Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (34 page)

One of the two knights cants in the saddle, then tumbles from the horse.

A fine shot. I nod to Joseph Magazzi, who grins and shakes his crossbow at me.

“Tristan, take the Italians! Get the three! I’ve got the knight!” I dig my spur deep. I have only one spur left. I’m not sure when I lost the other. The palfrey lurches forward and gives chase, grunts as it climbs the valley slope. The knight has almost reached the top of the hill. I dig my spur in again and shout at the horse. I cannot allow any of these men to escape. If Sir Gerald knows we are near, we will have no chance of getting into St. Edmund’s Bury.

The knight disappears over the crest of the hill. I shout again at my horse and the poor animal picks up its pace. Almost at the top. A few more paces. The horse blows, ears back, but strains harder. We reach the crest. The mounted knight sits only a stone’s throw from me. He holds something in his hands. Why isn’t he flee—

I hear the sound of the bolt striking my great helm an instant before I hear the bowstring release.

And death’s bony hand finally takes hold of me.

Chapter 41

Steel rings against steel.

It is the sound of combat, and that troubles me, because I do not think God would allow fighting in Heaven. I open my eyes and see a broken crossbow bolt on the ground, inches from one of my hands. I do my best to focus on it, but my vision swirls, as if I am underwater. A square head on the bolt. A cube on a stick. That is why I am still alive. The bolt was meant to unhorse me.

Death’s bony hand cannot seem to keep its hold on me. I thank Saint Giles and the Virgin for that.

A man howls.

I look up. The effort makes me nauseous. If I had not emptied my stomach earlier, by the stone circle, I likely would do so now.

My eyes focus. Pantaleon lies on the ground. The knight who shot me crawls away from him, one leg stretched out behind him and useless. Blood seeps from the knight’s armor, beneath one arm. He and Pantaleon have been fighting. I struggle to my knees but the world is a listing ship and I topple to one side. The setting sun is too bright. My helm hurts me. I work the straps and pry it off with one hand. The left side has caved in. I let the helmet fall to the grass and rise to my knees again. Fight a wave of nausea. The knight glances back, sees me, and crawls more quickly, panting. A horse waits for him a dozen paces away.

I rise to one knee, nearly fall over, and decide to crawl. It takes a long time to reach Pantaleon’s side. A crossbow bolt juts from his chest. Blood soaks the right side of his brigandine armor.

He grins at me through blood-stained teeth. “To wear the big armor maybe is not so stupid.” His voice sounds strange. The words seem to echo. I wonder, briefly, if I am dreaming.

“Why . . . why did you follow me, you . . . stupid bastard?”

“I must to watch you,” he replies with a strained smile. “So you are not to flee with not giving to me the paid.” He looks at the bolt in his chest. “You owe to me . . .” he winces and groans. “You owe to me much paid, now. Much paid.”

My fists clench so tightly that the gauntlet’s steel plates dig into the backs of my hands. I lift the slashed brigandine on his side and look at the wound. My eyes cannot seem to focus properly. “Women and . . . mead and horses. You’ll have them all . . . friend.” The knight’s sword left a long gash in his side. The wound will kill him, if the bolt does not do it first. I try to smile through a wave of nausea. “Not . . . bad. Little . . . Malta fungus. You’ll be . . . buggering arses again.”

“Ass.” He coughs. “Donkey is ass.” He rolls his head to one side so he can see the fleeing knight. “I broke the leg of him. And put the dagger below his arm. But still he go.” He looks back to me. “You will to kill him, please.”

“With many blood.” I reply. The words catch in my mouth. My throat feels hard, as if the skin is stretched too tight.

“With many blood,” he replies. “Go. I watch.”

I nod to the Italian and try to stand, but the world still sways. There is a ringing in my ears that will not fade. The knight is ten paces away. I crawl after him. He looks back at me and picks up his pace, grunting and dragging his broken leg. I groan at the pain in my head. Claw toward him. The earth seems to roll beneath me. I lean wildly to one side, then to the other. The knight pulls himself forward along the grass, the toes on his good leg digging into the soil for purchase. It is like a race between drunk infants.

I crawl a few more steps, then force myself to my feet. The landscape sways around me. I wonder where Tristan and Morgan are. The knight is only a few paces from his horse. I stagger after him, each step a victory of concentration. There is no Old Testament left in me. Only old bones and new aches.

He pulls himself forward, reaches for a stirrup.

I lumber toward him.

His fingers brush the metal. The horse nickers and walks a few steps away. Pantaleon chuckles again. The knight groans and crawls after his steed.

It takes five more steps to reach the crawling man. I feel for the sword of Saint Giles, then realize I left it back at the farmhouse. I draw my dagger, but it takes great precision or great strength to kill an armored knight with a dagger, and I have neither right now. A war hammer juts from the horse’s saddlebag, so I step past the struggling knight and draw the weapon.

I hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the valley. I pray they are friendly hoofbeats. I raise the hammer in the air, and stumble back into the horse. The animal spooks and trots away.

“Oh, bugger it all.” The knight works at the straps of his bascinet. “Just do it.” He throws off the helmet.

“With many blood,” I mutter.

It takes all of my mental strength to bring the hammer down in the right place. The thud of metal on bone rings out, but I do not see the result. I fall forward onto the grass as the knight’s body slumps to the ground behind me.

Tristan and Morgan crest the hill and ride toward me.

I rise to my feet again and stagger to Pantaleon’s side. “He’s dead.”

The Italian nods. He looks up at me and winces. “I am to die. But I have spoken the lie. I am not come after you for the paid.”

My eyes sting.

“Honor,” I say. “You die for honor, Pantaleon.”

“No.” He shakes his head, tenses, leans to one side.

“No?”

He groans and lashes out with a gauntleted fist, catching me in the cheek. The blow throws me to one side. The world dims.

“What . . . what is wrong with . . .” I cannot get the words out.

“I die for the justice.” Pantaleon chuckles and touches his cheek, where the last fading remnants of my blow still shine. “You deserve the wife. Elizabeth. I hope that you are to get her, Edward friend.”

I let myself slump to the grass on my side and look at him, face to face. My cheek throbs.

Fear enters Pantaleon’s eyes. He takes my hand and I grip his tightly.

In this plague-swept kingdom, flesh is the new coin. Pantaleon has bought me another chance.

Pantaleon‘s death is another dark stain upon my soul. If I live, there will be no end to the churches I must build.

I will raise the first one here, where a great lion fell so that a wolf could carry on.

The Italian’s grip weakens as the fear fades from his eyes. And when the last glimmer of life is extinguished, I, too, plunge into darkness.

Chapter 42

My Elizabeth rubs a warm, wet cloth across my chest.

I take hold of her slim wrist and smile. My eyes open but it takes a long time to focus, to understand that it is not my wife in front of me. The memories of my journey return to me and my throat grows tight again. “Where . . . where am I?” My head feels like it has cracked open, and molten steel poured into the crack.

The woman takes my hand from her wrist and smiles. “You’re safe.”

“There’s no such thing as safe.” I am lying in a cot. A half-dozen strips of parchment have been pasted onto my chest. “What’s this all over me?”

“Protection.” She is tall and pretty, with chestnut hair peeking from beneath a wimple. “It is the old magic.” She points to one of the strips, near my shoulder. Writing covers the parchment, but I cannot read the words. “This one protects you from steel swords.” She points to one near my stomach. “This one from arrows and bolts.”

“A little late for that one.” I sit up and begin peeling the parchments off. I am inside a tiny cottage. Blackened beams span the ceiling. The smell of honeysuckle and old smoke mingle in the air.

A door opens. “You’re awake!” Tristan enters, dressed in a tunic, and navigates the cluttered cottage. “I got tired of your snoring. I’ve been waiting outside. What are you doing? Those parchments will protect you.”

“I have armor, Tristan,” I reply. “I don’t need paper to protect me. How long was I out?”

“More than an hour,” he replies.

“We have to go.” I swing my legs to the floor, and the motion makes the cottage spin. My stomach heaves. I grip the cot frame with my hands to steady myself.

“You should rest for the night,” the woman says. “You took a terrible blow to the head.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” I reply. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alison,” she replies. “With one L. You made an illman explode on my husband today.”

Alison. The name is a dart into my soul. I think of a woman by the Meddestane River, her red life pouring out through a slashed throat. Allison Moore was the first of my sins on this journey. The first drop in the deluge of death that would follow.

“Thank you for your help, Alison with one L, but we must go.” I rise, using the standing beams for support as I move through the cottage.

“Edward,” Tristan says, “Pantaleon . . . he . . . he didn’t . . .”

I stare at the threshed floorboards for a moment. “He died saving me, Tristan.”

“It was his idea to follow you up that hill. He said you might need help.” He shrugs. “At least I think that’s what he said.”

I fight an urge to sit down upon the thresh and weep.

“What is the name of this village?” I ask Alison.

“Rougham, my lord,” she replies.

My first sin was Allison Moore, and my last, Pantaleon di Alessandria. I should have
given him the paid
and sent him away early on. But I kept him with me, because he was useful.

Pantaleon wondered why we have so many churches in England. Perhaps he understands, now.

“I will have a church built here, in Rougham. Devoted to Saint Mary, and dedicated to Pantaleon di Alessandria. And I will have him knighted. He will be buried in my family plot, at Bodiam.” I look at Alison. “Would you do me the great favor of keeping his body here, safe, until we return?”

I am forever leaving bodies of friends in the charge of others.

She nods. “Of course, Sir Edward.”

I walk toward the door again, stepping over a bucket filled with dead flowers. A thought comes to me when I take hold of the latch. “Alison with one L, I have one more favor to ask.”

Moonlight gleams across the battered helmet that hangs from my saddle. It took half of an hour to bang the great helm into wearable shape. We bathed in the river—to wash away the stench of exploding plaguer—then I helped Morgan pick through the dead until we found a suit of chain mail that fit. He winced as we helped him into the armor, but I think he will suffer any amount of pain to never again be called a leper. He took a sword and a dagger as well, and has been standing straighter ever since.

All six of Gerald’s knights wore tabards with the three roosters on them. Tristan, Morgan, and I each take one, and I give one to Frederico.

We bind the hands and legs of the few survivors, and leave them locked in the tall barn beside the cottage. I ask Alison and Alyn to watch over them until I return from St. Edmund’s Bury. In return, I give the husband and wife all of the remaining armor, and all but one of the healthy horses. If flesh is the new coin in England, then I have made Alison and Alyn rich beyond their dreams.

I give the last horse to Alasdair, the Scotsman. It is a long journey to his homeland. I doubt he will make it, but at least he has a chance on horseback. He claps each of us on the back, tells us we are “not bad folk, for Englishmen,” and mounts the palfrey. He rides away toward the north, but not before taking out the rotting head in his bag and working the jaws one last time. “Goodbye, English carrot farmers!”