The Scourge (Kindle Serial) Read Free

travelled to the Crusades and settled in
the Holy Land as hermits. I imagine we will all be Carmelites soon. Hermits. Hiding
in castles and priories and praying assiduously.
    “The plague worsens.”
Prior David breaks off a hunk of bread from the loaf we share. “I understand it
began among the Sodomites of Scotland.” He chews the bread and sips at a wooden
mug. “To think that buggery is the cause of this misery.”
    “I have heard many
explanations,” I say. “But I’ve not heard that one.”
    “Would it surprise
you, Sir Edward?” He passes the loaf to Sir Morgan. “Such sins against nature
always draw God’s Fury.”
    Tristan’s smirk and
the squint of his eyes tell me he has something to say. I kick him under the
table and he ignores it.
    “I hold no love for
buggery, Prior David,” he says. “But this sickness has claimed many innocent
lives. It seems that God’s Fury has poor aim.”
    The prior raises his
hands above his shoulders, palms up, and quotes scripture: “Can you fathom the
mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher
than the heavens. They are deeper than the depths of the grave.” He looks
directly at Tristan. “It is not for us to question God, Sir Tristan. It is for
us only to have faith.”
    Sir Morgan scowls at
Sir Tristan and quotes the last line of the verse that Prior David began: “But a witless man can no more become wise than a wild donkey’s colt can be born a man.”
    Prior David offers us
a novice’s quarters to sleep in. I decline the quarters. My knights and I can
sleep on the grass outside the abbey, among the villagers. The only thing I
want is a wall between us and the plague while we sleep.
    Before I step outside
I visit the nave. It is packed with burghers and wealthy merchants, who have
set up beds of hay and linen. I walk through their midst and light a candle for
Allison Moore. I say a prayer for her soul. And for mine.
    Outside, in the
courtyard, I listen to the hum of life as I drift toward sleep, and I think of
a monastery in Saint Edmund’s Bury. It is a bit like this priory, but far
larger. The men who rule there are neither humble nor pleasant, but I pray that
Elizabeth is there. My wife’s mother is friends with the prior at that
monastery, and I have been inside its walls many times as her guest. It is
impenetrable.
    I imagine Elizabeth
sleeping in a novice’s quarters. I imagine her praying for my return, her hands
clasped together. Her hands are beautiful. Fingers long and white and slender I
would sometimes study those fingers while she slept. Such perfect beauty in
them. A panic grips my soul when I think I may never see those hands again.
Never feel the gentle stroke of her thumb against mine. Has it truly been three
months since I have felt her touch?
    Elizabeth. Never shall
I let you out of my sight again .

Chapter 4

    The Medway tumbles
beneath us as we cross the stone bridge at Aylesford. I had wanted to cross the
river at Rochester and follow the old Roman road thereafter, but the attack at Meddestane
forced us west. There are few roads here. We will ride over chalk hills and red
heaths. Sir Morgan tells me it’s for the best.
    “That old Roman road is
well travelled,” he says. “Many big towns. Probably teeming with the afflicted.
Out here” — he gestures grandly — “we won’t see a soul.”
    As he speaks, I spot a
soul running toward us, a man in a roughspun tunic waving his arms. We pull our
horses to a halt and wait for him. In the distance behind him is a tiny village
of wattle and daub. A small stone church is the only structure of any
significance. Up in the sky a large bird flutters erratically. It can’t be
possible. It has to be a different falcon. I watch it until it settles in a
stand of alders. Morgan doesn’t seem to notice, and I don’t make mention of it.
    “Kind sirs!” The man
pants and doubles over as he catches his breath. “Kind…sirs. Thank…thank Our
Lord…that I