The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (5 page)

BOOK: The Scourge (Kindle Serial)
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I stare into the earl’s
eyes and shrug slowly. “Faith, my lord.” I look at his wife, bound and snarling
by the wall. “Faith and patience.”

Chapter 7

So now I must steal a
holy relic from the cathedral at St. Edmund’s Bury. When I am done with this
journey, I believe I will have broken each of the Ten Commandments. Several
times.

The boat turns out to
be an ancient barge scarcely big enough to carry our horses. It is narrow, with
rotting planks, and sits low in the water. Four drunken sailors are at the oars.
The barge is bad, but it is better than the crossbowmen they have provided. Four
runty men in padded frocks. I can’t see their eyes beneath the kettle-helm rims,
but I can see the fear in their postures. One of them trembles and sweats as we
board the barge. The others take deep breaths and grip their crossbows tightly.

The barge is so small
that Sir Tristan and Sir Morgan need to sit beneath my horse. Three of the
crossbowmen squeeze in beneath Sir Tristan’s mare. I sit on the prow, with my
legs dangling over the water. The last crossbowman does the same on the stern.

One of the oarsmen
pushes us away from the docks, and the barge cuts into the fog-shrouded Thames.
I take a breath and catch the scent of brine and dead fish. The night is cool
and overcast but the three-quarter moon smoulders through the clouds.

The sailors get three
strokes in before the first body bumps gently against the side. A man, dead and
bloated. A rower shoves him away with his oar. A vagary of the river currents
makes the dead man’s arm wave in the water.

“Morgan, there’s a
rooster on the boat.” Sir Tristan points to the stern. Sir Morgan turns his
head to look, and my horse’s cock brushes against his upper lip. Tristan and
the three crossbowmen under his horse laugh as Morgan spits and rubs at his
lip.

“Always the child,”
Sir Morgan says. “Always the fool. Fools don’t get into heaven, Tristan. Fools
rot in purgatory.”

“We’re all going to
rot,” Tristan says. “There is only one heaven, and that is between a woman’s
legs.”

We get closer to the
far bank. I see the body of the man farther downstream. It is not the river
currents making him move. He is moving on his own. I sit up to get a better
look.

“You’re wrong, Tristan.
Heaven exists. Our Lord and Savior died for our sins. All our sins. Even
yours.”

“Perhaps he did,” Tristan
says. “Perhaps I am wrong. I freely admit it. But what makes you so certain
that you are right?”

“Because of the
scriptures, Tristan. Because of the miracles and the saints and the martyrs.
Because of the priests and because of the Holy Spirit. I can feel the Holy
Spirit, Tristan, because I have faith. I pity you, because you will never know
the joy of it.”

Another body washes
against the barge. A man in a long tunic. I lean toward the upriver side to get
a better look. The man’s ghastly hand takes hold of the rail. It shocks me to
silence, so all I can do is point as the afflicted man tries to pull himself
onboard. A rower cries out and smacks at the plaguer with an oar. I draw my dagger
but I can’t get to the threat. One of the soldiers under Tristan’s horse fires
a panicky shot that buries a bolt in the lurching man’s shoulder. The plaguer
cries out but pulls his upper half into the boat. The horses clatter their
hooves as he nears them. One of the crossbowmen, the one at the stern, throws
up over the side of the rails.

A head peers over the
prow of the boat and I almost fall overboard at the sight. It is a
water-bloated woman, her color drained to a pallid white by the plague and the river.
Her lips have been ripped open on one side, revealing skeletal jaws. One armpit
rests on the boat’s railing, one shriveled claw reaches toward me. A gaudy ring
of gold and ruby winds around her finger. It makes her flesh seem even paler. She
shrieks. I raise my dagger and plunge it into her skull as she claws at my arm.
She spasms and I hear a horse crying out behind me. Soldiers and oarsmen are
screaming. The crossbowman at the stern is biting the flank of Tristan’s horse.
The horse cries out again and would surely have reared if its bit were not
chained down. It takes me a moment to realize that the crossbowman must have
been afflicted before he came onboard.

A rower uses his oar
to stab at the man with the bolt in his shoulder. More hands reach up from the
dark waters to grab the boat. Sir Morgan crawls between the legs of my horse
and knocks the feeding crossbowman away from Sir Tristan’s horse. The soldier falls
backward, his helmet tumbling away, and in the lantern light I can see no
whites in his eyes.

I hear the snap of the
crossbows as I don my great helm. Sir Morgan and Sir Tristan pull theirs on as
well. The boat rocks wildly and water splashes inside. One of the crossbowmen
falls backward and tumbles into the river near me. I reach for him, but there
are countless bodies writhing near him. He cries out once, then is swallowed by
the Thames. I shout to him, but I know it is useless.

 The horses roll their
eyes and blow as they strain at the chains securing them to the boat. A bloated
man with one eye tries to board near me, so I slash at his face, the anger at
the crossbowman’s death lending me strength.

“Oh, Christ,” Tristan
shouts. He is still beneath my horse, kicking at a withered man with no shirt
who is pulling himself onto the barge. The man has been in the water a long
time. So long that Tristan’s boot sloughs the man’s skin from his body. The flesh
slides off the man’s chest like the crust of a half-dried mud puddle. The man
screams, and Tristan’s second kick sends him back into the Thames.

Sir Morgan is on top
of the afflicted crossbowman, stabbing with his dagger. The boat leans upriver.
Dozens of the afflicted try to clamber aboard on that side. Gangly arms and
bloated faces and soulless eyes. They reach for us, hissing, snarling. One
pulls itself hand over hand along an oar. The two remaining crossbowmen try to
wind their weapons under Tristan’s horse.

A pair of tiny hands
clamp on to the prow. I hack at them quickly. I don’t want to see what is on
the other end of those hands. An oarsman screams shrilly. I don’t have time to
look, because the boat tilts toward the Thames. I drop my dagger and my nails scrape
at the planks on the prow as I fall backward. I have one chance to glance over
my shoulder as I stumble. There is a legion of them in the water, dragging the
boat down. Their hands reach for me, their mouths open. I think of Elizabeth as
the boat tips and I fall toward the afflicted in a tumble of horseflesh, armor,
and screams.

Episode 1:
Historical Note

The novel you are reading is as historically accurate as I could
make it. Edward Dallingridge (sometimes Dallyngrigg) was a real knight. As he
mentions in the story, Sir Edward fought in France during the Hundred Years
War, under the brutal Robert Knolles. Edward made his fortune in France and
increased it with his marriage to Lady Elizabeth Wardieu (sometimes Wardeux). I
don’t know how deep their love was, but you can see a carving of them at the
castle that they built together. It is in Bodiam, Sussex, and is one of the
finest, most picturesque castles in England. I imagine that two people who can
build a castle of such beauty must have had a great capacity for love.

I am not aware of any connection between the Dallingridge family and
Bury St. Edmunds (as St. Edmund’s Bury is now called). but I wanted Edward to
travel somewhere of religious importance. Bury St. Edmunds was one of the most
sacred cities in the world at that time. And that time is roughly 1385. I say
roughly because I have taken some minor liberties with the timeline to make
events work for this story.

Sir Tristan and Sir Morgan are figments of my imagination. John
Broke and John of Gaunt were real people. There will be more about them in
later episodes, including a reference to a real conflict between Edward and
John of Gaunt.

All of the places the knights travel to actually exist. I tried,
where I could, to use place names that were in use at the time. Meddestan is
Maidstone. Aylesford is Aylsford. Alvilea is Aveley. The castles, priories and
churches that the knights visit are real and many can still be visited. And I
suggest you do, because they are beautiful remnants of England’s past.

For all the talk about historical accuracy, there are some glaring,
obviously untrue aspect of this book. I’ll overlook the obvious one for the
moment and talk about the Dartford Bridge. The city of Dartford never had a
bridge across the Temes (Thames). I had to make one so the knights didn’t have
to go to London, which would have complicated the story immensely.

And then, the obvious one. Zombies in this England.

I like to think that the zombies represent more than just lurching
horrors from pop culture. The walking dead, while campy at times, represent
much deeper fears in society. In Medieval England, that fear would have been
directed at the plague, which was very real and in some ways, just as
terrifying as zombies. Fifty years before this story takes place, there was a
horrible plague. Edward lived through it as a child. It was plague that killed
so many people that entire towns were wiped out. It spread so quickly that the
bishops allowed common men to confess to one another before they died, because
so many priests had perished. The plague was an invisible terror that crept up
on its victims in the night and killed them within days. Sometimes within
hours.

I hope that the zombie epidemic, this scourge I have written about,
captures some of the despair and anarchy that must certainly have been present
during those terrible years.

Episode 2

Chapter 8

Their hands claw at me underwater. Teeth gnash against my mail. The armor is saving me, but it is killing me too. The weight of it sends me toward the bottom of the Thames. My hand touches the soft mud. I kick with my legs. The plaguers grasp at me. I cannot see them in the darkness, but they are all around me. I feel their clutching hands and open mouths. I cradle my head and neck with my arms.

BOOK: The Scourge (Kindle Serial)
3.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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