Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (9 page)

We reach an old trail heading southwest and set the cart upon it. It is a worn path, thick with half-buried flints. It will not be a comfortable ride, but the ground is dry. A thick mist smolders around us, sapping color from the world.

Tristan rides beside the cart. Morgan watches him for a time, then points to the cross dangling from the knight’s neck.

When we were at Hedingham, moments before the plague took Morgan, he hung the cross around Tristan’s neck and spoke: “When you find your faith, this will protect you.”

The carved wooden symbol is said to be made from the True Cross, upon which Jesus was crucified. Morgan traded with Gregory the Wanderer for the relic. He gave the old man a fully barded warhorse in return for the cross and a few other artifacts. At the time I thought him a fool for making such a trade, but I have seen Morgan perform miracles with that cross. Repelling plaguers. Breaking a charge of mounted knights. Tristan would say they were coincidences. But I have witnessed coincidences, and I have never felt the touch of God in them. I felt that touch when Morgan wielded his cross.

Tristan looks down at the relic, draws it off his neck and tosses it to Morgan.

“I hope it helped,” Morgan says. “Did you find your faith, Tristan?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Turns out I had left it at a tavern. Went back the next day and there was my faith, still on the table where I’d left it. Damned lucky no one walked off with it.”

“Always joking,” Morgan replies. “You try to hide behind your humor, Tristan. You think it will shield you from His sight. But God sees everything. He watches everything you do and everything you say.”

“It seems to me that God isn’t the most efficient of creatures,” Tristan replies. “Why watch everything? If He can see anything, then why not just watch the interesting parts?”

“You are a damned miscreant,” Morgan says.

“And you are faithful and devout?” Tristan asks.

“I try to be.”

“So explain to me, Morgan, how you can accept the fact that an alchemist cured you.”

“Tristan.” I growl the word.

“It’s fine, Edward,” Morgan shrugs his great shoulders. “It’s a fair question.” He looks at Tristan. “I did not make the decision. All I can do is accept the path that God has shown me, and to do as much good as I can with the additional time He has given me.”

Tristan scoffs. “But He didn’t give you extra time. A magic elixir did. A sorcerer conjured you back from the dead.”

“Zhuri made the decision,” Morgan says. “I cannot be blamed for a decision I had no part in.”

The Moor glances back from the driver’s platform. “Perhaps I should have left you rotting in the cellar then.”

“That’s not what I meant . . .”

“So Zhuri, who thought he was doing good, should be damned, but you, who benefitted from his actions, are innocent.”

“Zhuri is not a Christian. It is irrelevant what he did or did not do.”

“So I must be Christian to be relevant?”

“You . . . both of you are twisting my words.”

“Leave him be,” I say. “I have never met a more devout man than Morgan of Hastings.”

Morgan nods several times. “Thank you, Edward.”

I nod back. “The poor man is reduced to wearing leper robes. Must you insult him as well?”

“Maybe he is a leper,” Tristan says. “Morgan, are you leper?”

“These are not leper robes!” Morgan snaps. “They are clerical vestments. I thought you were on my side, Edward.”

“Remember when those plaguers turned away from Morgan, Ed?” Tristan asks. “And you said it was the power of the relic? Maybe it wasn’t the cross. Maybe they turned away because he’s a leper.”

“Shut that arse in your face, Tristan,” Morgan snaps. “I am not a leper.”

 “Leave him be,” I say. “Morgan has returned to us from the dead and the two of you are tormenting him.”

“Let them laugh at me if they wish,” Morgan says. “But know that the Lord punishes those who mock. Have you not heard the story of the children who mocked Elisha? ‘He went up from there to Bethel, and on his way, some small boys came out of the city and jeered at him, saying, ‘Go up, you baldhead! Go up, you baldhead!’ He turned around and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And two she-bears came out of the forest and tore forty-two of the boys apart.’”

“So sayeth the Lord,” I reply.

“I hope those children learned their lesson,” Tristan says. “Perhaps the kind and merciful Lord should have had them tortured first.”

Zhuri looks from Morgan to me. “Your God slaughtered forty-two children because they taunted a bald man?”

“Don’t be absurd, Zhuri,” Tristan replies. “Our God would never slaughter children. He sent two bears to do it.”

“I do not understand your religion,” Zhuri says. “I thought Christ preached forgiveness and kindness.”

“He did,” Tristan replies. “Kindness is the most important aspect of Christianity. And if anyone in the community is not kind, they are murdered in horrible ways.”

I tell Tristan to ride ahead of us, a half-mile or so, in the hopes his keen eyes will spot any danger before it spots us. But we do not need his eyes; all we need are ears. A horn blares in the distance after we travel a few more miles. Two short blasts, one long. A call for action.

“Get the cart off the road!” I shout.

Zhuri lashes the tired horse. The wagon rattles up the lip of the path and northward, toward a sparse forest. Morgan winces and holds the edge of the bench with both hands. Tristan gallops back to me and reins up, his horse blowing and lifting its forelegs off the ground.

“I couldn’t see them,” he calls. “But they’re close.”

I slap my knees against the flanks of my gelding and send him after the cart, with Tristan close behind. We catch up to Zhuri and Morgan and ride alongside until we reach the precipice of the forest. A thick mist rises in coils, like ghostly serpents.

“Hide the cart in there, and stay with our horses.” I dismount. “Tristan and I will slip through the forest. Maybe we can get a look at them.”

Tristan vaults from his saddle and takes position at my side. Vision is more important than protection right now, so we leave the nasal helmets on instead of donning our great helms. Tristan touches the leather-wrapped hand bombard jutting from a saddlebag, then glances up at the drizzle and shakes his head. He unstraps the crossbow from the saddle instead. I wait as he clamps a bolt between his teeth, puts his foot through the weapon’s stirrup, and cranks the windlass handles until the bowstring is locked in place. Then I run through the misty forest, keeping my eyes on the old road in the distance. The horn sounds again, louder, and hoofbeats rumble in the distance. We are more than a hundred paces north of the wagon trail, but I hunch low and step cautiously. The clank of our armor is muffled by the thick traveling cloaks we wear.

I hold out a hand to stop Tristan and we listen. The hoofbeats grow louder. I can hear voices in the distance, and then, much closer, the sound of weeping.

Cold water spatters my face as I sweep away a leafy branch and scan the forest. A figure stumbles through the brush and nearly falls. It is she who weeps.

The woman glances back toward the road as she walks, then scans the forest floor, her gaze sweeping wildly among the hawthorn and gorse. Someone has tied a cord around her waist and attached a fox tail that dangles from her backside.

A maiden walking alone, looking frightened, and weeping. I want only to reach Elizabeth, but how can a man of honor ignore such a scene?

Tristan and I rise and push through the wet sprigs toward her. I give a whispery shout: “Do you require assistance?”

She shrieks and backs away from us, thick tears tumbling from her dark lashes. The perpetual drizzle has soaked her clothing. She is young, her black hair unbound. The thin chemise she wears is wet and torn. It clings to her and hangs off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin on a bony frame.

“I haven’t found it yet!” she screams. “I need more time!”

I hold a finger to my lips and make calming motions with my other hand. “What haven’t you found?” I take a step toward her and she backs away, shaking her head.

“The arrow.” She pants as she speaks, the panting of someone about to fall into desperate sobs. The white chemise is soaked through, revealing every feature of her reedy frame. I wonder when she last ate. “I can’t find it,” she continues. “You arrived too soon.
I didn’t have a chance
.”

I glance back at Tristan, who sneers at me. “You couldn’t give the poor maiden more time, could you?”

“That’s not helping, Tristan.” I take another step toward her, pull my cloak off and place it over her shoulders. “I know nothing about an arrow. Why must you find it? Are you in danger?”

She stares at me, tilts her head and sniffles. “You’re . . . you’re not part of the hunt?”

“I’m just trying to get home,” I say. “Which hunt do you speak of?”

“Witch hunt, indeed,” Tristan says.

A horn sounds, loud and very close. Men shout. Boots crash through the forest. The woman flinches at the sounds, the tears flowing again. “Please, help me.”

I look toward the road. At least five or six men. Tristan and I glance at one another. He raises his crossbow as I draw my sword. No knight with any honor could do anything else.

“Thank you, sirs.” She lifts her skirt and walks away from the road slowly. Her shoulders hunch as she scans the forest floor. Tristan and I look to one another, then back at her. She scowls at us. “Hurry! We must find the arrow. Red fletching and stripes painted on the shaft. Anon! Anon!”

 “What fun,” Tristan says. “I hope we find it.”

“What game is this?” I ask her. “Are you in danger or not?”

“There! Is that it?” Her voice rises, then strains with anguish. “
No
! It is a branch!”

I look back toward the road. Shapes plunge through the mist-drenched scrub. They will see us soon, if they have not already. I take hold of the woman’s arm and turn her to face me. “Are those men going to harm you?” She shakes her head and I sheathe my sword. “Let’s go, Tristan.”

He lowers his crossbow and we crash through gorse, northward away from the men.

“They will take my maidenhood,” the woman cries. “They will fill me with their seed and leave me to starve.”

My sword flashes out from its sheath and Tristan’s crossbow rises. We lurch back toward her.

“Perhaps,” Tristan says to me, “you should have been more specific in your question.”

“Rape is harm, maiden,” I mutter. “In case this sort of thing comes up again in the future.”

The first two men push through wet leaves, laughing, but what they see is not funny, and their humor dries up. Tristan and I stand shoulder to shoulder. My sword is pointed forward in mid-guard. His crossbow is strung and loaded and aimed in their direction. We are not thin, we are not dainty, and neither of us wears a fox tail.

“We can’t seem to find the arrow,” Tristan says. “Care for a war-bolt instead?”

They both step back. One, a tall man with long black mustaches, draws a dagger. The other, a thick slab of a man with hair so blond his eyebrows are almost invisible, unslings an axe from his shoulder. Both wear coats of mail, but no tabards or arms that could identify them or their master. I do not think they are Sir Gerald’s men.

“The young maiden doesn’t wish to be raped today,” Tristan says. “You evil bastards.”

The tall man looks at the crossbow and sniffs. “Are you wearing lavender?”

Tristan fires.

“I didn’t say they would
rape
me,” the woman cries.

Chapter 11

The blond soldier shrieks and falls to his knees. Tristan’s bolt has lodged in his thigh. Three more men crash through the branches.

I take a step back and straighten my arm, putting Saint Giles between them and me.

Tristan drops the crossbow and draws his sword. “Did that harpy behind us say what I think she said?”

The new men are dressed in the same fashion as the first two. Mail and round helms, no tabards. They draw weapons and glance nervously at the tall man who spoke to Tristan.

“No one needs to die,” I shout. “Back away and everyone lives!”

Tristan glances backward. “She’s gone. When will we learn to stop being so bloody chivalrous?” He smiles at the soldiers. “Hello. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.” He tries to laugh but it sounds more like a cough. “Terribly sorry.”

The tall man with the mustache kneels beside the wounded soldier and touches the bolt. “You aren’t sorry yet,” he says without looking up. “But you will be, soon. Your short, misery-laden lives will be the very definition of the word.”

I draw myself to my full height. Elizabeth waits in a monastery not thirty miles from here. She is the hunger that burns in my belly, and not one of these lambs will keep me from her. “I am Sir Edward Dallingridge, Knight of the Shire and friend to King Richard. I have killed more men in France than you have seen in a lifetime, and I will kill the lot of you with my bare hands if you don’t leave here at once!”

Confidence is a parasite that feeds upon the courage of your foes. If you show no fear, your enemy will hesitate, no matter how badly they outnumber you.