Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (39 page)

My shoulders lurch with each breath. “She’s safe?”

Philip regains some composure. He frowns at me. “Of course she’s safe. I told you we would take care of her. I told you that. I am a man of God. I do not lie. Of course she’s safe!”

Elizabeth is safe.

The words are an icy river against my fury. I slump forward, hands on thighs. “She is safe.” I draw a long, long breath.

Brother Philip nods. Clears his throat. “I imagine she’s safe, at any rate.”

The breath catches in my throat. “What?”

He shifts on the mattress. “Well, I assume she’s safe. I can’t know that for certain, can I? I’ve been bound and left here.”

I take his robe in both hands and lift him off the mattress, roar so loudly that his hair billows. “
Where is she
?”

. . . is she
?

His chin quivers. Tears stream down his temples. “They were cruel to me,” he says. “Terrible and cruel! But I didn’t say a word. I didn’t tell them anything about Lady Elizabeth . . .”

A swell of pity tempers my anger. Philip resisted Gerald’s men. Heaven knows the unspeakable agony he suffered at their hands, and he resisted, so that Elizabeth would be safe. I set him down on the mattress, speak gently. “Can you tell me where she is, Brother Philip?”

“
. . .
until they hit me,” he adds.

I stare at him. Try to make sense of his words. Footsteps echo in the nave. I do not turn to look. I can only stare at Brother Philip.

“One of the men hit me in stomach,” he says. “What was I to do? He actually struck me! I told them. I had to tell them. But I made them promise they would not hurt her. I
forced
them to swear an oath, that they would keep her safe. So you see? She is safe.”

Men take hold of my arms before I can strike Brother Philip. I strain against them, reach for Philip’s throat.

“He’s a monk, Edward!” Morgan shouts. “He is a man of God!”

. . .of God
!

 Philip shrieks and sobs, thrashes against the ropes that bind him. “I had no choice! They were violent!”

. . .were violent
!

“
Where is she
?” I howl, pulling against my friends’ arms. “
Where is my wife
?”

“You’d better tell him,” Tristan calls to Philip. “We can’t hold him when he’s like this.”

“St. Mary’s!” Philip sobs. “Sister Mildred took them to St. Mary’s!”

. . .
to St. Mary’s
!

I yank my arms free and pound along the aisle, my footsteps echoing to the ceiling like war drums. St. Mary’s. The church is at the southern corner of the abbey, built along the curtain walls. I leap through the open doors, nearly colliding with Magnus, who still drags Riggio.

“
Attento
!” Magnus shouts. But I am gone.

I race along overgrown gardens and unkempt lawns painted blue by the moonlight. Through orchards of worm-blighted trees. I pass a polished charnel house, where the unearthed bones of the dead are stacked when graveyards need more space. And for a moment, I believe the bones have escaped. A score of impossibly thin plaguers stumble about the base of the monument. Lifeless husks of cows and pigs are scattered around the charnel house, and across the church yard. Plaguers glance up, momentarily, from their bloody feast. They continue eating and I continue running.

Pounding footsteps sound behind me. Tristan and Morgan.

St. Mary’s rises at the corner of the abbey walls. It is a magnificent church, but a mere lump among the palatial buildings of the monastery. I skid to a halt at the side of the nave and yank open a small, iron-studded door.

Moonlight streams through the yawning stained-glass windows, painting faint color patterns on the walls. There are no flames in the church. Two dozen carved, wooden angels stare down from the hammer-beam ceiling. A shaft of silver light splashes upon a nun who sits with her back against the altar.

I run to her, kneel at her side. “Sister Mildred!”

Blood, black in the faint light, soaks her habit and pools beneath her. Her wimple has been torn away. The moonlight sets her golden hair aglow. She glances sideways at me and speaks, but Tristan and Morgan’s echoing footsteps, as they enter the church, drown out the whisper of her voice. She tries again. “I’m . . . sorry.”

“What happened?” I reach into my shoulder sack, draw out the Malta fungus. But there is far too much blood on the floor. Morgan and Tristan arrive, panting.

 “They…raped me.” Her voice is a brittle reed. She stares toward the enormous rose window at the far end of the church. “All of them. Fourteen men.”

Morgan’s breath grows ragged. He tries to speak, but I silence him. A dark, Old Testament fury grows in my chest.

“I am . . .” my voice breaks, and the Old Testament fades, replaced with a New Testament guilt. This woman cared for me when I went mad. She cared for Elizabeth. Bathed her and sang to her. She cooked for me and Brother Philip. Washed our clothes. It was partly due to her that I returned from my madness. And now, she dies because of me.

Am I a selfish man?

Am I an evil man?

Perhaps Gerald is right. Perhaps I deserve to die.

“I am sorry, Sister Mildred. I will bring justice to those who did this.”

Justice.

I think of Pantaleon di Allesandria, and my sorrow grows heavier.

I take the hem of her habit and lift. There is far too much blood on the flagstones. I do not believe I can help her, but I must try.

She pins her habit down with one hand and shakes her head. “When . . . the last was done. He . . . used dagger . . . to . . . to . . .” She shakes her head and keeps the habit pinned down.

Morgan stands and paces along the chantry, each footstep an echoing hammer blow. I can see the fury in his eyes, even in the dim light. I feel no anger. Only sorrow. Sorrow and guilt—the cornerstones of Christ’s church. Perhaps I am a good Christian, now.

“What . . . what better place to die.” She sobs and gestures toward the church around her. “Mary’s bosom.”

I look away from Sister Mildred. The arches along the nave are colossal eyes, staring our way. Like an audience of giants. A jury of Gods.

“Do you think . . . Christ will still want me?” she asks. “After . . . those men . . .”

“You will sit beside Mother Mary herself,” Morgan says, his voice gentle and quivering. “They will make an angel of you.”

Tears sting at my eyes. I take deep breaths to keep the sobs from escaping. “What . . . what was Elizabeth’s fate? I must know.”

Sister Mildred slides her hand onto mine, squeezes.

“Did they . . . did they . . .” I cannot say the words.

The nun smiles at me. “They . . . didn’t get her.”

I rub at the corners of my eyes, not understanding, staring stupidly at Sister Mildred.

“Heard them . . . coming,” she replies. “Brother Philip . . . screaming about . . . oath . . . not hurt Elizabeth.” Her voice grows fainter with each word. She points with a trembling hand to the sealed doors of the church, doors facing out into the streets, into the horde of plaguers gathered around the abbey. “I let her out.”

I stare at the doors.

“She’s . . . so lovely, Edward. Dressed her . . . this morning . . . blue dress. One with . . . bow on back.”

“Out?” I look into the nun’s eyes. “You let her out there?”

She nods. “Men wanted . . . go out . . . get her. Couldn’t op . . . open door. Afflicted . . . packed tight. As . . . as if. . .” Sister Mildred lets out a deep breath and speaks no more.

We gaze down at her silently.

As if . . . the plaguers were protecting Elizabeth.

As if . . . God’s army was thwarting Sir Gerald.

As if . . . Saint Mary herself was sealing the doors of her church.

I kiss Sister Margaret’s hand, rest it on her lap. The nun died protecting Elizabeth. More flesh paid to buy my angel’s life. I stare at the front doors of the church. My wife is outside, protected by a thousand plaguers. God’s army will keep her safe.

They will let no one near her
.

I let out a long sigh that echoes in the empty church like a serpent’s hiss.

Not even me
.

Chapter 48

The doors of St. Mary’s open no more than an inch. The snarling, hissing crowd outside is pressed tightly against the oak. I peer through the crack but I see no one in a blue dress.

“Edward, I hate to interrupt with trivialities,” Tristan says, “but should we worry about Gerald’s men being in the monastery still?”

Morgan spins swiftly, staring into the shadows of the church. “He’s right. Why aren’t they still here, waiting to strip the skin from our bodies?”

“And piss on our pulp,” Tristan adds.

I, too, glance into the corners of the church. It is foolish to look. If Gerald’s men were here, they would have revealed themselves long ago. I slip my arms under Sister Mildred and lift her, laying her broken body on the high altar. Morgan whispers a prayer in Latin, and I add a silent vow to avenge the nun.

“Let’s see what Brother Philip knows,” I say.

“An enjoyable five heartbeats that will be,” Tristan replies.

We leave St. Mary’s and run back toward the massive abbey church. There are more plaguers outside now. I count eleven lurching figures.

A scream from the abbey church.

We rip open the great doors and run inside.

Brother Philip sits on a pew, drinking wine from a skin. Frederico sits next to him. Tarviccio and Magnus stand beside the altar. The witty Italian they call Tonso draws an arrow from Riggio’s back. It was Riggio who screamed.

I stride to the chantry and set the jar of Malta fungus on the altar, look at the Italian’s wound. The arrowhead came out with the shaft, and the blood flowing from the wound is light and a bright red.

“He’ll be fine. But put this on the wound,” I point to the jar, then to Riggio’s bare back.

Tonso nods. I catch a glimpse of Saint Edmund’s shrine and walk toward it. The long chest of marble and gold is painted with scenes of saints and martyrs. A candle is lit at every corner.

“They went out.” Brother Philip stands at my side. “They went out while I was bound, and I had to light them again. They have never gone out while I have been here.”

I think about Sister Mildred and a wave of exhaustion crashes through my body. “Many flames have been extinguished tonight.”

Brother Philip crosses his arms and stares at the shrine. “A bad omen, the candles going out. He was England’s patron saint. A king who died for his lands a people. A man who would not renounce his beliefs. Keeping the candles lit is the least we can do for him.”

“He’s not our patron saint anymore.” I remember the pilgrims on the road to this very shrine. The ones with their plagued loved ones in a wagon.

“He should be,” Brother Philip replies. “Saint George isn’t even English. Edmund was an English king. A Wuffinga.”

“Wuffinga?”

“It means ‘clan of the wolf.’ They were one of the first families in East Anglia. Edmund is more English than you, or me.”

Clan of the Wolf. I have never heard of the Wuffinga family, but here, standing before a dead king’s tomb, I feel a bond with them. King Edmund was a wolf, and wolves protect one another. I kneel and offer a prayer to the Wuffinga clan.

“I just saw Sister Mildred,” I say.

Tristan joins us by the shrine.

“Is she well?” Philip sees my expression and covers his mouth. “Did they strike her? Did they hit her in the stomach?”

“They murdered her, Brother.” I rise from the floor so that I tower over the monk. “They raped her and murdered her.”

“But at least you didn’t get punched in the stomach again, eh?” Tristan adds.

Tears well in Brother Philip’s eyes. “I don’t…understand. Where is Sister Mildred?”

I point to the fresh blood on my breastplate. “She’s dead. She’s dead because you told Gerald’s men where to find her. You might as well have kissed her on the cheek for them.”

His eyes widen. He shakes his head slowly. “No . . . no . . . where . . . where is Sister Mildred?”

I take hold of his cloak and lean in so that my nose brushes his. “Listen carefully. What happened to those men? The ones that hit you?”

He blinks rapidly, again and again. “They . . . they had to leave.”

Tarviccio screams.

I do not have to look to know it is him. I have never memorized another man’s screams before. Once again, he has reason to scream. Tonso has pulled an arrow from his shoulder. I return my attention to Brother Philip.

“Why did they have to leave?” My hand on the monk’s robe is stained with Sister Mildred’s blood.

His eyes regain their focus. “They said they couldn’t find Lady Elizabeth. And that the king would be angry if they did not.”

“The king?” I spit the word. It rings like an insult before the shrine of a martyred king. “Don’t call him a king. His name is Sir Gerald.”

Several of the Italians murmur: “Iffa you hava cannon pointed at Gerald, do notta letta him go.” It sounds like a prayer in the towering church nave.

Brother Philip stares at the Italians, his eyebrow twitching. “Who . . . who is Sir Gerald?”