Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (28 page)

Tristan and the others are disarmed and released. They join me beside the duke, as does Father Benjamin. The two knights who were assisting in the exorcism try to take positions beside the duke, but he waves them off. “Sir Edward is an honorable man. He means me no harm, and even if he did, he would not do anything in cold blood.”

An endless stream of soldiers walk back toward their posts.

“Do you know that woman, Edward?” He draws a square of silk from a pouch at his waist and folds it in half. “The heretic?”

“No, my lord.”

“Did you
think
you knew her? Think carefully, because what you did is a serious crime against God.” He wraps the square of silk around the handle of a bucket that sits outside the door of the church, picks up the bucket, and walks toward a well on the village green.

“No, my lord,” I repeat.

“He did not know her, and yet he tried to interfere with the Lord’s justice,” Father Benjamin says. “He’s either mad or a servant of the Devil.”

The duke sets the bucket down beside the well. “Are you mad, Edward?”

“Sometimes I think I must be,” I reply. “A sane man in a mad world is insane.”

“Although, in these times of madness,” Tristan adds, “only madness will save us. But madness in this case would be sanity.” He rubs at his forehead. “And so times of madness would be times of sanity.” He glances at me. “What were we talking about?”

Henry stares at Tristan, then address me again. “Why were you interfering with the Lord’s justice?”

“Because he is a heretic!” Father Benjamin snaps. “He brought weapons and violence into a church! Disrupted a sacred rite and stopped the just execution of an evil woman.”

I set my gaze on Father Benjamin and leave it there for a long moment. He shifts and folds his arms, but his stare does not waver. “Because I believe she can save England.”

The duke grins at me, but I do not smile.

“I have a message for you,” I say. “From Sir George of Brighthelmstone. He is the marshal of Wickham Manor, now.”

“Sir George? Heaven’s Gate, I haven’t heard from him in years. How is the old mongrel? What does he say? He did not speak ill of me, did he?”

I draw out the ceramic statue of Mary and hand it to him. “He said you would know what this was.”

The duke studies the figurine and grins. He tucks the statue into a pouch and pulls a pair of gloves from his belt, turning to the well. He pauses before donning the gloves and shows me his hand. A small, red sore breaks the skin on the back of his thumb. “What do you make of that? My surgeon tells me it’s from my gauntlet, but it’s been bothering me for some time now. You don’t suppose … this isn’t …”

I look at the sore and shrug. “If you’ve had it for some time, it’s not plague. Probably nothing, my lord.”

He nods. “Was there more to Sir George’s message?”

“He asked me to tell you that Wickham Market is with you. That they support you as king, and ask for soldiers at—”

“For all that is holy!” Henry slips his hands into the gloves. “Why does everyone say that? I do not want the crown. Richard is king. Not me. I have no right to that crown while he lives. What would the people think of me if I took the kingdom by force?” He yanks angrily at one of two ropes attached to the well. One of the water buckets rises and the other descends as he pulls hand over hand.

“The people want you to be king, Henry,” Father Benjamin says. “God wants you to be king. Take Richard the Unholy down from his throne and bring sanctity back to England! You cannot fail, for the power of God is with you! ‘The Lord takes vengeance on His adversaries and keeps wrath for His enemies. His way is in whirlwind and storm. He rebukes the sea and makes it dry; He dries up all the rivers; the mountains quake before Him; the hills melt; the earth heaves before Him. Who can stand before His indignation? Who can endure the heat of His anger? His wrath is poured out like fire, and the rocks are broken into pieces by Him.’ Richard will burn, and break into pieces, Henry! God will destroy him and set you upon the throne!”

Father Benjamin’s hands tremble with passion. I recognize the verse. It is from the times of the Old Testament, when God was murderous and full of wrath.

Henry looks at the priest for a long moment in precisely the same way he looked at Tristan a short time ago, then pours water from the well bucket into the one he brought from the church.

“Tell me about this heretic, Edward. What you did in the church is serious. I must judge your actions and determine your fate. Tell me why you want her to live. I want a truthful answer now, or I swear before God that you will hang.”

“You should hang him anyway,” Father Benjamin’s hands still tremble, but his voice is low and sharp.

“This plague,” I say. “There is a cure for it.”

The duke lifts the church bucket with a groan and walks toward a row of narrow cottages. A bearded man wearing Henry’s arms trots over and tries to carry the bucket for him, but the duke waves the man away. “I can do it. Get the bread, Godfrey. From the church.”

We continue toward the cottages, water sloshing in the bucket.

“That is nonsense, Edward. I heard rumors of a cure when I was in France. Everyone talks about a cure, but no one has ever seen one. A man in France told me that the only cure was to eat a spoonful of crushed emeralds.” He smiles, but the expression holds little humor. “There is no cure. This is a scourge from God. The best we can do is grant peace to the afflicted.”

“We may be able to exorcise them,” Father Benjamin says.

“Or drown them,” Tristan adds.

“There is plague in France?” Morgan asks.

“There is plague everywhere,” Henry replies. “It isn’t quite as bad in France, yet. Not like it is here. Louis has been brutal when dealing with the afflicted.”

A typical French response to adversity. It seems King Louis has finally found an opponent he can defeat in battle.

“Is that why you came?” Morgan asks. “Is that why you raised an army? To help clear the plague?”

The duke shakes his head. “I came because Richard . . . that . . . that prancing
fool
, has sworn to strip me of my lands and titles when my father dies. I raised an army and sailed back to England to make sure that
imbecile
does not take away my birthright.”

We walk in silence to the first cottage. Henry glances at Morgan, then me. “Don’t look at me like that. I was banished. How could I have known the plague was so bad here? I would have come sooner, had I learned the state of things here.”

Morgan nods.

“You see that, don’t you?” Henry adds. “You must understand that I would have come earlier.”

“Yes, of course,” Morgan replies.

“Of course, what?” Henry’s gaze is locked on my friend.

Morgan glances at me, clear his throat. “Of course, you . . . would have come earlier. Had you . . . had you known, my lord.”

Henry beams him a smile. “You are absolutely right. I would have been here months ago. I’m glad you understand that.”

The bearded man, Godfrey, returns with a basket of bread. Henry raps on the cottage door and looks at me. “So, Edward, you disrupted a church service and fought with my men because you thought a girl alchemist you had never met could cure a plague sent by God? My father said you were a smart man. You are not living up to that assessment.”

“He most certainly is not,” Father Benjamin says. “I think he is an imbecile.”

“Your father said that?” I ask. The image of John of Gaunt in Richard’s cell drifts into my thoughts. Nothing left but a slug of a man, half-plagued, barely able to speak. I realize that he tried to tell me about Henry’s titles. Those were the words he could not form when he tried to speak to me.

Death is something that comes to all men, but lands and titles can live forever. Whatever I may think of Gaunt, I cannot deny that he worked hard to give his children a better life. The Lancaster name shines brightly in England because John spent decades polishing it. King Richard could wipe away Gaunt’s entire existence with one signature and send the Lancaster family into the shadows of history. I do not blame Henry for his anger. I would have challenged Richard’s actions, too.

Henry should be told that his father is already dead. But I am not certain the subtle morality of my role in John’s death would be appreciated. Particularly not now, when Henry is deciding my fate.

The cottage door opens. A wizened face peers out. An old woman with filmy eyes.

“Good day, Christina,” Henry says. “I’m sorry you could not attend the service. How is your hip?”

The woman clutches a shawl about her neck and smiles toothlessly. “It only hurts when I’m awake, m’lord.”

Henry returns her smile. “I’ve brought you water.” He motions to Godfrey, who holds the basket out. “And bread.”

“The Lord bless and keep you, m’lord.” She takes a loaf of bread as Henry pours water from his bucket into a bucket by her door.

We walk to another cottage, a few down from Christina’s, and Henry raps on the door. “Why would you think a sorceress that you’ve never met could mix a cure for this plague, Edward? It does not make sense.”

“Because we have instructions for the cure,” I say. “We know the ingredients. We simply need an alchemist to mix them.”

“Stop that!” Henry shouts at Pantaleon. The Italian is rummaging through the basket of bread. “If you want a loaf, take one, but stop touching all of them. Your hands are filthy.” Henry smirks at me and raps on the door again. “And from where did you obtain these instructions? A peddler?”

“From an ampoule that contains the cure.” We did get the cure and the instructions from a peddler, but imparting that information may not be helpful to us. I draw the spare ampoule from the poke at my belt. It is the last one. I show it to the duke, then point to Morgan. “The same cure that healed this man.”

The door opens and an elderly man peers out, his face pitted from a childhood pox. Henry does not look at the man. He looks at Morgan. Studies the scabs along his face and hands.

“Good day, m’lord,” the elderly man says. “A pleasure to see you, Lord Henry.”

Henry speaks to him, but continues to stare at Morgan. “I’ve . . . I’ve brought you . . . bread and water.”

Godfrey extends the basket and the old man takes a loaf.

“You were plagued?” Henry asks. “With this new illness? The demon plague?”

“No, my lord,” the old man says. “I’m fit and strong, my lord. No demons.”

Morgan clears his throat. “An afflicted dog bit me. But our Heavenly Father brought me back.”

“He’s lying!” Father Benjamin snaps. “He’s a leper trying to make himself seem clean.”

“I ain’t a leper, my lord!” the old man barks. “I’m healthy!”

Morgan waits for the old man to stop speaking. “I’m not a leper, Father, these are clerical vestments. I was plagued and locked in a nunnery’s wine cellar for days. The Lord sent a cure and brought me back.” He glances at Zhuri. “And I am eternally grateful to my friends for doing the Lord’s work.”

“The Lord didn’t bring him back!” Father Benjamin hisses. “He was never plagued! And if that foul tincture
did
heal him, then it was necromancy, not the Lord! Alchemy gave him life! He’s no better than the sorceress! He’s a sinner and heretic, and under the power of the Devil, himself!”

The old man takes a deep breath and grins toothlessly. “You haven’t been talking to me, have you?”

Morgan’s face flushes but he does not speak. He will never argue with a priest.

But Tristan will.

“Morgan is not responsible for decisions made by others,” he snaps. “He is the most devout man I have ever met. If he’s a heretic, then we are all doomed.”

“I think he has a sound argument, my lord,” the old man offers.

“We
are
all doomed,” The priest replies. “Look around you. This scourge was caused by alchemy! And you want to use alchemy to end it?”

“That’s a sound argument too,” the old man says.

“This scourge was caused by monks grinding up dead saints and pouring the powder into the Sacrament dough,” Tristan replies. “And you want to use prayer to end it,
baldhead
?”

Zhuri bites his knuckle. “Tristan, no!”

“
Liar
!” Father Benjamin roars. “You are a liar and a blasphemer, and you shall be put to death!
To death
!”

“Enough!” Henry tugs at his tunic and glares at Tristan. “Father Benjamin, if you hear another word of blasphemy from the mouth of this knight, you have my permission to burn him.” He takes a long breath and brushes dirt from his glove. “I do not believe there is a cure, Edward. And even if there was, I do not believe God would want us to use it. Our Lord brought this scourge upon us for a reason.”

“Amen!” Father Benjamin adds.

“What makes you think it was God who brought this plague upon us?” The thought strikes me like divine lightning. Henry stares at me. Everyone stares at me. I lick at my lips. “Why does everyone assume that God would punish us like this? Why has no one blamed Satan for this? And why wouldn’t God give us a cure to save the devout from the devil’s horror?”

“Ooooooooh!” The old man in the doorway draws out the sound. “I ain’t never thought of it like that.”

“God wouldn’t use alchemy to defeat the devil,” Father Benjamin snaps.

“Christ was an alchemist, wasn’t he?” I repeat Father Peter’s words from the priory before I think about what I am saying. “Water to wine.”

A profound silence falls. A flush paints the priest’s cheeks a bright red.

“So . . . so sayeth the Lord?” Tristan mumbles into the silence.

Father Benjamin points a hooked and trembling finger at me. “You . . . you will die for those words.”

Henry looks into my eyes. “I could have you killed for speaking like that, Edward.”

“But you won’t,” I say. “Because you hear the truth in them. Moses was a sorcerer. He turned a stick into a serpent. Parted an entire sea. God grants power in times of greatest need. And He has given us this gift. When we need it most.”

Morgan clears his throat and raises his eyes to the Heavens. “‘Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights.’”