Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (46 page)

Richard was a boy when he became king, and he not only had to fill a large throne, he had to escape the black shadow of Prince Edward, whom everyone assumed would succeed King Edward III.

Prince Edward was the avatar of chivalry (in some ways) and one of the most beloved men of his time. His skill at warfare was only surpassed by his humility and respect for his enemies (the noble ones, at any rate). The Black Prince was massively outnumbered at the Battle of Crecy, but—with the help of his archers—destroyed the French army. At Poitiers, when he captured King John of France, the Black Prince honored the monarch by letting the king have his tent. He also insisted on attending to the king, like a servant, saying, “You are a great man, and it is an honor to serve you.”

Like most military men of the time, Prince Edward has a couple of massacres attributed to him (Limoges and Caen). His penchant for burning fields and villages as he marched was also a blemish on his reputation (although it was more a sign of the changing face of warfare). Despite this, King Louis of France—England’s bitter enemy—held a parade of mourning when Edward died. A celebration of the man who many considered the finest prince in the world.

That’s quite a shadow to live under. And the crushing weight of such expectation no doubt contributed to Richard’s downfall.

Historical Note: Episode 4

There has always been a great paradox among Christian soldiers—the obvious conflict of killing in a religion that forbids killing. The solution, in the Middle Ages, usually involved money. Knights and other soldiers paid monks or priests to pray for their souls. The more they killed, the more they paid. Sometimes, a soldier killed so many people that it was easier just to build a new church or abbey for the monks or priests. Many of the holiest places in England were built as penance for the murder.

William the Conqueror fought one of the bloodiest battles in English history at a place called Hastings. You might have heard of it (although the fighting actually took place a few miles from Hastings, at a place now—helpfully—called Battle). One of the first things William built in England was an abbey, on the very spot where he and his soldiers killed so many Englishmen. And he didn’t stop there. He built dozens of churches and monasteries to make up for his sins on that day.

In this episode, Edward and his friends barely escape the horrible maiming that King Richard calls “legging.” There was no such punishment in the Middle Ages, of course.

Or was there?

England had, until as late as the 17
^th
century, an interesting punishment for coin counterfeiters. The victim was suspended over a cauldron of boiling oil and lowered slowly. So very slowly. His (or her) feet would burn and bubble, the skin turning soft and peeling from the bones. Next, their shins and calves, then their knees and thighs. Until there was no skin or muscle left. Only a skeleton of legs. After that, the victim was probably unconscious from the pain. I imagine they did their best to revive them before completing the immersion and killing the hapless counterfeiter. I wasn’t aware of this punishment until after I wrote this episode, and the eerie parallel once again drove home a point: That there is little that can be done in fiction that is worse than reality.

Historical Note: Episode 5

It is my hope that after two and a half books in Edward’s trilogy, readers will realize that the most nonsensical events in the story are usually ones taken directly from history.

The pig trial in this episode is a common representation of animal trials held during the Middle Ages. In fact, many of the dialog lines were taken directly from court records of the time. The trial itself is based on a similar trial that took place in 1492—at the French village of Clermont—although I could have chosen from scores of similar pig trials across Europe and England over several hundred years. In the Clermont case, a young pig was “arrested” for entering a house, killing a small child, and eating parts of the body. At the trial, several witnesses were called and the “porker” (yes, they actually used that word in the trial) was found guilty of the murder. As in the court case Edward witnessed, an aggravating factor in the crime was that the pig committed the offense on a Friday, something prohibited by the Lord.

I wish I could say I made that up.

The hapless church clerk in this episode tries to defend the pigs using a very powerful argument—an argument, in fact, far ahead of its time. A 17
^th
century Jesuit priest named Pere Bougeant philosophized about animal trails and stated that, if animals could be assigned blame, then they could be judged in the afterlife. The clerk from our story uttered the exact words that Bougeant wrote: “
If that is the case, then beasts would be a species of man, or men a species of beasts. And both of these propositions are incompatible with the Word of God
.” The attorney in our fictional trial rebutted Bougeant’s words with the true medieval view, which is that misbehaving animals were possessed by demons. And that it was the demons that were being tried.

It is easy to poke fun at the medieval mindset that allowed these trials. They are amusing to us today, but in the framework of strict religious beliefs and a tightly regimented life, these sorts of trials made sense.  It is easier to accept that demons have taken a loved one than it is to accept a random bolt of misfortune. A demon can be tried and executed. Justice can be had and the demon can no longer kill. But a haphazard stroke of savagery cannot be controlled. How does one punish fate? How can there be justice if the universe is unjust? And so animals are given a trial, to show that the system applies equally to all. That even demons must face the consequences of their actions.

Although those thoughts are simply my personal ruminations on the subject. No one knows for certain why these trials were conducted. In the story, Edward believes the trials to be a show of force. A shaking of spears, to reassure society that humans are the superior class, and that animals should learn their place. Edward may be right. But I have yet another theory.

Medieval law, like medieval medicine, often focused on both the physical and the spiritual. Perhaps these sorts of animal trials provided a sense of closure to the victim’s family, a healing salve for the soul. The entire weight of the law rose up at your side, condemning the creature that took your loved one. Magistrates, villagers and priests arranged an elaborate demonstration of support, and, as a community, mourned one of their own. They shook their fists at the guilty animals, they howled at the outrageous savagery, they shouldered some of the anger and anguish.

The trials might seem foolish to us, but maybe we are the fools for not giving members of our community the same demonstration of solidarity that medieval villages showed theirs.

If you are interested in medieval animal trials, I recommend E.P. Evans’ book
The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals
. The book was first published in 1906, but was reprinted in 1988, so it can be found if you search. Although dry at times, it is a fascinating historical and philosophical text.

Historical Note: Episode 6

Alchemy in the Middle Ages was a topic of much controversy during the Middle Ages. The Christian Church was, at turns, vehemently opposed to and grudgingly tolerant of it. In 1279, the Franciscan order of monks forbade alchemy, magic and demon summoning. The Dominicans and Cistercians forbade it in the 14
^th
century. And, in 1317, the pope himself issued a papal bull denouncing alchemy and banning the dark arts.

And yet, scholarly monks like Roger Bacon, explored alchemy as a way of understanding God. Kings were known to look to alchemy as well, but they of course used it to gain wealth, not understanding. Edward III hired an alchemist named John de Walden to boost his coffers, and the pious Henry IV was known to hire men of these dark arts. In the 14
^th
century, even one of the popes got involved. He hired a “physician” for “certain secret work.” No one knows what that “secret work” was, but the consensus seems to be that the “physician” was an alchemist. And I’ll go out on a limb and wager that it had something to do with gold.

There was much religious scorn directed at alchemists, but it seems that they were more reviled for the rampant fraud in their professions than for any spiritual shortcomings. John de Walden, King Edward III’s alchemist, ended his days in the Tower of London for failing to turn twenty pounds of silver into a like quality of gold.

Our friend Geoffrey Chaucer, in his
The Canterbury Tales
, tells of an alchemist who cons a priest into giving him £40 to change mercury into silver. The alchemist disappears and the priest never recovers his money, or sees an ounce of silver.

But this episode wasn’t just about Alchemists.

Edward gains a dozen Genoese crossbowmen in this episode. The Genoese were, as he mentions, the most feared soldiers in Europe, for a time. Disciplined, incredibly skilled, and capable of decimating the enemy ranks (although the word ‘decimate’ means to kill one in ten, so perhaps I should say ‘annihilate’ to be more precise).

Edward speaks about the Battle of Crecy, in 1346, where English longbowmen overtook the Genoese as the most feared soldiers in Europe (although, again in the name of precision, I will call them English “archers”, because the term “longbow” hadn’t yet been invented). The French outnumbered the English at Crecy to a staggering degree. It looked to everyone on the battlefield as if the English would be annihilated (not decimated).

The French sent the Genoese crossbowmen in first, to soften up the English lines. But several fatal mistakes were made on that day. The Genoese were ordered to attack even though a sudden storm had soaked the bowstrings on the Italian crossbows. And, as we learned in episode 1, wet cords dramatically reduce the range and power of these weapons. The Genoese also were missing their pavises—large shields they use in battle to protect them from arrows fired at them. Apparently the pavises were with the baggage train and the French commanders did not want to wait for them.

So the Geneose were ordered forward, despite their protests, and they fired when they should have been in range. But Just like Tristan’s wayward bolt in episode 1, the Genoese volleys were largely ineffective. It was not so for the English archers. War bows can be unstrung quite easily, so, when the rainstorm first swept across the battlefield, the English simply tucked their bowstrings under hats, or into pouches. And when they fired upon the Genoese, their bows were at full power.

The Italians, having no pavises to protect them, and with weapons rendered nearly useless by the rain, routed. This infuriated the French, who charged the English lines on horseback, trampling and cutting down the fleeing Genoese “cowards.” But the English archers were not done. They fired narrow tipped “bodkin” arrows that punched through plate armor and made quick work of the knights’s horses. The resulting mess of fallen knights, crossbowmen and horses made it difficult for the next wave of Frenchmen to reach the English lines. As these next soldiers picked their way through the dead and dying, they, too, were cut down by the English archers. Each successive wave found it more difficult to get through, and when mounted knights did make it past, it was at a walk and not a charge.

Everyone had expected a massacre at Crecy, and there was one; but it was the French who were massacred. And it was the English archers who made it possible. The feat was recreated 70 years later, at the Battle of Agincourt, when poor tactics by the French and a field of deep mud allowed English archers and a “happy few men” to once again pull victory from overwhelming odds.

Historical Note: Episode 7

Edward and his men witness a miracle in this episode. 

No, not
that
miracle. The other one—a magical stone circle that keeps plaguers at bay. Thousands of such circles existed across England at one time. They are the Neolithic remains of a culture that no longer exists. A people who worshipped their own gods, and erected monuments for their fallen dead. The most well known of these structures is the one at Stonehenge.

Massive stones were dragged more than two hundred miles to the site at Stonehenge. But how? And for what purpose? There have been many theories developed to answer both of these questions, but it is difficult to know with any certainty. Some believe the stone circles were a monument to the dead. Others believe they were a place of healing, or perhaps a supernatural circle of protection. Edward, in our story, believes them to be cathedrals to the ancient gods of the druids. And I like that explanation.

Most English stone circles have been found in the west, where large stones could be found easily. Suffolk does not have the same geology—it is mostly flint or chalk—so building such great circles would have been even more difficult.  But could they have used smaller stones to do the same thing? Some argue, yes.

Take the village of Alphamstone. Some claim that a ragged circle of half-buried stones around St. Barnabas Church was made by bronze-age denizens. If true, this would be the first stone circle found in East Anglia. And, if true, who is to say that there aren’t more? That Edward couldn’t have found such a circle?

Edward’s Genoese crossbowmen see action in this episode—their crossbow bolts make quick, savage work of Sir Gerald’s soldiers. Morgan notes in an earlier episode that crossbows were once banned by the Church for the cruel wounds inflicted by bolts, and this is true. Crossbow bolts were shorter and thicker than arrows, so they tended to pierce armor much more easily. The longer, more slender arrows fired from a bow often shattered on impact. That said, even crossbow bolts sometimes shattered against armor, so the square-headed bolt was invented. This was the bolt that knocked Edward from his horse in this episode.