lungs and from the throat. But when a man sees a plaguer, the scream comes from his very soul.
The guard wakes and peers out of the tent.
“What in Christ’s name…” He squints, then dashes outside.
“Well, that’s sorted then,” Tristan says.
“What, exactly, is sorted?” I ask.
Tristan gestures vaguely with his chin. “That. Out there. Sorted.”
“Tristan, nothing is sorted.”
Tristan cocks an eyebrow, takes on Gilbert’s tone. “You obviously have not studied reason ,Sir Edward. All of our enemies will either be dead or plagued. If you had been to Cambridge, you would realize that we can now escape from our bonds and leave at our leisure. Here, let me put it in the simple terms of reason: only bandits can hold us captive. Plaguers are not bandits. Therefore we are not captives anymore. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“No, I did not study at Cambridge, Tristan. But let me make an attempt at reason: plaguers eat those who are not afflicted. We are not afflicted. Therefore—”
“The goal then is to not be here when the plaguers arrive,” Tristan says. “See the simplicity?”
I sigh. “Can we try to get these ropes untied?”
Another scream rings out somewhere in the churchyard.
“Please tell me that you fools did not infect this entire camp,” the nun says.
Tristan listens to the cries and winces. “Humans can run very quickly. We are human. Therefore…” He shrugs.
“Tristan.” I feel the heat of frustration rising in me. Elizabeth tells me I need to breathe deeply when this happens, so I do. I breathe deeply three times and smile. “Humans cannot run when they are tied to tentpoles .” I grit my teeth through the rest. “We are tied to thick tentpoles. Therefore…” I trail off, as Tristan did.
A man shrieks just outside, right next to us. Something falls against the tent behind Tristan. The tent shudders. More screams, including one from the nun. The light from the candles is just bright enough for me to see a dark stain spreading across the canvas.
“Knights are fools!” the nun says, and there is a touch of hysteria to her voice. “The two of you are knights!” She doesn’t finish. She drops her chin to her chest and sobs. “We’re going to die here because of your stupidity!”
“Edward and I may hold your life in our hands,” Tristan says. “You might consider being a little nicer to us.”
I dig my feet into the earth and shove with my legs. The tentpole shifts slightly, but not as much as I had hoped. They must have buried the oak shaft deep into the earth.
“Tristan, push against the pole with your back. Hard.”
The pole shifts a little toward me. I shove back. The pole tilts toward him, and he shoves again. We slip into a rhythm. Forward and back, forward and back. The entire tent rocks with us. Just a few inches at a time. Back and forth.
Tristan spouts poetry to the rhythm of our rocking.
“Here’s a riddle to leave you appalled…”
The cries echo all across the churchyard. A wild-eyed man with blood smeared across his cheek looks into the tent, then disappears again.
“I’m hairy beneath…” Tristan continues.
The pole shudders.
“…above I am bald…”
The canopy rattles over our heads as guy lines snap.
“I’m purple and red…”
A man enters the tent, almost falling as he does. It is Gilbert. Or was Gilbert. There is no reason left in the man that stares at us now. He stares at us with a vacant look of surprise.
“…and stand up in the bed. What am I called?” Tristan sees Gilbert and smiles. “Shall I repeat the riddle for you, Gilbert? A Cambridge man should have no trouble…” He trails off. “Oh.”
A line of bloody spittle dribbles from Gilbert’s mouth. He staggers toward us, moaning. The nun shrieks and thrashes against the pole. Gilbert reaches a hand out toward her. She shrieks again.
“Keep rocking, Tristan!” I lean toward the nun and pound Gilbert in the face with my foot. He howls and falls back,
The guard wakes and peers out of the tent.
“What in Christ’s name…” He squints, then dashes outside.
“Well, that’s sorted then,” Tristan says.
“What, exactly, is sorted?” I ask.
Tristan gestures vaguely with his chin. “That. Out there. Sorted.”
“Tristan, nothing is sorted.”
Tristan cocks an eyebrow, takes on Gilbert’s tone. “You obviously have not studied reason ,Sir Edward. All of our enemies will either be dead or plagued. If you had been to Cambridge, you would realize that we can now escape from our bonds and leave at our leisure. Here, let me put it in the simple terms of reason: only bandits can hold us captive. Plaguers are not bandits. Therefore we are not captives anymore. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“No, I did not study at Cambridge, Tristan. But let me make an attempt at reason: plaguers eat those who are not afflicted. We are not afflicted. Therefore—”
“The goal then is to not be here when the plaguers arrive,” Tristan says. “See the simplicity?”
I sigh. “Can we try to get these ropes untied?”
Another scream rings out somewhere in the churchyard.
“Please tell me that you fools did not infect this entire camp,” the nun says.
Tristan listens to the cries and winces. “Humans can run very quickly. We are human. Therefore…” He shrugs.
“Tristan.” I feel the heat of frustration rising in me. Elizabeth tells me I need to breathe deeply when this happens, so I do. I breathe deeply three times and smile. “Humans cannot run when they are tied to tentpoles .” I grit my teeth through the rest. “We are tied to thick tentpoles. Therefore…” I trail off, as Tristan did.
A man shrieks just outside, right next to us. Something falls against the tent behind Tristan. The tent shudders. More screams, including one from the nun. The light from the candles is just bright enough for me to see a dark stain spreading across the canvas.
“Knights are fools!” the nun says, and there is a touch of hysteria to her voice. “The two of you are knights!” She doesn’t finish. She drops her chin to her chest and sobs. “We’re going to die here because of your stupidity!”
“Edward and I may hold your life in our hands,” Tristan says. “You might consider being a little nicer to us.”
I dig my feet into the earth and shove with my legs. The tentpole shifts slightly, but not as much as I had hoped. They must have buried the oak shaft deep into the earth.
“Tristan, push against the pole with your back. Hard.”
The pole shifts a little toward me. I shove back. The pole tilts toward him, and he shoves again. We slip into a rhythm. Forward and back, forward and back. The entire tent rocks with us. Just a few inches at a time. Back and forth.
Tristan spouts poetry to the rhythm of our rocking.
“Here’s a riddle to leave you appalled…”
The cries echo all across the churchyard. A wild-eyed man with blood smeared across his cheek looks into the tent, then disappears again.
“I’m hairy beneath…” Tristan continues.
The pole shudders.
“…above I am bald…”
The canopy rattles over our heads as guy lines snap.
“I’m purple and red…”
A man enters the tent, almost falling as he does. It is Gilbert. Or was Gilbert. There is no reason left in the man that stares at us now. He stares at us with a vacant look of surprise.
“…and stand up in the bed. What am I called?” Tristan sees Gilbert and smiles. “Shall I repeat the riddle for you, Gilbert? A Cambridge man should have no trouble…” He trails off. “Oh.”
A line of bloody spittle dribbles from Gilbert’s mouth. He staggers toward us, moaning. The nun shrieks and thrashes against the pole. Gilbert reaches a hand out toward her. She shrieks again.
“Keep rocking, Tristan!” I lean toward the nun and pound Gilbert in the face with my foot. He howls and falls back,
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