The Plague

by Joanne Dahme

  The mayor pressed his lips to the back of my left hand. As he did, I felt something delicate, like a fallen leaf, slip into my palm. A second before he stood again, he looked into my eyes with a tiny glimmer of hope.

  “Let’s go!” the prince yelled, breaking the stillness.

  I was afraid to unclasp my hand as I held the reins of my horse. The small piece of parchment that it guarded throbbed in my fist. The princess had taught me to read. Together, we had struggled to understand the Bible verses, so carefully copied by the monks. As the king was selected by God, he insisted that his children become familiar with his stories. “Invoke God’s words in all that you do, and you will never be conquered,” he had told the princess. I never saw such threat in the Bible’s words.

  Still I worried. I had never been tested by a letter or message. I prayed that the words would be familiar to me. I did not dare look at it now or try to hide it in my dress for fear that the prince would see me.

  We were riding in pairs as we entered the town of Bordeaux. The great castle loomed on the mountain behind us now, blocking out all view of the sea. The sun beat upon our shoulders, but none of us complained as we wiped our damp foreheads. The prince rode a few paces in front of me. Sir Andrew, who shared his horse with George, rode beside me. Despite himself, George was smiling, as we had never ridden such magnificent beasts. We were usually relegated the oldest mares among the king’s stallions. I could not help but look with suspicion toward Sir Andrew. Why is he keeping George so close to him? Is he following the prince’s orders?

  We smelled the village before we entered it. The air was stained with smoke and the smoldering odors of wood, clothes, and flesh. I wondered if they had gathered all the cats and dogs in Bordeaux for the cleansing, as they had done in London all those years ago.

  The prince raised his hand to signal stop as we approached the village’s entrance.The soldiers behind him called to the soldiers in front of us. They turned, pulling the reins of their horses to allow the prince, in his full battle regalia, to enter the town first. It was said that the Black Prince feared nothing and that his black armor paused even the bravest hearts. His pleasure of being the first in a column of soldiers to ride into a city dressed as England’s warrior showed off a confidence meant to pique the fear of his enemies. An army that allows its leader on the first line is an army that does not know defeat.

  He had been fighting in France for years now and seemed self-assured as he used his horse to push aside his mounted captain. I was familiar with the bitter complaints of the soldiers when we were still at Windsor. It was said that at the slightest sign of aggression, soldiers nearest the prince were counted upon to throw themselves in front of him. The prince could not be expected to take the arrows of the enemy.The soldiers hated this spectacle.

  As we waited for the soldiers to realign behind the prince, I wondered if I should steal a peek at the tiny piece of paper that the mayor had pressed into my hand. The prince was preoccupied, as were the soldiers nearest him. I looked beside me to Sir Andrew, who was frowning at the exercise in front of us. George kept his face forward, appearing mesmerized by the prince, but when he felt my stare upon him, he brushed it away with his hand. I knew that if our gazes met, he would want to share his excitement. I felt the warmth of pride although I ached to be simply his sister again.

  It was then that I noticed that as soon as I caught the eye of a soldier, he would quickly look away. They are only following orders, I reminded myself, just as I am. Nell is dead to them, I thought as I caught a rising sob in my throat. I slowly looked down into my opening palm.

  “Forward!” the captain yelled as our horses suddenly lurched with the order. My fist closed tightly around the reins.We entered the village.

  At first I could only hear the sound of hooves on the narrow cobblestone road that led us into the maze of Bordeaux. Rickety wooden homes and stores lined each street gutter, their second stories leaning perilously close to their neighbors.The roofs blocked out the hot sun and the streets were pitched in shadow. At first we did not see many people—a furtive head behind a window shutter, a gnarled hand closing a door.The reason was all too apparent. Almost every door had been slashed with the cross of this plague, including the doors we passed of the apothecary, the blacksmith, the shoemaker, and the grocer.

  As we wound our way along the cobble streets, the captain would yell, “Make way for the prince!”The Black Prince held his head and shield high before him, but there was no one to make way.The houses we passed still smoldered, and those that were not burning seemed starkly quiet. Only the black rats that darted boldly across our path or paused in the shadows of opened doorways attested that Bordeaux still held some life.

  I glanced at George, who gripped Sir Andrew’s belt as he squeezed his eyes closed. I wanted to hold him, for I knew he was witnessing the death of our parents all over again—just as I was. I prayed that George’s amulet would protect us.

  Finally we reached the village square. A fountain, still bubbling, lay in its center. Behind the fountain was a great stone church whose spire seemed to pierce the blue sky. There were people at the church who stood behind its black iron fence.They said nothing as the prince signaled us forward again, around the fountain, until we congregated in front of the church’s red doors.

  I took a deep breath. There were probably fifty or so men, women, and children. They all looked the same as they grasped the iron bars of the fence, staring at us with the sunken eyes of despair. Their clothes and hair were dirty. Their children leaned lifelessly against their knees. How many towns would meet their end like this, I wondered, just as they had in England years ago? I thought of the priest in Portsmouth who warned us that death lay waiting in our future. How did he know?

  Although his back was to me, I noticed that the prince was shaking. Is he overcome at the plight of these people? The expressions of the soldiers surrounding me told me that they believed they were looking at death.

  Suddenly the Black Prince roared as he leaped from his horse.The soldiers closest to him dismounted.

  “Do you maggots know who you are staring at?” he cried, flashing his sword. “I am your lord!”

  I looked at him in disbelief. He had fought many battles to gain the French territories. It riled him that his new subjects did not recognize him, or that if they did, they were too close to death to care.

  “Please, my lord,” Sir Andrew interrupted, directing his horse forward. George still clung to his belt. “These people, your people, have lived through the pestilence, and death is at their own doors.”

  The prince flashed him a look.The hairs on the back of my neck stood when the prince bared his teeth at Sir Andrew as he cracked his sword against the pavement. The people barely flinched. “Where is the priest?” he seethed.

  For a moment, nobody answered, as our little army faced off with the already defeated villagers living in the church’s graveyard.

  “He’s dead,” a man closest to the church’s door finally offered. He said it without emotion. “As we all soon will be.”

  My throat tightened as I searched the faces of the children. The fire of their lives had been suffocated and their spirits had burned out. If the pestilence did not kill them, starvation would. My own plague wounds caused my eyes to blaze angrily. These children could have been George and me in London years ago.Their parents could have been my mother and father.

  “We must save them!” I burst out. All heads snapped in my direction. Sir Andrew looked appalled and George was wide-eyed. The prince tapped the edge of his sword in his gloved hand. He was smiling at me, but the smile was deadly.

  “Indeed, princess. And how do you suggest that we do that?” he challenged. His voice was incredibly calm. “Shall we take them all with us as your own little ragamuffin bridal party?”

  “My lord!” a voice yelled from the square. It was Henry and a few of the soldiers who had been sent into the village to collect our provisions. Henry came forward on his horse, gl
ancing at me nervously and then back to the prince.

  “My lord,” he repeated as he bowed his head. “We were extremely fortunate in our collections. We found smoked chickens and duck at the butchers, salted fish at the fishmonger’s, and baskets of vegetables at the market, most of them still good.” He paused to catch his breath. “Also, it appears that the village had an early harvest of barley and rye, before the pestilence struck, I presume.”

  The prince cocked his head. “Then why are these people starving behind these gates, like caged animals?” he asked.

  “Because they are afraid to venture where this plague may still lurk,” I thought I whispered, but again saw faces, if not their gazes, looking in my direction. “Let us leave them some of the food,” I suggested in my best princess voice, although my heart went cold when the prince narrowed his eyes.

  “We do have more than enough,” Henry confirmed, not looking at me but addressing the prince.

  The prince smiled and kicked at a stone. He slid his sword back into its sheath. “As the princess wishes,” he ordered. “Let us get out of this horrid village.”

  We rode for hours until dark, until the smell of Bordeaux no longer tortured our noses with its infected smoke. That was one small relief, for as long as I could detect the burning scent, my mind would not release the haunted faces of the children in the church graveyard. I looked at George as we neared a small farming village. He was barely awake and his blond head leaned into Sir Andrew’s wide back as he swayed in rhythm with the horse. I was tired, too, yet that the prince had peeled off his battle armor and was now wearing his hooded black cape did not escape my notice. There must not be anyone worth impressing in this town, I thought.

  The sky was pink as we approached the first thatched property. The sun was ready to kiss the horizon. Soon it would be snatched by the night and kept hostage until morning—like George and me. I remembered the parchment in my hand and squeezed it to reassure myself that it was still there. I worried that I must read it before all light was lost.

  “The town looks whole,” Sir Andrew muttered to no one in particular as our line of horses stopped to allow a few of the soldiers to select the best overnight residence for the prince. Except for the quiet, the little hamlet looked in order. Cows and goats grazed in the pasture that unfolded behind the wood-and-thatched-roofed homes that lined the dirt road. Fences looked well tended and smoke escaped from chimneys in little puffs. Some unseen roosters crowed and the sound cut my heart, foreshadowing the peacefulness that would not reign here again until the prince was gone.

  “Well!” he yelled from his horse, obviously impatient. “What have you found?” Two soldiers who we had been watching hurried on their horses to the prince’s side.

  “The house on the end here is probably the most comfortable, my lord,” the soldier said, nodding as if that would encourage the prince to better agree.

  “Really?” the prince drawled as he played with the tip of his beard. His mouth was in a pout.

  The second soldier, this one much younger than his partner, nodded more enthusiastically. “There is a good stock of food, my lord, in addition to a nice fire and some clean straw pallets. The owners were only honored to oblige,” he added, wearing a stupid grin.

  Suddenly the prince did the same as we all watched a man and woman with two small children scurry from their home.They headed to the wooden barn by the pasture with a few blankets in their hands.

  “Well, as long as they don’t mind the company of soldiers, we all will be fine,” remarked the prince.

  I frowned and wondered, What kind of man finds pleasure in the suffering of others?

  “Princess!” the prince interrupted. “You have that perturbed look on your face again,” he chided. “You and the boy will stay with me tonight.”

  My heart stopped. I opened my mouth to protest but knew I could not push the prince. I nodded as I dismounted and gave the reins to a soldier. Sir Andrew gently lowered George to the ground. I took his hand, forgetting my role momentarily, and followed the prince into the farmer’s house.

  I did not feel as guilty as I should have watching George eat the peasants’ meal of warm stew. It was slowly bubbling in a pot on a fire in the middle of the room when we entered, the family’s wooden bowls arranged expectantly on the table. George eagerly drank the stew, raising the bowl to his lips. I looked at his thin face as he smiled at me shyly. It was hard for him to get used to seeing me in the princess’s clothes. The torchlight cast dark hollows under his eyes. I prayed it was only the torchlight.

  The prince wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Are you not going to eat?” he asked, scowling at me. “It would not do for the princess to get weak and ill,” he warned.

  “I’ve eaten a bit,” I replied, although I felt as if I had already taken too much. “I hoped to leave some for the family,” I said, looking at the prince on the other side of the table. Sir Andrew sat beside me, breaking a small brown loaf in his hands.

  “My dear sister is sometimes like a nun, Andrew.”The prince laughed as he reached for a piece of the bread. Sir Andrew continued to mop up the broth at the bottom of his bowl.

  “Would you be so good as to clean up, my dear sister?” the prince asked. His tone was playful again as he handed me what was left of his dinner. He stood and grabbed the black cloak that he had hung on a hook by the door. “I will be back, my sweet. Don’t wait up.” He must have spied some relief in my face. “Our soldiers are on watch. No one can get in or leave this house while I am gone,” he added.

  “Andrew, come with me,” he ordered, as if it were a second thought. Sir Andrew pulled himself up from the table with the jagged motions of an old man.

  The prince was almost out the door when he turned to give us one last look.

  “George,” he said, pulling his amulet from his cloak pocket. “Is your amulet close to you?”

  George sat straight up, suddenly wide-awake. “Why, yes, my lord. Here it is, around my neck,” he said brightly as he held it between his fingers for the prince to see.

  “Good, my boy. Keep it by my sister, who was so loved by your sister, while I am gone.” He shot me a loaded smile. George nodded but crinkled his nose as if puzzled.

  After the prince and Sir Andrew were gone, we sat at the table for a few more minutes, watching the shadow of the torchlight dance around the room. We allowed the stew fire to burn itself out. I listened to ensure that the prince was not lurking outside the door.

  “George, could you take the remainder of the stew and bread to the family? I believe they are in the barn.”

  “Sure, Nell.” He jumped up, eager to have a task. I did not correct the use of my name but watched him as he carefully picked up the pot by its handle, using a rag that was hanging on the wall beside some kettles and cooking spoons. He held it with both hands as he pushed against the door with his back.

  “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

  As soon as he was out the door I opened my hand, eager to read the message buried in my palm. The crumpled paper was damp, and I prayed that the words it contained were still legible. I smoothed the paper on the surface of the table and peered at the single word in tiny black script.

  G-R-A-C-I-A-S. I spelled out the word in my head and felt a rising sense of panic. What does it mean? I stood and paced around the embers of the fire, saying the letters aloud. I hoped that their sounds would blend into something that would tell me what to do.

  “Nell?”

  I jumped and turned to see George and Henry in the doorway. Henry had removed his riding armor and now wore a dust-covered brown tunic and stockings. Instead of spurs, pieces of hay clung to his ankles.

  “Nell, are you okay? You’re not sick, are you?” George asked. His eyes were wide as he clutched his amulet.

  “Yes, I’m fine, dear,” I replied, and knelt down to give him a hug. “But you must not call me Nell, not as long as I am doing the bidding of the prince. Do you understand?”

  He frowned
and bit his lip. Finally he nodded as I stared into his pale blue eyes. How I longed to be called Nell again.

  I looked up to meet Henry’s contemplative gaze.

  “How are you, Princess?” he asked. There was just a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

  “I am well,” I said as I tried to ignore my pounding heart and burning cheeks. I wanted to say so much, but I turned away from him, saying nothing.

  “He followed me from the barn,” George complained. “I told him that I could protect you.”

  “What are you going to do?” Henry asked. His hands rested on his hips, waiting impatiently for my answer. What does he expect of me? Can I trust him?

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “He is our prince.” I looked into Henry’s eyes for some spark that would tell me that I could trust this young soldier, but he turned away and walked wordlessly out the door.

  My heart sank. We are truly on our own, I thought as I dropped the piece of paper onto the glowing embers of the fire. George tugged at my hand but said nothing as we watched it curl up and disappear.

  That night I dreamed of rats. Under the light of the moon, they moved as a single entity snaking down the road into the village. The sound of their march was deafening. They squealed and hissed with delight.

  In my dream, George bolted from his pallet to use his amulet. “We must warn the prince!” he yelled.

  “Don’t bother, George. The prince already knows about the rats,” I told him wearily. “See for yourself.”

  George and I opened the shutters and saw the prince in his hooded black cloak and his long pointy boots parading down the road, his sword in one hand and his lioncovered shield in the other. Behind him were his army of rats, their noses and whiskers twitching excitedly at the fresh scent of the village.