by Amy Wolf
Aventis’s face softened as he led me under a jetty provided by the house next door.
“You are right, I cannot know,” he said. “You are such a hardy companion I often think of you as just Megs.” He removed his coat and placed it around my shoulders. “Have you tired of this life? Do you wish to leave it? You have amassed enough guineas to do whatever you want.”
“As a woman?” I asked. “That frees me to either sell fish or marry.”
“And do you not want that?” he asked, as the rain splattered around us. “Not to be a fishwife but a—”
“—real wife?” I finished. “In truth, I do not know. I confess I enjoy my freedom. I could not stand being ruled by a man, unless . . . .”
He stood there, his face taunt as he waited.
“Well, what does it matter?” I asked in utter defeat. “As long as we ride with Jeffries, we are sworn to be apart. This does not seem to trouble you.”
His whole body started to tremble as he balled his fists.
“Though I am not a woman,” he said, “I can suffer like one. I can feel just as deeply, and hide those feelings with skill.”
“Then it appears that the sexes are not so different,”
“You should know,” he said, “for you have been both.”
He took off his falling band and wiped my tears away.
“Dear Megs,” he whispered, “it is time for us to go in.”
“Yes,” I said, and walked with him back inside.
After that night, I tried as hard as I could to pretend that nothing had changed. As Megs, I went on our adventures—stopping this coach and that—even robbing a party of butchers on their way to a county fair. My savings continued to grow and we stayed out of Newgate—thanks to Jeffries’s wiles. While others fell to the hangman, their bones displayed upon the Heath, we continued to ride upon it like the kings we were.
The summer of 1665 (one a great deal warmer than that which had froze the Thames), we made for Salisbury in search of public coaches.
“Whatever became of Milton?” I asked Aventis, the piled stones around me reminding me of the poet.
“Alas, the lines he recited have not been published,” he said.
“Pity,” I replied. “I hope it happens one day.”
“Those with talent survive,” said Jeffries, “talent and perseverance.”
“Heigh ho—take a look!” Carnatus cried, pointing an indigo glove at a line of coaches in the distance.
“That is the king’s!” said Aventis, as the most ornate coach of all flew past. “And that is his brother James’s!”
We watched from behind the rockpiles as the royal brigade raised a mighty cloud in what looked like wholesale flight.
“The cowards!” yelled Carnatus. “Heart of a mouse! They do not dare stay in London with the plague all about.”
Even Jeffries looked sour as he shook his head. “Off to Hampton Court, I s’pose.”
I sighed. While we had slept rough in hideouts, rumors of plague had reached us as early as April; it must now be so widespread that the man entrusted with our safety fled to ensure his own.
“How nice to be king,” I said. “One can simply pack up and leave.”
“Expect nothing from them,” said Jeffries, “and you will not be disappointed.”
Aventis’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“I hope he thought to include the queen in his party,” he said.
“How could he not?” asked Carnatus. “Wouldn’t do to take the mistresses and leave the wife behind.”
“Yet I think he would do it,” said Aventis.
“Aventis,” Jeffries said, “do not fret about Charles,” Jeffries told him. “While he and his court flee, the poor putrefy back in London.”
“And the old Cavaliers?” asked Aventis.
“I pray I gave them enough so that they too may depart.”
By the time September came, an almost visible pall blanketed much of the land. We heard from the Heath’s townsfolk that seven-thousand souls now expired in London each week. Even we, living apart, realized the sting of the blight when it reached the Great Western.
A stream of travelers on foot, either singly or in groups, made their painful way from the city. Some lay where they fell, and though we witnessed their agony and heard their fevered cries, we dared not help, for they were already doomed. Thus corpses crisscrossed the road like a giant draughts board of death: none who passed dared bury them lest they become infected.
One night around our campfire, I turned to Aventis. I thought that with his knowledge of plants, he might provide an answer.
“So after all these hundreds of years, there is still no cure?” I asked.
“No,” he said grimly. “Though false healers offer leeches.”
“I hear that swallowing a teaspoon of emerald works wonders,” said Carnatus.
“Or exposing the stricken to certain smells,” said Jeffries.
Aventis sighed.
“None of these ‘cures’ are effective, and the patient still dies.”
“Terrible,” Carnatus shuddered.
Thinking of Aventis’s past as a student-priest, I broached a belief I had often heard in my youth.
“Is the plague a sign of God’s wrath?” I asked.
“Who knows?” said Aventis. “But if He is a God without mercy, what distinguishes him from Satan?”
Jeffries looked troubled.
“Perhaps He punishes us for sin,” he said. “The licentious court, to begin.”
“Then why not simply strike Whitehall and leave the rest of us be?” I cried.
“It is not for us to know,” said Aventis, staring into the fire. “Perhaps He has a plan so lofty we mortals cannot discern it.”
The rest of us answered by sighing. How could one possibly know? Such questions were so far beyond me I might as well shout them at the trees.
As that cruel September stretched on, it seemed to me that Aventis became more restless. One afternoon in our Heath hideout, I heard him give a loud sigh.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“I must go,” he said.
“Where to?” I asked. “Spain?” My voice grew eager. “Perhaps we may all join you.”
“London.”
“I beg your pardon?” I asked.
“Into the midst of infection?” Carnatus stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Do you really think that is wise?” said Jeffries, his face relaying the opposite.
“Wise or not, I must go,” said Aventis, rising to harness his horse. “There is so much death and affliction that I feel I must do something.”
“And what is that?” I cried, leaping up. “Can you make the false cures true?”
Aventis looked down.
“I am not a doctor,” he said, “but I am a human being. If I can provide some comfort, my actions will not be in vain.”
“But your death will!” I yelled, resisting an urge to slap the reins from his hand.
Aventis put his foot in the stirrup.
“That may well be the result. But when misfortune strikes, then I, as a Catholic, am duty-bound to act.”
“Like Queen Catherine?” I balled my fist. No doubt she was still at Hampton.
“Shall we address you as ‘Father’?” Carnatus asked, crossing his arms.
Aventis mounted his horse.
“I am not one. For the present, I bid you farewell. You are my most treasured friends, and it has been an honor and privilege to know you.”
He saluted Jeffries. I had never seen that look on the captain’s face before: stoic, yet forlorn, in a heartfelt but silent goodbye.
Carnatus’s was more voluble.
“I lay excellent odds on you,” he cried, clapping Aventis on the back. “You will return to us forthwith. But take your time, old fellow.” He stepped back, clearly thinking of contagion.
Aventis laughed, then walked his mount beside me.
“Goodbye, Megs,” he said, breaking with Jeffries�
��s rules and seizing hold of my arm. At that moment, I would not have obeyed any man, and clasped my arms round his waist as tightly as I could.
“Dear count,” I whispered up to him, “do not throw your life away! Don’t you know it has a meaning to far more than yourself?”
Jeffries cleared his throat, and I moved away.
“Goodbye,” I whispered, willing the tears not to fall.
Aventis raised a hand, then trotted down toward the road. I watched as his figure become smaller, then vanished altogether, as he headed southeast to the pestilence that was London.
1665
“Megs?” A loud voice asked, “what is your opinion?”
I blinked to see Carnatus standing before me, but I was so distracted I had not heard his inquiry.
“Yes,” I ventured.
“So you are in favor of displaying our kind on gibbets?”
“Ugh. No. Of course, I meant to say no.”
I gave him a tight smile, then strode over to Jeffries. We were still on the Heath, and Aventis was still gone—it had been near a fortnight.
“Any word?” I asked the captain, for at least the fifth time that day.
“No.” He shook his head sadly. “I have just come from the road and questioned those able to speak on the Great Western, Bath, and Exeter. Those who have come from London have no report of him.”
Before Jeffries, I could allow my tears to flow; he even offered me his cuff. But how many tears could one person shed? How many days and nights could I sit here wretched, filled with agony that Aventis might be sick or worse? The answer came to me readily—not even for one more.
“Captain, I must go,” I said, heading for my horse.
“I have heard those same words not long ago.”
“Yes.”
I proceeded to bridle my mount.
“You do understand, Megs, that thousands have been stricken and die within a few days—sometimes even one.”
“I do,” I said, cinching my saddle.
“Very well. Megs.” Jeffries said the last word softly. “If you find Aventis’s case advanced, promise me you’ll return. Do not cast away your life to save one that is beyond hope.”
“I do not believe there is such a place.”
“Good.” Jeffries said. “That is the highwayman spirit. One thing more.”
“Yes, sir?”
“God bless you,” said the captain.
I saw that his dark eyes glistened. Fighting for composure, I turned to face him and Carnatus.
“Friends, if we never meet again,” I said, “know that I treasure my time with you more than I can say. I will never forget you—not even in death.”
Carnatus lowered his head.
“Dear Megs,” he said. “Though I think you have gone mad, still, I wish you the best.”
“Thanks, friend. And captain—” I turned to Jeffries, “—thank you. For all.”
He nodded and looked away.
Spurring my mount, I set on my perilous course—southeast to London—as Aventis had done before me.
What struck me on my way to the capital was the number of people leaving, with not a soul going in—except myself, of course. When I reached the outskirts, I heard both nearby and distant chiming, seemingly without cease. This must be, I thought, the ringing of church bells to herald the newly dead.
Though I stiffened, I remembered why I was there. This gave me courage enough to continue, even to the heart of the city surrounded by ancient walls. Hellish sights met me there: fires burning in alleys in an effort to ward off infection, and at every street I passed, guards yelling, “Stay out!”
Old women who held white wands—those who were called searchers—sought out the afflicted to herd them into their homes. Then, a red cross was painted on their door, along with the melancholy prayer: “Lord have mercy on us.” To ensure their compliance, more guards were stationed in front.
I saw entire families, some stricken and some not, forced indoors by these methods, in effect sentencing to death those who were still well. As I rode down the streets, my horse’s shoes striking lonely cobblestones, I witnessed whole blocks where each door bore a cross. I was the only one who ventured into this haunted quarter: it was me, the stricken, guards, and a jumble of corpses.
These last were strewn helter-skelter in so much more profusion than they were on the Heath. What had once been beloved mothers, fathers, and children had been left to rot in the sun, their flesh disfigured by sores. London’s putrefaction—never good at the best of times—
its timeworn habit of throwing garbage out the windows and living closer than rats had brought the Black Death. Again.
I took out my robber’s mask and affixed it to my face. This was my only safeguard and it was remarkably weak. What was there to prevent me—or Aventis, for that matter—from falling prey to the scourge which had felled a great city? It was likely that he was dead. But hearing the sound of death—those bells tolling near and far, inspired in me a notion.
Where was Aventis likely to be? His priestly leanings had brought him here, so what better place than a church? London had no lack of them, and I stopped at St. Martin’s, St. Mary’s, and St. Michael’s. These were either deserted or were now serving as hospitals. Still, no Aventis.
I rode between London’s old gates, and even searched the new neighborhoods from Spitalfields to Piccadilly. Here were the mansions of the newly rich: clean and neat orderly. But none of that mattered now, for there was no sign of life.
Aventis, I thought, turning in my saddle, where the devil are you?
I started as my horse passed row houses as silent as their better neighbors. I had been so abstracted that I did not realize I was back in the old city.
From the middle of one block, I heard the sound of bells ring out. They were of such volume and timber that their source could be but one: St. Paul’s Cathedral. Trotting to the old place, I tied my horse in front, then gingerly made my way to what was now a Church of England. How Cromwell would scream (He’d seen fit to use it as a stable). Yet the place still seemed decrepit, its central tower on the verge of collapse.
My boots hitting stone, I entered the round-topped main door not knowing—and frankly afraid—of what I might find within. Those bells surely tolled for people within—people who had died.
Indeed, what I saw before me was almost Biblical in nature: there were hundreds of patients laid out, most in a feeble state, cared for by bold family members, the few doctors who had survived, and, to my shock, a handful of nuns and priests. Despite the grimness, I chuckled: how that bishop would curse to see the Old Faith here again!
Pulling up my falling band, I sought to discover Aventis. It was so hard to look upon the sick with their pulsing sores, terrible groans . . . even vomiting of blood. As I directed my gaze over that sorrowful space, I saw a priest, a man at his side, closing the eyes of a woman who, judging from her swollen tongue, must be glad to take leave this world. Thinking to query the priest, I stepped between bodies to reach him, my footsteps muffled on the nave floor.
“Pardon me, Father,” I said, “I do not mean to disturb—” then, “It is you!”
I saw who the layman was beside him, and, upon seeing me, he sprang to his feet. He looked like a fellow highwayman behind his own black scarf.
“Megs!” Aventis cried, staring as if I were the Pope. He moved to touch my shoulder, then thought better of it.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?!”
I had never heard him yell quite this loudly before.
“I-I’ve come to find you … and-and perhaps aid you,” I stammered.
“And well do we need help.”
He gestured at the rows of bodies stretching even to the raised altar.
“But Megs, are you not aware of the danger?” he asked. “If Newgate is a death trap, then this hallowed ground is worse!”
“Yet you still live,” I said.
“Only by the grace of God. Most caretakers have died. That
is why you must leave.”
He pointed strongly to the front door.
“No,” I said calmly. “You are not my husband and I do not answer to you. My choice is to stay.”
“Megs, you are so very . . . headstrong,” he said, clenching both gloved fists. “I know I cannot dissuade you lest I cast you out on your head—”
“—and it is unsafe to touch me,” I reminded.
“You must make a promise to take every precaution—”
“I do,” I said. “Perhaps God, sparing you, will bestow the same favor on me.”
Aventis smiled sadly.
“Yet He has taken so many: the cloistered, the healers, men, women, and children of every faith. Being a Good Samaritan reaps no reward in plague times.”
I sighed, bowing my head.
“What can I do?” I asked.
That afternoon, he showed me: I could apply damp cloths to patient’s foreheads, hold their trembling hand in my gloved one so they knew they were not alone, and at the last offer words of solace before closing their eyes. Throughout, I was struck by my friend’s restraint: he never tried to proselytize those of other faiths, and would not read the last rites unless a patient so requested. He even approached with a glad heart those whom Jeffries despised: Dissenters. In this vast tapestry of suffering, sect, along with status, were equal.
Despite the hardship, what I treasured most from those first few days was the time spent with Aventis. Though he barely stopped working and only took sporadic rest, I, Margaret Tanner, was able (at last!) to serve as his partner in something other than robbery. Though we still could not touch—prevented not by Jeffries but the plague itself—I found comfort and calm in his presence. I could tell that his words outside Moll’s had not been idly spoken: indeed, when his dark eyes caught mine, I saw a look of real feeling within.
We continued to work in concert like a visiting priest and his acolyte. So many died in that nave that I desisted from counting, while the church bells rang so often that soon I ceased to hear them. Aventis’s efforts were constant, until—on the fourth day since I’d arrived—my secret dread came true: he developed the first signs of plague.