The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  Father Cuthbert pressed a stuffed cloth bag to his mouth and nose. It had been soaked in strong vinegar and filled with spices, thyme and lavender. He always held it close even at Mass when it dangled from a short cord around his neck so that it hung just below his chin. Now he lowered it an inch or two, gasping with the effort of trying to breathe through it. In spite of the heat of the day, his face was pale, his eyes sunk into dark hollows, and for a moment I feared he himself had been stricken.

  He edged to the far side of the graveyard and, pressing the bag tightly against his face, flung holy water at the long burial pit on the other side of the wall. He was standing so far away that few of the drops could have reached the raw earth. That done, he scuttled towards the chapel without even glancing my way.

  The dead had been buried without a priest as soon as they could be dragged from the cottages or wherever they had fallen. The packhorses had been pressed into service, hauling each corpse up the hill, tied to a wooden sledge, like the corpses of executed felons, to be laid side by side in a common grave, for there were not men enough willing to carry them on a bier. The far end of the pit was as yet empty. The women turned their faces away as they hurried by, afraid they might see the apparitions of their own bodies lying in that hole.

  I scurried ahead of them into the chapel, ignoring Meryn who lay by the door, his crutches beside him, eyes half closed, listlessly holding up a cracked wooden bowl for alms; there was nothing in it.

  A shaft of bright sunshine filtered through the casement and illuminated the new hanging cloth covering the reliquary niche in the wall. The reliquary was in the form of a silver right arm with a gold and garnet ring encircling the first joint of the third finger. It encased the hand of the blessed St Cadeyrn. I had embroidered the cloth, using fine needles I had fashioned with my own hands from splinters of rib bones, and decorated it with symbols of St Cadeyrn’s life and death: his royal crown; the raven that had saved him from the serpent’s poison; the axe that had severed his holy head and hand; the spring of water that gushed from his bloody wrist; and the bear that had borne his martyred remains to their resting place. Father Cuthbert would surely notice the new cloth and enquire who had stitched it so exquisitely. As he said, in our present tribulations it was more important than ever to offer our talents to God, for who knew when death might strike?

  I regret to say that, though his holy relic consecrated our chapel, Father Cuthbert did not hold St Cadeyrn in high regard; indeed he seldom mentioned him, preferring to invoke St Olaf for whom the chapel was named. He said St Cadeyrn was a saint of the Celtic Church, not the Holy Catholic Church. I knew Father Cuthbert dearly desired a relic of the great St Olaf himself, but the saint’s body lay in Norway, and Porlock Weir could never have afforded so much as a snippet of cloth from such an important saint. So Father Cuthbert had to be content with St Cadeyrn’s hand for a church must have a relic and, besides, the people of Porlock would have deemed it ill luck to remove it. But perhaps my cloth would remind Father Cuthbert that no saint is to be neglected, especially in such perilous times.

  Up at the altar Father Cuthbert, standing with his back to us, turned his head briefly to nod at the squint window where the boy outside was supposed to be watching for the signal to toll the sanctus bell. But no bell sounded. The wretched child had let his attention wander again or even fallen asleep. Father Cuthbert gave the signal again, but still there was no answering bell. He glowered at his acolyte.

  With a long-suffering sigh, Harold set down the little censer he was waving and ambled out through the door. Finally, we heard the dull clang of the bell over our heads. The congregation fell silent as they sank to their knees, waiting for the moment when, by the priest’s words, the bread would become the blessed flesh of Christ. But Harold did not return. Darting a furious glance at the closed door, Father Cuthbert had no choice but to continue alone with the Mass.

  ‘. . . accepit panem in sanctas manus . . .’ The words of consecration trailed away as he turned his head towards the small window.

  Now that the gossips’ tongues were briefly stilled, a new sound invaded the chapel. No doubt the cries of another widow or bereaved mother, whose husband or child was being dragged up to the churchyard for burial. The wails of mourners were becoming as commonplace as the gulls’ screeching.

  ‘Benedixit, fregit, deditque discipulis . . .’ Again Father Cuthbert faltered.

  The noise was growing closer. I thought I could hear a drum, but it wasn’t the solemn measured beating of a death drum. I could hear wild shrieks too, but they were more like screams of uncontrolled laughter than despair. The priest replaced the Host on the paten and the tiny congregation scrambled to its feet.

  ‘Did they not hear the Mass bell ring?’ Father Cuthbert demanded furiously, though since Harold had still not returned it was hard to tell whom he was addressing. He strode to the door, almost knocking an old woman off her feet, and dragged it open.

  For a moment he stood transfixed as the sound of drumming and the cackle of laughter filled the chapel. He ran forward, shouting something, but his words were drowned by the noise. We all crowded out behind him.

  Six or seven women were prancing and cavorting round the chapel, threading in and out of the graves as if they were weaving round maypoles. They’d hitched up their skirts to their bare thighs and were dancing wildly, kicking up their heels and flinging their limbs about, their loose hair whipping around them as they jerked their heads. One, evidently their leader, was using a deer horn to beat out a crazed rhythm on a tabor strapped to her arm. I could not make out who she was for she whisked round the back of the chapel as I emerged.

  Several overexcited dogs were rushing back and forth, barking and howling. Meryn, wide awake now, was leaning on the graveyard wall, chortling with glee, and pounding one of his crutches up and down on the hard earth, keeping time with the rhythm of the tabor. Father Cuthbert shouted at the women to stop, but could hardly make himself heard over the barks, mad laughter and shrieks as the women leaped and twisted.

  In the end he was forced to seize one by the arm. ‘Are you drunk or has a demon taken possession of you? Stop this at once!’

  The girl, unable to wrest herself from his grasp, continued to prance up and down on the spot, lashing her head back and forth to the pounding beat of the tabor, and giggling madly.

  ‘St Vitus’s Day,’ she panted, between gales of laughter. ‘Must dance . . . for St Vitus . . . He can . . . stop the pestilence. Must dance . . . Come and dance!’

  She seized the front of Father Cuthbert’s robes, and another woman caught his hand, while a third pushed him from behind. They began dragging and shoving the poor man round the graveyard, jerking his arms up and down as if he was a puppet.

  ‘Let go of me! I command you to cease,’ he yelled, trying to break free. But as soon as he managed to shake off one of the grasping hands, the women would grab him somewhere else as if he was in the grasp of one of those eight-armed polypus-fish.

  ‘Harold!’ he shouted. ‘Stop them.’

  Father Cuthbert’s acolyte had evidently not moved from the spot where he’d first seen the women. His hand still grasped the bell rope and his mouth gaped, like a stranded herring’s.

  ‘Help your priest, boy,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t just stand there.’

  Harold, dropping the bell rope, made some vague gesture as Father Cuthbert was danced past him, but he made no attempt to stop anyone, either from fear of being dragged into the dance or because he was afraid to lay hands on a woman. Just as it seemed that Father Cuthbert might be danced to death, he tripped over one of the grave mounds and sprawled face down on the grave.

  Before he could struggle up, the leader of the women emerged round the side of the chapel still beating out her frenzied rhythm on the tabor. It was Aldith, her long tangle of sandy hair whipping back and forth as she swung her head in time with her own drumbeat. The others fell into line behind her, still prancing, and began to fling off their own clothes and to
tear the garments from the women in front, till all were bare-breasted, their dugs jiggling as they pounded their bare feet on the hard earth. Three or four women who’d come out of the chapel ran forward and joined in the mad dance, ripping off their gowns, and tearing the bindings from their hair. One was even grasping her baby, which first laughed then howled as his mother spun him high and low in the clear blue sky. But though the child was plainly terrified, the mother could not seem to stop.

  I ran to Father Cuthbert and helped him to his feet, trying to brush the dirt and dust from his red chasuble, which he was still wearing over his robes. But he pushed my hand brusquely aside, bellowing for Harold, who sidled across and stood out of arm’s reach of his priest, cringing as if he expected a blow.

  Father Cuthbert began to strip himself of amice, chasuble and stole, flinging them one by one at the boy’s head without so much as a kiss on the cloth or any reverence for the holy nature of the garments he was discarding.

  ‘The Mass, Father? It’s not yet concluded,’ I reminded him, fearing that the fall might have shaken his wits. I had to shout to make myself heard over the thumping tabor and the shrieks.

  ‘Nor will it be, Mistress Matilda. Do you imagine I would continue while they . . . they . . .’ he spluttered, gesturing towards the frenzied women, as if he could not find words dark enough for their depravity. ‘I had thought to come here one last time to bring comfort and hope. Instead I am subjected to this spectacle.’

  The women had danced round behind the chapel and, though we could still hear them, the walls deadened the sound a little.

  Father Cuthbert glowered at Harold, who stood clutching the heap of garments. ‘Pack those, boy, and the holy vessels, then load the bag on my horse. Quickly now.’

  ‘Your horse?’ Harold repeated.

  ‘Mine. I will be returning to Porlock alone. You will remain here. Have you forgotten you are exorcist to this parish as well as acolyte? It is your duty to deal with these women. They are clearly possessed by foul spirits – exorcise them! Do not return to Porlock until you have. And I advise you to work quickly. The steward has received orders from Sir Nigel to block the road between Porlock Weir and Porlock to prevent any carts bringing the sick or dead into the town. He intends to seal off his manor to protect it. So if you do not make haste you will find yourself shut out.’

  He dragged off the white linen alb, which covered his riding clothes, and added that to the towering pile in Harold’s arms. ‘Don’t stand there gawping like a halfwit, boy. My robes and vessels – get them packed!’

  I stared at Father Cuthbert, struggling to make sense of his words. ‘Block the road? But where will you be, Father?’

  ‘Naturally Sir Nigel insists I should reside in the manor. I have a duty to tend the members of his family. He waits on the Black Prince, but some of his relatives have taken refuge in Porlock Manor – an aunt, niece, cousin and several of his young wards. But you need have no fear for us, Mistress Matilda. Master Wallace has done an admirable job of ensuring the cellars and stores are well stocked. He has seen to it that plenty of game and meat has been salted down and stored in case there should be need of it.

  ‘As the prophet Isaiah wrote, Mistress Matilda, “Comedite bonum et delectabitur in crassitudine anima vestra – eat that which is good, and your soul shall be delighted in fatness.” You would do well to heed that. To deny ourselves the pleasures of food and wine, Mistress Matilda, is to throw God’s bounty in His face and invoke His wrath. If we delight in His gifts, the pestilence will not touch us.’

  I stared at him, certain that I had misunderstood. ‘But, Father, you will come back to hear our confessions, celebrate Mass? With so many in the village mortally sick, they must be shriven.’

  ‘You would not have me neglect my duty and leave Sir Nigel’s household bereft of the comfort of the Church? Surely you would not put your own needs above theirs.’

  Harold emerged from the chapel and began strapping the leather bag to Father Cuthbert’s horse. The priest started towards the beast, then stopped and ran back into the chapel, returning a few minutes later with a linen cloth tied up like a sack.

  ‘But, Father Cuthbert, you cannot neglect your duty here,’ I pleaded. ‘Sir Nigel can surely send a chaplain to attend to his kin at the manor.’

  He ignored me. Snapping at his acolyte to hold the beast steady, he heaved himself into the saddle. I picked up my skirts and hurried towards him, determined to block his path. But the women burst around the side of the chapel again, forcing themselves between us and spinning me round so that I was obliged to run to the far side of the graveyard to avoid being dragged into their dance. They looked exhausted, their faces slack and dripping with sweat, their eyes unfocused as if they were drunk, but still they danced on as if the drumbeat had trapped them in an enchantment and would dance them into their graves.

  Chapter 27

  Porlock Manor

  Trust is the mother of deceit.

  Medieval Proverb

  The shouting outside grew louder. Unable to contain her curiosity, Lady Pavia stepped out of the great hall and on to the short flight of steps leading down into the courtyard. Sir Harry was standing with his back to her, bellowing at a groom. The servant was as tall as he was, and burly, but even so he was edging further and further away from the riding whip Sir Harry was brandishing. Servants peered out from doorways and open casements, or suddenly found the need to re-lace their shoes as they crossed the courtyard.

  ‘Steward says no one’s to take the horses out. No exceptions, m’lord. Says he’ll not risk any getting sick or being stolen.’

  ‘Do you dare to call me a thief, you worthless piece of goat shit?’ Sir Harry lunged forward and lashed the whip at the man’s head. Already on his guard, the groom raised his arm and leaped backwards, narrowly saving his face and eye. He cursed, rubbing the purple welt rapidly swelling on his hairy forearm, smearing a thin film of scarlet blood across his skin.

  Sir Harry raised the whip again, but before he could bring it down, he found himself spinning round as a hand grabbed it from behind and jerked it from his grasp. ‘You got a quarrel with my orders,’ Master Wallace growled, ‘you take it up with me. And you,’ he yelled, brandishing the whip handle at the gawping servants, ‘get about your work, else you’ll find yourselves taking your chances in Porlock Weir.’

  The servants melted away, like snowflakes in a fire.

  ‘How dare you lay hands on me?’ Sir Harry roared. ‘This flea-bitten dog was calling me a thief. I insist you dismiss him.’

  The groom began to babble an explanation, but both men ignored him.

  ‘I heard what he said. He’s only repeating what I told him, though he’s the wits of a dung beetle.’ Wallace jerked his head at the groom. ‘Back to your horses.’

  The hapless groom opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it and slouched away, still rubbing his lacerated arm.

  Lady Pavia descended a couple of steps, and as both men caught sight of her, they made sullen bows in her direction. ‘I hope there are not more bad tidings, Master Wallace.’

  ‘Merely bad servants, Lady Pavia,’ Sir Harry said, before the steward could answer. ‘When his master’s guest asks for his own horse to be saddled, it is customary for a groom to obey without question.’

  ‘They say, A good servant must have the back of an ass and the tongue of a sheep. Is that not so, Master Wallace?’

  ‘I’ve heard some say it, m’lady,’ Wallace muttered darkly. ‘But not when that servant’s been given his orders. Last time the Great Pestilence came to these parts we lost a great many horses to the sickness, but we lost just as many to thieves. The bastards knew they could get away with it ’cause there was no sheriff to catch them, nor any judge to hang them.’

  ‘But that is my horse,’ Harry protested. ‘I’ve every right to take it.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, Sir Harry,’ Wallace said. ‘But, like I say, horses fall to the pestilence just as easily as a
ny man, and that fever is already at our gates. If your horse carries the contagion in here, it could spread to every beast and man in the manor.’

  Lady Pavia nodded. ‘I fear he’s right, Sir Harry. Besides, we can’t have you putting yourself in danger by venturing abroad.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Unless, of course, you were thinking of abandoning us poor women.’

  ‘I would sooner fall upon my own sword than neglect my duty,’ he said, giving a courtly bow. ‘No, I merely wished to indulge in a little hunting. Pleasure is good for the health.’

  Lady Pavia smiled as if she believed every word. True, there were no signs Sir Harry intended to run away. He was not carrying blankets or travelling bags, just an empty leather sack, the kind a huntsman might fill with small game. But she couldn’t help observing that for a man going hunting he seemed singularly ill-equipped. He had no bow and arrows, or bird of prey on his arm, not even a hound at his heel. Perhaps he intended to creep up on his prey and strangle it. And just what was his quarry? She found herself glancing up at the solar, where Christina sat with the three wards and Lady Margery. Would the groom have been asked to saddle another horse, a lady’s palfrey, perhaps?

  Chapter 28

  Sara

  The mouth of a flounder falls to one side for it froze that way when the flounder pulled a face in jealousy when the herring was crowned King of the Sea.

  Shielding my eyes from the early-morning sun, I squinted up and down the beach. There was scarcely a boy to be seen in either direction, but still I hoped and prayed that this time . . . Blessed Virgin, let it be today.