I spoke of drunkards and irrationality this morning, of people delving into the absurd because of their religion. But can something truly be irrational if it is done in God’s name? Is it better to be sensible in a godless world or delirious in the Kingdom of Heaven?
My Elizabeth stands before me. Long and slender. My beautiful Elizabeth. I stroke the golden waves of her hair. I have found my wife, and in so doing, I have found heaven. God has sent me an angel to show me the way back.
My angel scratches at me.
I kiss her long fingers, then hold up the hilt of my sword so she can see St. Giles’s tooth.
“She calms when I show her the tooth,” I say. “Do you see it? It soothes her. St. Giles is soothing her.”
Tristan doesn’t reply. He keeps his hand on my shoulder. I know he wants me to leave. He spoke earlier of a cure. Of the alchemist on an island fortress, the man Isabella mentioned. Brother Phillip also heard of this alchemist, and of a cure for the plague. That’s what Tristan told me as we brought Elizabeth to the church. I don’t know who is a less reliable source of knowledge, a dead witch or that spineless monk. But I know magic is not the answer. God is testing us. Only faith will heal Elizabeth.
Faith and patience.
I look to the bone on the altar. Only half of St. Luke’s thighbone remains. Tristan spoke of that too.
Brother Phillip confessed that the monks had ground up half of the saint’s thigh over the years. They had crushed St. Luke’s leg into a powder and mixed it into the yeast of the Holy Communion. Parts of St. Edmund’s remains were also ground into the bread. Even a few of the dead priors were dug up and their bodies minced and thrown in.
“Brother Phillip said it is something that has been done throughout history,” Tristan told me. “In St. Edmund’s Bury. In York. In Norwich. In many of the churches and monasteries of England. The monks at St. Edmund’s Abbey have been doing it since the first riots, more than fifty years ago. The monk said that peasants are more docile when they ingest little bits of saints and holy men.”
Tristan then told me an idiotic story about a cook who ate an entire loaf of the communion bread and became sick. Became plagued. Utter nonsense.
“Apparently eating long-dead human flesh isn’t a good thing for your humors,” Tristan said. “Or anyone else’s, truth be told.”
I have heard so many stories about how this plague began. And this one is perhaps the most ridiculous. The plague is God’s punishment. I have sinned, so my Elizabeth…my beautiful angel, Elizabeth…has sickened. But with the help of St. Luke and St. Giles I will make myself worthy again.
I will bring my Elizabeth back.
“Rest easy, old friend,” Tristan says. “I am going to leave this abbey and search every bloody island in Britain until I find that alchemist.” He points to the cross towering above the altar. “As God is my witness, I will return with the cure. For Elizabeth, for Morgan, and for England.”
I pick up St. Luke’s thighbone from the altar and hold it in the air. “This is the cure, Tristan. God is the cure. It is madness to wander the countryside searching for a magic elixir.”
Tristan’s voice is a whisper, his eyes study Elizabeth. “In this world of madness, only madness will save us.”
He stares at me and I see pity in his eyes. But it is he who should be pitied. He chooses to put his faith in a magic potion. In sorcery and false idols. Even now, after all we have been through, he turns away from God.
“Stay in the abbey with Elizabeth,” Tristan says. “Keep her safe. I will return as soon as I have the cure.” He embraces me and strides toward the cathedral doors, his armor jangling. “Don’t do anything foolish, like taking her teeth out,” he calls back to me. “I’ll be back with the cure!”
He throws open the doors and almost runs into Brother Phillip. “Keep a good watch on them,” Tristan says to the monk.
Brother Phillip nods, and then Tristan is gone.
The monk pads along the nave, rubbing the cuff of a sleeve between two fingers and licking at his lips.
“Come here, Brother,” I call to him.
He takes a few tentative steps and I wave him closer. He stops two paces from me, his eyebrows twitching. Even a spineless monk can appeal to God. I gesture toward my Elizabeth. “Let us pray, Brother Phillip. Let us pray, so that God returns her health.”
She strains against the rope, her long pale fingers twisting and curling. What a beauty she is, my Elizabeth. She hisses at me and I smile back.
I hold up what is left of St. Luke’s thighbone in one hand, and the sword of St. Giles in the other.
Be healed, Elizabeth. Be healed.
Episode 8:
Historical Note
If people could be healed by touching the bones of a saint, what would happen if those bones were eaten?
Probably nothing, I imagine.
But who would have thought that feeding cows the meat and bonemeal of other cows would cause them to go mad? Mad cow disease (bovine spongiform encephalopathy for you sticklers) was a very real result of a species eating its own dead. Millions of cows were slaughtered all over the world in the 1990s because of this disease, which caused the animals to become aggressive, ill coordinated and, well, crazed. Sound familiar?
So, what happens when humans eat the bonemeal (and flesh, in the case of the dead priors that were dug up) of other humans? And what if those other humans are God’s messengers?
I thought I had made up the practice. In keeping with the theme of my book, I wanted a possible origin for the plague, one that came from taking a good religion and perverting it. So I came up with the grinding of holy bones into bread. In my research, I discovered that such things actually did occur. Priests in the Middle Ages did grind saints’ bones into healing powders. One group of monks even dunked the remains of their saint into a vat of wine to create an elixir against disease.
I doubt very much that the monks of St. Edmund’s Bury, or Bury St. Edmunds as it is now called, ever made bread from the bones of saints and priors. And, as a confession, I don’t believe St. Luke’s thighbone was ever in Bury, as the locals call the town. But I didn’t fabricate the struggles between the townsfolk and the men of the abbey.
The town’s abbey was considered one of the most sacred sites in Europe during Sir Edward’s time. It was visited by most of the kings of England. Henry II was crowned there. Richard the Lionheart paid a visit before and after his journey to the Holy Lands for the Crusades. Even King John paid a visit. (Although he might not have if he knew that the abbey was the site where barons met, on several occasions, to discuss and draft the Magna Carta.)
The monks at the abbey were famously rich and infamously corrupt. And it is true that, as their power grew, so did their greed. There were two major uprisings against the abbey, one in 1327 and one in 1381. The townsfolk destroyed and looted part of the abbey during the first revolt. The monks retaliated, leading an armed force against the people. In the end, more than thirty cartloads of townsfolk were carted off for trial, and all the leaders of the uprising were hanged.
Relations between the abbey and the town broke down again in 1381, during the Peasants’ Revolt. While Wat Tyler and his comrades were pressing King Richard in London, the peasants of St. Edmund’s Bury once more rose up against the abbey. Though I had to adjust the year to make the story work, I based the uprising in my book– — the one Brother Phillip witnessed — on this revolt.
And while we speak of Brother Phillip, I should mention that he is entirely made up. Prior John, however, was a real person. And he really was beheaded by the townspeople of Bury. I don’t know if there is a tunnel under the abbey, but I know Prior John did extensive work on the prior’s house when he took over. Interesting…
Lastly, I want to touch upon St. Edmund, who was once the patron saint of England. Edmund was a king in East Anglia, and though not a lot is known about him, he is said to have defied the Danes, led by Ivar the Boneless and Ubbe Ragnarsson, in the year 869. There are
various versions of the story, but in one, the Danes told King Edmund that if he renounced Christ, they would let him live. Edmund refused and a storm of arrows followed. He was later decapitated and his head lost in a forest. His followers were led to the king’s head by a helpful wolf crying “Here, here, here!”
And no, I’m not making that up.
If you are interested in the history of Bury St. Edmunds, I recommend the book Bury St. Edmunds: Historic Town, by Elsie McCutcheon. If you want to learn more about the abbey and its monks, you may want to read A History of the County of Suffolk, edited by William Page. And if you find yourself actually in Bury, you should visit Moyse’s Hall Museum; it is a treasure trove of local history.
For now, Edward’s quest has ended there, at St. Edmund’s Bury. But God helps those who help themselves.
And Edward’s journey has only just begun.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Alex McWhirter, of the Moyse's Hall Museum, in Bury St. Edmunds, for the wealth of information that he shared with me. I would also like to thank the various members of the National Trust and the English Heritage for their patience in answering my questions. I owe an immense debt of gratitude to Annabelle Page, for her tireless editing, research, and support, and for showing me the places that Edward and his knights visited in the book. And most of all, I would like to thank Ann and John Platt for being my personal tour guides and research assistants in England. And for introducing me to Bodiam Castle, Edward Dallingridge and Elizabeth Wardieu.
Any historical or geographical inaccuracies in this manuscript are my fault. If mistakes were made, they should not reflect on the people mentioned above, but on me.
On a final note, I would like to thank the readers who followed my story as a serial and discussed the book with me as they read. Their interest and encouragement kept me motivated and inspired throughout the writing process.
About the Author
Roberto Calas is the author of The Scourge and The Beast of Maug Maurai. Roberto earned a degree in journalism from the University of Connecticut before working as a staff reporter for a large Connecticut daily, then as a freelance reporter for newspapers, including The Boston Globe. He left newspapers for magazines and was a writer and editor for several years, all the while honing his fiction writing skills. He has young twins – Cesar and Lucia – and a fiancée, Annabelle, who lives in Bury St. Edmund’s, United Kingdom. He lives in Sandy Hook, Connecticut. You can find out more about the author on his website, robertocalas.com. Alternately, you can learn about him 140 characters at a time @robertocalas.
This book was originally released in Episodes as a Kindle Serial. Kindle Serials launched in 2012 as a new way to experience serialized books. Kindle Serials allow readers to enjoy the story as the author creates it, purchasing once and receiving all existing Episodes immediately, followed by future Episodes as they are published. To find out more about Kindle Serials and to see the current selection of Serials titles, visit www.amazon.com/kindleserials.
Table of Contents
Episode 1
Map for Episode 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Episode 1: Historical Note
Episode 2
Map for Episode 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Episode 2: Historical Note
Episode 3
Map for Episode 3
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Episode 3: Historical Note
Episode 4
Map for Episode 4
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Episode 4: Historical Note
Episode 5
Map for Episode 5
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Episode 5: Historical Note
Episode 6
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Episode 6: Historical Note
Episode 7
Map for Episode 7
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Episode 7: Historical Note
Episode 8
Map for Episode 8
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Episode 8: Historical Note
Acknowledgments
The Scourge (Kindle Serial) Page 25
