doors. I wonder if Richard’s opponent will ride from the cottage. What an odd way to make an . . .
Realization comes to me like a shower of molten lead. I understand why there are no dividers. I stop cheering. Bile rises in my throat.
“No.” I can only manage a whisper.
The first of the plaguers lurches out. An old man wearing a torn robe. Blocks of sandstone prevent the doors from opening too wide, leaving only one direction for the old man to walk—over the planks and into the tilting field. He takes a staggering step forward, his gaze jerking from one side of the courtyard to the other.
The knight holding the sack draws out a dead, bloody chicken and hurls it over the trench and stone wall, into the tilting field. The old plaguer takes a step onto the planks and raises his nose to the scent. Before he can take another step, a rush of plaguers shuffles from the stable and onto the planks. I count ten, but they are massed together so it is hard to tell. The old man is knocked into the trench as the others rumble across the makeshift bridge. His screams ring out across the lower courtyard.
Simon laughs behind me. “Stakes in the trench,” he says. “We always get a half-dozen rotters falling in. I imagine they are bored to death down there, eh?” I do not laugh and he mistakes my silence for stupidity. “Do you see it? I said bored . The spikes?”
The trumpets ring out again. Richard’s horse tosses its head. The king lowers his lance, gives a muffled shout, and slaps his knees against his charger’s armored flanks. The animal springs toward the plaguers with a snort.
“He musn’t do this!” Morgan shouts. “Those plaguers are not animals!”
“He’s right,” Tristan adds. “They’re not even French!”
“Simon!” I shout. “Tell him to stop!”
Simon laughs. “Tell the King of England to stop? You jest, of course.”
The king’s horse picks up speed, cantering with the metallic rhythm of barding and armor. Its hoof beats are like distant cannon fire.
“There is a cure!” I shout. “Those people can be cured! In the name of God , tell Richard to stop! Stop !”
I howl the last word because Richard is almost upon the first of the plaguers—a woman in a blue dress who stumbles across the field with her arms flush against her sides. Richard’s lance takes her in the chest. Blood and bones explode from her back as the steel tip slashes through her. Her shriek sounds almost human. The king releases the spear and draws his sword. The woman topples backward but the tip of the lance enters the earth, and she is held suspended over the grass. She slides slowly down the shaft, completing her fall one inch at a time.
I take great gasping breaths. “This is murder.”
“We’ve killed scores of them ourselves,” Tristan says.
“Not like this,” I reply. “Never like this.”
I have killed plaguers to ease their suffering or to defend myself and my friends. Never have I slaughtered them for entertainment.
Chaucer chants softly:
“And high above, depicted in a tower, sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power. Under a sword that swung above his head, sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread.”
Richard’s blade flashes in the sunlight, ends life in careless sweeps. I do not see demons dying on that field. I see sons and uncles. I see fathers too sick to care for their families. I see good men, like the mercenary we had to kill on the Roman road. But it is the women that pain me the most. Angels, like my Elizabeth. Saints, like Morgan’s Matilda. King Richard’s sword extinguishes hunger. Erases words from this world. He is the wolf that slaughters the lambs.
And I am sworn to stop him.
Chapter 14
I vault off the platform and shove through fondling couples and bench-side dice games. Tristan’s footsteps rumble behind me. Simon shouts to me but I am not listening. I hop to the grass in front of the benches and sprint toward the trench that surrounds the tilting field.
Realization comes to me like a shower of molten lead. I understand why there are no dividers. I stop cheering. Bile rises in my throat.
“No.” I can only manage a whisper.
The first of the plaguers lurches out. An old man wearing a torn robe. Blocks of sandstone prevent the doors from opening too wide, leaving only one direction for the old man to walk—over the planks and into the tilting field. He takes a staggering step forward, his gaze jerking from one side of the courtyard to the other.
The knight holding the sack draws out a dead, bloody chicken and hurls it over the trench and stone wall, into the tilting field. The old plaguer takes a step onto the planks and raises his nose to the scent. Before he can take another step, a rush of plaguers shuffles from the stable and onto the planks. I count ten, but they are massed together so it is hard to tell. The old man is knocked into the trench as the others rumble across the makeshift bridge. His screams ring out across the lower courtyard.
Simon laughs behind me. “Stakes in the trench,” he says. “We always get a half-dozen rotters falling in. I imagine they are bored to death down there, eh?” I do not laugh and he mistakes my silence for stupidity. “Do you see it? I said bored . The spikes?”
The trumpets ring out again. Richard’s horse tosses its head. The king lowers his lance, gives a muffled shout, and slaps his knees against his charger’s armored flanks. The animal springs toward the plaguers with a snort.
“He musn’t do this!” Morgan shouts. “Those plaguers are not animals!”
“He’s right,” Tristan adds. “They’re not even French!”
“Simon!” I shout. “Tell him to stop!”
Simon laughs. “Tell the King of England to stop? You jest, of course.”
The king’s horse picks up speed, cantering with the metallic rhythm of barding and armor. Its hoof beats are like distant cannon fire.
“There is a cure!” I shout. “Those people can be cured! In the name of God , tell Richard to stop! Stop !”
I howl the last word because Richard is almost upon the first of the plaguers—a woman in a blue dress who stumbles across the field with her arms flush against her sides. Richard’s lance takes her in the chest. Blood and bones explode from her back as the steel tip slashes through her. Her shriek sounds almost human. The king releases the spear and draws his sword. The woman topples backward but the tip of the lance enters the earth, and she is held suspended over the grass. She slides slowly down the shaft, completing her fall one inch at a time.
I take great gasping breaths. “This is murder.”
“We’ve killed scores of them ourselves,” Tristan says.
“Not like this,” I reply. “Never like this.”
I have killed plaguers to ease their suffering or to defend myself and my friends. Never have I slaughtered them for entertainment.
Chaucer chants softly:
“And high above, depicted in a tower, sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power. Under a sword that swung above his head, sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread.”
Richard’s blade flashes in the sunlight, ends life in careless sweeps. I do not see demons dying on that field. I see sons and uncles. I see fathers too sick to care for their families. I see good men, like the mercenary we had to kill on the Roman road. But it is the women that pain me the most. Angels, like my Elizabeth. Saints, like Morgan’s Matilda. King Richard’s sword extinguishes hunger. Erases words from this world. He is the wolf that slaughters the lambs.
And I am sworn to stop him.
Chapter 14
I vault off the platform and shove through fondling couples and bench-side dice games. Tristan’s footsteps rumble behind me. Simon shouts to me but I am not listening. I hop to the grass in front of the benches and sprint toward the trench that surrounds the tilting field.
Similar Books
