Free Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) by Roberto Calas Page B

dead deer to a rope and lured an army of plaguers to a battlefield five miles away. The same battlefield those Frenchmen on the wheel fled. But I was nearly torn apart when the plaguers spotted me as I attached the rope.
    “Similar sort of thing,” he says. “Except there was no horse waiting to whisk me to safety.” His gaze grows distant and he does not say anything more.
    It must have been bad.
    “And you?’ he asks me finally. “It’s a surprise to see you out of the monastery.”
    I think about my response for a time.
    “Elizabeth…I was washing her arms. Found marks on them. Black bands near the wrists from the ribbons.”
    We ride in silence until I can speak again.
    “She slammed back against the wall once and it…it left a thick black mark on her shoulder.”
    Tristan nods. “Is she safer now?”
    “We padded the ribbons. And Sister Mildred helped me fix a mattress to the wall. But…” I shrug.
    “We need to hurry,” Tristan says. “We’ll find the alchemist and he’ll have the cure. We should look for the simpleton that Isabella spoke of. The people of Chelmsford will know. I’m sure they’ll know of him.”
    “Alchemy is a sin,” Belisencia says. “The Lord says, ‘Do not turn to alchemists; do not seek them out and so make yourselves unclean by them.’”
    “Morgan said that to me once,” Tristan says. “Except it wasn’t alchemists; it was sorcerers and mediums.”
    She dismisses him with a wave. “It applies to alchemy as well. Prayer is the only true cure for this plague.”
    “I’ve seen a lot of prayer these days,” Tristan says. “And not one plaguer brought back because of it. If prayer is the cure, then we’re all doomed.”
    “Perhaps that is as God wishes it,” Belisencia says. “Perhaps he is finally calling us all back to the Kingdom of Heaven. Although I don’t think I will see you there, Sir Tristan.”
    “No,” he says. “I’ll spend eternity with the merry folk.”
    “Merry? You mean the ones who defy God?”
    “No,” he replies. “I mean the interesting ones. You zealots spend your entire lives simply waiting for the next. You pinch your noses and sit quietly, never looking to the sides, hoping you won’t make a mistake before God calls you back to the Kingdom of Heaven. What kind of existence is that?”
    “A pious one,” she says. “A glorious one. You sinners spend your life chasing every pleasure. Lasciviousness, perpetual drink, lies, violence, vulgarity. You blunder from one mistake to the next, hurting all those around you, risking eternal damnation, never knowing discipline or faith. What kind of existence is that?”
    “Sister,” Tristan says. “That sounds like heaven to me.”
    “How odd,” she says, “that someone like you, who has no faith, wears a cross.”
    Tristan touches the wooden cross at his chest. It is the one Morgan gave him before we left Hedingham. A peddler sold it to us, claiming it to be an artifact made from the wood of the True Cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified. At first I scoffed at this claim, but I witnessed Morgan performing what I can only describe as miracles with it. Parting mobs of plaguers. Shattering a charge by mounted knights.
    “It is also odd,” Tristan says, “that you who have faith wear none.”
    Belisencia tries to retort but when her mouth opens she bursts into tears and covers her face. I own neither sword nor shield that can protect me from a woman’s tears. Tristan and I look to each other awkwardly and ride to either side of her.
    “I…I am sorry,” I say, not certain what it is I am sorry about.
    She buries her face in the blanket and cries for a time. I look at Tristan and he shrugs nervously. He pats her back with his gauntleted hand, then glances at me and shrugs again, motions to Belisencia.
    I am more comfortable dealing with an army of plaguers than a sobbing woman.
    “I am sorry,” I say again. Women like apologies. “I am so sorry.”
    Tristan rolls his eyes