The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (10 page)

BOOK: The Scourge (Kindle Serial)
5.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Perhaps the most glaring inaccuracy
in this episode, aside from the obvious, is that, in 1381, there was no bridge
across the Temes (Thames) River. There’s a picturesque bridge there now, and a
tunnel, but the Temes is quite wide at that point and building a bridge would
have been a major undertaking.

Alvilea (Aveley) exists of course,
as does St. Michael’s Church. Father William is a fabrication. I am sure the
priests of St. Michael’s were far kinder, and most certainly are now.

Corringham exists as it did then.
The great stone church at the center is another St. Michael’s, and it has an
impressive seventy-foot-tall Norman tower that is worth a visit.

Hadleigh Castle does indeed sit on
a hill overlooking the Temes (Thames) although its new King, Sir John, and his
half-mad follower, Sir Gerald, are both figments of my imagination.

I am not certain of Edward’s
relationship to King Richard, although I assume they were on good terms. King
Richard gave Edward many responsibilities, both in England and France, and
allowed Edward to build a castle in Bodiam. But Edward’s relationship to the
King’s uncle, John of Gaunt, was a different story. Edward did indeed challenge
John of Gaunt to a duel in the middle of a court of lords. Twice.

John of Gaunt, who acquired lands near
Bodiam, clashed with local landowners and accused them of trespassing on his properties
and of poaching. I don’t know his arguments, but it seems like he made a lot of
enemies very quickly. The local landowners pleaded with Edward to represent
them in court against John. And Edward did, reportedly showing up to court in a
full suit of armor and throwing down his gauntlet in front of John twice.

There is no record of Edward
calling John “a festering imbecile with more bile than bollocks,” but you know
that a man who has the gumption to show up in court in full harness and to challenge
the King’s uncle to a duel is going to have some pretty fiery lines. I wish I
had been there. And yes, Edward was reportedly imprisoned for it, but not for
very long.

The village of Lighe is now
Leigh-on-the-Sea, and it does indeed have a church up on a hill — The Church of All Saints. Historians don’t know
the exact date the church was built, but they know it was around in the 14
th
century, which is good enough for me and Edward.

And lastly, a little about French
raids during the hundred years war. Though it is possible the French attacked
towns along the Temes (Thames) Estuary, most of their attacks were concentrated
on the south coast. Rye, where Sir Tristan is from, was burned twice by the
French. In fact, it was because of these constant harrying raids along the
south coast that Edward wanted to build a castle in Bodiam, although, to my
knowledge, the French never traveled that far inland on their raids. And though
Edward’s castle at Bodiam is strong and defensible, it is clearly meant as a
aesthetic structure as well. The picturesque moat that laps at the castle
walls, the lack of a keep, the meticulously plotted ponds — all of it points to the fact that Edward
Dallingridge was just as concerned with visual appeal as he was about the
French attacking.

Episode 3
Chapter 14

The
mists bleed a sulfurous orange above the horizon as the sun wakes. Smoke from
the campfires of Lighe mingles with the morning fog and drifts toward the
burning skies. We are less than a mile from the fishing village, but it might
as well be ten leagues, for we are still moving at a slow walk. And sunrise has
crept upon us.

A
horn sounds in the distance. Sir John has started his assault.

“King
Guy the First has a nice ring to it,” Tristan says. But not even he can smile
for long at the thought of French rule.

I
unsheathe my dagger again, but Sir Morgan raises a hand to stop me. He slashes
his own arm and the blood runs down to his elbow.

“I
still don’t like it,” he says. “Using these poor sick people like this.”

The
hordes behind us snarl and stumble more quickly in our wake. Sir Tristan has
four gashes in his arm. I have lost count of the cuts on my flesh.

“If
Sir John is routed, can we do it on our own?” Tristan asks.

I
shake my head. “This lot behind us has no armor, no weapons, and no brains. We
can’t win without Sir John’s men.”

The
English soldiers roar in the distance. Their shouts are drowned out by a
greater roar, and I know the French are preparing for war. I ride faster, but
the plaguers begin to disperse. We are forced to slow again.

I
can just see the French from here. They are forming up in the village, though only
the rear of their formation is visible to us. Infantrymen are running into line
carrying axes and spears, adjusting the straps on their nasal helms. My horse
nickers and I realize I am pulling the reins tightly. I force myself to relax.

The
French sound trumpets of their own. The first of their knights ride forward.
They must have hurried into line, because they wear only breastplates, mail,
and helmets. But their lances glint in the diffused sunlight. Arrows fall from
the mist and rain down upon the French. Shafts strike the earth around the rear
ranks. . Screams carry far in the crisp morning air as arrowheads find flesh.

I
look back at my own army. A score of my soldiers have taken interest in a dead
deer just off the road. More and more of them break rank and set upon the
carcass. I fight down an urge to scream.

“Sir
John’s men are about to die and our army stops for breakfast.” Tristan shakes
his head. “Maybe we should wear deerskins and frolic, so they follow us.”

I
know his words are a joke but they spark an idea. My fingers fumble over the
cords of the flowerpot. I cut the strands apart and tie them into a single long
line. A six-foot rope. I make a loop at one end.

Tristan
sees what I am doing and shakes his head. “No, no, no, no, no. That is a
spectacularly bad idea.”

I
don my gauntlets and helmet.

“Don’t
be daft, Ed,” Tristan says, but he knows he won’t change my mind.

I
dismount and approach the deer warily. Thirty or forty of the afflicted are
massed around the animal. They shove one another and squeeze into gaps and
crawl over each other to reach the bleeding flesh. They are intent upon the
carcass. Tristan and Morgan draw their swords and watch me.

“Ed,
they’re going to swarm you,” Morgan says. His hand fidgets on the sword hilt.

I
wave him silent and kneel behind the writhing mass of inhumanity. A man with an
arrow lodged in his shoulder shuffles past the deer. Another man, with a drooping,
blood-soaked moustache, follows the first. The two plaguers approach Tristan
and Morgan. I hear the knights hacking and grunting and know the afflicted are
being sent to God. Or wherever the afflicted go.

“Hurry,
Ed,” Morgan calls. “Hurry!”

The
loop dangles from my hand. A boy covered in blood looks up at me and snarls,
then continues to feed. There are too many of them. I can scarcely see the
deer. Two of the feeding plaguers hiss and snap at each other like base
animals. I spot a hoof through a gap in the bodies. More plaguers bypass the
deer and stumble toward the mounted knights. I hear swords at work.

“Our
army dwindles, Ed.” Morgan stabs a bald man in the throat, then nearly
decapitates a woman in a linen shawl.

“Your
knights are going to dwindle too,” Tristan says. Six or seven of the plaguers
shamble toward the mounted knights. The central mass of our army closes on us.
Hundreds of them.

My
breath rings sharp in the great helm, each exhalation a tiny hiss. I reach
slowly past the shoulder of a man with one arm. I stare at the ulcerated flesh
and the skeletal knob of his shoulder. A woman’s fingers brush my hand — short
withered fingers, nothing like those of my Elizabeth. I freeze. She rips a hunk
of meat from the deer’s ribs and smears it into her mouth without looking at
me.

The
rope loop settles against the deer’s hoof. There are no more hisses in my
helmet, because I am holding my breath. My hand trembles as I struggle to snare
the leg.

One
of the plaguers stops feeding. A moment later another one stops. Then another.
It is like a ripple of paralysis. Until there are no plaguers left feeding. The
silence makes my ears ring.

The
man with one arm turns toward me. His eyes are a black void. The rest of the
plaguers swivel their heads to look in my direction, a few at a time. They
sniff at the air. I look at my arm, at the blood that flows from countless
gashes beneath my rusted mail. Their empty eyes meet mine.

Christ
.

I
hook the hoof with the loop and pull. The knot tightens. Hands grab at my
tabard.

I
run.

The
deer breaks apart, but I have the largest piece — the head, neck, and most of
the torso. The plaguers roar as their prize is pulled from them. I feel my tabard
tighten. Hands pull the fabric. I strain against them.More hands grasp at my
shoulders. The dead close in around me and something thumps my helmet. My
tabard tears and suddenly I am free, stumbling forward.

I
run, shouting and shivering at the touch of the dead upon my back, kicking my
legs high so they can’t drag me down. I lug the carcass behind me; the deer’s
tongue lolls stupidly. Tristan and Morgan hack with their swords as I leap onto
my horse. Never have I mounted a horse so quickly.

A
woman in a bloody chemise tries to pull me off. I break her jaw with a kick but
she doesn’t let go. Sir Morgan hacks her arm off. She shrieks and I ride away
with the arm still clutching my belt. My mare slows and strains. She is
dragging three plaguers who have fallen upon the dead deer. Morgan and Tristan
ride behind me and hack at the ghouls until they release the carcass, and my
horse is free of its burden.

I
pry the dead arm off my belt and we ride again toward Lighe. The deer carcass
careens along the old Roman road, leaving a trail of blood. The plaguers lurch
after us faster than they have all night. My army has regained its discipline.

In the distance we see
the French marching in formation. They sweep northward past the deserted
cottages and disappear behind the embankment upon which the church sits.

“Sir
John’s done his part,” Tristan shouts. “The French grape rolls northward.”

 Another
trumpet screeches in the distance. I ride faster. My plaguers struggle to keep
up. The road has flayed much of the skin from the deer carcass and I think
about our first meeting with Sir Gerald, about the plaguer he dragged along
this very road.

We
pause just outside the village as a misty rain drifts down around us. I send my
horse up the steep hill, toward the church. Tristan and Morgan follow, their steeds
grunting and slipping on the wet slope. I want to swoop down on the French from
above, before they can set eyes upon us. I only hope they didn’t leave watchmen
in the church.

Our
horses are slow upon the wet slope, but the plaguers are slower. The afflicted
don’t seem to like hills. Most of them drop to all fours and crawl. Halfway up
I dismount and run my blade along the deer’s torso to release more blood. There
isn’t much left to drain. The front line of plaguers give half-hearted cries
and pick up their pace. They are the vanguard — the rest simply follow. Their
movements are awkward and inhuman. Like a swarm of giant insects upon that
hill.

Three
French soldiers in quilted gambesons stand on the hill and watch the battle
take shape down below. They laugh and turn to face us with smiles. But we are
not French. And the quilted gambesons do little to slow our swords.

 Tristan
and Morgan search the stone church while we wait for our army. I thread past a
dozen blackened gravestones and look out over the misted valley of Lighe. For
the first time in my life I see a true battle on English soil.

Sir
John has picked his spot well. He has fallen back nearly a half mile to a
small, winding river. The stream curves around his forces, protecting his left
flank and his rear. Fog drifts from the river in skyward strands. A shallow
embankment offers token protection for his army’s right side.

BOOK: The Scourge (Kindle Serial)
5.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Quicksilver by Amanda Quick
How to Kiss a Cowboy by Joanne Kennedy
Maxwell’s Ride by M. J. Trow
Dimples Delight by Frieda Wishinsky
Aunt Dimity Goes West by Nancy Atherton
I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron
Homeward Bound by Attalla, Kat