Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (45 page)

I stare at the blonde locks in my hand. My punishment is complete. I have made a demon of my angel.

My soul blackens. The Lord gave me one of his Valkyries, and I let Satan take her from me.

I raise my dagger, stare at the blade in my trembling hand.

 “I am . . . so . . . so . . . sorry . . .” a sob breaks my voice.

Tristan seizes my wrist. Morgan crouches over Elizabeth, protects her with his body. I struggle to free my hand. “Let go! I won’t see her like this!”

“We can find another cure!” Tristan shouts.

“We can pray!” Morgan adds. “God will save her!”

“. . . of all the women she is the belle
.”

“I won’t see her change!
Release me
!”

Tristan restrains me, shoves me backward. Are there tears in his eyes?

“Ed . . . Edward?”

The sound stops my heart. Silences the entire battlefield.

No, it is not a sound.

To call it a sound is to insult God. What I hear is creation. It is the seasons, all of them, together. Sun and snow, bright leaves and rain. It is the full moon and the glitter of stars. It is lemon and strawberries, honey and silk. The song of every bird that ever sang. Fingertips on your back and lips on your neck. A choir of gods.

It is the sound of my Elizabeth.

“She was dragged by her hair,” Tristan whispers. “She was dragged by her hair!”

I stare at the blonde locks still entwined in my fingers.

She was dragged by her hair.

“God in Heaven, it works.” Henry Bolingbroke stands behind me with a dozen of his knights. “Heaven’s wonder, it truly works.”

“Send these cures to every corner of England,” says Tristan. “My kingdom will begin its recovery today.”

Lord Henry holds his hand out.

Tristan stares at the hand, sighs, and takes Richard’s crown off. “So ends the reign of King Tristan I.”

Elizabeth’s eyes brighten to summer blue. They meet mine and my breath catches. The long, pale fingers reach out, trembling. I take them and a tear splatters her skin. “Elizabeth?” I lower my gaze. God lives in her eyes, and I cannot bear to look. I am not worthy of Him. Or her. “You deserve better, Elizabeth. Better than an old wolf like me.”

She reaches toward me with her free hand, strokes my face. The crooked smile returns. She speaks, and I fall in love with her once more. “You’ll do.”

I laugh, or perhaps I cry. I do not know. My nose finds her neck. Lemons and strawberries. A thousand dark sorrows leave my body like crows from a forest. “
J’taime
,” I whisper. “
J’taime
.”

Her fingers touch the tears on my cheeks, and blue lakes form in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers. “I believe you are.” She shivers in my arms. “Where . . . where are . . . ?”

“You’re safe,” I whisper, my voice choked. “You’re safe.”

A trumpet blares and I glance back.

Father Benjamin places the crown on Henry Bolingbroke’s head.

Elizabeth’s arms find my neck, and my lips find hers.

A great cheer rises behind me, echoing across the monastery.

Richard laughs, still rocking a few paces away. “Listen to them, Edward,” he says. “Listen to them. They love us.”

I do not know who the cheer is for, and I do not care.

My wife is healed.

I am healed.

And soon, England will be healed.

My nose finds my angel’s neck again, and I breathe deeply. Lemons and strawberry cleanse my soul.

I look skyward, but I do not know who to thank.

Help came from too many places. The Virgin Mary guided my way. The saints helped me cut through my enemies. The pagan gods protected me with their old magic, and the stars above kept me healthy and strong. Muslim and Hebrew wisdom discovered a cure. Alchemy crafted it. A woman reproduced it. And both a priest and the King of England gave it their blessings. It is a time of madness, and only the tempered madness of a half dozen beliefs could save us.

I am still unsure of the affliction’s origin. The priests and bishops called it a scourge from God. They preached that the holy hand of the Father was purging the wicked from the earth. But I have heard many other thoughts on the cause of this sickness: the ground bones of saints; buggery; witchcraft; leprosy; rats; bad air. There are too many to recall.

I am a simple knight, so I choose to believe that this sickness was a blessing. The Lord was merely testing me. Setting challenges to see if I was worthy of His greatest angel. I do not believe I am, but through a madness of perseverance, I have outlasted even God. And, for now, my trials have ended.

Hallelujah
.

The End

Historical Note: Episode 1

Once again we find Sir Edward Dallingridge of Bodiam traveling the slightly altered landscapes of 14
^th
century England. I will try to guide you through Edward’s England as best I can, pointing out the monuments of accepted fact and navigating the side roads that a historical fantasy must sometimes take.

Book three strays from traditional history more than any of the previous two novels, mostly because of one event in history that I have had to change (I will discuss that change in greater detail at the end of episodes 3 and 8). As always, I have tried to remain true to established historical facts wherever possible.

In episode 1, Edward and Sir Tristan find themselves running from the relentless Sir Gerald of Thunresleam. Our two knights leave the forest into which they fled and spot a hind that draws Edward’s attention to a cart upon the northern road. Hinds, Edward says, are Saint Giles’s animal. And they are, but who the hell is Saint Giles?

Saint Giles was a Greek saint who lived in the 7
^th
century. He was a hermit and a vegetarian, and he is said to have suckled doe teats for milk. You hear that sound? That’s the sound of Tristan laughing.

Giles was shot by a hunter who was trying to bring down one of the saint’s cherished deer, and the saint was forever plagued by this arrow wound. Edward talks about Giles as “the patron saint of madness,” and he is, but, because of the arrow wound, he is better known as the patron saint of cripples. Unfortunately, “In these times of madness, only cripples will save us,” doesn’t have quite the same ring.

I do not know if the real Edward adopted Saint Giles as his protector. I do know that the small church sitting next to Edward’s castle at Bodiam is devoted to Giles, so I like to imagine that the saint played a role in our hero’s life.

Later in the episode, our weary knights encounter a band of pilgrims on the way to St. Edmund’s tomb, on a mistaken premise. They believe Edmund is the patron saint of England. And he was at one time. But King Edward III, as Sir Edward mentions, favored Saint George—A Roman soldier who slew a dragon. And so Saint George became the head of Edward III’s new order—the Knights of the Garter—and the symbol of England.

In recent times, there has been a growing movement to change the patron saint back to Saint Edmund who, unlike St. George, was actually an Englishman. More on Saint Edmund later, but a part of me favors the change. Saint George’s red cross on a white background is England’s flag, but it was the flag of Genoa long before that. And Saint Edmund was not just an Englishman, but one of the earliest English kings. He died defending the English people from the Danish invaders and refusing to renounce his faith. All very good reasons to replace the Roman Saint George, who had very little to do with England. I also spend a lot of time in Bury St Edmunds (as the town is known, now) so I may be biased.

We end the episode at a monastic house that lies on the southeast border of Norfolk. This is Langley Abbey, and parts of it still exist. You can visit the abbey and tour the remains and imagine what it must have looked like, standing upright before God, among the flatlands of Norfolk.

Historical Note: Episode 2

Edward was a knight with many friends, but the Dallingridge family (sometimes known as Dalyngrigge) wasn’t always so well connected. 

Edward’s grandfather, John Dallingridge, earned his prestige the old-fashioned way—he married into it. His marriage to Joan, daughter of Walter de la Lynde, gave John several estates, and, when John’s son, Roger, was old enough, he too was married into a more powerful family. Roger married Alice Radingden, who gave him even more estates.

So it was only natural that Edward, Roger’s son, should be married off to another powerful woman. And that woman was Lady Elizabeth Wardieu, who brought with her—among other properties—a small estate in Bodiam. But Edward’s duties didn’t end with his marriage. Like any knight, he was expected to carve out a better status for his family.

And he was very good at carving.

In his day, the ruling class were on the front lines of every war (things have changed quite a bit since then). So Edward was, first and foremost, a warrior. He started his battle experiences at the early age of thirteen, fighting in France under the Earl of Arundel. He was, apparently, a brilliant soldier, because he earned praise from all of his commanders, and received his knighthood before his 21
^st
year. He fought in many different places, on land and sea, in France and Spain, for a number of famous commanders. But it was as a mercenary in Sir Robert Knolles’ free companies that he truly carved out a better life. He made enormous amounts of money with Sir Robert, enough to build a castle at Bodiam. Enough to make him one of the most important knights in England.

But Edward was more than a good soldier—he was also a brilliant councilor. This combination of skills were highly sought after in medieval England.  It wasn’t long before King Richard started taking notice of him. The king and the Earl of Arundel sent Edward to survey the coastal defenses of East Sussex, on the south coast of England. He was called again, in 1384, to survey the defenses of Rye (Tristan’s home), seven years after the French burned the town. I have seen no evidence to show that Edward ever inspected Framlingham Castle. In fact, I am fairly certain that he never did (not in an official capacity, anyway). But Edward’s keen eye for defenses is a good filter with which to look through when describing a castle.

And while we are on the subject of Framlingham, there is one other inaccuracy, although this time it’s one of omission. A very small omission, but it wracks at my historical conscience, so I will mention it. A half-moon-shaped fortification defended the approach to Framlingham at the time this story takes place. It was a fairly major structure, separate from the castle, and Edward and his friends would have had to walk through it to reach the main gatehouse. I omitted it because it added too much complication to the description of the castle. There. I’ve said it.

My conscience is clean.

Framlingham was an interesting castle. It was the home to the earls of Norfolk, particularly the Bigod family. Roger Bigod built the structure without a central keep, which was not often done at that time. All of the buildings in Framlingham were built along the curtain walls, which, coincidentally, is how Edward’s castle at Bodiam was built. Sir Edward might not have surveyed Framlingham in an official capacity, but perhaps he took note of it on his own.

King Richard gave Edward a license to crenellate (build a castle) in 1383 despite the fact that—as Edward points out—there was little reason for the French to attack Bodiam. There were rivers and channels that led from the coast to Edward’s home, but the French raids had all occurred directly on the coasts of England.

Edward wanted a castle. And Richard allowed him to have one.

It’s good to have friends.

Historical Note: Episode 3

The story begins a slow deviation from history at this point. The final events remain the same, but I have had to make a few changes on the way.

I do not know if King Richard II ever visited Framlingham, and I am fairly certain he never set up his court there. But when a change in history as large as a demonic plague is introduced, things must shift a bit. And, along with the king’s geography, the timeline of things has shifted too.

 Things have jumped forward a few years. Richard should be out of the country at this point, trying to suppress a rebellion. But an outbreak of demonic plague would hardly be a time to leave one’s country. So I have left him in England.

A few more deviations from historical fact have been made in future episodes. I have done this in the name of storytelling, and will, of course, point out the deviations when they are made. But most of them revolve around Richard, the son of Edward the Black Prince.

History has marked King Richard II as a failure.

He is most often described as vain, quick to anger, and even insane. And there is much evidence to support those claims.

Before he came to the throne, kings in England were simply addressed as “sire,” or “my lord.” But Richard insisted that his subjects call him “Your Majesty,” or “Your Royal Highness.” He also insisted that subjects kneel before him, and he was the first king to have an official portrait of himself painted. Acts of an egotistical man? Perhaps. Signs of a changing monarchy? Probably.

Richards reputation for quick anger and pettiness stems from dealings with his enemies. When a group of his lords rose up and tried to suppress him, he waited years before exacting his vengeance on them—murdering a few and exiling several more. And his rumored madness comes, most likely, from a flamboyant personality, a love of drama, and a passage in a historical document about a tantrum he had (which some refute as mistranslated).

Added together, these facts paint a bleak picture of a mad king spiraling into failure. My story has perpetuated this image. I hope I have not done King Richard a disservice.

Richard had many failures, but I know from the politics of our modern age how easy it to paint someone in a negative light with just a few well-placed facts. Kings in England (and elsewhere) are like painted layers on a canvas—each new king paints over the last, creating a new vision of reality. If the new king did not like the old, then the old would be painted to reflect this. And so we have layer upon layer of processed reality. It becomes very difficult to strip away each tier to see what king and country were truly like.