asks.
“To stop a terrible mistake,” I say.
Another soldier arrives, takes my other arm.
“Why don’t we watch from the benches, eh?” the first soldier asks.
“Because I won’t sit idly while people are butchered for sport.”
“So sayeth the Lord!” Tristan shouts from behind us.
The first soldier’s hand tears free from my arm as Tristan hammers him to the side. The second soldier seizes Tristan and, while they struggle, I leap.
I strike the far wall of the ditch and the breath explodes from my body. I flail wildly, remembering the spikes, dig my armored fingers into the clay. Soldiers shout behind me, but a more immediate sound draws my attention. I glance down into the steep-sided trench. The sharpened stakes are set in rows along the bottom of the shaft and, impaled upon two of these, is an afflicted woman. She is a skeleton wrapped in wrinkled flesh. The black eyes look unusually large in the withered sockets. She hisses and writhes against the spikes.
They left her there.
I see another plaguer, impaled face-down a few yards away. And yet another a little farther out.
They leave them in the trench.
The afflicted fall in and no one takes them out. They are left to rot, in agony. I wonder how long this poor woman has suffered.
Something buries itself into the earth next to my arm. A crossbow bolt. I dig my toes into the trench wall and drag myself up onto the far side, an arm’s length from the wall of piled stones.
Past the wall, and far to my right, Richard stands on the field with his arms out. The squire fumbles with the straps on his shoulders. Both seem oblivious to my presence on the near side of the trench.
Sir Simon’s voice calls out from behind me as I scramble to my feet.
“At this range, my bolt will cut through your armor as if it were cheese.”
“Cheese can’t cut through armor, Sir Simon.” Tristan is held by two men in chain mail and seems to have lost his awe of the marshal.
I turn to face them. The king’s marshal keeps the crossbow trained on me.
“Hop back over, Sir Edward,” Simon calls. “We can drink mead and taunt the Italian until Richard is done.”
I hear the squeak of the stable doors again, hear wood crash against the sandstone blocks. There is no time for strategy.
“Your bowstring’s wet,” I say.
There is only the briefest flicker of Simon’s eyes toward the crossbow. Tristan kicks the marshal an instant before I throw myself sideways over the stone wall. The bolt clicks as it skims off the steel greave upon my shin.
I roll to my feet and run hunched toward the stable. The crowd cheers. I am certain they are celebrating my unexpected arrival on the field. And, in all likelihood, Sir Simon’s unexpected attempt to kill me.
I glance back. Richard raises an arm to the lords and ladies. He thinks they are cheering him. The squire removes the engraved breastplate, and Richard slaps his unarmored chest a few times, raises his arm again.
I turn away and sprint toward the stable. One of the knights peers from behind his door at me. But I am not interested in him. What interests me is the dozen soldiers running from the benches. They sprint along the other side of the trench, pointing at me and circling toward the back of the stable.
The crowd hoots and stomps as I near the planks leading to the stable. Their wild applause is like hail on cobblestones. A dead chicken soars over my head. The second knight stiffens as he notices me for the first time.
Broken, shuffling footsteps sound from inside the stable. They are coming. The afflicted are coming.
I pass the stone wall, hop on the wobbling planks, and bound across the trench.
“You can’t be here!” The chicken-hurling knight ducks behind his door and peers at me over the edge.
I take hold of the door and slam it shut, turn to the other knight.
“What do you—”
I tear the door from his hands. But the plaguers are upon me. Glinting eyes of polished ebony. Heads jerking from side to
“To stop a terrible mistake,” I say.
Another soldier arrives, takes my other arm.
“Why don’t we watch from the benches, eh?” the first soldier asks.
“Because I won’t sit idly while people are butchered for sport.”
“So sayeth the Lord!” Tristan shouts from behind us.
The first soldier’s hand tears free from my arm as Tristan hammers him to the side. The second soldier seizes Tristan and, while they struggle, I leap.
I strike the far wall of the ditch and the breath explodes from my body. I flail wildly, remembering the spikes, dig my armored fingers into the clay. Soldiers shout behind me, but a more immediate sound draws my attention. I glance down into the steep-sided trench. The sharpened stakes are set in rows along the bottom of the shaft and, impaled upon two of these, is an afflicted woman. She is a skeleton wrapped in wrinkled flesh. The black eyes look unusually large in the withered sockets. She hisses and writhes against the spikes.
They left her there.
I see another plaguer, impaled face-down a few yards away. And yet another a little farther out.
They leave them in the trench.
The afflicted fall in and no one takes them out. They are left to rot, in agony. I wonder how long this poor woman has suffered.
Something buries itself into the earth next to my arm. A crossbow bolt. I dig my toes into the trench wall and drag myself up onto the far side, an arm’s length from the wall of piled stones.
Past the wall, and far to my right, Richard stands on the field with his arms out. The squire fumbles with the straps on his shoulders. Both seem oblivious to my presence on the near side of the trench.
Sir Simon’s voice calls out from behind me as I scramble to my feet.
“At this range, my bolt will cut through your armor as if it were cheese.”
“Cheese can’t cut through armor, Sir Simon.” Tristan is held by two men in chain mail and seems to have lost his awe of the marshal.
I turn to face them. The king’s marshal keeps the crossbow trained on me.
“Hop back over, Sir Edward,” Simon calls. “We can drink mead and taunt the Italian until Richard is done.”
I hear the squeak of the stable doors again, hear wood crash against the sandstone blocks. There is no time for strategy.
“Your bowstring’s wet,” I say.
There is only the briefest flicker of Simon’s eyes toward the crossbow. Tristan kicks the marshal an instant before I throw myself sideways over the stone wall. The bolt clicks as it skims off the steel greave upon my shin.
I roll to my feet and run hunched toward the stable. The crowd cheers. I am certain they are celebrating my unexpected arrival on the field. And, in all likelihood, Sir Simon’s unexpected attempt to kill me.
I glance back. Richard raises an arm to the lords and ladies. He thinks they are cheering him. The squire removes the engraved breastplate, and Richard slaps his unarmored chest a few times, raises his arm again.
I turn away and sprint toward the stable. One of the knights peers from behind his door at me. But I am not interested in him. What interests me is the dozen soldiers running from the benches. They sprint along the other side of the trench, pointing at me and circling toward the back of the stable.
The crowd hoots and stomps as I near the planks leading to the stable. Their wild applause is like hail on cobblestones. A dead chicken soars over my head. The second knight stiffens as he notices me for the first time.
Broken, shuffling footsteps sound from inside the stable. They are coming. The afflicted are coming.
I pass the stone wall, hop on the wobbling planks, and bound across the trench.
“You can’t be here!” The chicken-hurling knight ducks behind his door and peers at me over the edge.
I take hold of the door and slam it shut, turn to the other knight.
“What do you—”
I tear the door from his hands. But the plaguers are upon me. Glinting eyes of polished ebony. Heads jerking from side to
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