DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (70 page)

“She cannot come here,” Brother Castinagis said.

“Will you do that much for me, at least?” Roger asked Braumin. “Perform the ceremony from across the tussie-mussie bed.” He stared hard at his friend.

Castinagis, too, looked at Braumin.

“I would prefer that you not return to her,” the abbot of St. Precious said. “You ask me to sanction a union that cannot last out the rest of the summer.”

“I ask you to confirm our love before God’s eyes as something sacred, for that it is,” Roger corrected. “Can you not even do that much for me?”

Abbot Braumin spent a long time thinking it over. “If I believed that there was some chance that I might convince you to abandon this lost cause, then surely I would,” he said at last, “but if you are determined to remain beside the poor woman, then better that it be a union sanctioned by God. Go and bring her to the tussie-mussie bed, and be quick, before I become convinced that I, too, am playing the part of the fool.”

Roger was on his way before Braumin even finished.

Chapter 34
 

“D
O NOT
,” F
RANCIS WARNED THE IRATE MAN WITH WILD
,
BLOODSHOT EYES AND
telltale rings on his bare arms. The monk stepped in front of the man, blocking his path to the tussie-mussie bed and St.-Mere-Abelle, for Francis understood all too clearly that the brothers atop the wall with crossbows and gemstones were very serious about killing him if he approached.

“You cannot hope …” Francis started to say, but the wild man, the man who had just watched his only son carted off to the common grave, wasn’t listening. He came forward like a charging bull and swung his heavy arms furiously.

Too furiously, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial, ducked the blow and hooked the arm as it swept above him, pushing it down and, with a simple step and twist, put himself behind his attacker. Before the outraged commoner understood what hit him, Francis had the man’s right arm bent up behind his back, while Francis’ left arm was across the man’s neck. Despite his great rage, the man was helpless.

The man tried to pull straight ahead, but Francis slipped one foot in front of him, and down they went, heavily, Francis landing atop the facedown commoner.

“I’ll kill ye all!” the man raged. “I’ll kill ye to death! I will! I will.…” His voice trailed off as he broke into sobs. “I will.”

“I understand,” Francis whispered. “Your son … I know your pain.”

“How could ye?” came a question from behind.

“What’re ye or any o’ yer stinkin’ monk friends knowin’ o’ anythin’?” demanded another. Francis felt a boot come down heavily on the small of his back.

And then they fell over him, only a pair of men, but many others were cheering them on. They tore Francis free of the sobbing man and brought him up roughly. Though he managed to get in one quick punch against one man and a pair of sharp kicks to the other’s shin, he knew that they had him caught—and understood that others would come help them if he wriggled free.

“Get him and kill him!” one man cried.

“Death to ’em all!” shouted another. Then the mob swirled about Francis, and then … parted, for shoving her way through it came Merry Cowsenfed, cursing and spitting with every step. When one man gave a particularly loud and threatening shout Francis’ way, Merry promptly smacked him across the face.

“What’re ye all gone mad?” she screamed, her unusual ire calming the crowd. “This one’s been helping us every day, and came out to us healthy! Can any o’ the rest of ye say that ye’d be so generous if ye didn’t think ye yerself had the plague already? Ah, but what a lot o’ fools I got meself caught up with! To be hittin’ so on poor Brother Francis!”

The murmuring of the crowd died away, each person turning to the next, as if waiting for instructions.

Then the two men holding Francis roughly pushed him free. “Bah, Merry’s right,” said one. “This one ain’t done nothin’ earnin’ him a beatin’.” He turned ominously toward St.-Mere-Abelle. “But them others …” he snarled, and the crowd erupted into ferocious cheers behind him. The man Francis had downed clawed his way back to his feet and reiterated his hatred for the Abellican monks.

Again, Francis rushed to the forefront. “They have crossbows and gemstones!” he pleaded. “They will kill you all before you ever get near the wall. And look at that wall! How do you plan to get over it? Or through it? A team of To-gai-ru ponies could not run a ram through that door, I promise you!”

Every point he made was perfectly valid, every one enough of a detriment to turn aside any reasonable person. But these were not reasonable people. No, they had lost everything, and in the pain and hopelessness of that moment, Francis’ words rang hollow.

And so they started off, and so did Brother Francis—but not physically. The monk reached into his pouch and clenched his hand about his soul stone, falling into its magic, freeing his spirit from his body. He went right for the apparent leader of the mob, the man who had torn him from the grieving father.

He did not want to possess the man, but Francis did send his spirit into him. And once inside the man’s thoughts, the monk began to impart images and sounds of slaughter, of men running, screaming, while magical fires bit at them and peeled away their flesh. He showed the man a scene of bodies piled twenty deep atop the tussie-mussie bed. He showed …

And then the connection was broken, suddenly, Francis’ spirit sent careening back to his body. He blinked his eyes, working hard to recover from the shock, fearing that the slaughter had already begun.

But the mob was still there, hardly moving, just staring at their leader, who stood openmouthed, staring blankly at the towering wall and at the deadly monks standing atop it.

Merry Cowsenfed was at his arm all the while, tugging hard and pleading with him to turn about.

The man, seeming unsure, glanced back at Francis.

“They will kill you,” Francis explained, “every one of you.”

The man closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides, but whatever the level of rage within him, he could not ignore the simple fact that they had no chance even to get anywhere near their enemies. No chance at all.

The man growled and lifted his clenched fists into the air, but then he walked back from the tussie-mussie bed—the battle line, it seemed—and roughly jostled through the crowd.

Francis breathed a profound sigh of relief, but he soon became aware that many of those around him weren’t very happy with this outcome. Some cursed and shook their fists at him, though most did turn back, grumbling and shaking
their heads.

In Francis’ estimation, they had just avoided a complete slaughter. He sighed again and nodded to Merry, then turned to find a wrinkled old woman, her face as sharp as Yorkey cheese, glaring at him.

“Bah, but ain’t ye spittin’ pretty words,” she said. “Is that why they sent ye out, Brother Francis o’ St.-Mere-Abelle? To talk pretty and keep us walkin’ dead folk in our place?”

Francis couldn’t find the words to answer her.

“Bah, who’s carin’ about ye, anyway, Brother Francis the saint,” she said with sincere disgust. “Ye’re soon to catch the rosies, if ye ain’t already, and soon to be put in the ground.”

Far from disputing her or yelling at her, Francis stood there and accepted the judgment and the looks of all those who had turned from St.-Mere-Abelle’s fortified gate.

And he accepted, too, the old crone’s prediction, for Francis honestly believed that the last one he had tried to cure had beaten him back, and more.

Francis was fairly convinced that the plague was growing within him.

“P
erhaps our dear Brother Francis serves a purpose after all,” Fio Bou-raiy said to Father Abbot Agronguerre, the pair watching the spectacle from the wall. “For them, I mean,” Bou-raiy elaborated with a slight snicker. “A pity if they came against us.”

“You sound as if you would enjoy such a sight,” the Father Abbot observed. Fio Bou-raiy shuffled nervously, reminding himself that he and this Father Abbot he so desperately wanted to impress were not often of like mind.

“Not so,” he replied. “And forgive me, Father Abbot. It is only that I feel so helpless in these circumstances. There are times when I wonder if God has deserted the world.”

“Indeed,” said an obviously unconvinced Agronguerre, raising an eyebrow. “Take care, for you are spouting words akin to that of our dear misguided Brother De’Unnero.”

“I only mean—”

“I know what you mean, and what you meant,” Agronguerre interrupted.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

“How fare the brothers working on the herbal poultices and syrups that Brother Francis bade us to make?” Agronguerre asked at length. “The ones that came down from the Timberlands—from Jilseponie, we believe?”

“They had all the ingredients available,” Bou-raiy answered. “I suspect that the compounding is nearly complete.”

“If it is not, then add brothers to the work,” the Father Abbot instructed, “as many as it takes to get those concoctions out to the desperate people.”

“They will not cure, by Abbot Braumin’s own words, relayed to us directly from St. Precious, and to him from the very source of the recipes: the woman Jilseponie,
so he said.”

“But they will help,” Agronguerre tartly replied. “And they will help to make the people understand that we are doing all that we can. Brother Francis stopped their charge this time. Next time, I fear, we will be forced to use more drastic measures, and that I do not desire.

“And your observation concerning Brother Francis was quite correct,” Agronguerre went on. “He does play an important role—more so than you apparently recognize. Look upon him and be glad for him. His choice in this has been a blessing to the Abellican Church as much as to the peasants he so magnificently serves.”

“Surely you do not agree with him,” Master Bou-raiy snapped back without hesitation.

Father Abbot Agronguerre turned away from the man without answering, looking back over the desolate field and the wretched refugees, clearly torn by the sight.

“Father Abbot!”

“Fear not, for I am not intending to open St.-Mere-Abelle to the plague victims,” Agronguerre replied solemnly, “nor have I any designs of walking out of our gates to join dear Francis on the field. But neither can I find fault with the man for his choices. No, I admire him, and fear that the only reason I am not out there beside him is because …” He paused and turned back to face Fio Bou-raiy squarely. “Because I am afraid, brother. I am old and have not many years left and am not afraid of death. No, not that. But I am afraid of the rosy plague.”

Fio Bou-raiy thought to argue strongly against Francis, to label the man a fool and his course one of disaster for the Church if his example was held up in a positive light, but he wisely bit back the words. He held no fears that Abbot Agronguerre would prod others to follow Brother Francis, nor that the man would go out on the field himself; and though he didn’t want Francis praised in any way for his foolish actions, he recognized that to be a small price to pay. For Brother Francis would be dead soon enough, Fio Bou-raiy believed, yet another example of the folly of trying to do battle with the rosy plague.

“It is pragmatism that keeps you here, Father Abbot,” he did say quietly.

“Is it?” Agronguerre asked with a snort, and he turned and walked away.

A frustrated Fio Bou-raiy turned back to face the field and leaned heavily on the wall. He spotted Francis then, again at work with his soul stone on some unfortunate victim. Bou-raiy shook his head in disgust, and he did not agree with Father Abbot Agronguerre at all on this point. No, he saw Francis as setting a bad example for the Church, reinforcing the belief of the ignorant peasants that the Church should be more active in this time of desperation.

Fio Bou-raiy slapped his hand against the thick stone wall. They would get the poultices and syrup out soon, but he almost hoped that it would not be soon enough, that the peasants would come at St.-Mere-Abelle wildly. No, he didn’t really want to kill any of them, though he figured that to do so would actually prove a blessing to the poor, unfortunate wretches. But if it did happen, Fio Bou-raiy
decided that his first shot, with lightning or with crossbow, would not be aimed at any ignorant peasant. No, he would target a certain troublemaking Abellican brother.

“D
o it!” King Danube demanded, as harsh a command as he had ever given to Duke Kalas.

“You would jeopardize the goodwill toward the Throne for the sake of—” Kalas tried to argue.

“Do it, and now!” King Danube interrupted. There was no room in his tone for any debate. “With all speed.”

Kalas glanced to the side, to Constance Pemblebury.

“With all speed and with all heart,” King Danube said.

Kalas saluted his King with a thump to his chest, a formal acceptance of command that did not often occur between the two friends, then turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the room, his boots clacking loudly with every step.

King Danube looked over at Constance and sighed.

“It pains Duke Kalas greatly to do anything of benefit to the Abellican Church,” she said, trying to calm him.