The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (2 page)

“I am Sir Edward
Dallingridge of Bodiam. This is Sir Tristan of Rye and Sir Morgan of Hastings.
Who might you be?”

“I am Father John,”
the man says. “And these are the virtuous people of Meddestane.”

Sir Tristan calls out,
“Father John, what are the virtuous people of Meddestane doing in the Medway?”

“We are repenting, Sir
Tristan of Rye. The Day of Judgment comes, so we are repenting our sins.”

“Could you repent
somewhere warmer?” Sir Tristan calls.

The priest shouts
scripture back at him: “Adam said unto Eve, ‘Go to the River Tigris and take a
stone and stand upon it in the water up to your neck in the depth of the river.
Let not a word go forth from your mouth, since we are unworthy to ask anything
of the Lord, for our lips are unclean from the illicit and forbidden tree. Stand
in the water of the river for thirty-seven days. Perhaps the Lord will have
mercy on us.’”

Sir Tristan wheels his
horse in a circle so that the priest will not see him laugh. I glare at Tristan
and call to the priest. “Father John, are you and your flock planning to stay
in the river for thirty-seven days?”

“We will stay in the
river until God speaks to me,” Father John says. “Until He forgives us and
lifts the plague from the land. The others of the village left. They travelled
to the south. But the devout followed me unto the path of righteousness.”

Sir Morgan nods
slowly. “You are a good man, Father John. The Lord will reward you.”

“Come join us, Sir
Morgan of Hastings. Come and be spared.”

“Sir Morgan of
Hastings has other responsibilities,” I say. “He can jump in the river when
he’s done if that is his wish.”

I saved Sir Morgan’s
family estates several years ago by convincing the earl of Arundel to intervene
on his behalf in a land dispute. Sir Morgan swore to serve me for the rest of
my days. He was once a priest, Morgan, and I know it wracks his soul to disobey
the bishops and ride north, but his honor prevents him from saying no. Neither
Morgan nor I expected fate to pick him for this journey.

“What responsibility
can be greater than the one to our Heavenly Father?” the priest says.

“He swore an oath to
help find my wife,” I reply. Sir Morgan looks wistfully into the Medway, and I
know the fool wants to strip off his armor and wade in. “He swore an oath.”

Sir Morgan and Sir Tristan
were two of more than a dozen knights who swore to travel with me to find my wife.
But the archbishop has forbidden me from going. I did not want to damn fourteen
men, so fourteen cakes were made, and beans were baked into two of them. I was
pleased that Sir Tristan found a bean in his, despite his irreverence.

Sir Morgan nods again and
sighs. “When we return from St. Edmund’s Bury I will join you in the river,
Father John. I, too, wish to repent.”

“Are you daft?” Sir Tristan
clutches at the reins of Sir Morgan’s piebald mare. “You’re going to stand in a
river until the dead stop walking?”

“This plague is a sign
from God, Sir Tristan. He is warning us. Will you not heed it?”

The priest shouts up
to us. “Did you say St. Edmund’s Bury? In East Anglia?”

“Aye,” I shout back.
“That’s the one.”

“They say the plague
started in East Anglia,” Father John says.

“I’ve also heard it
said that the plague started in Yorkshire. And in Scotland. No one knows, Father.”

“No one knows,” Father
John says. “That is true. But God has forbidden northward travel. Have you not
heard?”

“My wife is in the North,”
I say.

“Then she is in God’s
hands, Sir Edward. Travel to the North is forbidden.”

Sir Tristan shakes his
head. “The archbishop may not want us traveling north, Father John, but nothing
will keep Sir Edward from his wife. And nothing will keep us from accompanying
him.”

“You would defy — ”

A scream echoes off
the banks of the Medway. A man has waded into the river on the far side. He has
the plague. His staggering gait is evidence of that. I spot another staggering
shape moving toward the river. Then another. A horde of them lurch into view.
Ten or twenty of them. More than I’ve ever seen. More screams ring out from the
virtuous people of Meddestane.

“Tristan…” I trail off
because Sir Tristan is already spanning his crossbow. He puts the nose of it
against the toe of his boot and cranks the windlass that draws the cord back. I
unsheathe my sword. The people in the river are slogging toward our bank. They
stagger through the water, and I can’t tell the plagued from the healthy. Sir
Morgan dismounts.

“Get back on your
horse, Morgan.”

The dead feast in the
narrow river. They catch the old and weak and kill them under the water. The
heads of the dying disappear into the river. Sometimes the victims have an
instant to cry out before the Medway swallows them.

Sir Tristan fires the
crossbow. I don’t know how he can tell friend from foe. Perhaps he can’t. Sir
Morgan rushes to the water’s edge and pulls a man from the river. The man runs
past without acknowledging the help.

“Morgan, anyone who
might need help getting out of the river won’t make it to the bank!”

I spur my horse
closer, until the water of the Medway kisses its hooves. The man whom Morgan
helped out of the water tries to mount Morgan’s horse. Sir Tristan cuffs him
with the butt of his crossbow and the man runs off.

Sir Morgan wades into
the river up to his hips and helps Father John out of the water.

Sir Tristan winds his
crossbow again. “Morgan, if you fall in and that armor sinks you, I’m not going
in after you.” I lean low in my saddle and help a woman from the river. She
wears a simple wool cloak that must have felt like chain-mail armor with all
that water in it. Her eyes are wide as she takes my hand. I pull her up and
behind me into the saddle. She clings to me, shivering and sobbing. There are dozens
leaving the river now, and I still have no idea who is prey and who is
predator. One of them reaches toward my horse. I have no room for another rider,
so I shout at him to keep moving. But he’s not interested in riding. The
moonlight shows no whites in his eyes. He opens his mouth and I shove my sword
into it, deep into his palate. The abomination gurgles and still reaches toward
the horse. He has a cockleshell bracelet on his wrist signifying that he has
made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I put my boot on his chest and
shove him off the sword, then cleave the top of his head when he advances
again.

Another one reaches
toward my horse on the opposite side. I turn and slash my blade through her
throat. Her eyes are wide as she drops to one knee, and I see clearly the
whites reflected in the moonlight.

Oh dear God
.

The woman fidgets at
her throat, as if adjusting a scarf. Blood pours through her fingers. She has
light hair, like my Elizabeth, and her eyes look into mine as she dies. The
woman behind me screams that I killed Allison Moore, and now I know the name of
my sin.

The woman leaps off my
horse and stumbles away from me. I let her run. I look at the body of Allison
Moore and curse Sir Morgan silently. When I pull back from the water’s edge,
Sir Morgan’s piebald is gone. I find it two hundred yards away, galloping into
the darkness with a man in its saddle. Sir Morgan doesn’t seem to notice. He is
hacking at a plaguer that is tearing flesh from the back of a man’s neck. “He’s
gone, Morgan. Get out! Get out! Your fucking horse is gone!”

Sir Tristan backs up
the riverbank. The crossbow is gone. His sword is out. “We’re about to get
overrun, Ed!”

There are dozens more
of the plaguers plodding into the river. And I’m fairly certain that most of
the shapes approaching our bank are not human anymore. I think about buying
time for the people of Meddestane, of holding off these monstrosities for a
bit, but I know that frightened humans run faster than these things. “Morgan,
we are done here!”

Sir Morgan looks at me,
and I can see tears shining on his cheeks. He abandons the dead man whose arm
he holds, then seems to notice that his piebald is missing. “What?”

“I told you to stay
mounted! Get on!” I extend a hand to him, and he pulls himself behind me. I
kick at a black-eyed form reaching for my gelding, and we turn and goad the
horse up the slope. Its hooves slip and kick up tufts of sod, but we escape the
carnage of the river.

Our horses gallop away
from the Medway’s banks, and I try not to think of Allison Moore.

I don’t want to ride
at dusk with so many of these horrors lurking so close. I don’t give Tristan
the satisfaction of telling him he was right, and he doesn’t broach the
subject. I tell the others that we will stop at Aylesford. There is a priory
there, and I know it will be well defended against the plague. It’s not
Rochester Castle, but it will do.

Two soldiers level
crossbows at us outside the compound and make us strip to the skin. They do not
seem to care that the three of us are gentlemen. They inspect our bodies for
wounds before allowing the gates of the priory to open. We dress and cover our
noses against the stench of rotting bodies. There are dozens of them lying in
clumps outside the walls.

There are bodies
inside the priory too. But warm blood flows in these. Half the population of
the village has settled inside the walls. I don’t want to know what happened to
the other half. Blanket tents and sleeping mats fill the priory’s courtyard. Villagers
sit in silence, their dirty faces watching our progress through the cluttered
yard. Children playing by the walls take notice of us and thread the crowds to
tag behind us. They touch our armor and ask to see our swords.

I wonder how many priory
courtyards and castle baileys across England are similarly filled. I wonder just
how bad things have gotten farther north, where the plague is said to have
started. I wonder if my Elizabeth lives still, and the thought of her quickens
my heart.

Prior David greets us
and invites us into his chamber to dine. His room is sparse and the meal is
sparser, but he seems humble and pleasant enough. The monks here are
Carmelites. I know little about the Carmelites. Only that their order was
started in Jerusalem by Europeans who travelled to the Crusades and settled in
the Holy Land as hermits. I imagine we will all be Carmelites soon. Hermits. Hiding
in castles and priories and praying assiduously.

“The plague worsens.”
Prior David breaks off a hunk of bread from the loaf we share. “I understand it
began among the Sodomites of Scotland.” He chews the bread and sips at a wooden
mug. “To think that buggery is the cause of this misery.”

“I have heard many
explanations,” I say. “But I’ve not heard that one.”

“Would it surprise
you, Sir Edward?” He passes the loaf to Sir Morgan. “Such sins against nature
always draw God’s Fury.”

Tristan’s smirk and
the squint of his eyes tell me he has something to say. I kick him under the
table and he ignores it.

“I hold no love for
buggery, Prior David,” he says. “But this sickness has claimed many innocent
lives. It seems that God’s Fury has poor aim.”

The prior raises his
hands above his shoulders, palms up, and quotes scripture: “Can you fathom the
mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher
than the heavens. They are deeper than the depths of the grave.” He looks
directly at Tristan. “It is not for us to question God, Sir Tristan. It is for
us only to have faith.”

Sir Morgan scowls at
Sir Tristan and quotes the last line of the verse that Prior David began: “But a witless man can no more become wise than a wild donkey’s colt can be born a man.”

Prior David offers us
a novice’s quarters to sleep in. I decline the quarters. My knights and I can
sleep on the grass outside the abbey, among the villagers. The only thing I
want is a wall between us and the plague while we sleep.

Before I step outside
I visit the nave. It is packed with burghers and wealthy merchants, who have
set up beds of hay and linen. I walk through their midst and light a candle for
Allison Moore. I say a prayer for her soul. And for mine.

Outside, in the
courtyard, I listen to the hum of life as I drift toward sleep, and I think of
a monastery in Saint Edmund’s Bury. It is a bit like this priory, but far
larger. The men who rule there are neither humble nor pleasant, but I pray that
Elizabeth is there. My wife’s mother is friends with the prior at that
monastery, and I have been inside its walls many times as her guest. It is
impenetrable.

I imagine Elizabeth
sleeping in a novice’s quarters. I imagine her praying for my return, her hands
clasped together. Her hands are beautiful. Fingers long and white and slender I
would sometimes study those fingers while she slept. Such perfect beauty in
them. A panic grips my soul when I think I may never see those hands again.
Never feel the gentle stroke of her thumb against mine. Has it truly been three
months since I have felt her touch?