‘No,’ I said, to whom I did not know, for I stood alone. No. My soul squeezed its eyes shut, clapped its hand over its nose.
A man staggered by, a shrouded body over his shoulder. He tripped over a spit-iron in his path and went down on one knee. Without thinking, I stretched out my hand to aid him. His head jerked upwards, a mix of surprise and hope on his face, dark spots on his throat. My hand hovered in the air between us. Then I folded my fingers back into the palm. I took a step back, and another. His eyes clouded over; then he heaved himself upright and clumped away with his burden.
I wrapped my hood about my face and fled.
The early twilight of autumn was falling as I reached the village. I was seized with a dread of going back to the house where all served to remind me of what I had lost. Nor did I wish to go to the church. My feet bore me to the churchyard. I stretched myself on the ground, and stared into the dark bowl of the heavens.
It had stopped raining: the wind had unbuttoned the coat of clouds and the moon shone half its breast through the gap. The world tilted suddenly and it was only by holding firmly on to the grass that I did not tumble into the sky. The stars reeled; I reeled with them. We gazed into each other a long time; a lifespan, it seemed. I thought of the tale of Old Man Hob, how he fell asleep one night and woke up a hundred years later. I knew the truth: he did not sleep. He looked at the stars like me. It was simple. I understood what had to be done to bring the Maid back into my keeping.
ANNE
I find her in the stable two days after the feast of Saint Osith. She cowers behind the hay-stooks, legs drawn up in a tight parcel.
‘Sister?’ I say and stretch out my hand.
She withers from my touch, knees scrabbling against the floor; twists her face, baring broken teeth. Spittle flecks her chin. She lifts a trembling hand to shade her eyes.
‘Anne?’ she croaks. ‘Do you not know me?’
It is only then that I recognise her. ‘Margret?’ I gasp.
‘I am Margret. I was Margret, you might say.’
I look over the whole of her body, from head to foot. This cannot be my beloved friend. The bodice of her gown is torn, one breast uncovered. At first I think the pestilence is upon her, for her skin blooms with dark swellings, but after a moment I know these are from the hand of man. Many men. She pulls back what remains of her sleeve, showing the thumb-marks on her upper arm, fresh bruises laid over older.
‘You are safe now.’ I am unable to think of anything else to say.
She turns to the wall and makes a strange noise with her tongue. I lower myself to her side and open my arms wide. After long consideration, she crawls within their circle and lays her cheek over my heart.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask.
She shakes her head, a gesture so tiny I barely see it.
‘How have you eaten?’ I say.
She takes a shuddering breath and begins to speak, the words spilling from her as though unstoppered from some foul pitcher.
‘I cannot count the houses standing empty.’ Her eyes flare, then shrink into dark specks. ‘There was bread within one, bite-marks still upon it. Salt pork in another. The wells have not run dry.’
She hesitates.
‘Margret. You need not tell me if the telling pains you.’
‘I fear it will pain you, rather.’
I kiss the top of her head. ‘Nothing you can say will make me love you less than I do at this very minute,’ I murmur.
She takes in a quaking breath. ‘At first, men found me. So I moved by night. Men still found me, but fewer, and I cared less. I discovered that I did not desire death. So I smeared ashes on my breasts and neck and they thought me plague-ridden, and ran.’ She smiles at some sharp memory. ‘So, cousin. We both live. God spares us still.’
‘I am glad you are here. I only wish you had come sooner.’
She makes a whimpering sound. ‘I doubted you would want me, after John denounced me before the people.’
‘I would always want you,’ I say fiercely.
‘I know that now.’
The Maid and I tend to her bruises, the Maid helping silently, unsure of trusting Margret, however much I tell her it is safe. Towards evening I pass Thomas in the yard while I am carrying a dish of hot porray to feed the three of us. I stride straight past as though I have not seen him. He hops at my heels.
‘I will not permit this harlot in my house!’ he squawks.
‘Who?’ I ask innocently.
‘Do not think to bewilder me, woman!’ he squeals.
‘She’s not in your house. She’s in the stable,’ I reply, and continue walking.
He grabs my arm and I almost drop the bowl. ‘Attend to me, woman,’ he growls.
‘Oh, hold your tongue,’ I snap, shaking off his hand. ‘You and your harlot this and harlot that. We could all be dead in a week and here you are quacking like a duck with a broken wing.’
He continues to bounce at my side. He does not follow me into the stable, but hovers at the door, squinting at the shadows.
‘Leave us be, Thomas.’
‘I will not permit this.’
‘Will you not?’ I declare. ‘“When I was hungry, you fed me. When I was naked, you clothed me.” Remember? Christ said it, and that’s how things shall be while I am housekeeper.’
Margret appears and smiles. ‘You should be a preacher, Anne.’
A strangled sound comes out of Thomas’s mouth. ‘You!’ he squawks. ‘You have turned Anne’s mind!’
‘By the Saint, Thomas,’ I declare. ‘She’s been here for less time than it takes to boil a cabbage.’
‘I will not—’ he cries.
Margret steps forward and presses her nose to his. Any further words he thought to spit out are swallowed with a gulp.
‘Not one word from you,’ she says, coldly. ‘You are to blame for this. You were a guest in our house, yet whined and wheed-led at John, sowing a seed of fear in his heart, wherein it grew. We were happy before you.’
Thomas’s mouth hangs open; his eyes open and close. I am not sure if he can see her, or me, or anything else around him. After the time it would take to unbraid my hair, he retreats across the stable-yard, walking backwards the whole way.
The following morning, I find Margret standing in the orchard, staring at a space between the apple trees. A basket lies at her feet.
‘It’s hardly worth picking them,’ I say cheerfully, for I do not want her to think I am unappreciative of her efforts.
I peer into the basket. She has filled it with rotten fruit, as though she cannot tell the good from the bad. There are broad patches of sweat soaking through her kirtle and over-dress.
‘You should rest, Margret,’ I remark. ‘The labour has marked you.’
‘I wish to be useful.’
‘You are more than useful. You are my friend.’
She raises one arm and looks at the creeping wetness. ‘Perhaps you are right. I am tired. I will rest.’
She turns and walks unsteadily towards the house. I try to coax her back to the stable, for I want no more contentiousness with Thomas than is absolutely necessary. But she is like one half-asleep and does not pause until she is through the great door. Only then does she halt, gazing about as though she has never seen a house before.
‘My fingers prick me, Anne.’ She squints at them, swallows hard on some tight lump. ‘Do you not find it cold?’
‘No, Margret. It is a warm day for this late in the year. The shutters stand open and let in the sunshine. It is a gift we have waited for: see.’
I point out the dust motes wandering on the slanting shafts of light. She will not look, but turns her hand over and inspects its back; lifts it and places it under her coif, against her neck.
‘I am so very tired,’ she barks, and falls.
‘Margret?’ I grasp her arm.
‘Let me rest. Do not touch me, Anne. I am sick.’
‘No!’ I cry. She mews, deep in her throat, and cramps into a tig
ht bundle. ‘Let me help you,’ I say, stroking her shoulder.
I place my hands under her armpits to lift her and feel heat rolling from her flesh. She does not struggle, the air whistling in and out of her throat. It is only then I understand.
‘Oh, my Margret,’ I moan, rocking her back and forth.
I squeeze her hard, and a cough claws its way out. She pulls away and covers her mouth with her hand.
‘Let me lie down,’ she gasps. ‘I must. Let me lie down, for the love of God.’
‘Yes, yes. Let me help you.’
I raise her, most tenderly, and help her to Thomas’s bed, for I will not have my most darling friend lie upon anything less. I make the bolster comfortable behind her head, smooth the sheet, shake out the coverlet. She kicks off her wooden pattens and lowers herself carefully.
‘Anne,’ she croaks and fixes her eyes upon me, so dark I could fall into them and never find my way out again. ‘You must not stay here. You know what this is.’
I squeeze her hand, gently, for every touch makes her wince.
‘I know, Margret. But I shall not leave you.’
‘Please. Do not be foolish. What does my flesh tell you?’ she whimpers, clutching at the sheet. ‘I cannot do this to you.’
I have no answer, other than to drag a stool to the side of the bed and seat myself upon it. She twists her head aside, eyes brimming with liquid. Her tongue sucks against the roof of her mouth.
‘I cannot swallow,’ she wheezes. ‘There is a fist pressing into my neck.’ She scrabbles at the fastenings of her kerchief. ‘I am so hot.’
Her fingers fumble so that I have to loosen her coif, and lift it away. There is a sprinkling of crimson below her left ear, as though blood is bubbling to the surface. I place my fingers against her neck and feel the small hardness of a dried pea lodged there.
‘And here also,’ she says, pulling down the front of her bodice to show her breasts, smudged with scarlet flowers.
‘Do not leave me, Margret,’ I whimper.
‘Anne, my love. It is too late. Pray I am taken quickly.’
She stiffens suddenly, straining to hold her head as far away from her as she can.
‘What is it? What is happening?’ I cry.
She leans forward and retches mightily, labouring to force out some piece of vile matter. At last she spits on to her skirt: it is a furious red. She falls back against the pillow, sweating with this great travail. The tip of her tongue picks its way across her upper lip.
‘You are thirsty. Let me fetch you some water.’
I dash to the kitchen. The stone ewer is dry and draped with a spider’s web. I stick my head out of the door.
‘Maid!’ I yell, loud as I can.
There is no answering cry. I snatch a jug and run to the gate; look up and down the silent street. It is a long way to the well and I do not wish to leave Margret alone. I shake my head. It seems to be full of bees. Then I see the Maid, coming out of the stable, and rubbing sleep from her eyes.
‘Get me some water!’ I shriek, stumbling into the yard. ‘Margret is sick.’
‘Sick? Is it—?’
‘What else?’ I say, shoving the pitcher in her direction. Each step I take towards her, she takes two backwards. ‘Maid. Bring some of your rags. Now.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘It can’t be!’
‘It is. Get out of the house, Anne,’ she says. ‘Now.’
‘No. She is my friend.’
I take another step but she is away from me as quick as breath. I race after her, but it is useless. I start for the well, but am only a few yards along the track when I remember there is water in the church, and clean too.
I expect to find Thomas whining to the Lord, but am mistaken. For once the place is empty. The font squats in the half-darkness. I wipe my nose on the end of my sleeve and set to winching up the heavy cover. The basin is three-quarters full. I say a quick prayer of thanks to God for letting me take the holy water. The words catch in my throat.
‘Oh God,’ I cry. ‘Help me.’
I find myself on my knees without knowing how I got there. I look at the wall. The saints gaze down in mercy, arms heaped with keys, wheels, arrows, flowers and all the instruments of their passion.
‘Preserve my beloved friend,’ I beg. ‘Heal her.’
I think of the last time Margret and I were here; how we stood on this same spot and laughed at the garish paintings. The Virgin Mary catches my eye and glares at my impertinence.
‘I was a child!’ I shout. ‘I did not mean … I did not know …’
I raise my eyes to the Doom painted above the chancel arch where Christ sits in judgement, good souls to his right and evildoers to his left. I wring my hands.
‘You took Adam. You took Cat,’ I wail. ‘Please don’t take her; not Margret.’ My nose dribbles snot. It drips off my chin and on to the flagstones. ‘She did no sin but love. She’s my friend. My only childhood friend left.’
I have never prayed so wildly, never in my life. I pray for miracles, for mercy, to keep Margret by me. I beg the Saint to intercede. I call on the Virgin, on the Saint, on the whole host of holy men and women. My prayer threads upwards until it is lost in the rafters, no louder than the mew of a hungry kitten.
‘She’s all I have left of this life,’ I weep. ‘Please.’
Christ stares at a point far beyond this land set in its rocky sea. The paint on his face is peeling. There is a brown patch where rain has crept down the plaster. Pieces of his halo have fallen away. I get to my feet and wipe my face on my apron.
When I return to the house, Margret is staring at the wall. When I lay my hand upon her neck I find the lump grown to the size of a pigeon’s egg. I fill a cup and hold it to her mouth.
‘Drink some of this,’ I say. ‘It is blessed. It will heal you.’
I manage to get some of the water through the chinks between her teeth, but most drizzles down her chin and onto her breasts. I do not care. If it is holy it will heal where it falls, I reason. She nods thanks and I think she seems calmer.
Then her jaw sets rigid, her teeth grind against each other, and a corrupt stink buffets me as her bowels loosen. She moans with shame, but she can barely take in enough air to cry out. I loosen her dress and peel it away, uncovering flesh stained with the pestilence.
I find linen in the chest at the foot of the bed, sop it in the water and wipe her as clean as I can. I hold her over Thomas’s chamber pot while she empties herself again, the urine falling away from her thick, bunched together like looped string. Thomas’s bed is now so fouled that I carry her to mine. She is as light as a stack of kindling.
All the pestilence within her seethes to the surface of her skin, like scum rising to the surface of a pond. The swellings breed so fast I have the strangest fancy that I can see them grow, gorging themselves upon her flesh until they are the size of goose eggs, crowding about the dark hair at the join of her thighs.
Every scrap of common sense I have ever possessed commands me to flee. But I stay. When night draws sky and earth together, I take a taper from Thomas’s store, a fine one stored for the Easter vigil. I light it and kneel at the side of the bed. I thumb a sign of the Cross on her forehead and whisper, ‘All things will be well; all manner of things will be well.’ I will not leave her side.
I am woken by a rumbling in my left ear, like that of a pot set to boil. I jerk back to wakefulness, not knowing straightaway where I am. The flickering shadows resolve themselves and I see that it is not long before dawn. The thundering comes from Margret’s breast, where I fell asleep. She is breathing with difficulty, the swellings in her throat so great that they block the easy passage of air.
Her hair is wild from the night’s conflict, so I fetch my comb and tease it through the knots. It is a scrap of bone carved with tiny birds, given to me by my mother when I came to this house. When was that? It is so long ago I cannot bring it to my recollection.
Her curls tangle in the
teeth, but I am patient and gentle, and after the first few moments she does not wince, nor try to drag herself away. By the time the sun is up I am finished, and her hair spreads thinly over the pillow.
I blow out the candle. She fouls herself again; but this time is not ashamed, so far is she caught up in the fever. I wash her carefully as before, but this time there is nowhere to lay her but on the floor, which I do, making a mattress of sorts from all the rushes I can sweep together. I try to feed her a little more water, but her jaw is clamped tight. The boils are now the size of an onion.
So the day unravels. I lose count of the hours, so distracted are my thoughts. The sun climbs towards its highest point in the sky, which in this season is barely to skim the top of the hill. I watch the light come, I watch it go, and I watch Margret in the hours that slide in between. The Maid does not come. Thomas does not come. No one comes at all.
Presently it grows so dark that I turn my attention from her to light the candle again for a second night’s vigil. At that moment she bends double, as though a beast has sunk its fangs into her belly. She stretches her mouth wide and lets loose a long scream.
‘Oh My Lady! Where are you? Why will you not come?’
‘I am here, Margret,’ I say.
I don’t know if she is able to hear me. Her eyes sink back into her head like those of a fox. Slowly, her arms and legs spread out in the shape of the Cross of the holy apostle Andrew, her whole body frantic in its battle against the sickness. She tries to vomit, but there is nothing left to spew up. She is wrung empty as a leather sack. She cries, she shrieks, she squeals: then her shrieks are snuffed out and the room aches with a silence that is far more terrible.
I hang on to her, hoping my touch might anchor her to life, but she is gone deep into the vale of Death. I cradle her to my breast and will not let her fall, not even when the skin on my own arms begins to blister and my head fumes. I pull open my bodice and see the scabs that crust my own breasts, like hazelnuts in size and colour.
‘Margret,’ I say, although she cannot hear. ‘Soon I shall join you. Wait. I am racing to catch up. I am only a little way behind.’
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