Gerald doesn’t speak. Blood drips from the wound down to his chin. “We can storm you. You have only one shot.”
“And that shot will strike you, Sir Gerald,” Morgan says.
“I think it might mist today,” Tristan says. “What do you think, Sir Gerald?”
Gerald stares at the cannon. He might be mad, but the prospect of getting shot with a four-foot cannon vastly improves one’s sanity.
“Go back to Hadleigh,” I say. “Sir John’s death was an accident of war. I am sorry it happened, but it did. Mourn him. Return to Hadleigh and build your new kingdom in his name.”
Gerald backs away slowly. “I know where you are going, Edward,” he says. “You cannot hide from me. I will descend upon you when your cannons are put away. And when you are captured, I will peel the skin from you in tiny strips. I will laugh and hurl salt toward your fleshless body.”
“At your fleshless body,” Tristan says.
Zhuri snorts.
Gerald’s eyes narrow and for a moment I think the idiots have goaded him into attacking, but he jerks the reins of his horse and rides toward the Roman road, scattering rabbits from his path. The other knights fall in behind him, glancing back at us as they go.
Morgan lowers the cannon to the ground.
“That was very quick thinking, Morgan!” Zhuri says.
“I can take no credit for it,” Morgan says. He looks at me. “It was St. Giles, Edward. St. Giles spoke to me.”
If he had mentioned anyone but St. Giles, I would have dismissed it as madness. The madness that rises from grief. But Elizabeth said St. Giles would always watch over me. I stare into Morgan’s eyes. Perhaps it is madness. But madness has kept us alive so far.
Tristan laughs and is about to retort, but then he sees the tears in Morgan’s eyes.
“St. Giles has given me a purpose,” Morgan says. “He told me that I must cleanse this land of evil. And I will do it. I will do it in Matilda’s name.”
No one speaks for a time. We watch as Sir Gerald and his men grow smaller with distance.
Tristan digs out a sharp stone from the grass. He kneels and scratches at the metal of Morgan’s gun. When he is done he tosses the stone away and claps the dust from his hands. I look at the thick iron cylinder of the cannon and read what Tristan has written:
MATILDA.
Chapter 33
I first visited Chelmsford four years ago, and it wasn’t my decision. For many years the town was a breeding ground for discontented peasants seeking to overthrow the ruling classes. Many of those peasants marched to London and rioted. King Richard, just a boy then, rode out and quelled them with promises. And shortly after the riots, Richard marched to Chelmsford and ostentatiously revoked those promises.
I was called to Chelmsford, like many other knights, to witness Richard’s shredding of the charter that he had signed in front of the violent peasants. That night, he told me at feast that the peasants revolted because of the Black Plague — the plague that came before this one. “There aren’t enough workers to harvest,” he told me. “The peasants know they are a commodity, so they press their advantage and try to bully their God-given superiors.”
I don’t know much about God, but I know a bit about taxes. And I know that a third poll tax on peasants who can scarcely feed their families will never be cheerfully embraced.
I look at the stone bridge that leads over the River Chelmer and into the town. There are neither peasants nor God-given superiors around Chelmsford. Only plaguers. They are the new rulers of England, and no one rises against them.
We cut down a half dozen of the afflicted on the Roman road and gallop past the rest, with Zhuri screaming the entire way. The Moor rides behind Tristan on the half-lame horse we acquired in Danbury.
I sigh and think of Elizabeth as we cross the stone bridge into Chelmsford. We should be riding toward St. Edmund’s Bury, but we are here instead.
The town is mostly fields and vineyards and thatched homes. There is a friary to the south that will likely be well defended, but we turn north, toward the church.
“Gregory had better be there, Morgan,” I say.
“He’ll be there.”
We canter past a throng of plaguers feeding on a dead goat. One of them looks up as we pass.
“Even if he did visit that church,” Tristan says, “what makes you think he will still be there?”
Morgan doesn’t say anything, but he glances skyward.
“St. Giles told you?” Tristan struggles to keep from laughing. “You two are awful chatty these days.”
“He told me to come to this church,” Morgan says. “You don’t believe me?”
“If Gregory is at the church, I might raise an eyebrow,” Tristan says. “But he will not be there.”
Milling plaguers spot us and gain purpose. They make for us like stray dogs catching the scent of a butcher’s cart. We pick up our pace.
“You have not told me why you want to kill him,” Zhuri says.
Morgan doesn’t reply.
“Because he is selling plague,” Tristan says.
“Selling plague?”
“Yes. Except he calls it the blood of St. Mary the Virgin.”
Morgan points to a steeple in the distance.
“There it is,” he says. “That is where we will find Gregory.”
“That is the church?” Zhuri asks.
Morgan nods. “The church of St. Mary the Virgin.”
I hadn’t remembered the name of the church. We all look at Morgan.
Tristan raises an eyebrow.
We open the door to the church stables and lock our horses inside, with the saddles still on. I don’t plan to be here long.
There are dozens of dead bodies around St. Mary’s, but none of them move. It is a strong church, with thick walls of flint, and a limestone tower. I put my ear to the arching, iron-studded doors and hear faint voices.
“I don’t know if Gregory is here,” I say. “But there are people inside.”
I pound on the thick oak.
“I don’t see his wagon,” Tristan says.
“Perhaps we should come back.” Zhuri’s voice is unusually high pitched, so I glance back. Plaguers approach from every direction. More than I have seen since the swarm at the willow.
I pound again on the great oak doors. It takes a lot of pounding before we hear movement inside. But the pounding seems to give more urgency to the afflicted. They lurch toward us more swiftly.
I use the pommel of my sword to bang harder. Morgan and Tristan turn to face the approaching plaguers. I hammer again and again, calling out my name. The afflicted are thirty paces away. Hundreds of them. Snarling and staring at us with dead eyes. A handful of them wear mail. One of them has a helmet. There is more movement inside. I can hear voices raised in argument.
The dead are almost upon us and I understand that a fight is unavoidable. I flip my sword and hold the grip tightly as I turn.
“Are any of those cannon loaded?” I ask.
I know from Tristan’s silence that the guns are empty. We retreat until the door presses against our backs.
Tristan levels his sword at the plaguers. “St. Giles sent us here to die,” he says.
The first of the afflicted reaches out toward us — a man with a thick, blood-soaked beard. Tristan hacks fingers from his hand. Blood spurts.
The dead are upon us.
The sound of metal on metal screeches from behind us. The massive door swings open. Bowstrings whip and four of the afflicted fall backward. Hands pulls us into the church as bowstrings ring out again. The door closes and we are in St. Mary’s.
And, oddly, everyone inside is naked.
Chapter 34
Nearly a hundred naked men and women pack the stone church. The pews have been removed from the nave so that the church is nothing but wide space and limestone pillars. Hundreds of candles and rushlights provide illumination. The people gather on two sides, men to the left, women to the right. Four of the
m have hunting bows.
Three elderly men — unfortunately, naked as well — stand before us. One of them has eyebrows that could keep a crew of hedge warders busy for days. “Are you demons?” he asks.
“Yes,” Tristan says. “Lovely church.”
“No,” I reply. “We are knights, and we seek a man named Gregory the Wanderer. A peddler.”
“Why are they naked?” Zhuri has taken an interest in the arched roof of the church, and the stained glass windows. He looks everywhere except at the unclothed men and women.
Morgan shushes him. “It is a sacred observance.” He gestures toward the unclothed masses. “They are…it is…” He shrugs. “Why are you naked?”
“Because our city is occupied,” the man with the unruly eyebrows says. “I am Father David. And this is Brother Joseph and Brother Gilbert.” He gestures at the two men on either side of him.
Tristan and I remove our helmets. “Have you seen this peddler that we are looking for, Father David?” I ask.
Father David glances to the sides. He glares at Brother Gilbert, whose eyes have shifted toward the women’s side of the church. Brother Gilbert becomes aware of the silence and looks back at him. “What?” he asks. Father David stares at the friar for a long moment before looking back to me.
“I do not know anyone of that name. No peddlers have entered Chelmsford since the invasion.”
“The invasion?” I ask.
“The demonic invasion,” Father David replies.
A muffled shriek echoes from the chancel.
“What was that?” I ask.
“A sorceress,” Brother Joseph says. He is bald and dotted with liver spots. Everywhere. “Lucifer’s armies have invaded England, and she is one of his captains.”
“Why are they naked?” Zhuri whispers to Tristan.
“Because their city is occupied, you fool.” Tristan feigns an exasperated expression.
I push my way past the three elderly men and stride down the empty nave, past the concentric arches, my footsteps echoing across the church. Tristan, Morgan, and Zhuri follow me, as do the three holy men. I step over a chicken on my way. There are four or five of them in the church, and I wonder what they are doing here.
“That woman caused this invasion,” Father David says. “She summons and controls the demons.”
Morgan addresses him as we walk. “Gregory the Wanderer came here. I am certain of it. He may not have admitted he was a peddler.” He scans the faces of the naked men. “He’s here somewhere.”
The altar has been removed from the chancel and sits against one wall. The floorboards where the altar once stood have also been removed. A crude wooden cage — made from branches bound together with string — hangs suspended from a lengthened rope that I suspect once held a crucifix over the altar. The cage shifts back and forth, creaking and groaning just above the church floor. A wild-haired woman in filthy robes is bound and gagged inside. She stares at me with panicked eyes, then shrieks through the gag again.
I look below the cage, to the pit beneath it. I can see the dark, stone crypt that lies under the church. There are people down in that crypt. No, not people. Plaguers. Six of them. They moan and reach upward toward the woman and the dangling cage.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
Father David bows his head. “‘You shall not permit a sorceress to live.’ That is what the Lord said. And so this sorceress is being tried. The Heavenly Father will judge her.”
A chorus of amens rise from the assembled men and women.
“Pardon me,” Zhuri says, his voice growing more agitated, “but could someone explain why everyone is naked?”
“I have never heard of a trial like this,” I say. “What is supposed to happen?”
The woman shrieks and kicks her legs, then stops moving abruptly at the sound of cracking wood. Father David points to her. “We will cut the rope and the cage will fall into the crypt and shatter. The sorceress will be unprotected among her minions.”
The wild-haired woman makes grunting noises as if she is trying to speak. I note that her lids are painted black with eyeshade and wonder if she is a whore.
“Silence, foul witch!” Brother Joseph shouts. “You…you daughter of the devil! You enemy of all righteousness!”
The crowd hisses and someone throws a small stone that rattles off the cage.
“And then what?” I ask.
“The plaguers will not eat of her flesh,” Father David says. “They will leave her alone and we will know that she is a sorceress.”
“But what if they do?” I ask. “What if the plaguers do eat her flesh?”
The three priests exchange glances. Father David waves dismissively. “They won’t.”
Morgan threads between the naked men and studies each of their faces. “I know you are here, Gregory. It is useless to hide.”
“Why do you think she has caused this plague?” I say.
The three old men look to one another.
“It has been said,” Brother Gilbert offers.
“It has been said,” Father David repeats.
“By who?” I ask.
“By whom,” Zhuri says. “I am uncomfortable with all of this nudity.”
“I found him!” Morgan shouts. He shoves an old man forward into the aisle. “I told you he was here.”
I look at the old man. His eye wanders, but he is not Gregory. I shake my head.
Morgan studies the old man again. “This is Gregory,” he says.
“It’s not Gregory,” Tristan says.
“I am not Gregory,” the old man squeaks.
Morgan looks into his eye. “Are you certain?”
Tristan and I nod. “That’s not Gregory,” I say.
Morgan studies the man’s face once more, then shoves him back into the crowd. “Where is he!”
Zhuri hunches down, so that he stares into Brother Gilbert’s eyes. “Please, priest. Tell me why no one wears clothes in here.”
Brother Gilbert shrugs. “When Sargon, king of Assyria, conquered Ashdod, the Lord said unto Isaiah, ‘Go, and loose the sackcloth from your waist and take off your sandals from your feet.’ And he did so, walking stripped and barefoot.”
Zhuri stares at him. I think he is expecting the friar to say more, but the old man stops talking and looks back at Morgan.
A loud crack echoes through the church. The wild-haired woman screams as the wooden cage plummets to the crypt and shatters. We crowd around the pit and stare down.
Tristan shakes his head. “Definitely not a sorceress.”
Chapter 35
The cage lies shattered on the dirt floor of the crypt. Two of the plaguers were caught beneath it when it fell. The other four reach and grasp for the woman, snarling, their jaws straining toward her flesh. One of the walls of the cage is still intact and the woman uses her feet to shove it at her assailants, keeping them at bay for the moment. She screams through the linen gag as the fallen plaguers beneath her buck and writhe and reach through broken branches to paw at her.
I have no time to think or don my great helm. I simply leap down into the dark crypt.
I slash down with my sword as I jump but misjudge how narrow the crypt is. St. Giles’s sword clangs off the crypt wall and bounces out of my hand. I land on the uneven dirt floor five feet down and my ankle — the one I injured when fighting the bear — buckles. A bolt of pain shoots from my foot to my ears and back down again. I crumple in a heap of armor, an arm’s length from an afflicted man wearing rusted mail. He looks at me but turns his attention back to the woman in the cage. Apparently even the plaguers recognize how pathetic my attack was.
My eyes slowly adjust to the dark. The woman’s shrieks echo in the musty crypt. One of the plaguers beneath her tries to bite her arm, but a branch sits like a horse’s bit between its upper and lower jaws.
Morgan lowers Tristan into the dark crypt. I rise to my feet and wince when I put pressure on the injured ankle.
Tristan brushes past me
and slits the throat of the man in the chain mail, then lunges at the next plaguer.
Morgan lowers himself into the pit. “What sort of attack was that, Edward?” He draws the bridle knife that I took from Rayleigh and singles out a man in priest’s robes. He jams the knife into the back of the man’s skull, then makes the sign of the cross over him. “In nomeni patri et fili — ”
“Stop it, Morgan!” Tristan struggles with the last standing plaguer, a fat man who bears an old stomach wound that has crusted black but still oozes. “You can tuck him in when we’re done.”
I fumble in the darkness for St. Giles’s sword. The woman’s screams grow louder and more frantic. The two plaguers caught under the cage have pinned her to the broken branches. A hand clutches one of her thighs, another her ankle, and yet another holds her arm. They pull her toward them tightly. The one trying to bite her reaches out with its black tongue and runs it across her arm. The woman howls and cries dark tears as the paint runs from her eyelids.
“It’s too cramped down there,” Zhuri shouts from above. “I’ll wait here.”
Tristan and Morgan have killed the fat man. Morgan takes hold of the cage wall that protected the woman and twists it free of the wreckage. He tosses it backward, toward the rear of the crypt. Tristan stabs methodically at the fallen plaguers beneath the branches, careful not to strike the woman. The plaguers release their grip on her and wail with pain.
I hobble behind Tristan. The chamber is too narrow here for the three of us to stand side by side. Morgan lifts the bound woman from the ruins of her prison. I flatten myself against the wall and he carries her toward the back of the crypt.
When he is past, I limp forward to fill his spot. The creatures shove the cage fragments aside. They are free now that the woman’s weight has lifted. They try to rise. Tristan and I make sure they don’t.
I wipe at my mouth with a wrist and suck at the putrid air. “Is that all of them?”
Tristan hunches over, breathing hard. His great helm bobs forward in a nod. “Yes. I think so.”
I glance up at the naked men and women staring down at us from the church nave, then limp back toward Morgan. The bound woman is standing now. Morgan cuts at the ropes that bind her arms and loosens the gag.
The Scourge (Kindle Serial) Page 19
