The Scourge (Kindle Serial)

by Roberto Calas

“No!” Isabella shrieks. “I have done nothing! Nothing!”

  “Is this the same God who said we must never avenge ourselves?” I ask.

  “What was it He said about revenge? ‘See that no one repays anyone evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another.’ Is that the God you are talking about?”

  “Do you speak of St. Giles, who wouldn’t even let a hind in the forest come to harm? Is that the man who wants you to kill this woman?”

  Isabella is silent, her features frozen in terror, her gaze darting to Morgan, then to me.

  “It is not for us to question, Edward.” Morgan’s gaze doesn’t stray from Isabella.

  “You questioned it yourself, Morgan,” I say. “In Chelmsford, you asked me if you might not have imagined the voice. Are you so certain now? Would you kill this woman when there is doubt?”

  Morgan doesn’t move for a long time. I watch the tears form and shimmer in his eyes. He stoppers the phial with trembling hands and passes it to me, then rises.

  Isabella drops her chin to her chest and weeps.

  “This woman killed hundreds with her actions. And more, perhaps.” His fingers fidget at his belt. “She killed Matilda. And she must be punished.”

  Isabella looks up with a quick intake of breath, the terror back in her eyes.

  Morgan draws the bridle knife and in one powerful motion, before I can move to stop him, plunges the knife down on Isabella.

  Episode 7:

  Historical Note

  Sir Edward and his knights start this episode by facing down a cavalry charge of sorts. It is not a standard cavalry charge by veteran soldiers; the knights bearing down on our heroes are not well trained. In a typical cavalry charge, the trick is to move forward in a straight line and to pick up speed slowly. The horsemen don’t accelerate into a full gallop until they are very close to their targets. But Sir Gerald’s hatred makes him ride at a full gallop from the start, which causes his men to bunch up. Which, in turn, causes the nightmarish wreck that allows our heroes to escape.

  When Gerald corners them again, Zhuri fires a shot from the Spanish cannon. The shot hits Gerald in the chest but doesn’t penetrate the plate armor. This was a very real problem with the early hand cannons. I have fun writing about these weapons and might take a few liberties with their power, but many of them could not pierce armor. Not at this stage of the game, at any rate. This is one of the reasons such weapons were not embraced on the battlefield. They were painfully slow to load, cumbersome, and inaccurate. Arrows with bodkin tips, fired by trained archers, could penetrate armor and were much less high maintenance.

  When our knights reach Chelmsford, Edward reminisces about a peasant uprising. He is talking about the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. That rebellion was led by Wat Tyler, a commoner who was motivated to act in part by John Ball, an excommunicated priest. Ball gave a sermon in which he uttered the memorable line “When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?”

  The rebellion was partly about social status, but the more immediate impetus — as Edward alluded to — was the unfair levying of taxes. Richard’s fictional quote to Edward about how the uprising was linked to the plague is also accurate. The Black Plague wiped out so many peasants that lords had trouble gathering enough workers to farm their land. This gave peasants value and bargaining power, and it allowed them to push back when Richard levied a third poll tax. A similar thing happened during World War I in the British Isles. The working classes were ravaged by war deaths, so the remaining workers gained leverage against the upper classes, and parts of the rigid class system broke down.

  As a last note, I wanted to offer a glimpse into an odd coincidence of research and storytelling. This novel began its life as a serial, which provides many benefits and not a few drawbacks for a writer. One of the minor drawbacks is that I can’t go back and change things. My story has to go linearly, always. Sometimes, when I have to reconcile a past decision with a present situation, it requires creativity (e.g., “Crap, I haven’t mentioned that falcon for two episodes. How do I work it back in?”). And other times, things just seem to fall into place with no effort at all. Case in point: the phials of the Virgin Mary’s blood that the knights bought from Gregory the Wanderer. Although I had the storyline for these phials in place, a lot of the details were still orbiting somewhere in my subconscious.

  I wasn’t planning on taking the knights to Chelmsford. I had determined that they would find the “sorceress” at a monastery in northern Essex or Suffolk. But when I started writing, Morgan decided he wanted to go to Chelmsford. I’m sure there were lots of little reasons why it was beneficial for the knights to go there, but really, it was mostly Morgan doing. For some reason I had the feeling that he really wanted to be in Chelmsford. And no matter how much I wanted them to go north, he kept pointing me west. So I wrote that St. Giles (or God) had told him to go there. It was an internal joke for me. Or so I thought.

  I found reference to an old friary in fourteenth-century Chelmsford, so I figured Morgan knew what he was doing, and off the knights went. But as I researched more, I couldn’t find much information about this friary. Another wonderful thing about serials is the time crunch. And by “wonderful,” I mean “stressful and causing panic.” I didn’t have time to send them somewhere else. I had already written part of the going-to-Chelmsford scene and had done a lot of research on the town. So I found an alternative to the friary: a cathedral in Chelmsford that used to be a small church. Perfect. That would do. The knights would find the “sorceress” that was distributing the phials of St. Mary’s blood in that church.

  Yes. You know the rest. I had to read the name three times to believe it.

  The Church of St. Mary.

  Morgan knew where he had to go. I should listen to him more often.

  Episode 8

  Chapter 37

  Isabella’s scream is like a weapon. She hurls the cry at us and my ears ring with it.

  The knife plunges with a thunk into the arm of the chair. It does not strike her, but she continues to shriek.

  “He didn’t touch you, you stupid cow,” Tristan says.

  “He didn’t,” I say quietly. I nod to Morgan and he looks away. “He didn’t.”

  “I have failed God,” Morgan says.

  “You are not a gentleman,” Isabella spits toward Morgan. “You are not a beautiful knight at all. God is watching. He is everywhere. He sees what you have done to me.”

  “Allah be praised!” Zhuri holds up one of the sacks Isabella carried. He pulls out a handful of coins and sprinkles them back into the bag. “Silver! Silver coins!”

  Tristan glances at Isabella. “The apothecary prescribed silver for your cough?”

  “That’s mine!” Isabella shouts. “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it, you dirty man!”

  “Leave it and let’s go,” I say. “If we don’t dally we can make Hedingham Castle by nightfall.”

  “Should we untie her?” Zhuri asks. “What if plaguers find her?”

  “It’s only yarn,” I say. “She’ll free herself.”

  Zhuri looks uncertain.

  “Cut her free if you must, just hurry,” I say. “That horse we found in Danbury won’t make it to Hedingham today if we don’t leave immediately.”

  Zhuri plucks the hunting knife from the arm of the chair and cuts at Isabella’s bonds.

  “You are horrible knights!” Isabella shouts. “Awful, dirty knights!”

  Tristan leans in close to her. “You say such hurtful things, Isabella.”

  I lean on Morgan as we walk toward the door. “You did the honorable thing, Morgan. The righteous thing.”

  “Then why do I feel so awful, Ed? Why do I feel I have let God down?”

  I pause at the doorway and dredge up an old memory. A nun speaking to me after my younger brother died. “Doesn’t the Bible say something about tribulations and how they are good for us?”

  “‘Consider it a blessing, my brethren, when you encounter trials and
ordeals,’” Morgan replies. “The book of James.”

  I nod knowingly. “This is a trial, Morgan, nothing more. You have been blessed. And you will…reap God’s reward. And…and sit on a throne of glory. You will be at God’s right hand. That sort of thing.”

  “You’re not very good at spiritual encouragement,” Morgan says.

  “Not a bit.” I smile at him. “I spent too much time listening to Master Roderick and not enough time listening to Father Emeric. But I know that God didn’t want you to kill that woman. The Lord put you in front of her to test you. It was a trial, and — as James so eloquently states — trials are blessings from God.”

  Morgan offers a weak smile. “God’s blessed us quite a bit on this journey.”

  I smile back and speak through gritted teeth. “His kindness knows no bounds. Hallelujah.”

  A shaggy, dun cow watches us from its pasture as we leave the cottage. The day is bright and my spirits are rising. On the morrow, I will be with Elizabeth. On the morrow. My heart quickens at the thought. It beats a fiery cadence: on-the, mo-rrow. A ship’s drummer, pounding out the confident pace that will bring him home. On-the, mo-rrow.

  Tristan steps past us and walks to his horse. He carries one of the wooden racks with a dozen phials in it.

  “What do you want with those?” I ask.

  Tristan tucks them into his saddlebag. “I’m not sure. Just seems we should keep a few.”

  “Nothing good can come from…” I trail off because Tristan’s gaze has drifted over my shoulder. I turn. The shaggy cow plods toward us.

  “It’s just a cow,” Morgan says.

  “That is not just a cow,” Tristan replies. “Look at its eyes.”

  I see what he means now. Black, soulless eyes, rimmed in red.

  “For Simon’s sake.” I draw my sword and sigh.

  “No, wait.” Tristan approaches the cow. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

  “We don’t have time for games,” I say. “Kill the thing and be done with it.”

  The cow picks up speed and angles toward Tristan. I look back into the cottage. Zhuri is talking to Isabella. “Zhuri, leave her and let’s be on our way!”

  I will see Elizabeth soon.

  On-the. Mo-rrow.

  I will kiss those long fingers.

  On-the. Mo-rrow.

  I will latch onto her and never let go.

  On-the. Mo-rrow.

  Zhuri walks toward the doorway. He can’t see Isabella’s face, but I can. My blissful thoughts fade. God is about to bless us again.

  “Zhuri, look out!” I try to run toward him but my ankle blazes with pain and I fall to one knee.

  Isabella lunges to the side and throws open the byre door.

  “Die, filthy knights! Die!”

  Her masties leap from the doorway. Three enormous, broad-mouthed, keg-bellied dogs spring at Zhuri.

  Hallelujah.

  Chapter 38

  Two years ago I was invited to celebrate St. George’s feast day at Arundel Castle. It was a grand affair, with harpers, minstrels, silver-rimmed bowls, and foods I had never heard of with names I could not hope to pronounce. The earl bought the largest bull he could find in Sussex and pitted it against two masties for our entertainment.

  I remember the bull clearly: a humped, ebony giant with sharpened horns and boulder hooves. It was black death. I had never seen its equal.

  The battle took place as we ate. I found a plate of lamb among the peacock-feathered meats and the vegetable pastes sculpted to look like fish. I remember starting on a leg of that lamb. And the masties, those vicious hounds, had the creature down and dying before my third bite.

  The image of that savaged bull flashes in my mind as Isabella’s masties hurtle toward Zhuri. Their nails scrape at the threshed wood. The dogs are streaks. A snarling mass of snapping death. Nightmarish teeth framed in shadowy muzzles. Narrowed, dark-hooded eyes rimmed in red.

  They are plague. They are black death. And they descend on Zhuri.

  I try to take a step and fall again, the pain bringing tears to my eyes. The Moor has just crossed the threshold when the first dog leaps at him. Morgan bounds past me and slams Zhuri to the mud just outside the cottage.

  The dog hits with enough force to knock Morgan to the ground. The second and third masties fly from the cottage and skid on the dirt as they track Zhuri. I lunge at one of them and grab a foreleg. The bones snap as I wrench with all my strength. The animal cries out and its whimper sounds like that of a normal dog. But there is nothing normal about its next cry. It lunges for my face. I turn my shoulder at the last instant and its teeth clatter against my spaulder.

  A blood-soaked Tristan appears at Morgan’s side and pulls the first mastie by the ears. It shrieks and bites at his mailed arm.

  One of the dogs rears on its hind legs and springs at Zhuri. It is taller than he is. Zhuri screams, clamps a hand around the creature’s throat and stabs it in the belly with Morgan’s knife.

  I glimpse something else dashing from the cottage. Isabella. She runs to our horses. I have no time to stop her. I shove the injured mastie to the ground and limp toward the Moor.

  Zhuri loses his balance and falls to the mud, still holding the mastie by the throat. The animal’s lips are arched back, exposing mottled gums and yellowed teeth. I raise St. Giles’s sword over my head with both hands and slam it down, screaming so loudly that it makes my throat raw. The blade cuts the dog in two and taps Zhuri’s belly before I can stop the swing.

  Blood sprays from the cloven animal, but the beast doesn’t stop. It continues to thrash and snap its teeth toward Zhuri’s face. Bloody drool leaks from the animal’s mouth onto Zhuri’s neck. I shove the front half of the dog away from the Moor and slash at the creature’s head with my sword until the animal stops moving.

  I glance back. The dog with the broken leg struggles to its feet and lurches toward Morgan. Tristan leaves Morgan’s side and stabs at the limping mastie with the bridle knife. Isabella rides off toward the Roman road.

  Morgan still fights the first dog. I race to his side as he struggles with the monster. They are a whirl of teeth and hands and fur and beard. I drop my sword and grab the animal from behind. The creature is nothing but muscle and power. I fall on my arse and try to wrench the beast away from Morgan. Its teeth snap at his face. The dog’s bulk is almost impossible to move. Morgan groans as the animal’s mouth inches toward his neck.

  There is a flash.

  Everything seems to stop. Even time itself takes a breath.

  I glance up. Tristan stands over the mastie’s head. The bridle knife is buried to its hilt in the animal’s skull.

  Morgan closes his eyes. I fall upon the dog and pant.

  Tristan looks at me and snorts. The dog’s arse is in my crotch.

  “I won’t judge you,” Tristan says. “That’s for the Lord.”

  “Can you ever be serious, Tristan?” I roll the dog’s body off Morgan with a grunt and rise gingerly to my feet.

  “Fortunately for you, it wasn’t a horse,” Tristan says. “Although…” He studies the dog. “It’s about the size of a horse. I hope God has good eyesight.”

  “Zhuri,” I call. “Excellent judgment in releasing Isabella.” I look toward the horses. Morgan’s is gone.

  Zhuri sits with his hands in the mud, his legs stretched out in front of him. “I…I am sorry. I should have…” He shrugs. “I have learned a lesson.”

  “So have I,” Tristan says. He glances toward the pasture. “Cows can only be toppled when they are asleep.” He stares at the mangled, shaggy corpse in the field. “And they are not easy to kill.”

  “Isabella took Morgan’s horse,” I say. “And his cannon. I’m pleased that you made us load it, Tristan.”

  “Wouldn’t want a lady riding into the country without protection,” he replies. “Morgan packed it to the brim with powder too. Should be a lovely and powerful shot when she ambushes us.”

  “Hallelujah,” I say.


  “Hallelujah,” Tristan and Morgan say together.

  Zhuri stands slowly and brushes himself off. He helps Morgan to his feet and speaks: “Those dogs would have torn me to pieces in that cottage.”

  Morgan stares toward the Roman road and tears brim in his eyes. His mood has changed swiftly. He was almost cheerful a moment ago. I realize just how anguished he is about sparing Isabella.

  Zhuri takes Morgan’s hand in his and shakes it. “Thank you, my Christian brother.”

  I clap Morgan on the shoulder. “Don’t mind the results. You did the right thing by sparing her. Let God punish her wickedness.”

  “No, Edward,” Morgan says. “God wanted me to punish her wickedness. If it was a trial, I failed. So I will be cursed forevermore.”

  “I don’t think God ever cursed anyone for showing mer — ”

  One of the masties snarls and tries to sit up. Its body is shattered, mutilated by Tristan’s blade, but it jerks upon the ground and clicks its teeth together. I pick up the sword of St. Giles but before I can end its misery, something buries itself in the dog’s head. The animal grunts, then falls still. A crossbow bolt juts from its head. I hear soft hoofbeats on the dirt behind us.

  I know what I will see before I turn. Another of God’s blessings is upon us. The only surprise is that Isabella rides with the eight armored knights.

  Sir Gerald removes his helmet. “Someone should do something about the strays in this forest.” He points to the four of us. “Perhaps we should put them down.”

  Sir Gerald’s men tie us to birch trees using the same yarn that we used to bind Isabella. He tries to grin, but the expression he manages is that of someone struck on the head and about to lose consciousness. I think he has grown more insane in the hours since we last saw him. The wound on his scalp is only partially scabbed. No hair will grow in that furrow again.

  At least we left our mark.

  “When you arrive in hell,” he says, “please tell Satan to whip you once in my name as he sears your flesh.”