The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  I was almost tempted to make her stay out in the cold a few minutes more, just to teach her not to stay away so long. But the scrabbling became ever more frantic and I thought I heard something else moving around outside in the dark as well. Suppose a fox was chasing her and she had come running to me for protection.

  I struggled from the narrow bed and pulled my cloak about my shoulders, for I certainly did not want to face danger clad only in my shift. I snatched up the billhook that I always kept sharp and ready by the door. Easing the door open, just a hand’s breadth, I peered out into the darkness.

  I expected to feel Gatty’s soft fur against my leg as she squeezed through the gap. She would scratch frantically on the door whenever she wanted to come in, as if she was being pursued by a pack of slavering wolves, yet whenever I opened it, the cat would saunter in with a little grunt to make in plain she was bestowing a great favour on me by returning at all. But tonight there was no grunt, no warm body rubbing against my leg. Had someone chased her off?

  I fumbled to light the lantern and lifted it to the gap, trying to see if anything was moving outside. Only the currant bushes stirred in the breeze, the shadows of their twigs clawing across the ground.

  ‘Gatty! Here, little gyb! Don’t you want your supper?’

  But there was no answering miaow, no sign of any creature running towards me. If she was crouching beside the wood pile on the trail of a mouse or had taken shelter beneath a bush, I would see her green eyes glowing in the candlelight to show where she was hiding. But nothing shone back at me.

  It was only when I pulled the door a few inches wider to thrust the lantern out that I felt a dull thump on the wood and glimpsed something swinging at the level of my face. At first I thought someone had tied a dead ferret to my door. But as the light shone full on the fur, I saw exactly what it was, though my mind would not make sense of it.

  I stared, unable to move, as it swung limply back and forwards, rocked by the motion of the door. The furry body hung from a noose tied tightly around the slender neck. The glazed eyes bulged wide. The mouth was drawn back in a snarl. The little tongue hung purple between tiny needle-sharp teeth. I thought my little Gatty had been scratching for me to let her in, but she had been clawing in agony as she fought for her last breath.

  Chapter 22

  Will

  Riddle me this: Which man killed a quarter of all the people in the world?

  Shouts and howls of pain drifted up on the wind. It was worse listening to them in the dead of night, when all else was quiet. You couldn’t pretend to yourself that it was just the gulls screeching then. It was hard to tell where the cries were coming from, but it wasn’t the sound of sailors getting drunk at Sybil’s brew-house, that was for certain. I shuffled along the stone wall as far as the chains round my ankles would allow, trying to find a place that was less draughty. I swear whichever bastard had built that tower had deliberately made it so that, no matter where you lay, the wind whining through the grille in the door would freeze your cods off.

  I’ll grant you that a cave is none too warm, summer or winter, but at least I’d always had a fire to toast my toes and a belly full of hot food. The pigpen Cador had chained me up in didn’t even have those comforts. I’d been thrown, none too gently, I might add, into the chamber at the base of the village’s beacon. It was a small round stone tower with a flat roof on which the iron brazier stood ready to be lit whenever there was trouble. The room beneath, if you can call it that, had a cold earth floor and no windows, except for the grille in the door. The tower was sometimes used to store valuable cargoes from the ships until they could be taken over the moor, and judging by the stench of piss and dried droppings, Cador had kept the odd stray animal in there too.

  It was the Holy Hag who had insisted I be locked up till the next manor court. I think most of the villagers, maybe even Cador too, would have let me go on living in the cave until the trial, but that spiteful witch insisted I’d run off if they let me loose. The old cat was right. I certainly wouldn’t have hung around waiting to be branded with a hot iron or to have my crippled back whipped bloody again. My hide still bore the scars of my last flogging at Master Wallace’s hands and I was in no hurry to repeat it.

  But I think I’d have risked even that for the boy. Each time another howl shattered the silence I imagined Hob crouching somewhere alone out there in the darkness, listening to those cries. Did he recognise the voices? Did he know who was screaming? If he did, each cry must have cut him like a scourge I would have stayed, if only to see him hidden safely somewhere, ensured that he had food to eat each day, but stuck in that tower, I could do nothing to help him. My growling belly reminded me I couldn’t even help myself.

  Prisoners only get fed if they’ve money to pay for food or someone has the charity to feed them. Cador came once a day with half a loaf of stale bread and some water. The bread I could barely chew it was so hard and the water tasted like piss, and probably was, though I tried not to think about that. Even a strip of dried fish would have been a banquet in there and I’d have given my right hand for a mouthful of pork. I winced. Don’t even think it! They could cut off my hand for theft, for it certainly wasn’t the first time I had stolen. I didn’t want to dwell on that prospect.

  My head jerked up as I heard the faint, but unmistakable, sound of a long drawn-out scream, a woman this time, poor creature. I shivered. The last time the pestilence struck, prisoners were left to die and rot, still chained to the walls, when their gaolers fell ill or fled. Riddle me this – Who dies faster from thirst and starvation? A dwarf or a longshanks? There are some answers even a wise fool doesn’t want to learn.

  Chapter 23

  Sara

  The sucking-fish, though tiny, can fasten itself to the hull of a mighty ship and drag it backwards. But if it is placed on the belly of a pregnant woman it can hold the baby in the womb and prevent it being expelled before its time.

  I don’t know how many hours have passed. If the cocks crowed the dawn or the rooks cawed as they settled in their evening roosts, I didn’t hear them. They belong to another kingdom, one that lies far beyond our blood-bathed cottage. Every living thing in the outside world seems no more than the grey wraiths of drowned men circling about our walls. Only we three women are solid and alive in our sweat and pain.

  A tiny head burrows out between Goda’s legs. I can scarce see anything save for the roundness of it, yet I know there’s something strange about what I am watching. The flames of the fire make the blob of a head glisten, a hundred tiny flames reflected on it like sunlight on a bubble of water.

  I draw a piece of burning wood from the fire and hold it closer. Aldith peers in too, her head touching mine.

  ‘That’s not right,’ she whispers, glancing anxiously at Goda.

  But her sister doesn’t make any sign she’s heard. She has sunk back against the wall, her head lolling, her arms limp. She’s even stopped moaning. I touch her forehead. It’s cold with sweat. Her breath is shallow and rapid, like that of an old woman approaching the grave. We must get the child out or we will lose them both.

  ‘One push is all, Goda, the head is already born. One last big push and then you can sleep.’

  She murmurs something and tries to shove me away but she’s too weak. Two of my kin already lie dead in my byre. I cannot let there be a third.

  ‘Make her push, Aldith. Make her!’

  I try to wriggle my fingers either side of the half-born babby, like I do for the goats if a kid’s leg is twisted backwards.

  Aldith shakes Goda to rouse her, and her scream of pain, when it finally comes, would shatter a boulder. The babby slithers into my hands like a blowfly maggot bursting from a horse’s hide. It doesn’t cry. Its face is pressed flat, distorted by a glistening film, as fine and transparent as a fish bladder. The tiny hand lifts as if it is struggling to free itself, but still it makes no sound, takes no breath. Only now do I understand what I am seeing.

  ‘She’s a caul-bearer,
’ I whisper. I’ve heard such tales from the old women, but I only half believed them. I struggle to remember what they said must be done.

  My hands are shaking with tiredness and thirst as I cut a piece from my shift and wrap it quickly around the babby’s head.

  ‘Dead?’ Aldith says sharply.

  Goda wails, a strange, high-pitched animal sound, like a snared rabbit.

  The caul comes away with the cloth as I peel it back. Almost at once, the babby makes a feeble, mewing cry. Aldith takes her from me, wraps her in one of the bed coverings and thrusts her into Goda’s arms, smiling in relief. ‘Blessed Virgin be praised. Here she is, sister, your own fine daughter. See you give her suck now. She’ll be needing it.’

  She turns from the bed and bends her head close to mine. ‘You’d best be putting that caul somewhere safe till Goda’s stronger. ’Tis said that if the caul’s lost, the caul-bearer will be too.’

  I stumble across to a shelf, lifting down jars and boxes, which are all empty, until I have space to stretch the cloth, with the caul still sticking to it, and leave it to dry. The last water skin is almost empty. I’m so desperately thirsty I can barely move my tongue. It feels like a lump of leather in my mouth, gagging me, choking me. Just one mouthful, just one tiny sip . . .

  Goda reaches out. ‘Water!’

  I push the skin into her hands and turn away, unable to bear the torment of watching her drink. They will come with water today. They must! They are plodding up the path towards us even now. I’m sure I can hear their footsteps. They’ve heard Goda’s cries. They know we have a new life. At any moment, they’ll be prising the shutters open.

  Blessed Virgin, let them come. Let them come now . . . I beg you.

  Luke is crouching near the door. The light from the fire is too dim for me to see the expression on his face, but his shoulders are shaking. His breath comes in jerking sobs.

  ‘Don’t take on so, Luke, not yet. We cannot grieve yet . . . When we are let out, then . . . Now we must take care of the living. Goda, the baby, the chillern . . . Then we’ll bury your father.’

  ‘And Col,’ he snarls.

  ‘Yes, Col. He’s lost his father too. You can help each other.’

  Luke scrambles to his feet. ‘Col’s dead and you didn’t even notice. You were . . . Col is dead!’

  ‘No!’ Aldith gasps. ‘Why would you play such a cruel joke? He’s my son. He’s not even sick . . . He said he wasn’t sick.’

  Pushing me aside she falls to her knees, shaking the boy, who still lies with his mouth pressed to the tiny gap beneath the door. ‘Lazy little heller! You get up now, boy, if you know what’s good for you. Get up when I tell you!’

  Grabbing his arms she hauls him into a sitting position, but his head lolls backwards. She pulls him away from the door, cradling him in her arms, her eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘Always been a sound sleeper,’ she murmurs. ‘Sometimes he sleeps that deep even young Ibb jumping on him doesn’t waken him. Daveth says . . . Daveth . . .’ Her face crumples and she lets out a howl of pain and rage. Col’s head snaps back and forth as she rocks him with all the violence of raw grief.

  Luke stares down at her. He strides to the door, wrenching it open. But behind it, the planks are still nailed across the opening. He shakes them in a frenzy, but they will not budge. Gazing wildly around him, he hefts up the top of the legless table. He charges towards us. I cringe, fearing he’s going to smash it over our heads. But he barges past us. Using the wooden slab like a battering ram, he runs at the planks, yelling as if he is charging at an enemy. Again and again he slams the edge of the table top into the planks until they begin to splinter and the nails work loose.

  I try to grab him. ‘Stop it! Stop it! They’ll kill us if we break out.’

  But he is in such a fury, not even his own father could restrain him. The nails holding one of the planks are torn loose. It crashes down on to the stone threshold outside. Light and wind rush in through the gap, almost snatching my breath. Luke is suddenly still, gazing transfixed at the oblong of light as if he has never seen daylight before.

  But the demon of rage rises in him again. Using the corner of the table top as a hammer, he pounds on the other planks until they snap and fall away, the broken ends dangling from solitary nails. Throwing the wood aside, Luke clambers out through the hole. I try to grab him, but his shirt slips through my fingers. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back. He simply runs.

  June 1361

  Trust not a new friend, nor an old enemy.

  Medieval Proverb

  Chapter 24

  Porlock Manor

  Words serve to hide a man’s character as well as reveal it.

  Medieval Proverb

  ‘Master Wallace asks that you attend him in the great hall, m’lady,’ the maid said, bending her knee for the second time since she’d entered the solar.

  ‘A steward asks me to attend him?’ Lady Pavia echoed incredulously.

  The girl flushed to the shade of a ripe strawberry and bobbed even lower by way of answer.

  ‘Stop dancing around me, girl. I am not a maypole. If the steward wishes to ask my advice he will wait on me here, in the solar.’

  ‘He begs . . . he . . . Not just you, m’lady, but Sir Harry and Lady Margery too.’

  Little escaped Lady Pavia even when she was vexed by impudent demands from servants. Her sharp eyes registered the jerk of Christina’s head at the mention of Sir Harry’s name and not for the first time. Though Sir Harry appeared to pay no more court to Christina than he did to any of the pretty young wards, she had noticed how a flush always stained the girl’s cheeks whenever he addressed her and how tensely she held herself whenever he was close by. Love and a cough cannot be hid, Lady Pavia recited grimly to herself. It would not be uncommon for a young girl to be attracted to such a honey-tongued man, though it was very far from desirable. She would have to keep a close watch on Christina.

  The maid was still babbling: ‘. . . but he says it’s best the young ladies do not attend.’

  The three young wards glowered at her from their seats in the casement where they were supposed to be occupied with their stitching, but were in fact playing knuckle bones, their elderly chaperon, Lady Margery, having nodded off as usual.

  ‘Then the girls will walk in the gardens and Master Wallace may attend us in here. And when he does, you may be sure I will have words with him about what is expected of a steward in my cousin’s household.’ She flapped her fingers at the maid in an impatient gesture of dismissal.

  The maid rocked miserably on the balls of her feet, her expression that of a martyr praying that an angel might suddenly appear to deliver her from the jaws of this lioness. ‘Beg pardon, m’lady, but Master Wallace is also summoning the servants – farmhands, grooms and dairymaids too. It wouldn’t be right, them all coming in here, straight from the fields, rubbing up against the fine hangings and the like.’

  ‘You foolish girl, why didn’t you say so?’ Lady Pavia exclaimed. ‘That is a dish of a different meat entirely.’ She waved an arm at the maid, as she tried, but failed, to heave her ample buttocks from the chair. ‘Help me up and rouse Lady Margery, but do it gently. Any sudden alarms at her age and her poor wits might take fright and depart for good.’

  The three young wards sniggered. Lady Pavia turned a baleful eye upon them. ‘You will remain here with Lady Christina, and I expect to see a deal of progress made on those flowers you’re stitching when I return. What is that supposed to be, Helen? A daisy?’

  The girl pouted. ‘A white rose.’

  Lady Pavia snorted. ‘It appears to have been gnawed by a worm. I suggest you fashion a bird to catch the culprit.’

  The great hall was crowded. Rarely did field hands, dairymaids and stable boys come to dine with the indoor servants except for the great Christmas and Easter feasts, and now, ill at ease, they kept to the back of the long hall near the huge doors, pulling off hoods and caps, then hastily replacing them, uncert
ain which was more fitting. The indoor servants, more confident in the presence of their betters, had gathered in small groups in front of the dais, on which high-backed chairs had been placed for Sir Nigel’s guests as befitted their rank.

  From the snatches that drifted up to Lady Pavia from the babble below, it was clear that the servants knew no more than she did about why they had been summoned. Were Sir Nigel and his retinue about to descend on Porlock? Maybe even the Black Prince himself?

  A side door opened. Lady Pavia could not see who had entered over the throng of burly men, but it was evidently someone of importance for the mass of servants parted down the middle like a seam tearing up a pair of breeches until finally Master Wallace emerged, striding towards the front, a stout stave clutched in his hand.

  Wallace gave the impression of being a giant of a man, though he was not overly tall. But every part of him was brawny, from his tree-trunk thighs straining the fabric of his green hose to his great bulbous purple nose. The man following closely on his heels, whom Lady Pavia recognised as Father Cuthbert, appeared even more slender and willowy than usual by comparison, like a greyhound trotting delicately behind a mastiff.

  As he drew close Wallace at least remembered his manners enough to make a perfunctory bow to the guests, though his awkwardness suggested he was not well practised at it. As Lady Pavia’s first husband, Hubert, had been known to remark many times, The mouse sits boldly on the throne when he knows the cat’s away. Sir Nigel had been absent far too long, she thought, and it was high time that this particular mouse had its tail and whiskers cropped before he forgot who was master of this manor.

  The two men stepped up on to the dais. Lady Pavia was gratified to observe that Father Cuthbert at least remembered the duty he owed to his patron’s guests and had the grace to kiss her hand, though she couldn’t help shuddering a little: his lips and fingers were as cold and limp as a plucked chicken.