The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  I lifted the cloths out carefully, one at a time. First the fair linen that covered the altar, rolled not folded, in accordance with church rule. Next the chalice veil, linen towel and the first of the two heavier cloths that were laid beneath the altar covering. But the second cloth was not lying flat. I growled. That was Harold again, stuffing them in any old way in his haste to leave. Everything beneath would be crumpled. There was even a danger of the delicate threads being broken. I pulled out the second cloth and, just as I’d feared, the baptismal cloth underneath was twisted around something. I tugged at it and stumbled backwards. I think from the squeal I must have trodden on Harold’s foot, or maybe he cried out because of what he saw.

  In the dim light of the chapel, I thought a giant black spider was crouching on the white linen. I almost struck at it with the twibill, fearing it would scuttle out. But it didn’t move. A few moments passed before I realised I was staring down at a mummified human hand, the fingers long and thin. It had been roughly severed at the wrist.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ I demanded. ‘Did you hide it in here? Was this why you were trying to stop me opening the chest?’

  Harold had let the rag drop from his nose and mouth and from his dumbfounded expression, I could see he had had no more idea than I that the hand was hidden in the chest.

  ‘Hand of glory,’ he breathed. ‘I’ve heard about those. Thieves cut them from a man on the gallows and use them to open locks.’

  ‘And what would such an evil thing be doing in here?’ I asked. ‘No . . . this must be . . . It must be the hand of the Blessed St Cadeyrn. But who would dare to remove such a holy relic from its reliquary?’

  I peered into the linen chest, hoping that the hand might simply have tumbled out of its silver reliquary as I tugged at the linens. But even as I searched, I knew the casket was not in the chest. I would have seen it glinting. The reliquary was gone and the blessed saint’s hand had been hidden in the chest by whoever had stolen it. Whoever? No: I knew exactly who had done this. There was only one thief in Porlock Weir brazen and wicked enough to commit such sacrilege. That evil dwarf would think nothing of casting aside a holy relic. I’d wager he’d come here the first chance he’d had, after Cador was foolish enough to release him from the tower. I’d see him hanged for this, if it was the last thing I did.

  Chapter 32

  And I looked and beheld a white horse and he that sat on him had a bow.

  The Apocalypse of St John

  A sacking bag descended on a rope from the black hole in the cave roof. Several hands grabbed for it and steadied it until it reached the ground. The rope vanished to reappear twice more, depositing first a small wooden chest, then a skinned and eviscerated hind, which showered drops of blood, like holy water, as it spun to the floor. Finally, a pair of worn leather boots appeared on the rungs of the ladder straddling the central pole. Brother David descended, clutching his bow, his quiver, almost empty of arrows, slung across his back. He was dressed in the same homespun brown as his master, Brother Praeco, but whenever he left the cave he wore his eelskin cap over his long hair for, as Luke had since discovered, it disguised the puckered holes that were all that remained of his lopped-off ears.

  Men and women drew aside as best they could in the crowded cave as Brother Praeco strode towards him. ‘Our Lord has blessed your hunting, Brother David,’ he said, staring down at the plunder.

  David grinned, stroking his bow as if it was a favourite hound. ‘As you taught us, Master, I will heap evils upon them and fire my arrows among them.’

  The Prophet’s black beard waggled as he waved a reproving finger. ‘The Lord’s words. I am merely his mouthpiece.’ But he did not look displeased. ‘Come!’

  He led the way to the back of the cave without troubling to glance round to see if his order would be obeyed. David followed him into the tunnel as closely as a hound at heel. No one moved until the sound of their footsteps had faded. Then everyone turned expectantly to Brother Praeco’s oldest wife, Uriel, who was plucking at the tightly knotted cord at the neck of the sack. She emptied the contents on to the floor of the cave: a small bag of dried beans; another of peas; strips of dried meat; a bundle of dried fish, stiff and sharp as flakes of flint; a few onions and bulbs of garlic; some withered beets; sprigs of potherbs and a jar of salt.

  Luke caught sight of his brother Hob creeping through the forest of legs towards the dried meat. He seized the back of the boy’s shirt, yanking him away. Hob scowled and wrested himself free, but was wise enough not to attempt it again. His eyes hungrily followed the bundle of meat strips as the leader’s other two wives, Phanuel and Raguel, gathered up the meagre haul of food and vanished into the tunnel with it.

  By the time they emerged again, Uriel and one of the men were prising open the wooden chest with an iron crow. The lid crashed backwards and the crowd of men and women shuffled closer. On the top were several sealed rolls of parchment and a small leather-bound book. But Luke barely registered these, as he caught the glitter of silver beneath the scrolls. The contents of the chest must have been packed with haste for although there were wrappings of woollen cloth they had been loosened by the jolts and bumps of the journey, exposing silver goblets and plates shining crimson in the firelight. Uriel lifted these out, then a box with a lid shaped like a miniature house and embellished with blue enamel, and finally a cross on a gilded stand. The cross itself was fashioned from wood, shiny and black as ship’s tar, studded with five blood-red stones, mounted in gold and polished till they shone like liquid fire.

  At the sight of the cross, Friar Tom fell to his knees, pressing the stumps of his fingers together in prayer, but he had barely begun before a voice thundered from behind, ‘Like Moses, I leave my children for a short time and return to find them worshipping graven images.’

  The Prophet pushed his way through the crowd, seized old Tom’s arm and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘But it is a cross . . . the holy cross,’ the old friar protested.

  ‘It is a tawdry made by man,’ Brother Praeco roared. ‘God smote the Israelites with pestilence and slaughtered them with the sword for no less.’

  Friar Tom began to shake. His old legs buckled and he sank to his knees at his master’s feet.

  Raguel sidled up to her husband. ‘Forgive him, Holy One. He’s long set in his ways. He’s yet to grasp all the wonders you teach him. The old need time to learn.’

  She ran a finger lightly down the thick pelt of black hair on her husband’s arm, gazing up at him from under long lashes. Brother Praeco’s free hand strayed towards the twin creamy pillows of her breasts thrusting up over the top of her kirtle, as if he was about to plunge his fingers deep between them. For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of laboured breathing, though whether it was the Prophet’s or the quaking friar’s, Luke couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Idolaters must be punished,’ Uriel declared suddenly.

  ‘I am the anointed of the Lord,’ Brother Praeco snapped, abruptly averting his gaze from his young wife’s breasts. ‘I alone will decide who is punished and who shown mercy. Women should keep silent in the presence of men. Clear these baubles away quickly, before anyone else is corrupted by them. The parchments and book, take to my cell.’

  All three of his wives bowed their heads and bent to gather up the valuables, stuffing them back into the chest. All the while Uriel darted venomous glances at Raguel, who grinned back when she thought her husband wasn’t watching, her eyes dancing in triumph.

  As his wives carried the chest awkwardly down the low, narrow tunnel, Brother Praeco strode over to an outcrop of rock covered with a wolf’s pelt, which formed the semblance of a bishop’s throne. The Chosen, taking this as a signal, settled themselves down on the heaps of bracken and sheepskins, gazing up at him expectantly. Luke grabbed Hob, who was wriggling to the front, and dragged him as far back as he could get within the confines of the cave, squatting behind a beefy man with ears like pitcher handles. He was afraid of Brot
her Praeco, in a way he had never been afraid of any man in the village, including his own father.

  The Prophet held up his hands. ‘In addition to the fresh venison and other food Brother David has brought us, for which we give thanks to God, he also brings grave news of the world above.’

  He paused, gazing around the Chosen Ones, as if he wanted to be sure of their attention, though that was hardly in doubt. They were as hungry for news as they were for meat.

  ‘Brother David has seen with his own eyes the rotting corpses lying heaped in the villages, unshriven and unburied, for those few who remain alive have run mad with grief and despair. It is the living who are to be pitied now, for what they have suffered thus far is as nothing to the horrors that are yet to come. Soon they will gnash their teeth and weep that the pale horseman did not strike them, too, with the mercy of death.’

  Luke glanced down at Hob who was staring miserably at his fingers. He had told his little brother over and over that their father was dead, Col and Uncle Daveth too, but he wasn’t sure Hob really believed him, even though he’d said he did after Luke had threatened to punch his head.

  ‘Men, driven mad by hunger, roast their own infants and devour them,’ the Prophet was saying.

  Luke thought of Goda’s baby. Had that been spitted over a fire? When he tried to recall what the baby had looked like, all he could see was the bloody head of the skinned goat cradled in Goda’s arms. Maybe she’d whelped a goat instead of a baby. Sometimes he couldn’t tell what had really happened and what he had dreamed.

  ‘Women have made a giant phallus to worship as a god and they copulate before it with their own fathers and sons, as they did in the days of Sodom.’

  Hob tugged on Luke’s jerkin. ‘What’s that mean?’ the boy whispered.

  Luke dimly recalled Father Cuthbert once preaching about a village called Sodom. It was a place where fire rained down, destroying everyone except one family who’d escaped, like he and Hob had done.

  ‘He means they’re . . . they’re dead, all dead.’

  ‘Even Mam?’ Hob’s eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘I told you, don’t you remember?’ Luke growled. ‘You and me are the only ones left. That’s why we got to stay down here. Else we’ll die too. And there’s no use in your skritching,’ he added fiercely, punching his brother’s arm.

  ‘But,’ the Prophet bellowed, ‘you, my brothers and sisters, need have no fear. We are the Chosen Ones, the elect, who will be saved in the Last Days. Even as we sit here the pale horseman gallops back and forth across the face of the earth above us, crushing kings and bishops beneath his hoofs, slaying the wicked and cleansing the world of their iniquities. The sun shall become as black as charcoal, the moon shall turn to blood, the stars fall from the heavens and a great wind shall blow across the face of the earth.’

  His voice grew exultant. ‘But the Lord will hide His Chosen Ones in His secret dwelling inside the mountains till His wrath is past and when that day comes we shall walk out into a new world, purged and pure as the Garden of Eden on the day it was planted, and we shall take up our golden crowns and live for ever as the rulers of the new earth, His paradise.’

  A sigh like a summer’s breeze ran round the huddled group.

  ‘Will you follow me to that garden? Will you prove yourself worthy of that golden crown?’

  A chorus of affirmation rose up, like a flight of starlings.

  Brother Praeco stood up and stared down at the people sitting at his feet. In the shadowy cave, his deep-set eyes had become black tunnels and Luke, gazing up at him, felt himself being sucked towards them, as if he might vanish inside the Prophet’s skull.

  ‘But the Lord says if anyone among you sins, if anyone does not hearken to the word of the Prophet, if any sets himself against God’s will, you are to cast him out from among you. And we obeyed our righteous Lord, for Alfred set himself against us and we cast him out. Cast him out to face God’s terrible wrath alone and unprotected. Cast him out into the darkness of that world.’ The Prophet raised his arm, jabbing his long, thin finger towards the hole in the roof of the cave now covered once more by the slab of stone.

  A muttering broke out, as the disciples gazed fearfully upwards. Luke had heard them whispering about Alfred before. They said he’d argued with the Prophet and had been banished from the Chosen to take his chances above.

  ‘Are there other unbelievers hiding among us? Is there any man or woman here who foolishly believes he can abandon God’s Chosen Ones and survive in a world where pestilence prowls the land like a devouring lion, where villages lie empty and desolate, and men are so hungry they would strike your arm from its shoulder with an axe and devour it before your very eyes? And there is worse to come, for the horseman who rides upon the red horse is yet to be released. Would you face his terrible sword alone?’

  Friar Tom gave a great cry and crawled on his hands and knees towards his master clasping the hem of his coarse robe, wailing for forgiveness. Brother Praeco gazed down at him, then, bending, laid his hand upon the grizzled head.

  ‘God will show you mercy and forgive you. He will not cast you out, but you must submit yourself to His burning light. You must be cleansed of your sin.’

  Friar Tom gazed rapturously up at him. ‘Cleanse me, I want to be cleansed!’

  The Prophet nodded to Uriel, who seized the old man’s arm and, none too gently, hauled him to his feet, bustling him towards the tunnel.

  Brother Praeco watched until they were out of sight, then ran his fingers through his wild black beard. ‘Where is the newest disciple who seeks to become one of us?’ He peered around the band. ‘The boy who called out there was a thief among us . . . Bring him here.’

  Before Luke could fully grasp that the Prophet was asking for him, he felt hands grasping him and dragging him forward. Behind him he heard Hob cry out, alarmed by the separation, but he was struggling too hard in the hands of his captors to be able to turn. He found himself staring up at the tangle of black beard. He’d never been as close to Brother Praeco as this, and the strange musky scent of his robe reminded Luke of the polecat he’d once caught and had planned to keep in a cage till it sank its teeth into his hand. Although Luke knew he couldn’t break free – and where could he run to even if he did? – it didn’t stop him giving another violent squirm to show he would not submit easily.

  To his surprise, the Prophet smiled at his struggles. ‘A fierce young warrior. The Lord has need of those.’

  He flicked his hand at the two men who held Luke tight. ‘Let him stand alone.’ They released Luke and took a pace back.

  ‘You accused someone of theft. That is a grave charge.’

  Luke dare not turn his head, but he could feel his little brother’s terror as if a wave of water was breaking on his back.

  ‘Just a game,’ Luke muttered. ‘I was only teasing . . .’

  ‘Only teasing, yes,’ Brother Praeco said softly. ‘I remember how much pleasure young boys take in taunting others.’ He raised his voice. ‘But the Chosen Ones have only the words of God on their lips. Were you not taught you shall not bear false witness?’

  The crowd of people in the cave were motionless as if they were holding their breath, waiting. Luke’s throat tightened. He wanted to protest that it meant no more than Hob calling him a nug-head, but he didn’t know how to explain.

  To his surprise, though, the stern expression on the Prophet’s face softened a little and he caressed Luke’s hair.

  Brother Praeco raised his head, gazing out over the disciples. ‘God saved this boy from a cutthroat’s knife. We must trust He will cleanse Him of all sin, if he is chosen.’

  Everyone in the cave seemed to start breathing again.

  Brother Praeco glanced down. ‘But let us see if you are as wise as your namesake, Luke. Your brother is a child, too young to understand the choices he faces, though we will see to it that he learns in time. But you are a man, old enough to decide your own future. You have seen God’s wrath fa
ll upon your own village. You have heard me speak of the fate that, even now, awaits the godless in the world above. So, I set before you this day life and death. Will you choose death and be cast out, as Alfred was, to take your chances alone up there, or will you choose life and join us?’

  Luke opened his mouth to speak, though his brain did not yet know what would come out of it, but the leader’s sweaty fingers shot out and covered his lips.

  ‘Not so hasty. Words are easy. It is not enough for you to choose God. God must choose you, and God’s elected must be tested in the furnace of His judgment. Will you submit to that test, Luke?’

  The Holy Prophet lowered his head and his deep-set eyes stared down into Luke’s. ‘Will you prove yourself worthy?’

  For a moment, Luke was paralysed by his piercing gaze. He knew he must answer, but he seemed to have forgotten how to say a single word. Then his head jerked round as, from somewhere deep in that tunnel, he heard an old man screaming.

  Chapter 33

  Sara

  If the blood of a man is shed on the coast, the fish will desert that place and come no more till that place is cleansed with fire.

  ‘Hob! Luke! Come home. Please . . . come home.’

  Shading my eyes, I stared up at the distant moorland track where it emerged from between the trees. I glimpsed a movement on the path and my heart jolted. The small figure vanished, hidden by the branches, then reappeared further down the track. Someone was leading a packhorse slowly down the hillside. It was the track my Elis always took and for a moment I thought . . . I really thought . . . But he was not gone away, he was gone for ever. Tears burned my eyes, but I angrily scrubbed at them with my sleeve. I must give over crying.

  I made myself look up at that track again. I hadn’t imagined it. Someone was definitely coming. And they were leading a well-laden widgebeast too. I couldn’t get a clear view on account of the trees, though I could tell the figure was far too small to be Cador. Maybe he’d sent a boy back with whatever he’d been able to buy at the first village, while he travelled on to see what else he could find. From the way the load was hanging either side of the beast, it looked like a couple of sacks of grain. It was welcome, whatever it was, but it wouldn’t go far among the villagers. I’d best stir myself.