lying is not a natural instinct? When someone asks us a question, our first instinct is to tell the truth. Your friend answered my question very quickly. Too quickly to have lied. After he spoke, you realized that he had blundered. You took more time and came up with your response.” He points a finger at me. “A lie.”
I sigh, and Gilbert mistakes it for confirmation. He smiles and paces with his hands clasped before him. “You then further weakened your credibility by changing your lie. First you said the phials contain poison, then you said their contents cause plague. Do you see how you have defeated yourself?”
“You are an idiot,” I say. “Believe what you wish.”
“I don’t have to believe. I know the wonders of reason .”
Reason. I have heard many men speak of it. It is a fashionable topic these days. Lords fill their manors with men from the Continent, from Italy, and from the Arab lands so that they may learn about reason.
I have not had a great deal of teaching on this Greek philosophy. I know that the old monk Bede—a scholar whose writings have survived for nearly a thousand years—was versed in the teachings of the Greeks. He used their reason to conjecture that the world we live and walk upon is not flat but spherical. I would not believe such nonsense, but the Church denied it with such fervor that I know it must be true.
Reason, when used to delve into universal truths, is an indispensable tool. A torch to light the shadowy corners of the world. But these days, when men speak of reason, it is as a molten forge to twist and shape the world for their pleasure. And so I do not place a great deal of faith in reason .
“Here is a sample of reasoning, Edward,” Gilbert says. “Phials contain medicine. You are carrying phials. Therefore, you are carrying medicine. Do you see the simplicity of it?”
“That is simple,” Tristan says.
“Here’s another,” Gilbert says. “Humans avoid danger. The plague is dangerous. Therefore you would not carry the plague near you. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“Breathtaking,” I say. “Precisely the word I would have used.”
“Why would your friend carry phials of plague with him? It is not reasonable . It makes no sense. ”
“Tristan never makes sense,” I say.
“I don’t,” Tristan agrees. “But it adds to my charm.”
“You must possess charm to add to it,” the nun says.
Gilbert waves one hand to silence them. “Reason is an arrow,” he says. “And it always strikes right where it means to. In the middle part of the target, Sir Edward. In the center of the target wreath, where only the best archers strike. And the center of that wreath, where the arrow strikes, that is what we like to call the truth.”
“Such eloquence,” Tristan says. “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”
“I have studied the works of all the masters,” Gilbert says.
“Please, Gilbert,” Tristan says. “Use the cure for good. That is all I ask.”
Gilbert nods reassuringly. “Now, tell me, Sir Tristan, how do the phials work?”
“One drop will cure the afflicted. And one drop will protect the unafflicted for two weeks.” Tristan shakes his head. “Damn you and your reason, Gilbert.”
Gilbert stares at the phials and smiles broadly. “Alexander will be pleased when I show him what these phials do. Perhaps he will give me my own horse.”
“He may give you more than that,” I say.
Gilbert shrugs. “I will satisfy myself with a horse.”
“I wouldn’t.” Tristan shakes his head. “God frowns on that sort of thing.”
Chapter 8
We hear the first scream well after sunset.
There is a certain scream that only plaguers can elicit. A cry of unholy terror. After twenty years of war I thought I had heard every type of scream a man can make. But there is something biblical about a man’s cry when he is surprised by a plaguer. Something that taps into the fear of eternal torment. When a man shouts in battle, it is from the
I sigh, and Gilbert mistakes it for confirmation. He smiles and paces with his hands clasped before him. “You then further weakened your credibility by changing your lie. First you said the phials contain poison, then you said their contents cause plague. Do you see how you have defeated yourself?”
“You are an idiot,” I say. “Believe what you wish.”
“I don’t have to believe. I know the wonders of reason .”
Reason. I have heard many men speak of it. It is a fashionable topic these days. Lords fill their manors with men from the Continent, from Italy, and from the Arab lands so that they may learn about reason.
I have not had a great deal of teaching on this Greek philosophy. I know that the old monk Bede—a scholar whose writings have survived for nearly a thousand years—was versed in the teachings of the Greeks. He used their reason to conjecture that the world we live and walk upon is not flat but spherical. I would not believe such nonsense, but the Church denied it with such fervor that I know it must be true.
Reason, when used to delve into universal truths, is an indispensable tool. A torch to light the shadowy corners of the world. But these days, when men speak of reason, it is as a molten forge to twist and shape the world for their pleasure. And so I do not place a great deal of faith in reason .
“Here is a sample of reasoning, Edward,” Gilbert says. “Phials contain medicine. You are carrying phials. Therefore, you are carrying medicine. Do you see the simplicity of it?”
“That is simple,” Tristan says.
“Here’s another,” Gilbert says. “Humans avoid danger. The plague is dangerous. Therefore you would not carry the plague near you. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“Breathtaking,” I say. “Precisely the word I would have used.”
“Why would your friend carry phials of plague with him? It is not reasonable . It makes no sense. ”
“Tristan never makes sense,” I say.
“I don’t,” Tristan agrees. “But it adds to my charm.”
“You must possess charm to add to it,” the nun says.
Gilbert waves one hand to silence them. “Reason is an arrow,” he says. “And it always strikes right where it means to. In the middle part of the target, Sir Edward. In the center of the target wreath, where only the best archers strike. And the center of that wreath, where the arrow strikes, that is what we like to call the truth.”
“Such eloquence,” Tristan says. “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”
“I have studied the works of all the masters,” Gilbert says.
“Please, Gilbert,” Tristan says. “Use the cure for good. That is all I ask.”
Gilbert nods reassuringly. “Now, tell me, Sir Tristan, how do the phials work?”
“One drop will cure the afflicted. And one drop will protect the unafflicted for two weeks.” Tristan shakes his head. “Damn you and your reason, Gilbert.”
Gilbert stares at the phials and smiles broadly. “Alexander will be pleased when I show him what these phials do. Perhaps he will give me my own horse.”
“He may give you more than that,” I say.
Gilbert shrugs. “I will satisfy myself with a horse.”
“I wouldn’t.” Tristan shakes his head. “God frowns on that sort of thing.”
Chapter 8
We hear the first scream well after sunset.
There is a certain scream that only plaguers can elicit. A cry of unholy terror. After twenty years of war I thought I had heard every type of scream a man can make. But there is something biblical about a man’s cry when he is surprised by a plaguer. Something that taps into the fear of eternal torment. When a man shouts in battle, it is from the
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