The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  Porlock Manor

  One drop of poison infects a whole tun of wine.

  Medieval Proverb

  Lady Pavia was aware of the figure keeping pace with her on the other side of the hedge as she waddled down the path towards the herb garden, but she had no intention of stopping to converse. She had come outside with the intention of finding a quiet place where she could be alone, in the hope that an hour spent sitting among the fragrant lavender bushes and camomile might soothe her aching head and calm her. The young wards had been spitting and scratching at each other, like bad-tempered kittens, all morning, bored to distraction by their stitchwork, while Sir Harry, having failed in yet another attempt to smuggle his horse out past Master Wallace, was venting his ill-humour on Father Cuthbert, who was most certainly not turning the other cheek.

  Lady Pavia wanted, no, she positively demanded peace and solitude, and she was in no mood to attend to servants grumbling about this spice running out or that scullion spoiling the meat or any of the hundred other petty grievances that were causing the trapped household to squabble and snarl at each other from morn to night. Let Wallace deal with them.

  She eased herself down on to a wooden bench beneath a quince tree, which provided some dappled shade from the sun. The lavender bushes at either side of the seat hummed with the soothing buzz of furry bees. A scarlet butterfly alighted on her skirt. The four blue and black spots on its wings looked like four great eyes staring up at her. But Lady Pavia was in no mood to be examined by anything. Irritated, she flapped her hand at the impertinent little creature to drive it away, then closed her eyes. Heat and the sweet smell of lavender gently caressed her towards the edge of a comfortable doze. Her head flopped down on her many chins and she began to snore.

  She jerked upright as a high-pitched wail severed her from sleep. Something was wriggling on the grass by her feet, but it took several moments before she could rouse herself sufficiently to recognise it as an infant. He was lying on his back on the grass, thrashing his clenched fists, his eyes screwed up against the sharp sunlight that flicked across his face whenever the leaves of the quince tree stirred. The outraged shrieks emanating from this small creature cut through Lady Pavia, like the squeals of pigs at slaughter time.

  The stillroom maid slid out of the shadows and knelt beside the baby, catching his hands and pulling him up so that he was leaning against her thigh. His cries stopped at once and he stared around with evident interest.

  ‘If you imagine I would be entertained by the sight of a baby, Rosa, then you are quite mistaken. Other women may melt at the sight of a drooling child, but I can assure you I have never done so, not even my own. I have no interest in them until they are old enough to hold a sensible conversation. Take the child back to wherever it came from and tell the other servants I am not to be disturbed.’

  The maid, glancing about her to make certain they were alone, leaned forward, speaking softly and rapidly: ‘Oswin is Lady Christina’s son, Lady Pavia. And I dare not take him back to the stillroom. His life is in danger.’

  If Lady Pavia had been told just one of those facts, she might have grasped the import of it at once, but even though her wits were sharp, it was a moment or two before all the threads untangled in her head.

  ‘Lady Christina’s . . .’

  She studied the baby. While she had never breastfed any of her own sons, she had considered it her duty as a wife to see to it that her husband’s heirs thrived, and had therefore duly inspected her offspring daily, just as she had the household accounts, to ensure that there were no irregularities. And having successfully reared five sons, she considered herself as good a judge of an infant’s age as her husband had been of the age of a horse.

  ‘What nonsense is this, Rosa? This child is plainly three, four months old. The Lady Christina was married only ten months ago, not even that . . .’

  She suddenly saw what she had been missing. Of course! Hiding the girl away down in this remote manor, pretending she was sick when she was clearly in the rudest of health. But there had been a certain look about her, the new maturity to her figure that only comes with childbirth.

  But why hide it? There was no cause for shame for a betrothed woman being got with child by her future husband before the wedding night. Some might even say it was desirable, for there was nothing more inconvenient for a man to discover, too late, that he had tied himself to a woman who could not give him sons. Unless . . .

  She glanced sharply at Rosa. ‘You said his life was in danger. From whom? Who is it who wishes to harm this child?’

  Lady Pavia perched awkwardly on the narrow bench in the stillroom. Her ankles, never slender, were heavily swollen in the heat and the skin of her calves felt tight. But her decision to sit came more from a determination not to be seen to sway or, God forbid, faint. Although the chamber was slightly cooler than the courtyard outside, the darkness and dustiness felt suffocating.

  A burst of sunlight drenched the feeble flame of the single candle burning on the table as the steward flung open the door. He stood in the doorway, panting slightly. Damp patches stained the front and sides of his shirt, and his face dripped with perspiration. In spite of the heavy perfume from the bunches of dried thyme, rosemary, honeysuckle and other herbs that dangled above Lady Pavia’s head, a powerful stench of raw onion, wild garlic and sour sweat assailed her senses. But being the woman of steel that she was, she did not betray her distaste by so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

  ‘Close the door, Master Wallace.’

  When he hesitated, she added, ‘The tongues of servants are made of very loose leather. I will not give them cause to flap.’

  Wallace scowled, but kicked the door shut. He took several paces towards her as if he was determined to press his stench upon her.

  ‘Eda, the elderly maid who waits upon Lady Christina, you know her well?’

  Wallace shrugged, cocking his head suspiciously to one side as if unwilling to commit himself for fear he was being accused of something.

  ‘I wish you to ensure that Eda leaves the manor this evening, but quietly, unobserved by anyone else. While everyone else is in the great hall occupied with dinner, find some excuse to draw her outside, then take her swiftly to the gates and put her out.’

  Wallace snorted indignantly. ‘Can’t do that, Lady Pavia. Gates are sealed. Sir Nigel’s orders. You heard me tell Sir Harry he couldn’t go roaming about. I’ll certainly not allow a mere tiring maid to flout Sir Nigel’s orders.’

  ‘Your orders were not to let any in who might return carrying the contagion, but Eda will not be returning to the manor. She is dismissed.’

  ‘Dismissed!’ Wallace echoed. Lady Pavia could not read his expression in the darkened room, but the light creeping under the door and through the cracks in the shutters was sufficient for her to see the man’s body stiffen.

  ‘She’s a sour crab right enough, and I’d be the first to admit there’s neither of us would waste a kind word on each other, but she’s an old woman. Whatever she’s done can’t be so terrible as to warrant sending her to her death. ’Cause that’s what you’ll be doing if you drive her out there. If the pestilence doesn’t take her, she’ll end her days starving as a beggar in a ditch, for I doubt she’s kin to take care of her.’

  Lady Pavia lowered her voice still further. ‘What she has done, Master Wallace, is attempt to murder a child. Mercifully she was prevented, but I do not doubt that she will try again if she remains here.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ Wallace crossed himself. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Her? She’s a tongue as bitter as bull’s gall, but she’d not have the stomach to wring a chicken’s neck, never mind harm a babe. Begging your pardon, m’lady, but are you sure you got this right?’

  ‘I am told she tried to smother him and almost succeeded, for he had already stopped breathing. If someone had not arrived just in time to pull Eda away, and if they had not been able to revive the child, Father Cuthbert would be burying him even now.’
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  Though she calmly uttered these words, Lady Pavia reminded herself that Father Cuthbert might well have refused even this small mercy, for Oswin was not baptised and was likely to remain in that perilous state until Christina could be persuaded to tell the truth. But that was something she would have to deal with later.

  Thankfully, it did not seem to occur to Wallace to ask which of several children belonging to servants within the manor Eda had tried to murder.

  ‘A woman . . . killing a child. ’Tis against all nature,’ he spluttered. ‘Evil . . . downright wicked. To think I’ve sheltered such a witch . . . She must hang!’

  He drew himself up, standing braced with his feet apart and his chest thrust out. ‘As steward of this manor it is my duty to see her brought to trial. Father Cuthbert can administer the oaths and Sir Harry may sit as judge in Sir Nigel’s place, put questions to the witness and such like. It’ll all be done fair and legal, m’lady. You can be assured of that. And when it is done, I’ll tie the noose myself, that I will.’

  Lady Pavia was on the verge of rising, not least because her ample buttocks had gone numb on the hard wooden bench, but she made herself remain seated. If she stood, Wallace would have the advantage of height, but as long as she remained seated and he was forced to stand before her, he would be reminded that she was his master’s kin.

  ‘There will be no trial, Master Wallace. You said yourself she is an old woman who has given years of faithful service. Likely her poor wits have been turned by fear of the Great Mortality. I have heard of fathers slaying their children with their own hands, believing a swift end is more merciful than leaving them to starve or die alone in agony when they are gone. It may be that Eda thought she was doing the child a kindness. God shall be her judge, not you or I, Master Wallace. If she dies of pestilence out there then that is His judgment on her, and if she is spared to do penance, then that also.’

  Lady Pavia spoke as firmly as she could. She dared not risk a trial. That malicious old woman would delight in spitting out to the whole manor that Oswin was Christina’s child and that he was a bastard, whether it was proved or not. Lady Pavia knew that it mattered not one jot if Christina was as pure as the Virgin Mary, the tiniest seed of doubt, once sown, would grow into a tree in which every pecking crow in the land would take roost. The girl would lose everything, for a man like Randel, who was just beginning to rise in the Black Prince’s favour, would crash to earth like a stone if those at court began whispering he was a cuckold raising another man’s son.

  Wallace shook his head fiercely. ‘But there must be a trial. If Sir Nigel hears I let a murderer walk free out of those gates, he’d like as not have me hanged as the accomplice. ’Sides, if Eda’s wits have addled, she might easily harm another child out there, and suppose there’s no one around to stop her next time. She might murder a dozen afore any discovered who’d done it, and I couldn’t have that on my conscience.’

  ‘It will be on my conscience,’ Lady Pavia said firmly, ‘not yours. And I will explain my decision to my cousin. You have only just succeeded in making the servants feel they are safe in here. How do you think they will react if they learn you locked them in with a murderer? What confidence will they or any of Sir Nigel’s guests have in you then, Master Wallace?’

  He blustered and protested, but when he finally walked out into the hot afternoon, Lady Pavia knew he was won over. She eased herself from the bench and crossed to the doorway. Shielding her eyes, she peered up at the sun dipping behind the tops of the trees. Another hour before dinner. She only hoped Wallace could remove the old woman before she or anyone else realised what was happening.

  She felt a slight twinge of conscience. Eda had doubtless thought she was doing what Christina’s mother would have wanted, and if the child really was a bastard, maybe she was right. A man may sire as many by-blows as he pleases and receive nothing but admiration for his prowess, but a girl of noble birth may not give birth to them. Her life would be ruined.

  Lady Pavia plucked at a sprig of rue hanging from the rafters just inside the door. She rubbed the drying leaves between her fingers and sniffed. The pungent bitter smell helped to clear her thoughts.

  As soon as Eda was safely away from the manor she would have to take Christina aside and prise out of her exactly when Randel had first bedded her. If, God grant, he had consummated the union before he left for France, she would write a carefully worded and flattering letter to him with the glad tidings that he had a healthy son and heir, and dispatch it to him the moment Sir Nigel’s messengers were free to travel.

  Lady Pavia found herself offering up a silent prayer to the Blessed Virgin that Randel had taken Christina to his bed while they were still betrothed for then he would need no persuasion to acknowledge the boy as his. If it transpired that the pair had waited until their wedding night, it would be harder to manage, but by no means impossible.

  She plucked at her lower lip. There was the question of the servants’ wagging tongues, of course. But Christina and Randel had been married far from here at Chalgrave. No one from Porlock had been present and she doubted there had even been talk of it in this remote manor, for few had ever laid eyes on Sir Nigel, much less heard of his niece. The servants here would certainly not know and would not presume to ask, when the Lady Christina had first lain with her husband.

  Lady Pavia gazed thoughtfully at the empty cradle. If she believed they could convince Randel the child was his, she would let it be known that Christina’s baby had been sent away to be cared for by a wet-nurse while she was sick. Nothing could be more natural, and with the poor girl stricken with melancholy, she had not been able to bear any mention of her child. But now that Christina was recovered, her beloved son would be brought back to the manor to be reunited with her, just as soon as the gates were unsealed. Rosa had assured her that Eda had kept the child well away from the inquisitive eyes of the servants, so they were unlikely to recognise him, especially when he was presented in a sumptuous new gown and coif.

  And when the gates were reopened, Rosa could spread the rumour that the motherless babe Eda had abandoned in the stillroom had been claimed by his drover father or else had been delivered to a monastery to be raised by the monks. Lady Pavia nodded to herself. Yes, with Rosa’s help it could all be managed satisfactorily without arousing any suspicions, but only if the marriage had been consummated.

  If it had not – Lady Pavia shuddered at the thought – then Randel must never hear so much as a whisper about the baby. Few men in his position would forgive betrayal, especially by a woman, and Randel was most certainly not one of them. Lady Pavia had more than once observed how violently his temper flared at the slightest offence, real or imagined, which had been offered to him. He was a man who could plan revenge with exquisite cruelty. Lady Pavia was no fool. She would pray for the best, but she knew that often in life such prayers went unanswered. Christina’s baby might yet have to be disposed of, one way or another. And, if she had to, she was resolved that she would do it – better that than expose mother and child to Randel’s less-than-tender mercies. But all her schemes would come to nothing unless Eda was silenced.

  A flash of red caught her eye as she stepped out of the doorway. It was one of the butterflies with the blue eyes on its wings that had been flying about the lavender. It had been impaled on the wooden doorframe of the stillroom by a silver pin, which had been stabbed through its body. Its stretched-out wings fluttered gently in the soft breeze, as if the butterfly hadn’t yet realised it was dead.

  Chapter 40

  Matilda

  A sweet-smelling liquid, known as the Manna of St Nicholas or myrrh, oozes from the bones of St Nicholas, which are entombed in St Nicholas’s Basilica in Bari. Vials of this manna are much prized for, when it is drunk, it cures all maladies.

  The fire started at night. The flames ran along the edge of the reed thatch, then clawed upwards over the tinder-dry roof, snakes of orange and scarlet twisting through the smoke into the starry sky. At fi
rst, no one in the village realised the cottage was on fire. We were all asleep in our own beds, our shutters and doors tightly shut. Only when Sara and Goda ran outside screaming were we roused. We all hurried up the rise as soon as we saw the bright orange glow in the darkness over the cottage, but there was nothing we could do to quench the fire, for the spring was dry and the cottage too far from the shore to haul seawater uphill. Yelling to each other above the roar and crackle of the flames, we raked the burning thatch to the ground, and beat out the flames with spades to try to save the walls at least.

  Fortunately, Sara’s cottage was far from the others in the village, so there was little danger of the fire spreading to other roofs as it would have done on the crowded quayside, but the dwarf creature was prancing about yelling that we must stop the sparks carrying to the forest, for if the trees caught alight, the whole hillside might be set ablaze. The women thrashed the thatch until their faces were black with smoke and sweat. We threw pails of dry earth from Sara’s vegetable patch through the door on to those bits of furniture that were smouldering inside. Mercifully, she had no hay left in the byre to catch light.

  Afterwards, when every spark had been extinguished, there was an eerie silence. Everyone was too exhausted to move and stood in the darkness staring up at the roofless cottage, with its charred timbers, the walls black with smoke, the door and shutters burned through. In the moonlight, the cottage looked like the ruins at Kitnor, as if it had been abandoned a hundred years ago. Even Sara and Goda were silent. No tears, nothing. Sara just stood there, arms wrapped tightly around her body, rocking back and forth.

  ‘It’s a mercy you didn’t set the whole village aflame,’ Isobel scolded. ‘Everything is so dry. If my poor Cador had been alive, he’d have had you brought before the manor court for not damping down your hearth fire. You should be ashamed putting us all in harm’s way like that, as if we don’t have troubles enough.’