Chapter 2 - THE MEN WHO WHIPPED GOD
The flagellants called themselves the Brotherhood of Mercy.
There was little mercy in them.
They marched Thomas, Agnes, Luc, Aldren, and the three surviving refugees from Mereford along the forest road.
No chains.
They did not need them.
Thirty men surrounded the prisoners.
Some carried whips.
Others carried farm tools sharpened into weapons.
Two had swords taken from dead soldiers.
Their leader was named Brother Matthieu.
He wore white wool darkened with old blood across the back.
His face was narrow.
His eyes were bright with exhaustion or faith.
Thomas could not tell which was more dangerous.
The Brotherhood marched barefoot despite winter mud.
Every mile they stopped.
Every stop became ritual.
They formed a circle.
Sang.
Prayed.
Then whipped themselves until blood ran.
Thomas had seen men beaten in alleys.
Soldiers cut apart at the gate.
Bodies swollen by plague.
This was different.
These men hurt themselves willingly.
That made them frightening.
At the first village, the Brotherhood entered singing.
Villagers came out of houses.
Some knelt.
Some wept.
Brother Matthieu stood beside the well.
“The pestilence has come because Europe has drowned in sin!”
People shouted agreement.
“Greed!”
“Yes!”
“Lust!”
“Yes!”
“Blasphemy!”
“Yes!”
Thomas watched faces change.
Fear became relief.
If sin caused plague, then sin could be punished.
That meant something could be controlled.
Matthieu pointed at a merchant’s house.
“That man charged triple for grain during famine.”
The crowd turned.
Thomas saw it happen.
The merchant appeared at his door.
Confused.
Then afraid.
“I have children.”
Someone threw a stone.
The Brotherhood did not tell the crowd to kill him.
They did not need to.
Within minutes, the merchant was dragged into the square.
Thomas looked at Luc.
“Do something.”
Luc stared.
“What?”
“You’re a priest.”
“Was.”
“You know scripture.”
“So does he.”
“Then tell them he’s wrong.”
Luc looked at the mob.
“Truth is quiet. Fear shouts.”
The merchant screamed.
Aldren leaned toward Thomas.
“Remember this.”
“What?”
“Men who say God wants what they already wanted.”
The merchant died before sunset.
His grain was divided.
The villagers praised the Brotherhood.
Thomas understood the bargain.
Blood in exchange for certainty.
They camped outside the village.
Brother Matthieu ordered Luc brought to him.
Thomas followed until a whip struck the ground before his feet.
“Not you.”
Luc turned.
“Stay.”
Thomas hated that word.
He stayed.
Matthieu questioned Luc near a fire.
“Why did you leave your parish?”
“Everyone died.”
“Before you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did God spare you?”
Luc laughed once.
“That question has kept me awake.”
“Because you have purpose.”
“Or luck.”
Matthieu’s face tightened.
“There is no luck.”
“Then God spared rats too.”
Silence.
Thomas almost smiled.
Matthieu did not.
He ordered Luc tied to a tree.
The Brotherhood whipped him twelve times.
One for each apostle.
Luc did not scream until the ninth.
Thomas counted.
Agnes cried beside him.
Aldren stared at the fire.
When it ended, Thomas helped Luc sit.
His back was open in red lines.
“You should have lied,” Thomas whispered.
Luc smiled weakly.
“I used to.”
“What?”
“Every sermon.”
Thomas frowned.
Luc looked toward the Brotherhood.
“I told people suffering had meaning.”
“And now?”
“Now I think suffering mostly hurts.”
Thomas did not know whether that was blasphemy.
He knew it felt true.
The next day they marched south.
Matthieu claimed they were heading toward a cathedral where thousands would join them.
Aldren whispered, “We leave tonight.”
“How?”
“Quietly.”
“There are thirty.”
“There are always thirty until there are fewer.”
Thomas looked at him.
“You’ve done this before.”
Aldren smiled without warmth.
“Escaped fools? Many times.”
That evening, plague entered the Brotherhood.
One man collapsed during prayer.
Fever.
A swelling beneath his jaw.
The circle broke.
Some shouted to kill him.
Others said he must be purified.
Matthieu knelt beside the sick man.
For one moment Thomas expected compassion.
Instead Matthieu asked,
“What sin have you hidden?”
The man sobbed.
“None.”
Matthieu slapped him.
“Confess.”
“I have none.”
“Confess!”
The sick man finally shouted that he had slept with a married woman ten years before.
The Brotherhood gasped.
As if disease had found its cause.
Matthieu ordered the man placed alone beneath a tree.
Nobody touched him.
Not even the men who had called him brother that morning.
Thomas watched until dark.
The sick man cried for water.
No one moved.
Thomas took a cup.
Aldren stopped him.
“He’s infected.”
“He’s dying.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean he should die thirsty.”
Aldren stared at him.
Thomas expected another refusal.
Instead the old man sighed.
“Use a long branch. Leave the cup. Don’t touch him.”
Thomas did.
The sick man drank.
“Thank you.”
His voice was barely human.
Thomas stepped back.
The man looked at the wooden cross in Thomas’s hand.
“Pray for me.”
Thomas thought of Luc saying suffering had no meaning.
He thought of Elena.
He did not know if prayer mattered.
He prayed anyway.
The man died before midnight.
By then two more flagellants had fever.
Panic moved through the camp.
The men who preached judgment suddenly looked terrified of being judged.
Aldren chose the moment.
He cut Luc’s bonds.
Agnes gathered food.
Thomas stole boots.
Not because he wanted them.
Because walking barefoot through plague country seemed like volunteering for death.
They slipped into the forest.
One other refugee followed.
A woman named Marta.
Her husband had died in Mereford.
The last two chose to stay with the Brotherhood.
Maybe faith felt safer than woods.
Thomas never learned.
They walked without torches.
Branches tore clothing.
Mud swallowed shoes.
Luc could barely move because of his back.
Aldren supported him.
At dawn, they reached a river.
The bridge had been destroyed.
On the opposite bank stood a fortified monastery.
Smoke rose from chimneys.
Fields around it were still planted.
Thomas felt hope.
He hated himself for feeling it.
A wooden sign had been erected near the river:
NO ENTRY.
PESTILENCE BEYOND.
Agnes looked at the monastery.
“They have food.”
Marta said, “And walls.”
Aldren looked upstream.
“We find another crossing.”
Thomas stared at the monks moving on the far side.
“Why?”
“Because they already told us no.”
Luc leaned against a tree.
“I know this house.”
Everyone turned.
“Saint Veyra.”
Aldren frowned.
“You know monks there?”
“I studied there.”
“Then shout.”
Luc did.
A monk appeared on the wall.
Then another.
Luc gave his name.
Long conversation followed across the water.
Finally a rope boat came.
One monk crossed.
He wore thick wool over his mouth.
He examined each traveler from a distance.
“No swellings?”
“No,” Luc said.
“Fever?”
“No.”
The monk looked at Thomas.
“Where from?”
“Saint Aldric.”
The monk crossed himself.
“That city is dead.”
Thomas felt anger.
“My mother was there.”
The monk said nothing.
He looked at Agnes.
“Mereford?”
She nodded.
“Also dead.”
Agnes began crying.
The monk stepped back.
“You cannot enter.”
Luc stared.
“Brother Samuel.”
“No.”
“I trained beside you.”
“That was before.”
“We are not sick.”
“You may be.”
“Everyone may be.”
“Exactly.”
The logic was cruel.
Perfect.
Thomas looked at the fields.
Food.
Walls.
Warmth.
Ten yards of water might as well have been an ocean.
Then a bell rang inside the monastery.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The monk on their bank froze.
Luc whispered, “Death bell.”
Another bell answered.
Then another.
The monk turned toward Saint Veyra.
People appeared on the walls.
Running.
A man screamed.
Even from across the river, Thomas heard the word.
“Pestilence!”
The monk slowly removed the cloth from his mouth.
His face emptied.
The plague was inside.
Walls had failed before refugees arrived.
Aldren looked at Thomas.
“Lesson.”
Thomas hated him.
“What?”
“There are no clean walls.”
They walked upstream.
By afternoon, rain began.
Cold.
Hard.
They found a ferry hut abandoned near a bend.
Inside were fish hooks, rope, and a dead ferryman.
No swellings visible.
A knife wound in his chest.
Someone had killed him before disease could.
Aldren searched the hut.
Thomas stared at the body.
He could no longer tell which kind of death disturbed him more.
Marta found a boat tied under reeds.
Small.
Leaking.
Enough for five people if the river remained calm.
It did not.
Still they crossed.
Halfway, Luc began shaking.
Thomas noticed first.
“Luc?”
“I’m cold.”
Rain.
Of course he was cold.
Then Luc coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Aldren stopped rowing.
Everyone looked at him.
Luc saw their faces.
“Not every cough is plague.”
Nobody answered.
He touched his neck.
Nothing.
His armpit.
Nothing.
“See?”
Agnes moved closer to Thomas.
Luc noticed.
That hurt him.
On the opposite bank, he climbed out alone.
“I’ll walk behind.”
Thomas said, “No.”
Luc smiled.
“You were almost stoned for giving water to a sick man.”
“He was sick.”
“Exactly.”
Thomas grabbed his arm.
Luc flinched.
Thomas instantly remembered the whip wounds.
“Sorry.”
Luc looked at his hand.
“You shouldn’t touch me.”
Thomas did not let go.
“I’m already walking through a dead world.”
Aldren stared at him.
Then at Luc.
“Keep distance if fever starts.”
Practical.
Not kind.
But kindness had become expensive.
They moved west again.
Toward a town called Harrowfield.
At sunset, they saw its walls.
No smoke.
No bells.
The gates stood open.
Agnes smiled.
“Maybe they escaped it.”
Aldren stopped.
“No guards.”
Marta whispered, “Maybe everyone fled.”
Thomas listened.
No bells.
No dogs.
No carts.
Nothing.
Silence.
Worse than screaming.
They entered.
The main street was empty.
Bread sat moldy in a baker’s window.
A horse stood tied near a fountain.
Alive.
Thin.
No bodies.
Thomas frowned.
“Where is everyone?”
Then they heard chanting.
Under the town.
Luc looked toward a stone chapel.
Its cellar door stood open.
Light flickered below.
Voices.
Hundreds.
They descended carefully.
The crypt beneath the chapel was packed with townspeople.
Men.
Women.
Children.
All kneeling.
At the front stood a nobleman in velvet robes.
He held a sword in one hand.
A cross in the other.
Behind him lay bodies.
Not plague bodies.
Throats cut.
The nobleman saw Thomas.
Smiled.
“More have come.”
Aldren drew his knife.
The nobleman opened his arms.
“Welcome to the city that defeated death.”
Thomas looked at the kneeling crowd.
Their faces were pale.
Their eyes empty.
No one coughed.
No one moved.
Then the nobleman pointed to bowls of dark liquid arranged before the altar.
“Drink.”
Luc whispered,
“What is it?”
The nobleman smiled wider.
“The blood of the innocent.”
Agnes grabbed Thomas’s hand.
The man raised his sword.
“Death cannot enter those already purified.”
Thomas looked at the bodies.
Then at the open door behind them.
The plague had driven some people to prayer.
May you like
Some to murder.
Harrowfield had chosen both.
