The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (9 page)

Tristan gives me one of his smug grins. “Just advice, no?”

Sir John looks uneasy with his part of the plan. He stares at the table in front of him. I have drawna crude map of the area on the tabletop using charcoal. The Thames estuary runs along the south. The village of Lighe is just above it, and Hadleigh Castle is to the west of the village. I use a grape to represent the French forces at Lighe, and a large mug to represent John’s two hundred and fifty men at the castle. The embellishment doesn’t seem to help his confidence.

“I am to approach Lighe from the north,” he says, “then at dawn I — ”

“Precisely at dawn,” I say, and I move the mug northeast of Hadleigh Castle, so that it is directly north of Lighe on the map.

Sir John nods impatiently. “Precisely at dawn I attack the French camp with crossbows and longbows.”

“Yes. Make sure he sees all of your forces. Let him know that he outnumbers you nearly five to one.”

“And when the French attack us, we are to withdraw.”

“Yes. Withdraw for a few hundred yards.” I slide the mug backward and place the grape to the north of Lighe, on the spot where the mug had been. “If the French don’t follow you at first, come back and pepper them again with your bows. Make sure they chase you.”

“And you will come up behind them with your forces?”

I drag another mug to the castle, then move that mug into the circle of Lighe so that it is south of the grape. “While you attack the French front, I will come up through the village and attack the French flanks.” I crush the grape between the two mugs.

Sir John smiles. “And you will have twice as many men as I do?”

I nod.

He sits back and folds his hands in front of him. “This is the point in our discussion where you tell me where you will get these men.”

“They’re not King Richard’s men,” I say. “I can say nothing more.”

“And why not?”

I can’t tell him because I don’t think he would allow it. These young knights are full of biases and animosity. I need the French gone, and I don’t want Sir John to have the option of saying no.

“I can’t tell you because I am sworn to secrecy.” I would lie to the pope himself if it meant getting to Elizabeth sooner. “The soldiers fighting with me will have no livery nor will they discuss who they serve. That’s my condition.”

A flush rises in Sir John’s face. “And how do you know they will follow you?”

“Because they love battle. And their master owes me a favor.”

Sir John studies the map in silence.

Sir Gerald sweeps his hand across the table, knocking the mugs to the floor. “You ask us to attack a thousand men on your word that you will ride in with an army to save us. You won’t tell us whose men they are, or how experienced they are, or why you are so sure that they will follow you into battle. Do you think we’re mad?”

“Yes,” Tristan says. He shrugs off the glares. “Well, I do anyway.”

“If you want to defeat the French,” I say, “you will have to trust me.”

“This is lunacy!” Sir Gerald looks to Sir John. “You’re not going to listen to this, are you?”

Sir John studies me. I can see the indecision in his brows, in his fidgeting hands. “I need a signal. If you can’t get these men, I need you to give me a signal.”

“If you don’t see or hear me at the French flanks as they approach you, retreat back to the castle.”

“Bollocks!” Sir Gerald says. “Their horsemen will run us down.”

Ishrug. “Some of you. Just run faster than the rest of your army and you’ll befine.”

“Is this a great jest to you, Sir Edward?” Sir Gerald comes dangerously close to me. Sir Tristan steps between us, and Morgan takes position at his side. Sir Gerald is a full head taller than Tristan and, if possible, a dollop more insane. But Gerald sees something in Tristan’s eyes that makes the tall knight back away.

“There is nothing funny in this at all,” I say. “My wife waits for me in St. Edmund’s Bury and I am here, wasting time. Giving you advice. But maybe you don’t want my advice.” I motion to Tristan and Morgan. “Let’s go. We’ll sleep at the Eastwood priory tonight.”

We make to leave the room, but Sir John finally speaks. “I will accept your advice — and your aid. But if you fail me, I will hunt you down. All three of you. I will torture you for days before — ”

“Yes, yes.” I wave my hand at him. “You’re not the first man to threaten me, Sir John, and you’re certainly not the most creative.”

Sir John’s jaw flexes. His eyes burn into me as he speaks. “You want creativity? What do you think of this? If you do not show up on that battlefield with the men you have promised, Sir Edward, I will ride to St. Edmund’s Bury and kill your wife.”

The blood pounds in my head. I no longer see Sir John. I see a red silhouette. I can hear blood rushing in my head, like waves raging against a cliff. I feel Morgan and Tristan grabbing my arms and realize that I am moving toward Sir John. Realize that the new sword is unsheathed and in my hand. There are other shapes. And I know there must be other sounds, but all I hear is raging of blood. All I see is the red silhouette backing away from me, tripping over a chair. More arms take hold of me and pull me back. I hear screaming. The foulest curses, the most terrifying threats I have ever heard. It takes a moment to realize that they are coming from me. Men drag me away, pull me down a staircase and I am thrown into a small, cold chamber.

I batter the door with my shoulder. I fill the air with screams and curses. I don’t know how long I pound upon that oaken door. I know only that I become aware of a droning sound at my side. My vision clears slowly. The drone becomes words.

“…couldde feat the French all by yourself.” It is Tristan. He is beside me.

Morgan is on my other side. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

I slump to the floor, brace myself with a trembling arm. I take a deep breath. Then another. I continue taking breaths until the tremors in my body cease.

Sir Morgan asks again, quietly. “Are you hurt, Ed?”

I look to him and try to smile. “I may not have handled that well.”

Tristan laughs. “Not true. You couldn’t have handled it better.”

We sit against the rough stone wall of the cell. Torchlight flickers through the barred window, making shadows dance across the cobbled floor.

“Edward,” Morgan says, “I’m confused about your plan. Who do you know in Essex that owes you a favor?”

“Lord David,” I say.

“Lord David?” he asks.

The door opens and two men aim crossbows at us. I am tired of having crossbows aimed at me. Sir John steps into the room, and I fight down the red haze.

“A king must know how to motivate his men. I am sorry it had to come to that, but if you cannot trust me enough to share all of your information, then how can I trust you? I have given you motivation. So now I can trust you. You will be behind the French army at dawn or I will kill the three of you, and I will make certain, Sir Edward, that your wife dies.” He darts backward, and my hurled boot hits the closing door.

Sir Gerald releases us from our cell an hour later. The tall knight holds a warning finger to us as we leave the castle.

“Dawn,” he says. “You know what happens if you disappoint us.”

I spot a faded flowerpot hanging outside the castle gate and take it down before replying. “Yes,” I say. “All of you die.”

We ride westward in the night, our horses trotting back along the old Roman road. The hanging flowerpot bounces against the saddle as I ride. I pray that my plan is not as idiotic as it now seems.

Sir Morgan shakes his head. “This Lord David,” he says. “He lives nearby?”

I nod. I don’t feel much like talking. Elizabeth is in my thoughts. I remember her long fingers winding thread into a ball. She is smiling at me. A lock of her golden hair falls over one eye.

“Sir Morgan,” Tristan says, “you don’t remember Lord David?”

“I have never met anyone named Lord David.”

“Of course you have,” Tristan says. “You met him in Corringham yesterday.”

Sir Morgan’s frown lasts a hundred yards before the truth settles upon him.

“No!” His eyes are wide in the faint moonlight. “We aren’t!”

“Oh yes,” Tristan says. “We most certainly are.” He mimics Sir Gerald’s deep voice. “In these times of madness, Sir Morgan, only madness will save us.”

We stop at a marshy field that runs wild with spiky purple flowers. Elizabeth used to plant these in our garden even though they are wild and common. She loves them. Who am I to tell her what belongs in a garden?

I ask Tristan and Morgan to gather up as many of the plants as they can. We stuff them into the flowerpot and mix in dry grasses. Then we ride into Corringham.

I pray that the plaguers are still locked inside the mill house belonging to David Lords. It would please me to see Sir John lying in his own intestines, but I have two good reasons to wish him success. When the French are gone and Elizabeth is safe again, I will see what I can do about the young knight’s intestines. And I might have a look at Sir Gerald’s as well.

We reach the mill house and hear nothing from inside. My knights look at me, and I try not to let my anxiety show. Sir Tristan rattles the lock, and a chorus of moans and hisses rises from within. It sounds like hell’s cattle drove. I have never heard a more beautiful sound.

“I don’t like this,” Morgan says. “These people are sick. We are taking advantage of them.”

“Morgan,” Tristan says, “do you truly believe this is a plague? That these people can be cured?”

“The bishops say it is so,” he replies. “And God speaks through the bishops and the priests.”

“I pray that God isn’t that stupid,” Tristan says.

I find a stone the size of a melon and use it to batter the lock. It takes four mighty blows before the metal yields. We pull the lock free and scramble to our horses. I hold the hanging flowerpot up by its cord. Sir Morgan lights a strip of thatch with his lantern and uses that to set the plants in the flowerpot ablaze. Thick smoke tumbles up from the mixture.

The smell of burning water mint wafts thick into the air.

It takes ten heartbeats for the plaguers to catch the scent. Their moans and hisses turn to shrieks as they push through the iron-studded door and spill onto the moonlit path. They are a nightmare of bloody faces and clawing hands. The first man out is missing his lower jaw. He hisses, and the skin of his torn throat flutters. Beside him a woman rakes at her own face, shrieking as she tears the flesh from her cheeks. They pour from the mill house in an endless stream of madness, their noses flared to the scent in the air.

I nod to Tristan and Morgan. “The mint works.”

We trot our horses away from the millhouse and out of Corringham. The legions follow behind us, staggering and screaming.

In France, I often led companies of men. At Nájera I even commanded the left wing of our formation. But I have never led an entire army out to battle. It has been a secret desire of mine to thunder toward the French ranks with five thousand howling men at my back, our wind-whipped standard held high above my head.

I have only five or six hundred soldiers behind me tonight. They are men, women, and children, and they are not particularly fast. But they howl with the unholy power of hell. Their lurching footsteps thunder upon the heath behind me. I hold no standard, only a smoldering flowerpot, but I have achieved my secret desire. I ride toward the French with an army.

An army of the dead.

The ghouls behind us lose interest in the mint after less than a half mile. They slow and their ranks begin to scatter. We rein our horses so that the closest plaguers can almost lay hold of us, then ride forward again. It keeps the staggering soldiers focused, but only just. Fortunately, we only have to keep the front ranks interested in us. The others just follow mindlessly.

But each time we try this new technique, slowing and then accelerating, the plaguers seem less and less interested.

“Soldiers these days,” Tristan says. “No discipline. No dedication.”

On a hunch I cut open my arm and let the blood flow, and that seems to focus the howling mob for a few dozen paces. But I have only so much blood and we have another four miles to go.

“Let’s pray that the sun sleeps in today,” I say.

Sir John will send his forces in at dawn. If I am not there with my demons, he will ride north to kill my angel. I pray to St. Edmund to keep her safe, then look back at the slow, limping strides of my soldiers. I cut another gash into my arm. Blood is their wage. I pray I can pay them well at dawn.