was not Sir Christopher.
I watch Sir Frederick walk from the great hall in full armor. Two similarly armored knights walk at his sides holding halberds. A man with a thick, gray beard opens the door to the arena. Frederick and his men stop just outside.
And they prepare themselves to release Lord Robert’s champion.
The giant brown bear weaves its head and paces the length of the fifteen-foot pen. Its growl is like a war galley running aground. The great beast vomits, then huffs and continues to pace. Sir Frederick reaches carefully toward the cage and releases the metal pin that secures the door. The bear rises on two legs and pounds at the gate. The three knights stop the swinging door with their shoulders so that it lines up wit
h the entrance to the arena. They groan at the impact. The sound of the gate crashing against their armor resounds across the castle grounds.
The two knights at Frederick’s side hold their halberds through the gaps to prevent the bear from muscling the door further. There is only one place for the animal to go, and I am there already. With no armor.
Tristan leans in close. “You should have chosen a spear, Ed. Or a longsword. You’ll never have time to swing that weapon.”
I look at the hulking maul in my hand. A great hammer — the largest they had in the armory. Tristan may be right. It is an unwieldy thing.
I spare a glance at Lord Robert, up on his platform, and he smiles at me. I know he believes that my plan has backfired. That I will be savaged by this bear. And perhaps he is right. Perhaps this man’s insanity will end my journey to Elizabeth. Madness is the true plague now. I wonder how many mad tyrants rule in England now. How many lunatic kings sit in dung-pits and throw men to their deaths.
The bear lumbers toward me, its bulk swaying from side to side. I have been told that some bears can weigh seven or eight times as much as a man. If that is true, then this one is ten times my weight, for I have never seen its equal.
A thick chain drags from the animal’s collar, perhaps fifteen feet long. Sir Frederick takes the loose end and coils it three times around the iron stake that juts from the center of the arena. The other two knights guard him with halberd as he latches the chain with a large, rusty lock. They scurry from the arena, and I am left alone with Lord Robert’s madness.
The bear looks at me. Its fur is spiky and matted. Countless gray patches and streaks in the hide testify to the animal’s many wounds. I wonder how many battles this poor creature has seen. More than me, I think. I look into its eyes and I see no danger there. It is as tired of fighting as I am.
The great beast shakes its head from side to side, then vomits again. It paws at its muzzle, then looks skyward and roars. To call that sound a roar is too mild. It is a cry to shatter the heavens. Some of the spectators cover their ears and look to one another. I am certain that everyone in the entirety of the valley must hear it. But in the middle of the roar something changes. The deep tones — tones that I feel in my teeth — rise and rise until they become a jagged shriek. My breath quickens at the sound. This creature fought an infected bear. Tasted its blood.
The Scourge (Kindle Serial) Page 9
