Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) (6 page)

I jump in the saddle when his eyes open as we pass. He is still alive. Dear God, he is still alive. The eyes are blue within white, not black within black. He hisses a word. It takes me a moment to realize he is speaking French.

“
Miséricorde
.”

The man wants death. If my hands were not bound, I would oblige him. Not even the French deserve such torture.

There are nine more carriage wheels along the old track. They must have run out of carriages, because the last wheel looks like a simple iron hoop with boards lying across it. Each wheel supports a man whose arms and legs have been beaten into jelly. Some have smashed faces. Some have had their stomachs opened so the flies and ants can feast on their entrails. Most of the men are still alive. A few still have the strength to moan. The wind or the men’s spasms make the wheels spin slowly and creak gently in the East Anglian afternoon.

The afflicted are not the worst thing about this new England. Plaguers are hungry and desperate. I understand those motives. What, then, are the motives of the survivors? Power? Avarice? Cruelty? Of the two groups, the unafflicted survivors are the greater threat. I am uncomfortable with what this implies about my kind.

I stare at the wheels and wonder who is responsible for such barbarism.

“They’re French soldiers,” Henric says. “Our troop captured them in Essex. Mad. Every one of them.”

“Mad?” I ask.

Stephan nods. “They were gibbering when we found ’em. Said they fought a battle against Lucifer, near Hadleigh.” He laughs. “One of them said that demons chased them all the way to Halstead.”

The men are not mad. Those were not Lucifer’s demons they fought near Hadleigh, they were mine. I led an army of the afflicted against Frenchmen who had landed at Lighe a week ago. The enemy had never seen plaguers, and they were terrified of them. These men were fleeing me. Poor bastards. Apparently I share the blame for this barbarism.

“Were you two responsible for the wheels?” I ask.

Henric shakes his head. “I don’t have the stomach for it. It were Alexander who did it. If you’re lucky, you won’t meet him.”

“If you were decent men,” I say, “you would end their suffering.”

“I would, truly I would, but then Alexander would ’ave me up on one of them wheels,” Henric says. “Besides, they’re French.”

One of the men stares at me as I pass, and a single tear rolls down his cheek.

Most of my life has been devoted to hating and killing the French. But here, on this lonely road in Suffolk, I find myself pitying them. What strange days these are.

In these times of madness, even the French deserve sympathy.

“If they ’adn’t been French, they would be dead already,” Henric says. “Alexander likes to use the Spanish donkey. ’Orrible to watch but kills them in a lot less time.”

The Spanish donkey. One of the vilest forms of torture in existence. The simplest version is a log placed horizontally on tall supports. The log is trimmed with axes and filed so that the portion facing upward becomes a long, sharp edge. The victim, whose hands are bound to a rope that is slung over a tree branch or bracket above the log, is lowered gradually onto the sharp edge with his legs on either side. Heavy weights tied to his feet force him downward and the wedge of wood splits the man. The heavier the weights, the faster he is split. Sometimes the man holding the rope will pull the victim upward a bit to prolong his life. If the torturer feels pity, he can release the tension on the rope and the man is split in seconds. But torturers rarely pity. I have heard that sometimes a man can survive for hours when he is split from crotch to sternum.

“Alexander sounds charming,” I say.

“’E’s tough,” Henric says. “Had nine women raped and split last week. Left them alive for most of the day. They were pagans. All of them. The donkey was just a taste of the ’ell they ’ave waiting for them.”

We leave the wheels of anguish behind, and I promise myself that I will come back to give the soldiers
miséricorde
. And if I meet this Alexander, I will end his misery too. And I won’t end it quickly.

Henric, Stephan, and the archers lead me another mile to a tiny village. A wooden sign as we enter proclaims it to be “Edwardstone.” I don’t think much of the coincidence until they walk me toward a stone church at the village center. It is another church devoted to Saint Mary, the Virgin. It makes me think of Sir Morgan, who was convinced that Saint Giles was guiding him. I wonder if Mary is doing the same for me, although every fourth church in England seems devoted to Mary, so maybe I am overthinking things.

Five grimy military tents are squeezed in among the tombstones of the churchyard, the canvas snapping in the wind. Eight equally grimy men mill around a fire pit. They watch us as we approach. One of them raises a hand and Henric waves back.

They duck me into one of the tents. The canvas keeps out sunlight, so candles sit on two tall candlesticks at one end. A shaggy soldier sitting in a chair by the candles looks as if he has just woken. He nods to Henric.

A man and a woman sit back to back in the darkness at the center of the tent, their hands bound around the thick pole that supports the entire tent. Someone has placed a burlap sack over the man’s head. It is hard to see in the faint light, but it looks as if the woman wears a nun’s habit.

“Another one?” the guard in the chair asks.

“Yeah,” Henric says. “He was riding a cow with pink reins.” The two men laugh. “Had an unhealthy affection for that cow, he did.” They chuckle again and sit me against the tentpole between the man and the woman. They run a rope around my tied wrists and bind me to the pole.

“I am a knight of Sussex,” I say. “I hold the favor of the Earl of Arundel and King Richard himself.”

The two men laugh again.

“You can tell that to Alexander.” Henric bids farewell to the guard and slips out of the tent.

I seethe in silence for a span, imagining the things I will do to Henric and Stephan. And Alexander. And the archers who killed Abigail. And this woolly guard in the chair. And those men by the campfire. All of them. Every one. I will bring Amalek upon this encampment when I am free. Not even the donkeys will be spared.

“It is no use talking to them,” the nun says. “They have gone outlaw.”

“There must be laws for outlaws to exist,” I say. “Men like these have been reduced to savagery in this new world. And we may be their prisoners for a long time. God has blessed us with a trial, Sister.”

The man in the hood cocks his head toward me. “Hallelujah.”

I stare at him for the long time. My heart pounds with the truth but my mind cannot accept it. “Tristan?”

The man nods his head. “Hello, Edward.”

A thousand questions spring to mind, but only one makes it out of my mouth. “Why do you have a sack over your head?”

 “The question you should be asking,” he says, “is, why aren’t
you
wearing a sack over
your
head? It is the height of fashion on the Continent these days. A bit restrictive when it comes to range of view, but really, what is sight in the face of fashion?”

I feel a smile creep over my face. “Tristan!”

“I hope you didn’t bugger that cow, Edward,” he adds. “I understand God frowns on that sort of thing.”

I laugh. It is the first time I have laughed in days. I have found my brother-in-arms. My most loyal knight. My worst influence. And my best friend.

I have found Tristan of Rye.

EPISODE 2

Chapter 7

“Tell me about this cow,” Tristan says. “Supple skin? Firm udders? Was she worth it, Edward? And, out of curiosity, where is she now?”

The nun beside me hisses a breath. “Must everything you say be so vulgar?” she asks. “In these vulgar times, Sister,” Tristan says, “only vulgarity will save us. Enjoy some humor while you can. Death’s sweet release may soon be upon us.”

“If this is what passes for humor,” the nun says, “then death will indeed be a sweet release. Vulgarity is not wit.”

“Vulgarity is the height of wit, Sister,” Tristan says. “God loves a good impudence here and there.”

“If vulgarity is wit, then you are a saint.”

It takes a moment for all the possible meanings to sink in. Tristan barks a laugh and then a peculiar thing happens. He cannot find a retort. He stammers, then falls silent. I look skyward, expecting the Angel Gabriel to blow his horn.

When I am certain the seas are not turning to blood and that the earth is not shaking, I speak. “It is good to see you, Tristan. I thought you would be in Chelmsford.” I am careful to keep the emotion from my voice. It is a mistake to show the enemy what you value.

“I was heading to Chelmsford,” he says. “But I heard about this fine establishment. Pastoral. Romantic lighting. Clever women. The staff could use a good scrubbing, but at these prices, how can I complain?”

“I hope you didn’t pay in advance,” I say. “We won’t be here long.”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, didn’t I?” The guard stands and pulls the burlap hood from Tristan.

“No,” Tristan says. “You told me to hold my tongue. Which I am incapable of doing when my hands are bound. A rather peculiar thing to ask, really.”

The guard draws a swath of linen from a pouch and tears a long strip from it, then ties a knot in the center.

“What’s your name?” Tristan asks. “I’m going to speak to the owner about your rudeness. And where’s my wine? I asked for it more than two hours ago.”

The soldier gestures to Tristan and turns to me with a pleading look in his eyes. “Does he ever stop talking?”

“He sleeps sometimes,” I say.

The guard puts the knot between Tristan’s teeth. It is good Flemish cloth. I hope King Edward didn’t wipe his arse with it.

“Pull it tightly, please,” the nun says.

A man wearing a rich, knee-length tunic enters the tent. The guard pulls the linen away from Tristan’s mouth and hides it behind his back. “Afternoon, Gilbert,” he says.

Gilbert has long mustaches and closely cropped hair. He studies me with his head tilted upward slightly, a gesture that no man I admire has ever used.

“Another knight?” he says.

“Not a chance,” Tristan says. “I’m leaving today. The staff is awful. And this room is not at all adequate—I specifically requested a view of the river.”

The man studies Tristan, then clears his throat. He lifts a small rack that holds a dozen ceramic phials. “We found these among your things. Would you care to tell me what they are?”

“They contain a cure for the plague,” Tristan says. “Please don’t drink them.”

The nun gasps. “A cure?”

“He jests,” I say. “They are full of poison.”

Gilbert studies Tristan, then me. He runs his finger along the hilt of an oversized knife at his hip. “If they are poison, then perhaps the two of you should drink them.”

“I’ve had some,” Tristan says. “But you can’t ever be too safe. Bring it here.”

“Tristan, stop it.” I say. “He’s not being serious. The liquid in those phials causes plague.”

Gilbert sighs monumentally. “Shall we not play at games? I have been a scholar my entire life. I studied at Cambridge, gentlemen. I can see through your lies. I can see into your hearts.”

“Then you have poor vision,” I say. “If you drink those, you will contract the plague.”

“What is your name?” Gilbert asks.

“I am Edward of Bodiam. And I am a knight of Sussex. Who are you that would hold me here against my will?”

“Sir Edward,” Gilbert says. “Do you know that lying is not a natural instinct? When someone asks us a question, our first instinct is to tell the truth. Your friend answered my question very quickly. Too quickly to have lied. After he spoke, you realized that he had blundered. You took more time and came up with your response.” He points a finger at me. “A lie.”

I sigh, and Gilbert mistakes it for confirmation. He smiles and paces with his hands clasped before him. “You then further weakened your credibility by changing your lie. First you said the phials contain poison, then you said their contents cause plague. Do you see how you have defeated yourself?”

“You are an idiot,” I say. “Believe what you wish.”

“I don’t have to believe. I know the wonders of
reason
.”

Reason. I have heard many men speak of it. It is a fashionable topic these days. Lords fill their manors with men from the Continent, from Italy, and from the Arab lands so that they may learn about reason.

I have not had a great deal of teaching on this Greek philosophy. I know that the old monk Bede—a scholar whose writings have survived for nearly a thousand years—was versed in the teachings of the Greeks. He used their
reason
to conjecture that the world we live and walk upon is not flat but spherical. I would not believe such nonsense, but the Church denied it with such fervor that I know it must be true.

Reason, when used to delve into universal truths, is an indispensable tool. A torch to light the shadowy corners of the world. But these days, when men speak of reason, it is as a molten forge to twist and shape the world for their pleasure. And so I do not place a great deal of faith in
reason
.

“Here is a sample of reasoning, Edward,” Gilbert says. “Phials contain medicine. You are carrying phials. Therefore, you are carrying medicine. Do you see the simplicity of it?”

“That
is
simple,” Tristan says.

“Here’s another,” Gilbert says. “Humans avoid danger. The plague is dangerous. Therefore you would not carry the plague near you. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

“Breathtaking,” I say. “Precisely the word I would have used.”

“Why would your friend carry phials of plague with him? It is not
reasonable
. It makes no
sense.
”

“Tristan never makes sense,” I say.

“I don’t,” Tristan agrees. “But it adds to my charm.”

“You must possess charm to add to it,” the nun says.

Gilbert waves one hand to silence them. “Reason is an arrow,” he says. “And it always strikes right where it means to. In the middle part of the target, Sir Edward. In the center of the target wreath, where only the best archers strike. And the center of that wreath, where the arrow strikes, that is what we like to call the truth.”