by Ann Benson
“What?”
“The Coalition. The group—”
“I know what the Coalition is. I used—”
She stopped.
“Used to what?”
She didn’t reply.
“Look,” he said, his frustration showing clearly, “I’m not accustomed to this interrogation stuff. I don’t know the first thing about it. But there are things I need to know, and you’ve been out there. So how about this: I’ll tell you what we know, and then maybe you can tell me a thing or two about you, by which I mean you and whatever group you belong to. Deal?”
The taste of lemon was still with her. They hadn’t hurt her; this man, despite his hideous scarring, seemed to want to know what was happening in Worcester as much as she did. It was, after all, right in his backyard that the meeting was taking place.
The facility, at least what she’d seen of it, was as clean and well kept as it had been before, and full of pleasant surprises.
Trust your instincts.
“Deal.”
“Okay,” he said. He seemed quite relieved. “Okay, you go first.”
“No.”
He smiled slightly; the cracks on one side of his face intensified. “All right. If that’s how you want it…. Here’s what we know: This event was set up by an offshoot of the larger double delta organization. We don’t know where they’re located; their Web site doesn’t say anything about that, for obvious reasons. For all we know, they are entirely a virtual organization, with no headquarters at all. Everything filters down from some core group, God only knows where. We suspect that the Coalition operates in the same way. From what we’ve received, we think there are other, similar events in a lot of places right now, maybe not at this precise time, but soon, or maybe recently. It’s in keeping with their mission statement. I assume you’ve read it on their Web site.”
She nodded.
“So here we have a meeting of double deltas. What a great target for the Coalition—what could be more infidel to their beliefs than a bunch of Lutherans and Irishmen? That’s what the deltas are, primarily. It was a total fluke of nature that they weren’t affected by DR SAM.”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” Lany said quietly. “Maybe there’s a larger plan….”
Bruce remained silent for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could know whose side God is on. But I certainly can’t say. In any case, the Coalition sees the delta survival in biblical terms—as if they’d all smeared themselves with lamb’s blood and so the plague passed over them. We think they’re sending another plague. And maybe this one will get the deltas too.”
Twenty-seven
Thomas Blackwell the Younger listened with keen interest to the discussion that took place directly beneath him. He remained as still as a cat in the tall branches of the tree until the party of riders who’d gathered outside the town had all moved off, far enough so they would not notice him climbing down. When he judged that it was safe to do so, he scampered nimbly down the trunk, taking care not to break off any twigs, lest the snapping give away his presence. Despite his efforts at silence, leaves rustled as he descended. More than once he had to stop and hold his breath, for the last man in the group, the one on the handsome black horse, had turned to look back twice; both times his eyes came to rest upon the very tree in which the young boy had made his roost.
Every word that passed between the two noblemen had drifted up between the leaves, even their whispers. Young Blackwell understood clearly that they were distressed by the older knight’s orders.
She is to be my bride! We must find her and the scoundrel who took her!
What does it matter if we find them or not—we will find you another bride. There is plague here!
Will you find me another princess, then, Cousin?
Bride—princess! An image of the golden-haired woman who had boarded in his father’s home in the company of her supposed “father” flashed into his mind. Grand notions of some vast reward danced in his head as he scurried through the woods toward his home to tell his father what he had seen and heard.
He wove his way through the residents of Eyam, many of whom had gathered for their marketing. None of the town’s residents appreciated the splatters of mud he raised as he ran past them in his haste. He maintained his fast pace, so when he finally reached the pigpen where his father was toiling, he had no breath for speaking.
“What bedevils you, boy?” his father said harshly. “You might have seen a ghost for all your agitation!”
“I have news!” he gasped. “Not a ghost, Father, but something near as marvelous—in the woods…”
“You’ve been up in that tree again, have you? I thought I told you to keep your feet on the earth, where they belong!”
The boy ignored the scolding. “But, Father, I saw soldiers! On horses, and they sat outside the village for a good long time, but they turned around and rode away when they saw the sign. I heard what they said, Father….”
The elder Blackwell set down his bucket; his voice was quieter when he said, “Out with it, then.”
“You’ll not thrash me, Father, please….”
“I’ll thrash you at my pleasure, boy. Now, speak.”
The lad blurted out what he had heard, then stood before his father, waiting nervously for a reaction. It was a few moments before the elder spoke again, but when he did, he kept his voice low. “Go do your chores,” he said, “and say nothing of this. If you do a right good job of them, I’ll not tan your sneaky hide.”
“Yes, Father!”
The cart carried only a few bolts of cloth, for the drover had already delivered most of his load to other villages. The two big stallions who pulled the cart were now showing the wear of their long ride. As he rode past the warning flag on this last bit of his journey, the drover’s heart began to beat faster. He had been told to wait for the tailor on the edge of the graveyard, though he did not understand why the goods could not be brought into the town, as he’d done with the rest of his load in other towns.
Up ahead he saw the man through the mist, and he was glad, for he could get a good start on the trip home before night fell again. He waved and received a wave in return. As the tailor hurried through the vapor, a chill went down the drover’s spine, for the image was ghost-like and eerie.
As the bolts were passed out of the cart, the rough burlap in which they were wrapped gave off its usual disagreeable smell. Fibers of the coarse material rose up into the air, and the tailor sneezed violently several times. Birds alit from the treetops, frightened by the unfamiliar noise. In the cacophony of their furious departure, neither man heard the confused chirps of the small black rats that bounded out of the back of the cart and into the woods, toward Eyam.
The drover handed the bill of lading to the tailor, who gave it a quick inspection. “We hear that the Death still rages in London,” the tailor said with a wan smile. “They’re not poxed, one assumes….”
“God protect us, no,” the drover replied. “Not that I’m privy to His intent.” He gave the tailor a knowing smile. “I’ve seen your black flag. Perhaps you ought not be asking me if my load is poxed, when your own town is supposedly in its grips.”
He offered the quill; the tailor glanced around once, then nervously scribbled his mark on the bill of lading. They exchanged a quick tip of their hats. The tailor gathered up the bolts and hurried off toward town. The drover watched the man for a brief moment—he had an odd bowlegged gait, made more noticeable by the burden of the bolts. Then he turned his team around, gratefully, to head back to London.
Still digesting his son’s story, Blackwell picked up his bucket and began feeding the hogs once again. As he tossed handfuls of grain into the pen, he pondered what he ought to do with the unanticipated bounty his son had delivered. Should he tell the strangers that he knew the truth of who they were—at least who the woman was—and get from them what he could? Or should he keep still about what he knew and let them drift off when they would, without any kind
of fanfare? They seemed like decent folks. The father was a bit too serious, but the young woman was likable enough. A beauty, and—if what the boy had overheard was true—a bride of some value.
He spent the better part of the morning pondering the dilemma his son’s espionage had created for him but came to no conclusion on what ought to be done. The day passed as all his days did, with hard work and small reward.
Blackwell came upon Alejandro in the courtyard later in the afternoon. The physician was sharpening a very small blade, the likes of which Blackwell had not seen before. After a nod of greeting, the man from Eyam said, “That is an unusual device.”
“Indeed.” He held it up so Blackwell could see it better. “It is called a scalpel.”
“Ah,” Blackwell said. “What is it used for?”
“Cutting soft things, like, shall we say…flesh.”
After a gulp, Blackwell said, “Well, then, it is worthy of maintenance. One does not wish to be cut with a dull blade.”
With a cordial little smile, Alejandro returned to his sharpening.
Seeing that there was little more conversation to be had on the matter of the scalpel, Blackwell said, “My son climbed a tree this morning.”
“Youth is a blessing, well spent in such activities. One can see so much from a lofty perch.”
For a moment Blackwell watched in silence as Alejandro further perfected the edge of his tool. Finally, he came out with it. “He saw—and heard—a great deal from his perch.”
Alejandro put the scalpel back into its leather sheath and looked up.
“Oh?”
“A great deal,” Blackwell repeated.
As he tucked the sheath back into the pocket on this belt, Alejandro said, “I should be interested in hearing of this.”
“He watched a party of the king’s men at rest. He is sure they did not notice him.”
“Your son must have been inordinately quiet.”
“I taught him well,” Blackwell replied. “He heard talk of a young woman who had escaped from Windsor,” Blackwell said, his eyes narrowing. “A runaway bride, he heard said. A princess.”
“Is that so?” Alejandro said, his own eyes returning the look of suspicion. “I pity the unhappy bridegroom who has been left behind.”
“No doubt.” Blackwell stared directly at his guest. “Perhaps you have heard something of this event in your travels.”
“Not I,” Alejandro said warily. “Not a word of it.” He drew the knife out of the sheath again and ran his finger crosswise against the grain, as if testing its sharpness. “But I would be sure to report it to you if I had, in view of your apparent interest.”
The eyes of the two men locked in a measure of mettle.
Chandos and his party of trackers made camp an hour’s ride east of the plague village—Eyam, so a sign had said. There was a sick feeling in his gut as they made their way around it, and he was glad when the place was well behind them.
In the deep woods, away from the place of danger, he felt no more assured of his safety. They would arise the next morning and search for one more day, but Chandos was certain it would be a futile exercise. Perhaps, the knight mused in silence, if Edward had acknowledged the girl at an earlier age, her heart might not be so hard to him now. But now there was nothing to be done, nothing at all.
Alejandro was eager to be away from Blackwell after their strained encounter. When he went to the kitchen, where he had last seen Kate, Mistress Blackwell informed him that she had gone off in search of medicinal herbs.
“You’ll find her on the edge of the graveyard just north of the church,” she told him.
He walked through the town, staying within the shadows when he could, his senses heightened to any indication that others in town had seen or heard the soldiers. But there was little activity, certainly nothing to cause alarm, so he continued on.
Suddenly he heard heavy breathing behind him. He turned to see a bowlegged man shouldering a stack of wrapped packages. By the man’s red-faced laboring, Alejandro judged that the packages were heavy. He stopped and let the man catch up to him, and as he passed, Alejandro said, “Good day.”
The burdened man said nothing, though he did nod in reply. He seemed to be in a great hurry.
Strange, Alejandro thought as he watched the man stumble under the weight of the packages. Why did he not have a cart, or someone to help him, or perhaps even carry the load in two trips?
He was about to call out an offer of help when the man turned into a narrow alleyway. Two or three steps into the alley, the man shifted his burdens so they could be balanced with one hand and scratched at his back with the other, all the while moving along. He stopped at a door at about the halfway point and set his burdens down. After a few seconds, the door was opened, and the man brought his packages inside.
It was a perfectly ordinary occurrence, and yet something about it made Alejandro’s spine tingle. He stayed at the end of the alley for another moment, struggling with his own desire to investigate further, until he remembered that he himself was the subject of curiosity. He left the village square and walked past the church to find his daughter.
The dogs had no success in picking up the scent of the fugitives outside the village. By noon, there arose a considerable amount of grumbling among the bored soldiers. When Chandos announced to his troops as the sun made its downward arc that they would return to Windsor, the chants of approval were loud and energetic.
Excepting, of course, from de Coucy and Benoit, who insisted that they press on, despite the fact that one of the trackers seemed suddenly to have taken ill. It was all they could seem to agree on; they had fought with each other constantly in low tones since the party had left the edge of Eyam.
Ignoring his noble charges, Chandos halted the party and took the master of the hounds aside.
“Your fellow seems rather…unwell.”
The man cast a quick glance at the pale and sweaty tracker. “I would agree with that assessment,” he said. “He is, naturally, most disturbed by our—”
Before he could complete the sentence, the tracker groaned and clutched at his belly. Chandos and the master of the hounds turned to him just in time to see him fall over on his side.
They rushed to him; the man lay on the ground with his knees drawn up tight against his chest. Together they laid him out flat. The man’s eyes stared blankly upward, so Chandos slapped him lightly on the cheek to get his attention. The tracker closed his eyes, then reopened them quickly. He turned his head to the side and vomited.
The rest of the men in the party stepped back, almost as one. Chandos stood his ground for a moment, then, thinking better of it, backed away. He pointed to two of his soldiers. “Make a stretcher,” he ordered. “We will bring this man back to Windsor immediately.”
De Coucy brought his horse alongside Chandos. “The man may be plagued. We cannot take him back.”
“And what would you have me do, sir? Leave him here to the wolves? I see no buboes on him. For all we know, he has eaten something disagreeable.” He paused briefly, then said in a cold voice, “Perhaps he has partaken of the missing fox.”
Benoit came up beside de Coucy. “Slay the man here, and then you may leave him with the assurance that he shall not be aware of it when the wolves have at him.”
Chandos had his sword out and against the vile little man’s throat before he could draw another breath. Not a motion was made among the others in the party, all of whom watched from their distance as Chandos inched the tip of the sword slightly forward. Benoit drew back in the saddle, but Chandos merely extended his arm farther, so the point remained in the fatal position.
One thrust, he thought. One sweet thrust and the world would be rid of this vermin.
Then de Coucy was speaking again. His calm, quiet voice sounded distant to Chandos, for it seemed that there was no one there but himself and Benoit.
“Surely,” he heard de Coucy say, “we can come to some reasonable agreement on how to pro
ceed.”
Chandos was certain he would not agree on anything with this man, save that which was undeniable—say, the position of the sun. With his eyes still steadfast on Benoit, he heard de Coucy’s proposal.
“I myself shall take this ill man and the rest of the party back to Windsor. I have need of the time to prepare for my wedding.” Then his voice became quieter. “You are in command of this foray, sir, and will order us as you like. But perhaps you could continue your quest for another day or so, with the aid of my dear cousin. Our search, after all, inures entirely to his benefit. One has no idea of what may come to pass with a bit more effort. A lucky event, if God will allow it.”
So, Chandos thought, chuckling to himself as he pulled the sword away from Benoit’s throat, perhaps the tie of blood is not so strong between them as the king thought.
“For the love of God, husband,” Mistress Covington said. “What have you done?”
“Woolens,” he said defiantly. “From London. Nothing more than that. How can a man earn a living if he is denied the supplies of his trade?”
“It was agreed not to bring anything in for the moment! It is only a short while until—”
“Good heavens, woman,” he said. “Do you think the plague itself rode in on these bolts? They are wrapped, and have been since they departed London. Now, don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, or I’ll box your ears but good.”
For three days in the previous month, she had hardly been able to hear for the ringing in her ears. She curtsied stiffly and said, “Yes, husband.”
“That’s a good girl,” he said. He pulled her roughly close and pressed a hard, unloving kiss on her forehead. The poor woman stiffened but did not resist otherwise.
One day, she thought as she left him to his bundles, God will see to it that you are punished for your unkindness.