‘I speak the truth,’ she said. ‘I have seen it. Aline’s son sickened yesterday. You saw him. They feared he would follow his younger brother. But he is recovering.’
‘Hold your tongue.’
‘He was dying until I placed her linen upon his body. It took the pestilence from him. It lay on his face and kept away the corrupted air. If that is heresy, then I will have it.’
I would have beaten her again, but the strength in my arms was dissolved into gruel. The smell of burning flour filled the room. She staggered back to her feet.
‘You see – I am not broken. I am not broken by you at all.’ She folded her arms and turned away.
‘I have not given you leave to go. It is near to Prime and I would eat.’ I spoke to the back of her kerchief.
‘There is one loaf in the basket. The rest are burned. I am going to Aline’s house to share in their thanks,’ she said, one hand on the door-frame.
‘I thank God for their deliverance,’ I cried to her back. ‘God is good to us.’
The house withered with the absence of her.
ANNE
I do not think I am important to the life of the house until I take myself away and lodge in the stable. As I grow, the house shrinks and Thomas with it.
The next morning, as I watch Thomas hobbling towards the church for Matins, a lad I do not recognise dances up the path. He does not pause to greet Thomas, but comes directly to me. It is a matter of a minute for him to speak the message. Having delivered the scant words, he skips away with a piece of bread in his fist.
Cat is dead.
I stand at the door, watch the boy chewing with a hearty appetite. I should sweep away the old reeds, for they stink. I should card wool. There is enough of it awaiting my attention. I should make oatcakes. I should grind oatmeal. With sand. No, without sand. That is how it should be done. I think I know how to grind meal. It is very difficult to remember.
My thoughts stagger back to Cat. Her screwed-up nose, the years of sniping, the arguments, the fights. The kiss of peace we gave each other when I saw her only … I would give anything to hear … My thoughts stutter to a halt. I have nothing to give. I have nothing within me at all.
I should tell my mother. With the thought, guilt flays me raw. I cannot remember when I last sought out my parents’ company, last made certain of their health. A chill settles in my belly. I have been caught up in my own little miseries and present pleasures. The Maid has become my whole world. I cringe that I have been so contemptible a daughter. I will visit, I promise myself. As soon as … No, now.
I wrap a shawl around my head, scoop up a bundle of rags from the stable and am at their door in moments. When we embrace, they are as warm as they have ever been. My father grasps my shoulders, crushes me to his breast; my mother pats my cheek and calls me her darling babe. I am possessed of an odd sensation that they are standing at a great distance. They smile and speak sweet words, but all I can hear is a humming in my ears, like flies on meat. I tell them about Cat and they weep into my hair.
‘Take the rags,’ I say, over and over. ‘I must go.’
Ma kisses me so hungrily her tears smear my face. I am grateful, for my eyes are dry. At last I am released. The Maid catches me as I stride past the house.
‘It is Cat,’ I say, before she asks the question. ‘She is dead.’
The words should presage tears, but they do not.
‘Anne,’ she says, and it is all she needs to say. Her eyes are soft. She rests her hand on my arm. I pat it, and continue down the path. She chases after and grasps me, more firmly. ‘You cannot be going to the Staple,’ she puffs.
‘I can.’
‘It is too late.’
I open and close my eyes. It is a great effort to accomplish this small task. Speaking is even more wearisome. But she is glaring at me, and wants for an answer. ‘To talk to her, yes,’ I say. ‘But I must say a prayer over her body.’
‘There are priests to do that.’
I glare back at her with equal fierceness and she drops her head, cheeks splashed with crimson.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t,’ she adds, with venom in the word. It does not sting.
‘You cannot sway me on this.’
‘It is madness.’
‘Yes, it is.’ I hear the steadiness in my voice. I had no idea that I possessed this certainty before I opened my lips. ‘I know that pestilence infests the Staple. I know it’s at our gate and darting in and out when it chooses. But I have to do this.’ I place a kiss on each of her sharp cheekbones. ‘I shall return.’
I make my way through the ford and past the church. She hugs my steps.
‘Swear it,’ she says, voice tight.
‘I swear by my love for you.’
The air freezes, fast as your nose in a blizzard. Her eyes widen. ‘Anne, I cannot – I cannot say—’
Heat sweeps through my belly. ‘It matters not what you can say and what you can’t. You are my love,’ I say, voice warm with remembrance of the delight she has brought both my body and my heart.
‘Don’t, Anne,’ she says despairingly, clapping her hands over her ears. ‘You must know that I cannot love you in return.’
‘Then I shall love you. You cannot stop me.’
‘I can,’ she says, but the fire has gone.
I walk along South Street, and at the crossroads take the road up the hill towards the Staple. She keeps pace the whole way.
‘There is no point in loving me,’ she continues, voice twanging with misery. ‘I am not worth the candle. I will die and you will grieve. Or you will die and I will grieve. It is better my way.’
‘To be stone?’
‘Yes,’ she pouts.
Halfway up the hill, I stop and turn my face to hers. ‘I have been a carved statue for too long. Creaking about my daily tasks with a yes sir, no sir. Then you came and breathed life into me. I will take that, even if I have it for one day only.’
She stares at me, lips working backwards and forwards. For this one moment in the grind of my days, I burn with the knowledge that I am right. My face glows with the truth I have spoken and she sees it. She makes a tight sound at the back of her throat and drops her chin.
‘I am afraid, Anne,’ she says, glancing up.
‘So am I. But I have everything to return for,’ I answer.
I embrace her and continue on my way. At the summit I turn and she is there, waving, a ghost of a smile on her face.
I resolve to make haste, not pausing to greet any folk. I need not worry about distractions, for I pass not one single soul. Each cott along the way has its gate shut tight, its shutters fastened. Yet although the road stretches empty, I have the queerest sensation of being watched, and not by friends. I shake off the clammy feeling and stride forwards.
At the west gate of the Staple I meet two fellows dragging a wagon loaded with a pair of coffins, one long and one short. The men have pulled their hoods so low only their mouths can be seen. I follow the bier, as there is only one place it can be headed, praying for the souls of the unfortunates upon it. Folk scurry past, some crossing themselves, but most sparing not one glance.
I try to imagine the people lying in these boxes, stretched out with hands folded peacefully, and I cannot. I try to imagine Cat inside the larger, and my recollection falters. I strive to recall her familiar features and fail. Only the most awful of sisters would forget her so quickly.
At last we pass through the east gate and come to the common pit. The men heave the coffins from the wagon; either they are far stronger than they look, or the bodies within are featherweight, they lift them so easily. Maybe the coffins are empty; maybe I have been tricked. Perhaps this whole pestilence is a joke. No one has died, every grave is untenanted and any moment now, Cat will creep up behind me, place her hands over my eyes and say, Guess who? This is the way I thought as a child. No longer.
The men take away the lids, for they are not nailed down, lift out the shrouded corpses
and with great gentleness lower them into the pit. Finally, they hurl a few shovels of quicklime over the new guests. Their task completed, they turn the cart and trundle away. I listen to the squeak and rattle of wheels until it is lost in the hum of the town. I survey the ranks of bodies and wonder which one is my sister. Some are half-covered with earth, the bottom of the pit lost in the mud from this morning’s rainfall.
Before the time of this pestilence a dead man was laid in a box of his own, a long way off from his fellow. For the first time it strikes me how lonely it is to lie alone with only yourself to talk to, twiddling your bony thumbs while you wait for the angel to blow the last trump. Now everyone is laid shoulder to shoulder.
I comfort myself with the thought that at least Cat does not want for company. Nor, I think, does Adam, for I have heard that no one can count the number of men ploughed into the fields of France. I picture Cat gossiping to the woman laid at her elbow, jaws clack-clacking in immortal conversation; of Adam and his comrades boasting how many pints of beer they will drink when God calls them into His celestial alehouse. The air freshens and I turn my eyes to the sky.
The clouds look set to weep for me. I think of all the mothers here, the children, the brothers and sisters, all the innocents mowed down. Still I do not weep and have no idea why I am so hard-hearted. I feel sorrow; but it is not a mewling, sobbing misery that casts me to the ground. It is far more like anger.
‘Anne?’
The voice at my shoulder makes me leap half out of my skin. I whirl about, heart hammering with the conviction that it is Cat I shall see. It is Margret. I try to say her name, but a cough spills from my lips. I do not know I am falling until I am caught in her strong arms.
‘Beloved Margret!’ I gasp. ‘How did you know to find me here?’
‘I did not. I come to pray for the souls of the dead. There are so many, I am never done praying.’
I press my face into her shoulder and when I look away there are wet spots upon the fabric. Perhaps I am capable of tears after all.
‘Where are their mourners?’ I say, my voice wavering.
Margret gazes steadily into the pit and therein I find my answer. ‘I heard of your sister’s death and came to offer prayers especially. I reckoned no one else would attend.’
‘No one?’ I echo. I know what she will say, but I must hear all the same.
‘Henry went before her, a week ago.’
‘And the boy?’ I whisper.
‘Was the first.’
She does not look at me, and I am grateful. We stand quietly, for there is little more to be said.
‘Do you not fear that Death will snatch you, coming here so often?’ I ask, after the time it would take to tie the ribbons on my bodice.
‘I am not afraid of Death.’ She speaks in such a way that I do not doubt her. ‘That does not mean that I am not afraid.’ She turns her eyes to mine. Her lips work with the effort of holding back words she does not wish to speak, but must spill all the same. ‘Anne. My John is a good man.’
‘He is.’
‘Yet I watch good men stripped of their goodness. John is beset with frightful things, and spiteful folk. Their malice is as contagious as this fever.’
‘Do not worry, Margret. You made a fine choice in John. He loves you.’
Margret peruses my face for signs of sarcasm, and when she finds none she smiles at me for the first time in many months.
‘I am no longer sure of anything. After Thomas visited us—’ She sucks in a breath. ‘Straight after, John sent Jack away to Exeter. He tells me it is for safety, but Exeter seethes with the pestilence, so how can it be true? I fear he is ashamed and wishes to place our son out of his sight. As though he can make believe that Jack does not exist, was never born …’
She swallows a gobbet of bile and makes a strangled sound. I place my arms around her and hold her steady. I kiss the top of her head, warm through the delicate linen of her kerchief.
‘He has taken himself from me,’ she wheezes. ‘All night he prays and I lie alone, listening to him sob. He is tearing himself into pieces, Anne, and I cannot sew him back together.’
She clings to me, and I rock her until the fit passes over. At last she turns her face to mine. Her eyes are dry, as mine are once more. It is a wonder, that misery can leave women without tears.
‘Margret,’ I say, and kiss her brow. ‘If you have need of me, come straightway. Do not tarry. My door will never be closed against you.’
‘Your door? What of Thomas?’
I laugh, surprised at the fury in the sound. ‘I could tell you such a tale, my sweet! But now is not the time. But I declare in truth: come to me. I am your friend. I always have been.’
‘My dear Anne.’
I help her to her feet and we shake out our gowns. I take a deep breath and only now notice the stink of the pit, the buzzing of the flies. I slide my arm through hers.
‘Let us walk. I have said my farewells.’
I take a last look to the east, where a line of trees sweeps its cloak across the hills that surround the Staple. The forest lies upon this whole land like a blanket, and all we have managed to do against its hideous smothering is snip small holes in it through which to poke the roofs of our dwellings. All my life I’ve been warned from straying too far into its depths: boggarts, cut-throats, bottomless pits seething with worms. It’s where the Maid says we must go. Not so long ago, I’d have thought her a piskie come to steal me away under the hill. A small part of me wonders if she still is.
I hug Margret close to my side and feel her warmth through my sleeve. We walk back through the town towards the church. Once again I notice the emptiness of the streets: no children at play, no women leaning against their doorposts to gather the latest news. The few we do meet hurry past without a word of greeting. One woman gazes out of her window, and I shout, ‘Halloa!’ but she stares through me. Her face is blank as a dish of milk: no curiosity, no anger, no animating force at all.
‘The place has changed,’ I remark, as we arrive at the west gate.
‘Everything has changed,’ mutters Margret. ‘Go quickly home. Do not tarry along the way.’
‘I’ve no mind to do so.’
‘Good.’
I take her hand. ‘Margret,’ I say. ‘I was cruel to you when we spoke last.’
‘Anne, you do not need to—’
‘I do. Thomas is everything you said he’d be, and more. It would take a day to list his faults; but I am burdened with my own, so I shall leave it at that. What is important is that you were right. I chose pride and greed over friendship, and for that I am sorry.’
She regards me levelly. ‘By the Saint, Anne. How grown you are.’
‘Cat said the same thing.’ My heart clenches its fist. ‘I have lost her,’ I croak. ‘But I have found you.’
She lays her hand upon my shoulder. I lean into the caress, hungry for forgiveness, knowing that in a moment she will withdraw and be gone. But she does no such thing. Rather, she slides her fingers along my shoulder, slips under my coif and brushes the trembling skin of my throat. She lays her other hand upon my cheek and tips my face to hers.
‘Beloved cousin,’ she says, a light in her eyes I do not recognise.
‘Margret?’ I breathe.
She nods in answer to a question I do not know I have asked. ‘Yes. John loves me. But I do not think it will be enough.’
I do not understand. I am still so new to love that I believe it is stronger than anything, perhaps even death. I am wrong about love, but right also.
I return to find the house grown even more lost. The hearth is cold. At some point the wind has blown through the room and scattered the ashes in a dusty shawl. The floor is half-bare, for I never finished the task of clearing out the straw. It is mouldier than when I left it and mushes beneath my feet. There is another smell, that of dead mice and worse. A pot leans against the hearthstone, a rough crust of pottage at the bottom.
Surely I have not kept away for
so long. I search for the broom and find it leaning against the outer wall, bristles still wet from the last shower. I shake off the raindrops and labour for half an hour sweeping the old reeds out of the door. I try to set fire to the heap, but they are so damp they will not take. Just when I think I’ve coaxed a small flame to life, it starts to drizzle.
I go back inside to wait out the shower. It is only when Thomas rises from the bench that I see him. I am sure he was not there before.
‘Mistress,’ he says, with a dignity he strives to wrap tight about him.
He looks towards a spot over my right shoulder. I turn my head to see who is behind me, but the room is empty. I never before noticed quite how much he speaks through his nose, like a pipe on which he is endeavouring to blow a bright tune.
‘The house gladdens to see you,’ he squeaks, his eyes focused on somewhere far away. ‘It pleases me also.’
‘Thomas …’
He winces at the sound of his name. His body is grown too pinched for his clothes, his over-tunic hanging from his shoulders like an empty sack. His chin is a mess of poorly cropped stubble, as though he has taken a meat-knife to it.
‘Yes. The house rejoices,’ he adds, with such hopefulness I cannot decide if I want to weep at the sorry way he misses me, or kick him across the room.
‘You are thin, sir,’ I remark.
He whisks his fingers, as though a gnat is bothering him. ‘I am well, God be thanked.’
‘God be thanked,’ I mutter.
For all his starved appearance, his eyes burn with the same devouring fire I saw when he delivered his sermon on Queen Sheba, so many lifetimes ago I cannot count them. Once I was drawn to that brightness: now I see a hunger that sucks the life out of all it touches. It gives no warmth, drawing the heat of others into its maw so that all who fall into its circle are sucked empty as old wineskins. I shudder at the ghastly image.
‘Sir,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘You are unshaven. I shall tend to you.’
I hear the false cheer in my voice, slathered thinly over disgust. Without being told, I realise it is very important that he should not know I feel this. Thomas is foolish, priggish, pitiful, proud. Never before have I thought of him as dangerous.
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