Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (33 page)

Tarviccio is wrestling with a red giant—a monster, with long red hair and a jungle of beard that dangles nearly to his stomach.

Nine crossbows lift to shoulders. I cross my arms and wait for the red-headed giant to have his moment of understanding. He lets go of Tarviccio and raises his hands.

“He done attacked me, he did.” A thick brogue taints the man’s speech. He is a Scottish giant. “I was defending meself. And if you don’t mind me asking, what is that stench?”

Tarviccio shoves at the Scotsman and says something to Frederico.

Pantaleon translates. “He say this man, this hairless farmer of carrots, he try and take the horse.”

“Hairless farmer of carrots?” Tristan says, smirking. “Looks like he’s got plenty of hair.”

Pantaleon shrugs. “It not sound so well in the English.”

“What in God’s Kingdom you got all over you?” The Scotsman covers his nose.

“Never mind that,” I reply. “What is a Scotsman doing in Suffolk?”

The giant shrugs. “Just passin’ by.”

“You Scottish savages should stay in your own lands,” Morgan snaps.

“We Scots are savage,” the man replies. “But we ain’t savages.”

“I am a knight of England,” Morgan says. “You will address me as sir.”

“Bugger your arse with a carrot,” The Scotsman replies. “I’ll not show respect for you English . . . you English . . .” he struggles for the proper insult, “hairless carrot farmers!”

“It has better sound in the Italiano,” Pantaleon offers.

“It’s rubbish in English,” the Scotsman agrees.

Morgan draws his dagger. “You are an enemy to England, and you tried to steal our horses. Why should we let you live?”

The Scotsman unhinges a five-foot war sword from a mount upon his back, sets it point down in the earth, and pats a leather sack hanging from his belt. “Colyne and I were about to ask you the same question.”

“No one’s going to kill anyone,” I say. “What’s in the sack?”

“None of your concern.” The word
none
sounds like
noon
when he says it.

“I have ten crossbowmen that say it is my concern,” I reply.

The Scotsman looks at the raised crossbows. “What a world this is,” he says with a grin, “where men must threaten other men to get what they want.”

“You’re right,” Tristan says. “Before long, we’ll be attacking each other for horses.”

The Scotsman laughs and points to Tristan. “I like this lad.”

“What’s in the sack,” I ask again.

The giant tugs the cords on the sack and draws out a rotting human head. “It’s me friend, Colyne. Say Godspeed, Colyne.” He uses his free hand to work the stiff lower jaw and speaks in a high-pitch. “
Godspeed, English carrot farmers.
”

Tristan laughs. “This Scotsman is mad.”

“He’s a vile barbarian,” Morgan says. “Why would you keep a man’s rotting head in a sack?”

“Well, I couldn’t fit his whole body in there, could I, you leper? I’m takin’ him home, to his clan. And you’re one to talk about disgusting. Walking about with intestines in your hair.”

“I’m not a leper,” Morgan replies.

“Course you’re not. An’ I suppose those are just filthy priest robes you’re wearin’?”

Morgan crosses his arms and sighs. “I’m tired of this, Edward. I want armor. And a sword.” He shakes his head slowly. “Lord, how I miss my sword.”

“I thought Christ was your sword,” I mutter.

“Don’t be absurd,” Tristan says. “Christ is soft and fleshy. You couldn’t cut anything with him.”

“Forgive him, Lord.” Morgan gazes upward. “For he is stupid.”

“You do not wanting the big armor that is heavy,” Pantaleon says. “It make you not fast.”

“Don’t start on that again,” Morgan snaps.

“What’s your name, Scotsman?” I ask. “And where are you coming from?”

“Name’s Alasdair. And I’m coming from Rochester.”

“Rochester? The castle?”

“The very same,” he replies. “Colyne and me got let out.”

“Colyne and
I
,” Tristan says.

 “No,” Alasdair shakes his head at Tristan. “Colyne and me. You wasn’t there, lad.” The Scotsman laughs, a wild, thunderous laugh.

“You were a prisoner?” Morgan asks. “They let you out of the dungeon?”

 “Aye. We were prisoners. A guard opened the gates and said we was free. There was hardly no one at the castle. So we started walkin’ home. But . . .” his eyes grow wide. “There are these . . . these creatures walkin’ about. Horrible things. Colyne got half torn apart. And then he tried to have a bite a’me. I had to put him down.” He wipes at his beard and shakes his head. “I had to put him down.” He squints his eyes and brings the rotting mouth to his ear, nods several times. “Colyne wants to know if those men over there are with you.”

I feel the hoofbeats before I look up the slope leading to the cottage. A horde of armored riders trot toward the farm. I count them.

“Eleven. Pantaleon, I want the crossbows trained on them. We can take eleven men.”

As I watch, another three horsemen appear.

“How about fourteen?” Tristan asks.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

Another six horsemen ride over the ridge.

“Shut that cavernous mouth of yours, Tristan.”

The riders rumble toward us. Twenty of them. Four wear full harnesses, with closed bascinets. The rest wear either leather hauberks or quilted gambesons. They halt within a dozen paces of the farmhouse. One of the knights advances a few paces farther, draws up his visor and immediately touches his nose with his gauntlet. The fat’s man’s stench still wafts from us like a curse. I finally make out the arms on the knight’s tabard.

Three roosters.

One of Sir Gerald’s men.

Of course.

“Look who we have found.” The knight speaks in a singsong. “Did you think you could hide forever? Did you think we wouldn’t find you? You can never outrun justice. And your justice will leave you in agony for days before you die.”

Chapter 40

“Take one more step,” I shout, “and these crossbowmen will fill your brain with yew.”

The knight leading the band of soldiers raises a hand toward me. “Cease your threats. I have no quarrel with you, good sir. Hand over the Scotsman and we will leave you in peace.”

It takes a long moment to find words.

“You . . . you want the Scot?”

“He tried to burn down a church,” the knight says. “We must make an example of him.”

“Will you give to us the paid?” Pantaleon asks. “If we give to you the red man?”

“Shut your mouth, Italian.” I sheath my sword and turn to Alasdair. “Did you try to burn down a church?”

“I’m a God-fearin’ man,” the Scotsman replies. “What sort of Christian would burn down a church? That English horse fucker’s got it wrong.”

“Silence!” The knight calls. “You dare speak to a knight of England in that manner?”

“You should hear what he said to me,” Morgan replies.

The knight waves his men forward. “Take the Scotsman. I want him tied to a horse and dragged back to St. Edmund’s Bury.”

Six men dismount and approach. I hold up a warding hand and they halt. “He says he didn’t try to burn down a church.”

“I didn’t!” Alisdair adds. “That knight and his men were rapin’ girls. Had them lined up outside the church. I tried to stop them. Not even English girls deserve to be beaten and raped.”

“He lies.” The knight studies me. “Do I know you, sir? What is your name?”

He waits for an answer, and I stare back, trying to think of one.

Everything hinges on two possible outcomes.

My instinct is to give him the Scotsman and take no chances. But humanity is the triumph of will over instinct, and England needs as much humanity as it can muster, now. I will not allow a man to be dragged to his death. Not even a Scotsman.

“Have you read much of the Old Testament?” I reply.

“I asked you a question, sir.” The knight prods his horse forward a step.

I have often wondered why the Old Testament exists in the Christian Church. The priests tell us that we must love our neighbor. Turn the other cheek. Live life as Christ did. So why must we hear about a vengeful God? Why must we learn about a jealous God who destroys his enemies and allows his followers to fall into eternal torment?

I understand now.

The Old Testament was left in the Bible to remind us that, sometimes, forgiveness is impossible. That there is a time for charity, and a time for whirlwind and storm. A time for love and a time for vengeance.

Sir Gerald has chased me the length of East Anglia. He has tried to kill me a dozen times. He has threatened to destroy my wife. And now Gerald’s knights stand before me, seeking to take more humanity from the world.

I feel the Old Testament rising up inside of me.

“‘The Lord takes vengeance on his adversaries and keeps wrath for his enemies.’”

“Why are you babbling Scripture at me?” the knight asks.

I walk slowly toward the knight. “‘His way is in whirlwind and storm.’”

“Are you quite through?”

“‘The mountains quake before him
.
’” My body trembles with rage.

“I will ask one last time. What is your name?”

“‘Who can stand before his indignation?’”

“Are you mad?” The knight’s horse sidesteps nervously at my approach. “Tell me your name!”

“Who can endure the heat of his anger?”

He glances at the crossbows on the shoulders of the Genoese. Looks back at his sloppy squad of mounted soldiers. His men send glances toward the Italians, toward the foot-long shafts of death locked into the firing grooves of each crossbow.

“If you do not release that man to us and tell me who you are, I will be forced to attack,” the knight says. “Is that what you want? Do you want to die here over a filthy Scotsman? Tell me your name!”

I take a step forward and draw my sword slowly. My voice ringing louder with each word. “I am Sir Edward Dallingridge. Husband to Lady Elizabeth Wardieu. Enemy to Gerald of Thunresleam. Champion of the dead. Defender of humanity, and killer of kings. I am the wolf that destroys the lambs, and I will send every last one of you to Hell if you stand down.”

“Edward Dallingridge!” The knight pulls on his reins so hard that his horse rears.

“The very same!” I raise my sword toward him. “Now get off your horse, and tell your men to do the same!”

“I’ll see you dead, first!”

Tristan’s sword joins mine. “The last man I stabbed with this exploded. Do you want to explode? Do you?”

“
Kill him
!” This knight can shout almost as loudly as Sir Gerald. “Kill them all! I want Sir Edward’s head!”

“Come and take it.” I spit the words.

Tristan’s sword glints as he thrusts it forward. The knight jerks back in his saddle, then disappears in a flash of armor and a clangor of steel plates.

No one moves.

Tristan looks at his sword.

The man lies on the ground, beside his horse. A red stain seeps across the grass beneath his head. His men stare silently at the body.

I look back toward the Genoese. Magnus’s massive siege crossbow is no longer loaded. A grin spans his wide face. He winks at me. With all the shouting, I never heard the weapon fire. I turn back to the fallen knight. There is no sign of the bolt that killed him—it must have passed cleanly through the skull and bascinet and continued its flight. A siege crossbow is a terrible weapon.

I nod to Magnus. The rest of our enemies are still a dozen paces away. “Is there anyone else who wants my head?”

There is.

One of the horsemen howls. The rest of them pick up the battle cry, kick their steeds, and rumble toward us like a rockslide.

“Fire!” I roar. “
Fire at will
!”

Pantaleon does not have to translate.

Nine mighty cords of hemp—each drawn to a thousand pounds of force—unleash a storm of steel-tipped, leather-fledged quarrels. The bolts streak past me like Hell’s locusts. The bolts that strike armor do so with a subtle clank, like pebbles falling into an iron pail. But there is nothing subtle about the effect they have on the mounted soldiers.

Men shriek and fall from horses. Horses cry out and topple onto fallen men. The world erupts into howls and tumbling flesh. Blood has been unleashed. And the Old Testament rises like a thunderclap in my soul. I run forward toward the remaining men, but they want no part of my whirlwind and storm.

A half dozen of them are capable of fleeing, and they do. Several make their escape on horseback. Three of the leather-clad soldiers ride westward, while the last two knights branch northward.

“Get the knights!” I shout. “Get the knights!”

Joseph Magazzi unlatches his windless and steps forward. The other crossbowmen crank furiously, but I know they will not load quickly enough. I run to my horse.

“
Io gli ho
,” Joseph says. He sights along the crossbow, lets out a breath, and fires. The bolt disappears into the distance. Neither of the knights falls.

I look at Pantaleon as I vault onto my horse. “I thought he could hit a coin from fifty paces!”

“Maybe he can only hit coins,” Tristan offers. He and Morgan leap onto their palfreys.