Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (42 page)

I lean out as far as I can to follow Richard’s progress. “Where the bloody Hell is he going?”

“France?” Tristan offers.

Richard and a dozen of his closest knights stop at the east end of the vineyard, where an open gate awaits. Morgan must have opened it for them, under Henry’s orders. The King’s army rides through, two at a time.

“They’re coming here,” I mumble. “God in Heaven, Richard’s marching into the abbey.”

We leave the battlements, charge across the great court, and into one of the towers of the abbey church. I take the spiral steps two at a time until I reach the very top. I double over on the roof; Tristan pants so hard that he cannot speak. It took only two hundred and twenty six steps to silence him.

The views from this height are magnificent. The flat fields of West Suffolk stretch out into the late-day haze. Bright green pastures and monstrous armies of shaggy trees. The vanes of a mill spin slowly in the distance. I glance down at the churchyard and the world seems to shift beneath me. I clutch at the stone wall and close my eyes. We are a long, long way up.

When I open my eyes again, Richard’s forces are crossing a wide bridge, built to support wagons returning from the vineyard to the abbey. I had assumed the king would assemble his army in the vineyard, itself. He is not. He is coming here. To the heart of the monastery.

“What is happening?” I mutter.

Richard’s soldiers trudge past winding fishponds and the walled pasture where Brother Philip’s livestock live. A few of the soldiers peer into the enclosure at the cattle. Richard marched them with no supplies, and they are hungry.

The army marches past a small chapel and into the churchyard.

“We’re being rude,” Tristan says. “We should go down and greet them. Perhaps you can offer him another cure.”

Richard crosses the churchyard, his soldiers filing through the ranks of wooden crosses of the cemetery, through brigades of the dead, one army passing another. They march past the jagged remains of cattle. Past the granite charnel house, and the overgrown orchard. He does not stop until he reaches the corner of the yard, where St. Mary’s stands. The rest of his army settles into ranks, facing the Vineyard. Knights on tired horses and men at arms in filthy breastplates. Archers with unstrung bows on their backs and peasants armed with spears and picks.

A familiar wagon rolls at the very rear of his forces, pulled by two familiar horses. I wonder again if Elizabeth lies inside, wrapped in canvas and buried beneath scores of writhing bodies.

It takes more than an hour for the army to enter the churchyard. The sun droops in the western sky. The king sits on a chestnut destrier, St. Mary’s to his right and the wall of the monastery at his back. A dozen mounted knights huddle with him—his elite guard. I squint at the banners of these men. It is too hard to make them out from this height, but one of them is a familiar yellow. Gerald is one of Richard’s elite, now. Allies bound by their hatred of me.

A horn sounds in the distance. Henry’s army advances.

“Both armies are coming in here?” Tristan asks.

“Sacred ground.” I realize the soundness of it as I speak. “Neither of them wants a fight, so they meet in a churchyard.”

Henry’s troops file across the vineyard, over the wagon bridge, and into the churchyard. Tristan and I spend another hour watching troops move. They form their lines among the graves of the Great Cemetery, with their backs facing the vineyards.

A gaggle of priests march at the very rear of Henry’s forces. One of them—who I suspect is Father Benjamin—holds a crucifix aloft. And behind the priests march two dozen men and women in black robes.

“Henry brought the choir?” Tristan chuckles.

“Father Benjamin’s idea, no doubt,” I reply.

Less than a hundred paces separate the two armies. Heralds from both sides ride into that space and bow. A herald from Richard’s army removes a brightly plumed hat, with a flourish, and speaks. I cannot hear what he says, but Tristan provides his own translation.

“We have a very big army, you stupid troubadors,” Tristan says. “Far larger than yours. Tell those men to leave the field or we will cut off their phalluses and thread them onto a giant steel hoop, like a great keyring of cocks.”

The herald bows with a flourish.

One of Henry’s heralds returns the bow and speaks. Tristan provides another interpretation.

“It is true, you hairless carrot farmer. Your army is slightly larger. But if you try to battle us, we shall drive wooden stakes into your filthy canals, raise the stakes over the battlements, and perform a puppet show for the plaguers. Furthermore, if it were even remotely possible for you to thread the phalluses of our army onto a giant iron ring, I would suggest you do not show it to your wife, who would recognize each and every one of the cocks.”

They smile at each other and bow again. Richard’s herald responds, and Tristan, again, gives me his thoughts on their conversation.

“You farting poltroons. If you dare to attack the King of England, God will defecate on your souls and throw you out upon the gutter of eternal punishment. Not even the pope could save your shit-stained souls.”

Henry’s herald nods, and utters a short response.

Tristan shrugs. “Which pope?”

I smile, but it is a brief thing. England has a cure. And my journey is at an end. But Elizabeth is still not at my side. I touch her cure, at my neck, and stare down toward Angel Hill.

Footsteps pound up from the spiral stairs. Tristan and I draw our swords, but it is Zhuri who stumbles onto the tower roof, panting. He doubles over, hands on thighs. “It . . . it . . .” His words become coughs.

“Steady, Moor,” I say. “Deep breaths.”

“It . . . works.” He grins for an instant before breaking down into a fit of coughing again.

“The cure works?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, the vineyard gate. It squeals a bit, but it opens.”

Tristan and I look at one another.

Zhuri coughs again, then grins. “Of course the cure! Would I run up two hundred steps to talk about a gate? The cure worked! One of the plaguers is healed. A fat woman stuck in the pig gate.”

I laugh too hard, because tears stream down my face. I turn my face skyward, laughing and crying. The cure works. England is saved. I stare down at Angel Hill again and search for a blue bow. I do not see one.

I duck back into the spiral staircase. “Let’s get down to the churchyard. We must tell Henry. And I want to make sure he includes a pardon for us as part of the negotiations.”

Chapter 52

“Sir Edward!” Henry sits a massive white charger. The duke shimmers in armor that has been polished to a mirror sheen. Steel besegews dangle on either side of his breastplate, sculpted in the shape of the Lancaster rose. His bright surcoat bears the family arms, trimmed in gold thread, and his bascinet is crowned by a rampant lion.

Father Benjamin sits a dappled palfrey at Henry’s side. He looks at me as if he just sucked the juice out of a lemon.

Knights and men-at-arms gather around me, clapping me on the back, smiling and raising their fists in approval.

“We’re with you, Sir Edward!” one calls.

“Have you found Lady Elizabeth?” another asks.

Henry goads his horse through the crowd, raises his visor and grins. “Your Moorish friend told us stories of your adventures. If even half of them are true, you are a bloody hero, Edward! A bloody hero!”

“You’re right about the blood, my lord,” The red of Sister Mildred’s blood is still on my hands. So much blood.

“And you were right about Richard! By Satan’s knee, you were right! I can’t believe he left Framlingham just to kill your wife!”

“Edward has a talent for infuriating titled gentry,” Tristan replies.

Henry dismounts and claps me on the shoulder. “Well, he hasn’t infuriated me.”

“Give it time,” Tristan says.

“In fact,” Henry says, “get in your harness, Edward. I want you to lead my left flank.”

“Lead your left flank?” I ask.

Henry waves his hand. “A ceremonial position. There will be no fighting today. I simply want everyone to know that Sir Edward Dallingridge is favored by the Lancasters.”

“There
should
be fighting today!” Father Benjamin snaps. “You have Richard cornered. His army is tired. And God has chosen you! Tell them, my lord! Tell them about the miracle!”

“There will be
no
fighting,” Henry replies. “And it was not a miracle. It was…it…I’m not certain what it was. But I do not believe it was a miracle.”

“Plaguers came at our army as we marched here!” Father Benajamin says. “And the afflicted would not attack Henry! They recoiled from him as if from the light of the God! He is the Lord’s warrior! The new chosen King of England!”

“He hasn’t been around any red lichen, has he?” Tristan asks.

Henry and Father Benjamin look at Tristan.

Tristan shrugs. “No, you’re right. God’s warrior. Chosen King of England.”

There are only three things that I know repel plaguers. I do not believe Henry has a holy relic, and I am fairly certain he would not use the old magics.

The duke showed me a small sore on his wrist when we were at Stowmarket.

I do not share my thoughts.

“My lord,” I say. “I would be honored to stand on your left flank, but I believe my wife is outside the gates. I must go out and look—”

“I want you on my left flank, Edward. It is not just an honor. It is for your benefit. So everyone may see that you are under our protection. When all this is over, there isn’t a man in my army who won’t help you find your wife. And when I return home, I will tell the Duke of Lancaster how you helped me corner Richard. Perhaps your silly feud with my father will finally end and the two of you can be friends again.”

Tristan glances at me.

I clear my throat, stare out across the sea of wooden crosses. Richard’s men are cutting down a cedar tree that grows beside St. Mary’s. “You mention your father—”

“Later, Edward. Get in your harness. There’s a destrier waiting for you by the little chapel behind us. I’ll tell Sir Jason Bidwell that you are taking over for him on the left flank.”

Perhaps it is best that Henry does not know about his father. Not today. Angering him when the armies face one another is not wise.

There must be no fighting today.

Tristan and I return to the Abbey Gate and help each other into our armor. The Genoese are gone, returned to Henry’s army no doubt.

A page leading a saddled destrier meets us beside the St. David’s Chapel. The choir sings behind him, although the voices sound oddly flat in the open space of the churchyard. I mount the horse and we report to Henry’s left flank.

A mounted knight wearing reds and yellows waits for me. His helmet bears a small castle upon the crest. “Sir Edward?”

I nod. “Sir Jason Bidwell?”

“Aye,” he replies. “You’ll be taking over this flank?”

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “It’s not by choice.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Sir Edward,” he says. “Your Moor friend told us everything. All of your exploits. And the cure you found. The whole army is talking about you and your wife. It is an honor to step aside for you, sir.”

“No reason why you can’t be here too, is there?” I ask. “This isn’t a battle, it’s a parade. Stay at my side and we’ll share the honor.” He grins. I try to give him one in return, but Elizabeth is still not at my side, so I clap him on the shoulder, instead.

“Well spoken, Edward.” Tristan has no horse, so he stands beside mine. “The three of us will take position here and share the honor of leading the…” He sees my expression and hesitates, then grins and jabs his thumb at the men behind us. “I’ll . . . I’ll go join Morgan with the rest of the formation.”

I stand at Sir Bidwell’s side, listen to the choir, and look across at Richard’s army. They outnumber us, but their ranks teem with untrained peasants. Parts of the formation look more like a mob than an army, men pressed into service for the king. Richard does not want peasants to fill Framlingham Castle, but he does not mind them filling his ranks. If the armies were to fight here today, I wonder how many of the peasants would rout at the first charge.

Sir Jason looks at my arm and smiles crookedly. “I haven’t seen anyone use a shield in years.”

I tap my great helm, also a relic of the past. “Sometimes the old things are the best.”

When Richard set his army on the field, he left a large gap between two of the ranks. Probably to allow the king and his guards to ride through when he and Henry meet. The gap allows me to see St. Mary’s, and Richard, who stands next to a thick stump—the remains of the cedar they cut down. A hulking man with no shirt stands beside the king. The man wears a great helm and holds a massive bearded axe.

Sir Jason follows my gaze and shakes his head. “King Richard has strange tastes. Musicians and poets and . . .” he waves uncertainly toward the shirtless man. “Whatever that is.”

I nod. Strange tastes indeed. I tap my great helm and point to the shirtless man. “He likes the old things too.”

Sir Bidwell laughs. “Aye, he does. Looks like a bloody executioner.”