The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (25 page)

Tristan is already on his feet. He nods, takes Zhuri’s cannon from him and slams it lengthwise against the entryway, so that it forms a barricade. Two plaguers crash against the gun and pull at Tristan. More of them reach from behind these to claw at his armor.

I take a step toward the afflicted mass and steady my aim. Matilda is in the second row. She growls and reaches for Tristan. “Zhuri,” I say. “The cord.”

Zhuri approaches, but Morgan takes the firing cord from him. “Matilda.” He says her name loud enough for her to hear it, but she doesn’t react. “Matilda.” Morgan trembles as he raises the firing cord. “For as in Adam all die,” he says. “So also in Christ shall all be made alive.”

I don’t stop to consider all the possible meanings of the verse. I nod to Morgan and hold the cannon steady.

“Wait for me, my love, in the Kingdom of Heaven.” Morgan lights the powder.

The gun fires.

I am the angel of death.

And I bring her peace.

It takes shoving and hacking with swords, and Zhuri burning the grasping arms with the firing cord, but we finally get the flimsy servants’ door closed. The plaguers pound upon the wood, and the tiny door rattles dangerously. I lean against it while Tristan and Zhuri reload the Spanish cannon. The iron-bound door leading out of the manor begins to shake. It jolts against my back as slow, mindless thuds ring out from the other side.

“They have found us!” Zhuri’s voice is high pitched and ragged. “We can’t get out! We are trapped! We are trapped!”

“Finish loading one of the cannons,” I say. The door shifts behind me. The top hinge is twisting away from the frame. “Quickly!”

Something large slams against the back door leading out of the manor again.

“What was that?” Zhuri’s eyes can’t get any wider. “What was that!”

“I like it when you talk less and help me load the gun,” Tristan says.

The twisted hinge snaps and falls clattering at my feet. The door groans behind me. I call out, trying to keep my voice calm: “It would be helpful if that cannon was loaded.”

“If that cannon
were
loaded,” Tristan says. “And it is.”

“Open the back door,” I call. “We need to see what’s out there. Zhuri, fire at whatever you see. But make sure to shut the door quick after you shoot.”

“Open the back door? Are you mad?” Zhuri has gone past fear. He is at the point of hysteria. I would clout him to calm him down, but I can’t reach. “They’ll get in. We’ll have them coming from all sides! We’ll be smothered! They’ll eat us alive!”

Tristan clouts him and hands over the Spanish gun. “Get ready to fire when the door opens.” Zhuri rubs the back of his head with one hand and nods.

The door behind me gets heavy. It is falling on me. I edge my feet out farther so I have more leverage. “I might not have made it clear,” I say. “But speed is a priority.”

Something strikes the back door with tremendous force, causing it to shudder.

“Oh, would you get that, Morgan?” Tristan holds the firing cord over the Spanish gun. “I’m expecting guests. How do I look?”

Morgan walks quietly to the end of the corridor and takes hold of the rope. Zhuri wipes the sweat from his forehead, then raises the cannon in trembling hands. The door shudders again. Whatever is outside is enormous. Zhuri looks back at me with panic in his eyes.

Wood creaks behind me. A large chunk of the door I’m leaning against breaks off with a series of cracks. Hands reach through and scrape at my armor.

“Hurry!” I shout. “Do it!”

Morgan opens the door.

There is only one plaguer at the door. A tall, muscled, cattle-fed ploughman from the look of him. A festering boil between his thick brows makes his forehead bulge. He curls his hands into claws and roars at us, his shoulders hunched with the effort, then charges Zhuri.

Tristan lights the powder. The ploughman is one pace away from the cannon before it fires. Flame and smoke belch from the barrel; the explosion deafens us once more. Then Zhuri is on the floor with a twenty-one-stone ploughman tearing at his face.

“Did he miss?” I call. “Did he miss
again
?”

Tristan and Morgan pound and slash at the ploughman as Zhuri screams and pushes at the man’s face with the cannon. The ploughman shrieks wildly and tears gouges into Zhuri’s neck. Zhuri shrieks wildly and tells us that the man is tearing gouges in his neck. Tristan slips the sword between their faces and drives the tip into the ploughman’s eye. The man shudders. An ichorous stream of ooze gushes from his eye and washes over Zhuri’s chin and neck. The ploughman collapses onto Zhuri, who shoves the body away and runs, screaming and waving his hands and wiping at his face.

Tristan watches him run, then shrugs. “That’s why we Christians don’t let you have guns.”

There are no other plaguers outside the servants’ door. The former villagers of Danbury have found other food. All of the sheep within the fold are dead and a handful of plaguers feed at the carcasses. But there are larger carcasses in the far pasture, where Sir Thomas kept his oxen and a few scrawny cows. Plaguers hunt in that pasture. The oxen low and stomp. One ox drops its head and breaks from the herd, charging a group of the attackers. It tramples one and spears another into the air before more plaguers descend upon it and slowly drag it down. On the other side of the pasture, a cow lies dead, and plaguers feed from its belly like suckling piglets.

Four or five plaguers linger near the stables. Tristan runs in front of them and leads them on a chase while we sprint into the stables and throw saddles and bags onto our horses. Our fingers fumble with straps, and we vault onto the horses swiftly. I hold the reins of Tristan’s horse as we ride out to rescue him and, with a few glances back, we gallop out of Eden.

Zhuri wants to find a ship that will take him back to Spain. Granada is near Spain’s southeast coast, which is miserably far from England. I tell him his best chance is Sussex. Or maybe Hampshire. Perhaps he can find a ship in Brighton or Portsmouth. But he doesn’t want to travel by himself.

“A Moor journeying alone in England was dangerous even before the plague,” he says.

So I suggest that he ride north with us until we near Ipswich. Ships often sailed to Rotterdam from that coastal town before the plague. Rotterdam is not Spain, but at least it is on the Continent.

“Just be careful,” I say. “It’s a city, so there’ll like as not be plague.”

He wrinkles his face at my words, so I shrug. “Or you can ride with us St. Edmund’s Bury, and return with us to Sussex and get a ship. You are also welcome at my manor in Bodiam.”

“And mine, in Rye,” Tristan says.

Zhuri glances at Morgan. “And Hastings?”

“You’re welcome at Tristan’s manor in Rye,” Morgan growls. “Or Edward’s in Bodiam.”

Zhuri laughs. “I suppose I can see Hastings another time.” He smiles and it almost makes me smile too. He has an infectious warmth, this Moor. “You can fight over who will host me when we return from St. Edmund’s Bury.”

Thick forests block our path to the north, so I ride my horse to the east, toward Maldon. We will cross the River Blackwater at the five arches — a stone bridge that lies in the village of Heybridge. I ride a hundred yards or so before Tristan calls me back. I turn in my saddle. Morgan hasn’t moved.

“We should go west,” he says when I return. “Toward Chelmsford. There is someone we need to speak with there.”

“Who do we need to speak with in Chelmsford?” I ask.

“Gregory the Wanderer.” Morgan’s voice is low and venomous.

“You can’t be serious,” Tristan says. “He could be anywhere by now.”

“He’ll be in Chelmsford,” Morgan says.

“What makes you so sure?” I ask.

“Because there is a large church in Chelmsford.”

“There are many churches in this area,” I say.

“But only one that contains the head of John the Baptist.”

“Morgan, we could waste days searching for him,” I say. “I promise we can look for him when we return from St. Edmund’s Bury.”

“And how many more people will he afflict before then? How many more lives will he destroy? If Elizabeth is alive, she is safe in the monastery. Anyone Gregory comes into contact with is in grave danger.”

“The church at Chelmsford has John the Baptist’s head?” Tristan asks.

“You believe Gregory will be in Chelmsford?” I say.

“I know he will be. There are few relics as important as the head of St. John.”

“You Christians are mad,” Zhuri says. He rides a scrawny horse that is half-lame. It was the only other living horse in the stables. “What would you want with a head that is a thousand years old?”

Tristan leans toward him and whispers loudly enough for all of us to hear, “It’s not really his head.”

I turn my horse in a circle to give myself time to think, to hide my frustration. I know Morgan is probably right. How many Elizabeths will Gregory murder? Could it be that Gregory is the cause of this scourge? I don’t think it likely, but he is certainly spreading it.

Chelmsford is a large town. No doubt swarming with the afflicted. I stare toward the north, close my eyes, then turn my horse back to the others.

“One day.” I fix my gaze on Morgan and hold up a forefinger. “I will give you one day to find Gregory the Wanderer. After that, we turn north and follow the Roman road toward St. Edmund’s Bury.”

Morgan nods, but there is the glint of defiance in his eyes.

“Who is Gregory the Wanderer?” Zhuri asks.

“A thief,” Tristan says.

“A murderer,” I say.

“A dead man,” Morgan hisses.

I study Morgan as we ride west out of Danbury. His eyes are half-lidded, lips set tightly. I wonder if he truly intends to kill Gregory the Wanderer. I have never heard him make threats, and it worries me. Tristan must be having similar thoughts.

“Are we really going to kill Gregory when we find him?” he asks.

“No,” Morgan says. “We will give him the protection of the Virgin Mary. The same protection he gave us.”

“You’ll make him drink from the phials?” Tristan asks. “Truly, Morgan?”

Morgan nods but doesn’t meet Tristan’s gaze.

Tristan looks to me, and I can see the concern on his face. “And if he refuses?”

“Then I will pour a phial out onto a blade and deliver the blood to his stomach in a more direct manner.” Morgan’s voice is a low rattle.

“Not very Christlike,” Tristan says. “But it has a certain Old Testament drama.”

“Gregory is waging war on England. He is our enemy.” Morgan gets the faraway look that means he’s about to quote scripture. “Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.”

“This is the same Lord who says we shouldn’t kill?” Tristan asks.

“No, it’s the Old Testament God,” I say. “The grumpy one.”

“You have two Gods?” Zhuri asks.

“Just one,” Tristan says. “But he had a troubled childhood.”

We reach the first of the two great Roman roads that branch to the north from Chelmsford, and Tristan spots a rider on a hill not more than a half mile from us. The sun glints off the rider’s armor.

“A knight,” Tristan says. “He’s watching us.”

The knight decides to do more than watch. He rides down the hill toward us.

“Do we wait for him?” Tristan asks. “We haven’t had much fortune with our fellow knights.”

“We should wait,” Morgan says. “He might have seen Gregory.”

I recognize the squint of Zhuri’s eyes before the Moor speaks. “He
may
— ”

“Zhuri, is that cannon loaded?” I ask. Zhuri draws the Spanish gun from his saddlebag. He and Tristan begin reloading the three cannons while we wait.

The rider wears a full harness and a sallet helm with a high bevor that encloses his face. He bears no crest, only a blue jupon over his armor. He nods to us but says nothing.

“Well met, sir,” I say. “Are you from Chelmsford?”

The knight shakes his head but remains silent.

“Have you seen a peddler on this road?” I ask. “In a wagon lined with stakes? He might have a warhorse with barding pulling his cart.”

The knight circles around our group, as if studying us. He stops in front of me again. His destrier spins away, and the knight whirls it back with a tug on the reins. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I am Sir Edward of Bodiam,” I boom. “And you, sir?”

“Your pardon for a moment,” the knight says. He lifts a hunting horn from the pommel of his saddle and blows three long notes from it. When he finishes, he loops the strap back on to the pommel.

“What was that?” Tristan asks.

“What was what?” the knight asks.

Zhuri chuckles. Tristan and the Moor exchange smiles. “That horn. Why did you just blow it?”

“What, this?” The knight points to the horn.

“No, the unicorn horn,” Tristan says. “Yes, that.”

The knight doesn’t speak. Tristan, Morgan, and I exchange glances. The knight looks away from us, his fingers playing nervously upon the reins.