The Scourge (Kindle Serial)

by Roberto Calas

  I pray, but what I ask cannot be granted, because the change has occurred already. When next I stare into the animal’s eyes, I see nothing but darkness.

  The watching crowd erupts into cheers. Lord Robert claps and laughs on his platform.

  “God’s blood!” Tristan shouts.

  “Don’t let it bite you, Edward!” Morgan calls. I give him a look that I hope conveys my opinion of his advice.

  The maul in my hand grows heavier with every heartbeat. It is a slow, clumsy weapon. Perhaps I should have chosen a spear. I hope Tristan is wrong. If only so he won’t be so smug when we meet in whatever afterlife awaits us.

  I glance at the bear and ask God to allow me time for one good swing. If I can land the clumsy hammer in the perfect spot, one good swing is all it will take.

  The bear howls, black eyes wrinkling closed, cavernous jaws straining. This time the sound is pure plague. Its claws gouge the dirt. The nightmare eyes lock onto mine. It growls. A rattling chain of a growl. The muscles of its shoulders tense, and I brace myself.

  The animal leaps.

  I roll to my right and the bear’s great bulk hammers the logs of the arena. They are stout logs, buried deep in the soil, but they pitch backward six inches from the impact.

  Plague makes the creature clumsy. It is my only advantage.

  The bear backs from the wall with a grunt and tracks me. I sprint away from the perimeter and turn to face the beast at the center of the arena. It barrels toward me, paws curling like fists as it runs.

  When it is close enough for me to smell the rank odor of feces and vomit, the bear stands on two legs and howls. Four yellowed fangs glimmer among the rows of smaller, jagged teeth. . It lurches forward and swipes in my direction with hooked claws. Four-inch claws. They are like daggers whistling through the air. I leap to the left. The animal lurches toward me on two legs, then drops to all fours and tries to circle around to my back. I spin to face it, holding the maul out. Keeping the heavy hammerhead between the creature and me.

  Something hits me on the shoulder. A rotten cabbage. An onion bounces past me from behind. Lord Robert’s men are pelting me with rotting vegetables. I don’t recall that in the rules of a trial by combat.

  Something round and hard whistles past the bear’s head and skips along the dirt floor of the arena. The animal doesn’t notice. Its black eyes see only me. It snarls and takes a slow step forward. I jab at its mouth with the maul and am rewarded by a howl of pain.

  The bear turns back toward the perimeter wall and I realize that it was not the maul that caused the injury. A stone lies by its rump. Tristan and Morgan wave to me from behind the palisade. Tristan holds another stone. The bear turns its head in their direction and I see my chance.

  I raise the heavy hammer high as another stone whistles through the air. The stone strikes the animal’s head. The creature roars and bounds toward Tristan before I can finish my swing. A coil of chain that has looped around my foot tightens and yanks me forward. I crash onto my back and the hammer thuds to the earth as the bear drags me toward the wall.

  A rock in the soil gouges my spine as I skim along the arena floor and I howl in pain. The bear reaches the end of its slack and strains against the chain, reaching toward Tristan and Morgan. The chain clamps against my ankle with the full weight of the afflicted creature and I scream once more. Lord Robert’s men cheer at my cries. A vegetable of some sort splatters beside me. I claw at the chain but it is too tight. Tears of agony squeeze from my eyes as I pry at the metal, but I might as well try to pry open a castle gate. The metal links grind against the bones of my ankle.

  I grit my teeth, determined to hide my pain from the cheering crowd. And when I can’t bear it any longer the pressure suddenly eases. The bear turns back toward me, sniffing at what I can only assume is the blood from the wound on my back. I untangle myself and scramble on all fours back toward the center of the ring. Back toward the maul.

  The bear rumbles after me. I feel its claws raking at my legs, shredding the leather of one of my boots. I turn onto my back and kick with a mighty spasm of fear, bashing the creature in the snout. The animal rears and howls. I clamber to my feet and hobble toward the maul. The bear follows, stomping on two legs.

  I grab the maul and turn so quickly that I fall to one knee as the animal’s shadow darkens my world. I brace for the coming barrage. But the bear stumbles over its chain and drops to all fours.

  Once again I see my chance.

  The animal’s head is low as it rakes at the links. I rise to my feet and raise my weapon high into the air. God allows me the time for one good swing and I land the clumsy hammer in the perfect spot.

  The sound of metal on metal reverberates in the arena as the rusty lock shatters. The stake rips almost completely out of the ground.

  The perfect spot.

  Tristan suggested a spear, but the maul was what I needed. The shock of the blow numbs my arms but I don’t hesitate. I drop the hammer and run. If the bear wasn’t afflicted I would have no chance. But plague slows the animal. It lumbers behind me, huffing and grunting.

  In these times of madness only madness will save us.

  The spectators are silent. Their moment of understanding will arrive soon enough. I leap onto the wall and pull myself up toward Lord Robert’s platform. Powerful claws rake at my leg and catch my foot again. Lord Robert tries to rise from his chair. I grab at his legs. My hands slide on the dry, cracked leather of his boots as the bear pulls me backward. Robert screams for Frederick. My own boot comes off and the bear falls away for an instant. I pull myself up Lord Robert’s shin and clamber over the wall.

  I have an instant to note the look of shock on Robert’s face before I jump off the side of the platform. It is a look I will savor for the rest of my days. The bear scrabbles for purchase behind me, and then it is on the platform. The shrieks from Lord Robert meld with the plagued animal’s howls.

  And England has one less lunatic king.

  Chapter 20

  Our horses kick up great divots of earth as we gallop toward the north again. My hands are numb upon the reins as a cold drizzle spatters us. I glance backward once to see if we are pursued, but no one follows. The afternoon mists swallow Rayleigh Castle.

  Tristan hoots as we ride, and I marvel that the three of us still live.

  I recall screams and panic after I leaped from Lord Robert’s platform. Sir Frederick tried to save his master from the bear’s savage assault. I see a flash of it in my mind — the knight running up the platform stairs with his helmet off. Frederick and bear came crashing to the mud behind me a heartbeat later.

  I wonder if Sir Frederick died instantly from the weight of the animal, or if he lived long enough to feel the claws shred his face. To feel those great fangs rip his throat apart.

  I think most of Lord Robert’s men fled after that. A few ran into the rotting buildings and barred the doors, leaving others pounding and begging for entry. A large group of men opened the great palisade gates and made for the valley. The smart ones ran to the stables, which is where I went, too, limping on my bruised ankle. A man with a tangled beard tried to make off with my golden mare, but I struck him down with bare fists and he decided another horse would be better.

  Lord Robert’s men never unsaddled our horses. Their laziness disgusts me, but it made our escape easier, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Sir Frederick’s destrier was similarly tacked. In fact, the knight’s gray warhorse still wore its metal barding, so I left Morgan’s horse behind and took Frederick’s instead. I scooped up a bridle knife on the way out and searched for my companions.

  They were not hard to find. Tristan and Morgan shuffled toward the open palisade gate, stumbling and tripping over the rope that bound them as they tried to match paces. Despite the immediate danger, I found myself smiling as they shouted and shoved at one another. I tossed the bridle knife to Tristan. He sliced the rope and the three of us mounted our horses and made for the valley.

  I caught
sight of the afflicted bear one last time before we fled Lord Robert’s dung-pit. The animal bled from a number of wounds. The bodies of the two halberd knights lay at its feet. Another three knights circled the creature with swords drawn. The sound of our horses’ hooves made the bear glance over and I met its black gaze for an instant before the grime of Rayleigh Castle gave way to the English heath. We have not stopped riding since.

  We pass two milestones on the Roman road before I finally slow my mare. Tristan and Morgan catch up. Morgan’s barded destrier kicks and bites at anything near it, so he has to ride at a distance from us.

  We have very little among us. My breastplate and great helm dangle from the saddle, but I have lost everything else. I have no mail, nor gauntlets. I wear only one boot and the ankle within it throbs — I can almost feel the crush of the chain still upon it. I stare at my belt and sigh. Once again I am without a sword.

  Tristan and Morgan have it even worse. They have only boots, tunics, and leather breeches. But we smile at one another. We are alive.

  When we have traveled for a half mile, Sir Morgan calls to Tristan, “Do you see God’s almighty power now?”

  “I see rain, Morgan. Can’t God in His almighty power do something about all this blasted rain?”

  “In Lord Robert’s hall you swore that you would join the priesthood if God saved you, Tristan. I think when we return from this journey, you should honor your word and take the cloth.”

  “Satan’s hairy arse I will! It wasn’t God who saved me.”

  “He did save you,” Morgan says. “You are alive by His grace.”

  “No, Morgan. I am alive by Sir Edward’s grace. It was Edward who saved me.”

  “Did he?” Morgan asks. We ride quietly for a time. Sir Frederick’s barded destrier bites at its bit and fights Morgan for control. When he settles the horse, Morgan speaks again. “I am grateful to Sir Edward, but I am certain that the idea of a trial by combat was divinely inspired. As was his solution in the arena.”

  “Sir Edward is a clever man,” Tristan says. “He doesn’t need God’s help to form a plan.”

  “The plan seemed to come to him just after you swore to join the priesthood, did it not? God works in marvelous, wondrous ways.”

  “Why is it that God is responsible for everything good in our lives, but anything bad is our own doing?”

  Morgan sighs and looks in my direction. “Sir Edward, did the solution to our problem come to you from seemingly nowhere?”

  “Yes, Morgan,” I say. “I felt a mysterious warmth. And the idea…well, it just flowed into my mind. As if from on high.”

  “See?” Morgan says. “See?”

  Tristan shakes his head.

  “I think I heard singing, too,” I say. “Beautiful, unearthly voices.”

  Sir Morgan struggles to keep his smile.

  “I’m sure they must have been angels singing. Or cherubs. Or fat, dead monks, maybe. The sweetest voices in heaven. I nearly wept with joy. In fact, I get a little teary just thinking back on it.”

  Morgan’s smile turns into a scowl.

  “Tristan,” I say. “Did you see me rise off the ground? I’m certain I felt something lifting me heavenward.”

  “No,” Tristan replies. “But I did notice that the hedge outside the window burst into flames, Sir Edward.”

  “Yes! Yes!” I say. “It was the bush that told me to ask for a trial by combat!”

  Morgan shakes his head and trots his horse ahead of us. “You don’t have to hide behind mockery,” he calls back. “God saved Tristan. And both of you know it.”

  I know of another castle about fifteen miles from here, at Pleshey. I’m not sure if we can make it by nightfall, but I want to try. Thomas of Woodstock — King Richard’s uncle — owns that castle and I would very much like to speak with him.

  “You don’t really think Woodstock will be at Pleshey, do you?” Tristan asks.

  I shrug. “Most likely not. But if he is then maybe he can tell us what has happened to Richard and the might of England.”

  “King Richard and the might of England are probably tucked away in the Tower of London, like they were during the Peasants’ Revolt,” Tristan says. “I wouldn’t trade places with him for all the gold in the world. Can you imagine what London is like?”

  I can imagine what London is like. That is why I crossed the Thames at Dartford. And Dartford was bad enough. If Thomas Woodstock is in London, I wonder who claims ownership of Pleshey Castle now. What mad tyrant rules that dung-pit.

  Sir Morgan rides ahead of us on Sir Frederick’s armored horse. He is still cross about my teasing and I feel a flicker of remorse for the mockery. I canter my mare forward. The rain plinks off the metal barding on Morgan’s horse. As I approach, the destrier flattens its ears and snakes its head out to bite at my horse, so I veer to one side.

  “Morgan,” I say, “I’m sorry…” My words trail off. There is movement farther down the road.

  “Is that a wagon?” Morgan asks. Tristan spurs his gelding forward, and Morgan’s destrier kicks at it.

  “Surly bastard,” Tristan says. “Why’s that wagon going north?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s find out.” I kick my mare into a trot.

  The wagon is large and boxed with wooden boards so that it gives the impression of a hut on wheels. Rows of stakes have been thrust through the base of the cabin to form a bristling defense around the perimeter. A crucifix the size of a child’s coffin hangs on a staff that has been affixed to the front of the cabin, near the driver’s box. The staff rises five feet above the roof and sways from side to side as the wagon creaks and rattles along the muddy Roman road.

  A wrinkled face peers back at us. The two draft horses pulling the wagon slow to a halt, and a hunched old man steps gingerly from the driver’s box holding an ancient crossbow.

  “I am under the Lord’s protection,” he says in a voice that is high pitched and squeaky. “Ye be warned.”

  “If the Lord protects you, why do you need a crossbow?” Tristan asks.

  The old man studies Tristan, then spits. “Because sometimes I like to have a little sport before the Lord destroys my enemies.” He looks us over. “Are you my enemies?”

  “You have nothing to fear from us, old man,” I say.

  He wears a loose woolen tunic that falls to his knees. A velvet cape that looks too expensive for him rests on his shoulders, and a gold cross hangs from a chain around hisneck. “I am Gregory the Wanderer,” the man says. It is an apt name, for one of his eyes wanders far from true.

  “What brings you here, Gregory?” I am not sure which eye to look into, so I switch from one to the other. “Travel north of the Thames is dangerous these days.”

  “I do God’s work,” Gregory says. Morgan’s destrier bites at one of Gregory’s horses and the old man jabs at it with his crossbow. “So God protects me.”

  “A lot of people who do God’s work are staggering and eating their brethren these days,” Tristan says. “God’s protection has become rather fickle.”

  “God protects those who are faithful to him.” Gregory stands with his head turned slightly away from us, as if he might see God in the rainy fields.

  “Then half of England must not be very faith…” Tristan trails off with a sigh. “Look, old man, can’t you wear a patch or something? At least turn my way so I know which one to look at.”

  “It is noble to do God’s work,” Morgan says. “Are you a priest?”

  Gregory studies us for a long moment. He glances at my breastplate and helmet. “You are knights?”

  “We are.” I make introductions. Gregory nods and tosses his crossbow onto the driver’s box.

  “I am no priest,” he says. “I am a gatherer. I collect shards of heaven.”

  “Shards of heaven?” I ask.

  “Aye,” he says. “Relics of the holy martyrs and saints.”

  Morgan’s breaths quicken. “Relics?”

  Gregory nods. “I find t
hem in the abandoned churches and shrines of England.”

  We look at one another, then at his wagon. Gregory studies us warily, then glances at the crossbow on the driver’s box.

  “What do you do with these relics?” I ask.

  “I watch over them,” Gregory says. “I am their guardian and I will protect them for all of eternity.”

  “All of eternity?” I say.

  Gregory shrugs. “Or until someone makes a decent offer for them.”

  We have a relic in our little church of St. Giles in Bodiam, in a silver reliquary shaped like praying hands. It is said to be the finger of the church’s namesake. St. Giles is the patron saint of cripples and the insane, and Elizabeth was enthralled by his shrine. She left flowers at the reliquary once a week and prayed to him when she needed guidance. I chided her once about praying to the saint of cripples and lunatics, and she scolded me.

  “He is our saint, Eddie. He watches over all of Bodiam, including you and I. And he will always keep us safe.”

  I think Elizabeth must have forseen the coming of this plague. For in these times of madness, who better to guard us than the patron saint of insanity?

  There are thousands of holy relics in the world. Perhaps tens of thousands. I’m not certain. All I know is that the bodies of saints and martyrs are stripped down and divided like butchered cattle. Fingers and legs and ribs and hearts. Each body part is carried off to a different corner of the world, to be prayed to and adored.

  A monk at St. Edmund’s Bury once told me the difference between praying to old bones and worshipping idols. Apparently, the bones of saints are not worshipped, they are merely venerated. The difference between worship and veneration is lost on me, but I am a simple knight. If the priests say that bowing before the withered remains of a martyr is not worship, then who am I to say otherwise?