The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

I couldn’t tell her of the love and fear and pain and all those thoughts that, for months, I’d been aching to share with her. Instead I found my mouth babbling inane questions as if a small boy had taken possession of my voice. ‘I found your message in the cave. But I’m so stupid I didn’t understand what it meant at first. I never dreamed you’d come to this manor.’

  She frowned. ‘Cave? I don’t understand. I left no message. I didn’t know where you were. You just vanished. Then Randel . . .’

  She tugged at her finger as if she was trying to wrench it off, and I saw the thick, ugly ring weighing it down. His crest was incised into the bezel as if he had branded her, like a valuable horse, as his own property. An icy hand seemed to thrust itself deep inside my chest and clenched around my heart.

  ‘It is done then,’ I said dully. ‘You are his wife now.’

  Christina stared up at the burning blue sky. ‘She is the bride of the sun, though sun would destroy her. She was made to comfort the night, but . . .’

  ‘. . . she banishes it,’ I finished for her. ‘She weeps while she lives and when she is dying they cut off her head.’

  ‘Poor little candle.’ Christina shuddered. ‘Every night I pray he might die in battle or that the pestilence will take him. Is that wicked?’

  I couldn’t answer, for a lump the size of a chicken’s egg was caught in my throat. I hadn’t just wished Randel dead; I’d lain awake at nights planning how to kill him, and if he’d shown himself at that moment, I would have done it, small as I was.

  She stared down at the heavy gold ring. ‘I have another reason now for being in terror of his return. You asked why I came to Porlock and I didn’t answer. But the truth is my mother banished me here with Eda because . . . because I fell with child. I have a son, Josse, a beautiful little boy.’

  I jerked backwards as if I’d been punched. Trying to recover myself, I bowed low.

  ‘You . . . you are to be congratulated, m’lady. Sir Randel will no doubt be delighted when he returns.’

  ‘But Randel is not the father,’ Christina whispered.

  ‘If you say so, m’lady.’

  I quickly turned away, knowing that though my mouth, as always, would be grinning, I couldn’t hide the tears of hurt, even as I angrily dashed them away. The thought of her in Randel’s bed was agony enough, but knowing she had taken a lover . . . I’d thought I knew misery, but the pain and bitterness that engulfed me in that moment were made a thousand times worse by the knowledge that I had no more right to feel betrayed or hurt than a hunting hound when his master buys another dog.

  ‘Riddle me this,’ I sang out, in my high-pitched jester’s voice. ‘What does a wife give to her husband that he never sees? What does her husband wear that he never feels?’

  I raised two fingers behind my head and waggled them, as I had done a thousand times for my master’s guests. ‘A handsome pair of horns you’ve given Randel as a wedding gift, m’lady. They suit him well. But, then, it is not for a poor fool to question who a noblewoman takes to her bed.’

  ‘You are a fool indeed, if you cannot understand what the Lady Christina is telling you,’ another voice said softly behind me.

  ‘Rosa!’ Christina breathed.

  I spun round, staring up at the woman who stood in the shadows. It took me a few moments to realise who she was.

  ‘Janiveer!’

  Chapter 51

  Love is full of fear.

  Medieval Proverb

  A slow smile creeps across Janiveer’s face, but it does not reach her sea-cold eyes.

  ‘The villagers have been searching for you,’ the dwarf says. ‘They journeyed to Kitnor.’

  ‘So far!’ she mocks. ‘Yet a bold stride for Sara.’

  ‘How did you know she was one of them?’

  ‘Who else? She searches for her sons. She will not give them up for lost till they bury her, and even then she will rise from her grave and keep searching. Her spirit will never rest.’

  Janiveer can see something approaching fear in Will’s eyes. If he were a religious man, she knows he would be backing away from her, crossing himself. But instead he moves closer to the girl – how touching! Even though he thinks she has betrayed him, he still wants to protect her. A fool’s love indeed.

  Christina is staring from one to the other, bewilderment creasing her brow. ‘Who is this woman you call Sara? What does she want with Rosa?’

  ‘Calling yourself Rosa now?’ Will says. ‘A sweet flower that distracts the eye from its sharp thorns.’

  Janiveer shrugs. ‘Some call hemlock “devil’s blossom”, others call it “kex”, but the plant brings death in answer to any of these names, or none. So I carry whatever name others choose to lay upon me, as do you, dwarf.’

  She jerks her chin at Christina. ‘But you have still not put your lover out of his misery, m’lady. Why is that, I wonder? As much as you profess to love the dwarf, do you fear that your child will grow into the image of his father if you utter his name?’

  Christina flushes. Her denial is hot, vehement, as if it is uttered in guilt.

  ‘Josse . . .’ She sinks to the ground, looking up at him. He is no gallant knight in gleaming armour. His matted hair hangs in long wet ropes about his shoulders. His clothes are torn and stinking, his beard tangled with slime and filth. Yet a seer’s gifts are not needed to see plainly that the girl loves him and her voice trembles, as any woman’s would if she feared the news she brings her beloved might not be welcome.

  ‘Oswin is your son, Josse, our son.’

  His eyes flash wide. ‘Mine? Are you . . .’

  He has sense enough not to finish that question. Can’t he see the truth of it in her eyes? But men, even short ones, never look for truth, only for what they want to believe.

  ‘He has never touched me, except . . .’ she flinches ‘. . . except to punish me for angering him. On our wedding night he was so drunk he fell asleep the moment he crashed on to the bed. I lay awake all night, praying he would not wake. Before dawn I took a knife and cut myself inside my secret parts where he would not see. The next morning my mother showed his friends the bloodstain. They cheered him and each claimed a piece of the sheet for luck. They told him he had taken the castle and, still mazed from drink, he seemed to think he had, but if he should remember what happened that night . . . Little Oswin was born six months later. He is yours, Josse. No other man has ever known me, save you. I swear it on our son’s life.’

  He reaches out, but his great, clumsy hand falls away before it touches her.

  ‘Ask her then,’ Janiveer says. ‘Ask her if the child is twisted, like you. That is what you want to know, isn’t it?’

  Christina answers swiftly before he can. ‘Your son is beautiful, perfect.’

  There is both relief and pain in his face, and Christina realises too late what she has said. But words, once uttered, take flight and cannot be unspoken.

  She rises to her knees, holding out her arms to him. ‘Please, you must take us away now, Josse, today, before Randel returns. I don’t care where we live or how. Sir Harry came here to Porlock! I was terrified he’d guess the truth and would tell Randel on his return. You cannot know the relief I felt when he died, though I know that is wicked. But Eda is alive out there somewhere and she’s certain that Oswin is not Randel’s son. If she gets word to my mother or uncle, it will be our death warrant, by their hands or by Randel’s, for if he discovers I have borne a child that is not of his getting, he will kill us both, I know it. I want to be with you, Josse. I want our son to grow up knowing his father. We must go where they can never find us. Please, Josse, take us with you.’

  He reaches out to her, holding her tightly, whispering words of love and wild promises that Janiveer is not intended to hear, but she does not need to hear the words to know them. Eventually, as if he is wrenching his own arm from its socket, he reluctantly pushes Christina away and holds her at arm’s length, gazing into her face.

  ‘Eda may still be in Porlock Weir.
I saw her there yesterday. But we can make for Kitnor – it’s well hidden. They’d never find us. There are stone huts. It wouldn’t take much to make one into a good warm shelter for us. There’s fresh water and I can set snares and fish.’

  The words are dancing out of him, as if he was a child, breathless for adventure. Janiveer watches their shining eyes and waits.

  ‘But first we have to get you and my son out of the manor.’ The dwarf stares at the grating behind him and back at the girl standing there in her flowing grown, soiled now by his embraces. ‘If you wore breeches . . .’ he says.

  Janiveer sees the doubt creeping into his face. He is ready to hear her now.

  ‘Have you forgotten why this manor is sealed? Out there, the pestilence rages. You have seen the bodies thrown into the graves. Could you bear to watch your beloved Christina and your little son being tossed into those stinking pits? And what if you are the one who perishes, dwarf? How will a girl who has never even drawn a pail of water from the well, or lit a fire, or wrung a chicken’s neck manage to survive alone out there with a baby? Her milk is dry. She cannot even feed her child. Would you see her huddled in some filthy hut, hungry and alone, miles from any who could help her, watching her baby starve before her eyes? She will be begging for the pestilence to take her to end her loneliness and pain. Is that love, dwarf, to condemn her to such a death?’

  Janiveer sees the fear and misery in Will’s eyes and knows that he recognises only too well the dark and dreadful maw opening before them, but Christina has never known the torment of hunger and she has been shielded from the terror that is the pestilence. She can only imagine. And, even now, there is still a flicker of hope in her eyes. She still believes. She has still not relinquished this foolish toy. Her chin juts out defying fear, defying the whole world.

  She grips Will’s hand tightly. ‘But I must go. I don’t care if we are cold and hungry. I would gladly suffer anything to be with him. And if we die, at least we will die together.’

  Janiveer smiles. It is too easy to swear to death. The words drift from the tongue, like dandelion puffs floating on the wind. ‘No one dies together, my lady,’ Janiveer tells her. ‘Even hand in hand, each man and woman dies alone. Company merely increases death’s agony. You must watch as it wrenches those you most love from this world and know you are powerless to hold them in it.’

  A shadow of fear darkens Christina’s eyes, but Janiveer shows no mercy. The girl must be made to understand.

  ‘The manor’s bloodhounds have keen noses, and they can move far more swiftly than any dwarf and girl, even were that pair not laden with a baby. Those lymers could follow the faintest scent through forest and across streams, but together the three of you will lay such a reeking trail that they will have your lover by the backside of his breeches before the hour is out. And when they catch him, what do you imagine will happen to a dwarf who has abducted Sir Nigel’s niece and his great-nephew, kidnapped Sir Randel’s bride and son? You think Master Wallace would call off the hounds once they have sunk their teeth into that felon? He’ll urge them to rip out his liver and devour it while he screams in agony, for it will save Wallace the trouble of doing it himself.’

  Her words have found their mark. The pair stare up at her, like frightened children, waiting for her to tell them how they may be saved. But Janiveer did not bring dwarf and girl together to reunite two lovers. Her nature is not to unite but to tear apart.

  ‘You must leave Christina and the child here, under my protection, Will.’

  ‘Yours! Sara is certain that you brought the pestilence to the village. Matilda saw you plant the curse stone. How can I be sure you won’t bring it to the manor?’

  ‘It was not me who brought the curse upon the village, but its own forefathers and mothers when they betrayed Cadeyrn, the warrior king. When his bones are reunited and laid to rest in the land that birthed him, and when the price for their treachery has been paid, the curse will be lifted. I have travelled the seas for many years to find what was taken from his grave. Only one thing more do I seek.’

  She gazes down at Will and at Christina, who still kneels beside him. ‘If you bring me the last of Cadeyrn’s bones, I will ensure that Christina leaves this place safely with the child.’

  ‘But I don’t know where to find—’ Will begins.

  Janiveer silences him with her hand.

  ‘The hand of Cadeyrn, which dealt death to his enemies and life to his friends, was stolen by the Church before the king was buried. Perhaps it is only justice then that one of their own priests should in turn steal the reliquary that encased the hand. Your priest brought the reliquary here to the manor, for such men covet silver and jewels, but the hand that lay within it he despised as worthless and discarded. But now he has revealed its hiding place to me. It was not a willing confession, I admit, but a truthful one. I made certain of that. He says he hid the hand in a chest inside the chapel at Porlock Weir.

  ‘Bring me that hand, Will, and when I hold it, Christina and the child will come to you. I have protected the boy thus far. But he lives only because I want him to. You would do well to remember that, dwarf. Your son lives only as long as I wish it.’

  Chapter 52

  For the great day of their wrath is come. And who shall be able to stand?

  The Apocalypse of St John

  Luke curled up on the floor of the cave as far from the tunnel as he could crawl. All around him, in the dim red glow of the fire’s embers, the Chosen Ones lay sleeping, some snoring like old hounds, others muttering and grunting as they dreamed. On the walls, dark shadows stirred as if the monsters of the sleepers’ nightmares had escaped from them and were slithering about the cave.

  Brother Praeco had withdrawn to his private quarters with his youngest wife, but Luke knew he could appear at any time without warning, for the Prophet often climbed up into the Great Desolation above while his disciples slept. But Luke couldn’t sleep. Every muscle in his body was tense, waiting for the blow that he knew hung somewhere above him in the darkness. But there was no knowing when it would come crashing down upon him.

  He had failed. He had failed in front of the Prophet and all the disciples. He’d poured the stone basin of blood over Hob’s head as the boy, rigid with fear, sobbed. He had laid his hands on his brother’s wet, sticky hair and prayed with increasing desperation, till he was shouting and screaming for the boy to be healed. As Brother Praeco had urged him to pray harder, the Chosen had moaned and wailed, biting their hands and beating their chests, urging Luke to believe. Luke had pressed down, gripping his brother’s head till his fingers ached, as if he could squeeze the sickness from him. Hob cried, fighting like a wild cat to get away.

  But when it was all over, when the Prophet had finally cried, ‘Enough!’ and Hob had been washed clean in the icy water, he was still coughing. If anything, the spasms were worse than before. Brother Praeco had turned away from Luke and addressed the disciples.

  ‘You have prayed, but your faith is weak, my brethren, as is this boy’s. That is why he has failed to heal the child. “Then came the disciples to Jesus and said, ‘Why could not we cast him out?’ Jesus said to them, ‘Because of your unbelief. But this kind is not cast out except by prayer and fasting.’” My brothers and sisters, tomorrow we shall all fast and pray. God demands of you a greater faith, for tomorrow you will see a greater miracle.’

  If Luke hadn’t been too numb with humiliation and misery even to think about the Prophet’s words, he would have imagined that by fasting Brother Praeco simply meant there would be no meat, like in the Lenten fast. Old Friar Tom and some of the other disciples clearly thought so too, until they woke the next morning and saw that no pot was bubbling on the fire. There had been a few resentful mutterings then. But as the day wore on and empty bellies began to rumble and ache in earnest, the grumbling grew vociferous and angry, though only when the Prophet and Uriel were out of hearing.

  Many cast sour looks at Luke, and each time Hob coughed they glared
at him, even kicked him, for they knew who to blame for their hunger. A few had tried to smile, praying and urging Luke to ‘have faith’. Luke had prayed, too, but however much he intended to pray for Hob to stop coughing, he found himself instead begging any saint, whose name he could even dimly remember, to stop the Prophet taking him back to the Devil’s Cauldron or banishing him for ever up there, in the terrors of the Great Desolation above.

  Luke’s head jerked up. He could hear the slap of boots approaching from the tunnel, and saw the yellow-orange glow from the flaming torch, which was still out of sight, creeping along the walls towards him. All the others in the cave seemed to have been cast into an enchanted sleep, for no one else stirred. His stomach tightening, the boy peered towards the tunnel mouth between the prone bodies.

  The Prophet ducked under the low entrance then straightened up. He stood for a moment, filling the tunnel entrance, the torch raised. The flames clawed above his head, as wild and tangled as his own hair and beard. The sleeves of his robe were rolled up, revealing the black pelt of fur on his arms. In the writhing light and shadows that snaked about him, he seemed to swell until he filled the whole cave, like an ancient giant rising out of the mountain.

  ‘Awake, you sleepers!’ he roared. ‘Gird your loins. I am come to drive out a foul demon from among you!’

  Chapter 53

  Will

  Riddle me this: I never was. No one ever saw me, nor ever will. And yet that I will be is the hope of all men while they live.

  The stench from the pit of bodies was more nauseating than ever. The smell of the pestilence rising up through the thin layers of earth and seaweed made worse as the bodies bloated and putrefied in the baking sun. If you glanced in you might be forgiven for thinking the pit had been covered in a layer of black earth, until you realised the earth was undulating, like waves, and what actually covered the grave was a thick blanket of flies.