Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) (32 page)

“Give us our weapons back,” I say. “We’ll send those dogs home.”

John the drunk gives us back our cannons, my sword, and Tristan’s dagger. I take a lit prayer candle from the chancel and we run from the church to the cluster of abbey buildings along the river.

The priest and his mob are still on the opposite bank. Three of the four halberdiers from the monastery face them from the docks, crossbows in hand. A square-sailed cog, similar to the ones we saw in the narrow channel east of Norwich, is moored to one side of the docks. The Norfolk winds tug at the furled canvas of the sail.

Tristan and I take positions on the dock with the rest of the guards. Belisencia and the alchemist stand just behind us.

I call to the priest: “Is this one of those open-air masses?”

“Yield!” shouts the priest. “I am Father Simon, and I say yield, heathens! Yield the abbey to us and pray to the Holy Father for forgiveness! You must open the gates of St. Benet’s and allow God’s Justice to enter!”

“We let God’s Justice in a few hours ago,” Tristan calls. “He says to tell you He is having a lovely time and that all of you idiots should return home.”

The alchemist clears his throat at my side. “Perhaps we shouldn’t antagonize them.”

“Alchemy is a sin!” the priest shouts. “Alchemy and witchcraft are the cause of this plague!” He gestures to the crowd behind him. “And we shall be the cure.”

“I thought prayer was the only true and righteous cure,” I shout.

“Yes,” says the priest. “We will pray for you as you burn.”

“But…” Tristan squints and shakes his head. “We’re not plagued. And if we were, we wouldn’t need to be cured, since you were going to burn us alive anyway. This metaphor is confusing, Father.”

“
Open the bloody gates!
” the priest shouts. His shoulders rise with a deep breath, then he calls in a calmer voice. “Open the gates and I promise we will let everyone live, except for the alchemist. All servants and soldiers will be spared. But the alchemist defiles holy ground! Saint Benet would weep if he knew that a sorcerer had turned his abbey into a cesspit of foul magic and sin.”

Saint Benet is the patron of scholars and students, so I believe this abbey to be a fitting place for an alchemist. The poetry of this observation would likely be lost on Father Simon, though. The priest has a look in his eyes that I have seen too often in the eyes of men with power. In the ancient times, an old soldier and king named Caesar crossed a river called the Rubicon on his way to attack Rome. A monk told me that when the army crossed this river, there was no turning back. He was committed to the attack. The priest before me has not crossed the Bure, but I believe he crossed the Rubicon long ago. There is no turning back for him, and so there is no point talking to him any further.

“I’m tired of this conversation, Father,” I say. “This man is doing nothing wrong. He is searching for answers. Nothing more.”

“God is the answer! And death is the wage of sin!”

“Did you hear that, Tristan?” I ask. “He says God is the answer.”

Tristan draws his ten-shot hand bombard from the sack at his shoulder. “Truly,” he replies, “is there any question that cannot be answered with God’s Love?”

I hand Daniel the prayer candle I took from the church and draw my own cannon. Tristan lights two firing cords and gives one to me as the priest continues to blather.

“It is God, not the works of a sorcerer that will save us!” he shouts. “‘For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works!’ That is written in Ephisians!” He gestures toward the mob behind him. “These men gathered with me are God’s warriors! God shall be our sword. God shall be our armor! We will not leave until God’s Justice has been done! We are unshakable in our faith! Do you hear me? We are unshakable in our faith!”

Tristan and I raise the cannons.

“What are you doing?” the alchemist asks.

“Shaking their faith,” I reply.

“This plague is a test!” Father Simon shouts. “And by turning to sorcery, you have failed! ‘Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.’”

“Hallelujah.” Tristan and I say it together as we light the guns. The thunderous blast of the explosions and the thick belch of smoke startle me, as they always do. But if the guns make my heart stutter, I can only imagine the terror the peasants on the far bank must feel.

They fly like startled pigeons.

Our guns were aimed into the river. We were not looking to put holes in flesh, merely to send flesh running. And run it does. The peasants do not stop.

The three priests flinched at the explosions—the two younger men dropped to their knees at the sound—but none of them took even one step away from the riverbank.

“God’s Warriors are going the wrong way, Father Simon.” Tristan shouts. “Do the Ephisians speak about cowardly flight? Or abandoning faith in the face of overwhelming noise?”

“You will not laugh when the flames melt your flesh,” Father Simon says. “You will weep when you feel the fiery lakes and the sting of brimstone. You will pray that God forgives you when you see the hell that awaits.”

“I’ve seen it,” Tristan says. “And the fiery-lakes-and-brimstone thing is bollocks. It’s just people with large heads.”

Chapter 50

The soldiers and servants of the abbey laugh and whistle as they board the cog and row it to the far shore. They attach ropes to the six rowboats and tie the ropes to the cog. Off in the distance I spot a group of peasants stumbling back toward us. I watch them for a time, then realize that they are not peasants at all but plaguers.

“They’ve been coming more regularly,” says the alchemist. “And in greater numbers. We are remote here and surrounded by rivers and marshes. But the afflicted can smell our animals. I fear more and more of them will come, until we are overrun.”

“More mindless enemies,” I say.

The alchemist walks a dozen paces away and kneels. He offers a prayer to Saint Benet and the Virgin. Our alchemist is a religious man. I try to wade through the many ironies of this fact, but Belisencia interrupts.

“It is God’s Will that we came here when we did.” She looks toward the alchemist. “Or they would have killed him.”

I shake my head. “I doubt it. It’s almost impossible to break into an enemy fortress.”

“It can’t be that hard,” she replies. “Our armies have taken many fortresses in France, have they not?”

I study her for a moment. “Do you know how most enemies get inside fortifications?”

She thinks on this. “Climbing the walls?”

I shake my head. “Someone on the inside opens the gates.”

She looks at me as if trying to gauge my sincerity, then glances at Tristan.

“It’s true,” he says. “Either a traitor opens the gate or the governor surrenders and opens them. I’ve been trying to convince Edward not to put any gates or doors in his castle wall at Bodiam.”

“Castles with no gates or doors are called tombs, Tristan,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies. “And have you ever heard of an army getting into a tomb? It never happens.”

The alchemist tells us that he will dine in two hours at the refectory and invites us to join him. He will answer no questions before supper and suggests we bathe and let his servants wash our clothing.

John the drunk, who seems more sober after the peasant confrontation, leads us to the bath, below the dormer. A wooden tub sits at the center of the ribbed undercroft. Servants scurry past us with buckets of hot water, pour them into the tub, then rush off to fetch more. Other servants dump boiled chamomile and brown fennel into the rising water. Tristan does not wait for them to finish. He walks toward the tub.

“Thanks be to House Gemini,” he says. “Even the filth on me has filth on it.” He strips off his armor, letting each piece fall to the stone floor with a clatter, then pulls off his mail shirt and gambeson in one motion. “Unclean!” he moans, mimicking the lepers from Norwich.

Belisencia blushes at his shirtless body, but she does not leave the room. Her gaze drifts across Tristan’s muscled back.

“Pardon me, but can you…” Tristan calls back to a servant girl, then trails off when he notes Belisencia’s gaze.

She starts and averts her eyes. “You…I didn’t know you were going to…”

Tristan shakes his head. “‘But I say to you that every woman who looks at a man with lust has already committed adultery with him in her heart.’”

“I wasn’t looking…I simply…you removed everything so quickly…”

He walks toward her. “And since it is in your heart already…”

She backs away from him. “Tristan…”

“Modesty is what separates us from animals,” he says, circling her slowly. “Why don’t you join me in the bath? We can be animals for a time.”

“Tristan…” Belisencia follows him with her eyes, turning her head to keep him in sight. Her gaze brushes across his bare chest.

“We can pretend we’re baboons. Pick the filth from one another.”

“If only…if only I could pick the filth from your brain.” Her words are almost a whisper.

I have seen Tristan besiege women like this before. It has always amused me, watching him break through their defenses. Today is different. Today I feel like a defender. As if I should protect Belisencia. But she is like one of those French cities in Normandy where half the population supports the attackers. It makes for a difficult defense.

“Why do you hesitate?” he says. “It’s Paul, isn’t it? That bastard. I’ll challenge him to a duel, I will.”

“Stop playing games, Tristan.” A flush darkens her face from neck to cheeks.

The smile fades from Tristan’s face. “I’m not playing games.”

She lifts a hand to brush at her hair but he grabs the hand and kisses it, stares into her eyes. They remain frozen in that position until Belisencia slowly pulls free. Tristan steps closer to her so their bodies are almost touching. She returns his gaze for a long moment, then blinks and shakes her head.

“I…I will wait upstairs until the two of you are done. I can have my bath later.” She whirls around, tripping over the hem of her dress, and stumbles toward the stairs. With a final glance toward Tristan, she gathers her skirts and flees the undercroft.

The refectory is sparse. A tall wooden crucifix hangs on one wall and a statuette of the Virgin Mary holding the babe, Jesus, sits on a shelf on the opposite wall. There are no other ornaments in the building. All of the guards and three women join us for the meal. The two halberdiers who exchanged dangerous looks earlier sit across from me and do their best not to look my way. I stare at them for a long time.

Belisencia looks radiant again. She wears a new dress—green and simple, but pretty—over her kirtle. Her hair has been brushed and plaited into spirals on either side of her head, with a netted caul holding the plaits in place. Tristan’s gaze never strays from her as he pulls a chair out beside his.

The alchemist leads us in a short prayer, then the servants bring supper from the kitchens. It is a feast. A pig and five not-so-clever chickens have been slaughtered in our honor. It is the finest meal I have seen since leaving St. Edmund’s Bury.

“How is it that Gregory the Wanderer has a cure?” I ask.

The alchemist chews slowly without looking at me. He drinks wine and wipes at his lips carefully with the tablecloth before answering. “He traded with a ship captain from Damascus.”

Damascus. Syria. Ships from the Arab lands often visit England. They trade silk and spices and perfumes for English wool, which they covet. If a Syrian captain had a cure, then this plague must have struck Arabia as well. Is the entire world crawling with the hungry dead? Or have they completely cured the plague in Syria? Must I travel to Damascus to heal my Elizabeth?

“Arabian and Persian medicine is far better than ours,” the alchemist says. “They do not see science as sin.” He touches the cross at his neck.

“So if I want the cure, I must go to Syria?” I ask. My heart aches at the thought. It would take weeks to get to Syria. Perhaps months. Elizabeth does not have months.

“I do not think you will find it there, either,” the alchemist replies. “I spoke with a shipmaster who had arrived from Alexandria. The plague runs unchecked through the Arab lands. He said there are no ports left to dock upon, and fires rage in all the major cities. Whoever created this cure did not create it in time. I do not expect any more to be made.”

“And Gregory gave it to you?” I do not trust the wandering peddler, and after his last cure, I certainly do not trust this one.

“He was starving. So he traded seven ampoules of the cure for ten pigs.”

“And you have tested the cure?” I ask.

“Of course I have.” He and Daniel exchange glances. “I tried it on two subjects. One ampoule each.”

“And it cured them?” I try to keep my voice from trembling.

“It cured one of them, yes.”

“And the other?”

A silence falls over the table. Guards exchange glances. The alchemist cuts into the pork and chews slowly, then wipes his mouth again. “The other was not successful.”

Tristan and I look to one another.

“Not successful in what way?” I ask.

Another silence settles in the hall. One of the guards clears his throat. A wooden plate clatters to the floor in the kitchens.

“Did the person remain plagued?” I ask.

“Yes,” says the alchemist. “Let us leave it at that, shall we?”

I do not want to leave it at that, but the alchemist cuts at his roast and does not meet my gaze.

“So the cure only works for some people,” Belisencia says.

“I believe so,” the alchemist replies. “It is common in such things. Everyone’s humors are in a different state of balance.” His gaze grows distant, his voice almost a whisper. “It is possible that the second ampoule was mixed incorrectly. I doubt we will ever know for sure.”

“So you still have five ampoules left,” says Tristan.

The alchemist drinks his wine for a long time. He sets the cup down gently and moves it an inch to one side, then half an inch to the other. “I…used the other ampoules in my studies.” He stares at the tabletop. “I have none left.”