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

shouts. “My entire body is an open wound!”
    Tristan laughs and fills Morgan’s bowl to the brim with leek stew.
    “What is that smell?” Zhuri asks. “Like some sort of flower.”
    “It’s lavender.” I smile at Tristan.
    “I don’t smell anything.” He scoops out more stew.
    “One ladle only, please!” Father Peter says. “We do not have much.”
    “This man has come back from the dead,” Tristan replies. “I hardly think Jesus was restricted to one ladleful when He came back, do you?”
    Peter hisses and the other monks cast angry glances at Tristan.
    “Tristan!” Morgan shouts. “You are in God’s house!”
    “Well, God should keep His pantry better stocked.”
    One of the monks stands, his chair groaning across the wooden floor, and jabs a finger angrily toward Tristan.
    “You have offended Father Jacobus,” says Peter.
    Tristan smirks. “Are your monks under vows of silence?”
    “They’re not monks,” Morgan replies. “They’re Premonstratensians.”
    Peter nods agreement, and Tristan barks a laugh that makes him snort. “You just made that word up. Admit it.”
    I know Morgan is not making it up. He is a second son, and so was sent to the priesthood when he came of age. When his older brother died, Morgan gave up the cloth and took up the sword.
    “Premonstratensians,” Morgan says, “are canons. Priests living under Saint Augustine’s Rule.”
    “And they can’t talk?” Tristan asks.
    “Most can,” Peter says. “But mine have taken vows of silence. They will not speak until God has lifted this scourge from the land.”
    “It’s not a scourge,” I say. “It’s a plague. Archbishop Hartley is calling it a plague now.”
    Peter shrugs. “Plague or scourge. They are the same, are they not?”
    Tristan holds up a hand and squints. “So God will notice that your monks aren’t talking and suddenly decide to lift this plague?”
    “They’re not monks,” Morgan says.
    “Have you ever considered a vow of silence, Morgan?” Tristan replies.
    “Their silence is a sacrifice,” says Peter. “A show of devotion. If these devout men do not utter a word for one full year, do you not think God will notice? How can He overlook such sacrifice? I only wish more people were as devoted. Perhaps God would have lifted this curse already.”
    Morgan crosses himself. “You speak truly and righteously, Father Peter.”
    Tristan looks as if he is going to speak, but Zhuri interrupts them with an impatient wave of his hand. “Listen!”
    Everyone quiets. Morgan and the Moor exchange grins. Zhuri extends a closed fist, palm up, and opens it. Inside is a ceramic ampoule with Arabic writing upon it. He laughs, shifts in his seat with excitement. “Do you have any idea what I hold in my hand?”
    Tristan studies the object carefully. “Judging from the ceramic used and the shape of the ampoule, I would say it’s some sort of cure for this plague. And based on the style of that writing, I assume it has come from Syria.”
    Zhuri’s smile vanishes. “How could . . .”
    Tristan holds up his ampoule—an exact copy of the one Zhuri holds.
    “Where did you get that?” Morgan asks.
    “The more important question,” I say, “is where did you get yours?”
    Morgan pours most of his stew back into the kettle and jerks his head toward Zhuri. “He can tell it better. I wasn’t there. Besides, I get too angry when I talk about it.”
    I look to Zhuri, who puts the ampoule away and brings a bowl of stew to his lips. He slurps, then wipes at his mouth with a sleeve. “Gregory the Wanderer.”
    Of course.
    Gregory the Wanderer. It could only have been him. An old man who steals relics from churches and sells them. I was told that he traded with a ship’s captain from Syria for the cure to this plague, then traded a few batches of this cure to the alchemist. I recovered three of the cures from the alchemist’s workshop, after he was murdered by monks.
    Gregory is the source of all the