Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) by Roberto Calas Read Free Book Online

abbey is full of men, women and children. It is the same throughout England. The houses of God have become the houses of man, and while monks may stand upright before Him, the families I see do not. They slouch and stare downward, huddle together and cast prayers toward the floor. I would pity them, but most of the families look complete. Husbands hold wives, and I envy them.
    The abbot is named Peter and he does not look into our eyes when he speaks. Monks are an odd breed. Mother Mary is the only woman they are allowed, so Jesus becomes the hunger in their bellies.
    The abbot rings a hand bell and tells us there is little food at the abbey, and no beds available. A young postulant holding a basket trots down the long gallery hallway and bows to us. I take a loaf of raveled bread from the basket and thank Abbot Peter for the safety of his walls.
    Tristan and I follow the postulant back along the gallery, leading our geldings. A monastery is no place for a horse, but horses are worth more than silver these days, and I need mine to reach Elizabeth. We leave our steeds to graze in the cloisters and find an empty corner of the dormer to sleep in.
    I dream that night of armies clashing. The forces of Heaven and Hell meeting in a seminal battle, and England is the prize. But in the dream I cannot tell which side is which. Cannons with demon mouths erupt, three quick bursts, and the battle begins. I am caught in the middle of the battlefield. Another three cannons shake the skies and the armies rage toward one another. I crouch and cover my head as the next cannonade fires. And as the armies collide, I wake and take deep gulps of air.
    The cannons erupt once more. Four, five, six bursts. I do not know how the cannons from my dream can follow me back to the abbey. It takes a moment for sleep to fall away completely and for me to realize the sound is not cannons, but a pounding on the monastery doors.
    Tristan is already on his feet, buckling his sword. I do the same and, with a glance at our armor on the floor, we hurry down the stairs and through the galley hallway that leads to the great double doors.
    The door is partly open when we arrive. The soldier that allowed us into the abbey peers out. Abbot Peter is behind him, rubbing his fingertips together and trying to see through the small opening. A dozen sleepy families watch from their makeshift beds along the gallery.
    “What about him?” the soldier says to someone outside. “Is he plagued?”
    I can only make a few words of a reply from beyond the door. “. . . fine! . . . sake! . . . the door!” Snarls ring out from outside. The voice grows much louder. “We. Are. Going. To die!”
    The soldier glances at Peter, who shrugs. The door opens and two men stumble inside. They turn and drive their shoulders into the door as hands reach through. They are the men who we passed earlier, on the cart. Tristan and I push past Peter as the soldier jabs at the afflicted with a shortspear. The weight of the plaguers drives the door open further. Two of the afflicted slip inside: A tall man with a leather cap tied under his chin, and a naked woman. Tristan and I drive our swords into the man’s stomach at the same time, then realize our mistake.
    “I’ll get the woman,” I say. But Tristan is already drawing his sword out of the man’s belly and our blades clang as we both stab her. He laughs but the situation is not humorous. Both plaguers are still alive and we have no armor. The man’s hands clamp around my left arm. I drive my sword into his mouth with such force that the tip drives through the back of his skull.
    Tristan swings his blade with two hands and knocks the woman into me. I slip on blood and fall to one knee, my sword still in the man’s mouth. Tristan hacks at the woman again and again. Blood everywhere. I leverage the male plaguer to the ground and put my foot on his throat. He flails at me with his hands and catches me in the side of the head. I grunt and