Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (32 page)

“So why haven’t the plaguers gotten them?” I ask.

He flashes yellowed teeth and shrugs. “I know it ain’t right, m’lord, but we use the old magics. My wife, Alison, she’s a woman of faith. Ain’t no one more devout than my Alison. But her family, they come from the west country. And they believe in the old ways, too.”

Tristan and I glance at one another. Morgan crosses his arms.

“Show us,” I say. “But do it quickly.”

We are forced to wait until Domenico and Morgan have finished praying to the sheep’s arse. When they finally rise, Alyn leads us across the gently sloping pasture. He points to a circle of squat stones, a fluttering willow at one end.

“The old magics,” he says.

Twenty one stones—each as wide around as a shield and rising no higher than my knees—lie in a circle large enough to fit the entire flock of sheep.

I have seen stone circles before. Most of them are in the west of England. Pagan structures made by the ancient druids to venerate forgotten gods. I visited one in a place called Avebury. Elizabeth would not come with me. She would follow me into battle if I asked her, but she would not go near those stones. I chided her for her decision, but when I saw the ominous structures, I could not blame her. There is something sinister about them. Something of dark magic and hidden power. Each stone was as tall as a man. A group of them were arranged in a perfect circle, standing like petrified sentries, looking as if they could spring to life with a sorcerer’s word.

I am an expert in the construction of castles. But not even I can fathom how the stones were brought to that field, nor how they were stood on end. They are alien and beautiful and full of mystery. I suppose the pagans would have thought the same of our cathedrals. Perhaps those circles were their cathedrals, built for their gods. Perhaps their gods listened to them, as our God listens to us. The Bible tells us there is only one God, but in the very next sentence, it forbids us from worshipping any others. It is a bit suspect, that.

Elizabeth would flounce for days if she knew I was entertaining thoughts like this. I hope I will see her flounce again. I won’t get the chance if I tarry here from much longer.

“This is not right.” Morgan looks at the stones and shakes his head. “This is pagan sorcery. And it’s a sin.”

“So is alchemy,” Tristan replies.

“I know it ain’t right.” Alyn tugs at his beard. “It ain’t right, but it works. My wife, she’s devout, but she knows the old magic, too. The plaguers don’t go near the circle.”

Tristan rubs at his face with one hand. “Let me see if I can sift through this. These stones are a pagan magic created by a devout woman. So, if the plaguers have been possessed by demons, and they won’t go near the stones, the circle must be good, correct?”

“That’s not—” Morgan tries to speak but Tristan shushes him.

“I’m not done. If the plaguers are simply sick people, and they won’t approach this circle, then the stones are bad. But if the plague was sent by God, and the afflicted then became possessed by demons as a result of their illness, and the stones warded them off, would we be warding off God’s plague, or Satan’s demons? And if the stones are evil, but they protect the ewe with the Virgin Mary on its arse, does that make the Virgin a demon? And is anyone hungry? Pantaleon, is there any fish left?”

Morgan shakes his hands toward the Heavens, as if asking God for patience. I have felt like doing the same many times while in Tristan’s presence.

Something moves in the distance. I point to a large figure lurching toward us. “Here’s your chance to prove that the circle works.”

“Aw, that ain’t but one illman,” Alyn says. “I’ll get him with a shovel.”

“Illman?” Tristan chuckles. “I like that. Illman.”

“I don’t want him killed,” I say. “You’re right. He is an ill man. And he doesn’t deserve death. Everyone in the circle.”

“It doesn’t work so well if it’s a woman,” Tristan says. “Illwoman. Illoman.”

“They’re all illmen,” Alyn says. “The men and women.”

We step over the stones and stand at the center of the circle. I take my gauntlets off and draw my dagger. The scars from a dozen slashes crisscross my forearm. Remnants of a day when I had to coax a plaguer army across five miles of Essex coastline. I add another slash, let the blood flow to the grass. The plaguer in the distance straightens and shambles toward us at a faster pace. He is perhaps the fattest plaguer I have ever seen. And he appears to be naked.

The Italians draw windlasses from their belts and attach them to their crossbows “Pantaleon, tell them they can load if it makes them feel better, but I don’t want anyone firing on him unless I order it. Is that understood?”

Pantaleon speaks to Francisco, who nods.

Genoese mercenaries are responsible for buying their own equipment, so all of the crossbows are slightly different. Some of the weapons are made with wood and horn. Others have wooden stocks and powerful steel bows. But almost all of them are loaded the same way—with the use of pulley devices known as windlasses. I watch the crossbowmen crank the handles. They make quick circles, cranking back the bowstrings with a seamless efficiency.

The corpulent plaguer draws ever nearer. A mere thirty paces away, now. A strip of fabric drags from his left leg—probably what is left of his trousers, still looped around his ankle. It is the only hint of clothing on him. His gray, filthy belly hangs down in folds and jounces against his quivering thighs. Boils sprout from his flesh, and seep like rotting mushrooms.

Alyn shifts his weight from one foot to the other and shoots glances toward his sheep.

The Genoese raise their crossbows and aim at the fat man. I hold up a warning finger and Francisco nods. The plaguer draws nearer still.

“I don’t think he’s going to stop,” Morgan says.

“It’s difficult to bring that much flesh to a halt,” Tristan replies.

Rizio, the champion drinker, chuckles and calls out: “
Suo cazzo non è grasso
,”

The Italians laugh. I look to Pantaleon, who points at the plaguer’s crotch. “He is saying the man possess one piece only that is not fat, and this the piece he should want being fat.”

Morgan lets out a sharp blast of air. “Tell them to stop being childish. That poor man is sick.”

“Or possessed,” Tristan adds. “Or sick and possessed. Or, simply cursed by God.” He points to the man’s crotch and chuckles. “Cursed twice.”

The fat man stops abruptly when he is ten paces away. His flesh jiggles. He has breasts. Great wobbling folds of rotting skin that swing when he halts. The stench of him wafts into the circle and it takes all my strength not to recoil. Several of the Italians groan and cover their noses with their forearms. Morgan’s nostrils flutter. Tristan winces.

The plaguer stares into the circle with ebony eyes. A gash on one cheek leaks a yellow pus.

“He’s not coming closer,” Tristan says. “Thankfully.”

“The old magics.” Alyn pinches his nose, so that his voice is tight and high.

“This is evil,” Morgan says. “I can feel it in my bones. It’s not right.”

“It isn’t evil,” Tristan replies. “Everyone’s coming to this farm to gaze at a sheep’s arse. But this circle of stones is the bloody miracle.”

I squeeze more blood out of my forearm and wave it in the air. The plaguer hisses, takes a step forward, then recoils. I reach my arm toward him, but he seems to lose interest in the blood and staggers around the stones, toward the sheep.

“I am astounded,” Tristan says. “And I don’t astound easily.”

“The old magics are powerful,” Alyn says, his nose still pinched. “Can you tell those crossbowmen to shoot him now? He’s making for the sheep.”

Tristan unbuckles his sword belt and takes hold of his sheathed sword. He trots to the far side of the circle, steps over the stones and reaches toward the plaguer with the sheath.

We follow him to the edge of the stones. The fat man slows and turns to face us. “Tristan, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Testing the limits of the old magics,” he replies.

He draws back his arm and thrusts the sheath at the man’s belly.

And the plaguer explodes.

EPISODE 7

Episode 7 Map

Chapter 38

When a man has been to war, his sensibilities change. Death does not hold the same horror that it once did. Pain is tolerated with less fuss. Once you have stared down ten thousand men screaming for your blood, most other dangers seem trivial by comparison. And, once you’ve been to war, broken, bleeding and rotting bodies no longer make you retch.

But here, on this field in Suffolk, I spill the contents of my stomach onto the pasture. And every man with me does the same.

The plaguer’s slime covers all of us. A greasy blend of phlegm, puss, blood and whatever else was inside him. It smells as if a rotting donkey had been filled with feces and left to simmer in a vat of urine. I fear I will never cleanse my nostrils of the scent.

The fat man lies in the grass, writhing. His stomach and one of the hanging breasts no longer exist. All that is left of his torso is a ribcage and a spine. Scraps of gore hang from the jagged bones like his torn trousers hanging from his leg. His remaining breast has been flipped onto his shoulder by the explosion.

Tristan has suffered the worst of the eruption. I cannot see his armor through layers of blood, yellow globs of fat, and ruptured lengths of entrails. He stops retching and glances back at Alyn. “The old magics are a load of shit.”

“Why . . . why he fly in pieces?” Pantaleon asks.

“I . . . I told you . . .” Morgan picks something soft and red from his hair, retches again. “I told you . . . these stones are evil.”

“It wasn’t the stones,” I say. “He was rotting.” My stomach muscles clench and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Oh, Christ and Mary,” Tristan says. “Do you think any of that fat man got into my eyes?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever . . . heard a more peculiar statement.” Morgan says.

“It’s not a jest, Morgan,” Tristan throws off his gauntlets and wipes at his eyes. “We don’t know how that affliction spreads.”

“I don’t think you can get the plague through your eyes,” I say. “I’m certain we’ve all had plaguer blood spatter beneath our lids at one time or another.”

Tristan nods, as if trying to convince himself.

“Why did he explode, Edward?” Morgan asks.

One of the Genoese stands, then drops again immediately and vomits. I keep my hands and knees on the ground. “I’m not certain. But I’ve heard of such things happening. King William, the first one, they said he was too fat to fit into his coffin. When the priests tried to shove him in, he burst.”

“I’ve heard of whales exploding on beaches,” Tristan says. “I suppose that plaguer loosely qualifies as one.”

Something slides down my temple and onto my neck, just inside my bevor. The sensation makes me shiver, which causes my stomach to clench again. I plant my hands in the damp grass, and retch again beside a magic stone. And when what little I have left in my stomach is free, I stare at the stone. My breath quickens. I run a finger along the crags and smile.

In the distance, Tarviccio decides to scream again, but not even his shrieking can wipe the smile off my face. “Pantaleon.” I stand and brush grime from my hands. “Tell Frederico that Tarviccio’s screams don’t seem rare at all.”

But Pantaleon is not looking at me. He draws his sword, his gaze sweeping toward the cottage. The Genoese pick up their crossbows and run from the circle, some retching as they go.

“He not scream without the reason,” Pantaleon says, wiping at his mouth. “He scream for the help.”

Chapter 39