But purgatory would never smell so incredibly foul.
The lane upon which they traveled was fetlock deep with food leavings and the overflow from chamber pots. Yet a noxious odor was also a symptom of plague, Harry reminded himself, his precarious sense of security evaporating. He pinched his nostrils, fearful that even now he was inhaling the sickness.
I am going to die.
Then he would be faced with Judgment Day. St. Michael the Archangel would be awaiting him, holding out the scales of justice. As would Lucifer, who would be weighting down his bowl of sins in order to tip the balance in favor of damnation. But Harry dreaded meeting God, who he always pictured as a larger version of William, even more than he dreaded meeting Satan. Aye, Harry knew without a doubt that he was doomed.
Gripping the bridle reins so tightly his nails dug into his palms, he told himself and any saints who might be listening that he simply could not die now. He wasn't ready. When they reached St. Paul's, he could hide in one of the chantries. Surely the plague wouldn't follow him onto sacred ground.
Yet he had heard rumors of entire congregations being felled in the midst of hearing mass.
St. Paul's Jesus Bells boomed. Harry nearly plummeted from his saddle. Even Matthew jumped.
"St. Valentine protect me," Harry squeaked, crossing himself.
Matt laughed to cover his own nervousness. "'Tis only the bell ringers announcing tierce." Leaning forward, he patted the neck of his palfrey, as if he had been the startled one.
Moments later they reached Carter Lane, which adjoined the cathedral precincts. Save for a scattering of abandoned vegetable carts and the black rats whose carcasses bloated beside the dung and lay stalls, the area was vacant. After dismounting, William turned to Sosanna, wrapped his arms around her waist and helped her dismount. Matthew did the same for Harry. As they entered the courtyard, Harry slipped his hand through Matthew's.
William glanced over his shoulder and his rugged features hardened. "Stand tall, Harry. Quit clinging to your brother. If you canna show more spine, I'll pack you off to a monastery where cowardliness is considered an asset."
Harry dropped Matthew's hand.
As soon as their father's back was turned, Matt whispered, "He did not mean it about the monastery," and touched his brother's arm in a comforting gesture.
They entered the churchyard proper where a group of perhaps thirty men and woman, naked save for a linen sheet encircling each waist, shuffled round Paul's Cross.
"By the rood," Matthew breathed, watching them. He had heard of saints like Thomas Becket, who wore hair shirts beneath their clothes, and others who denied their bodies all material comfort. He had seen knights missing an arm or a leg or an eye, and pilgrims who were afflicted with wasting diseases or stomach-turning skin rots. But never had he seen anything like these strangers circling the cross. Their torsos were a mass of pus-ridden lesions and raw, ribbon-like wounds; their bodies e so swollen and discolored that, save for the length of their hair, 'twould be impossible to determine their sex.
"Have you ever... I cannot... dreadful." Harry clutched at his stomach, then doubled over and vomited upon the paving stones.
Matthew wanted to cover his ears and eyes, but he merely stepped in front of Harry in order to protect him from their father's gaze. "Hurry," he urged, reluctant to get too far away from William's protective presence.
Harry moaned and shook his head.
Matthew grabbed his arm and dragged him after their parents, who had reached the outskirts of a small crowd.
"Who are those people?" William Hart asked one of the spectators. His arm was wrapped around his wife, who looked little bigger than a child next to him.
"Brethren of the Cross, m'lord. Here to stop the plague."
"The Flagellants?"
The man nodded.
Harry wiped his mouth with the hem of his tunic. "What are flagellants?" he whispered.
"Some sort of peculiar sect," replied Matthew. "They are convinced that only they can avert the end of the world. Europe is aswarm with them. Some say they can heal the sick, drive out devils, and raise the dead, but Prince Edward says they belong at St. Bartholomew's with the rest of the madmen."
While Harry digested this latest disturbing piece of information, his hand returned to his protective stone. He wished he had worn a whole casket full of amulets. Or at the very least, an Opthithalminus, which had the power to render its wearer invisible. "You do not believe they are right about the end of the world, do you?"
Matthew was beginning to believe anything was possible but he merely shook his head before squeezing next to William.
A trio of men had gathered in the middle of the flagellants. At a signal from one, the others began to chant. The mournful sound shivered through Matthew's soul. He turned toward his father to gauge his reaction, but William's face betrayed nothing—and Matthew knew why.
An ancient memory stirred. He was five, chasing after his leather football, which had taken an unexpected detour into the family chapel. Spotting the ball near the altar, he had scurried over to pick it up, only to be confronted by a hideous creature, dark as a shadow and no more than two feet tall, with a face resembling a gargoyle's. As Matthew stared at the creature, its lips drew back in a hideous grin.
Matthew had run screaming from the nave, but when he howled his terror to his father, William would have none of it. "Most likely 'twas a strange play of light. Or perhaps a church grim, for they sometimes live in bell towers. But whatever it was, we shall go back and face it square."
They had searched the entire chapel and found nary a trace of anything untoward, let alone monstrous. Hunkering in front of Matthew, William had tilted his son's chin so that their eyes were on the same level. "Throughout your life you will encounter things that will frighten you. But a true knight never shows fear. And he never runs. Understand?"
Now, watching his father's expressionless face, Matthew did indeed understand. William might be angry or experiencing the same anxiety as his sons, but no one would ever guess. That is what it means to be a knight, Matthew told himself. If one must experience fear, he must also adopt a courageous facade as an example to others. If one could act the part long enough, someday he would come to believe it. As William obviously had. As Matthew would.
Inside the circle, the Master Brethren had retrieved an iron-tipped scourge from a large pile. When he raised his arms over his head the other flagellants dropped to the ground and lay with their arms outstretched in the shape of a cross. The Master walked among them, the thongs of his scourge flicking like a viper's tongue. Some flagellants moaned while others quivered or rolled around, waving their arms and legs.
After The Master had finished, the Brethren struggled up from the paving stones. Arming themselves individually with scourges, they began beating their own backs.
Horrified, Matthew watched iron knots rip into the Brethrens' ravaged bodies. Pus and bits of flesh exploded outward. Blood splashed upon the steps of Paul's Cross and its carved walls, upon the paving stones, upon the faces of the bystanders.
Matthew's breath came in hot gasps. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to flee, but he did not. On the battlefield he would see far more blood and carnage. He would have to chop off arms and legs, even heads, without a qualm. He was twelve years old and a page in the household of Edward the Black Prince. He was not allowed to be afraid. He would not be afraid.
The Master climbed to Paul's Pulpit. "Almighty God, have mercy on us, your sinful children!" he shouted. "Repent and turn to the Lord, for our time be short!" He raised his arms as if to embrace the mist slipping from the clouds.
Hearing a sob, Matthew looked over at Harry, who had stuffed a fistful of knuckles into his mouth.
"There is no need to fear the Brethren," Matthew soothed. "They canna harm us. 'Tis just something to watch, like a juggling act or a puppet show."
The scourging reached a frenetic crescendo. Some Londoners groaned and cried in sympathy. Others
trembled or hid their eyes. The mist increased to a drizzle, sweeping onto upturned faces. One woman fell to the stones in a fit. Another ran to the blood brightening the steps of Paul's Cross, wiped it up and applied it to her sores.
Abruptly, the crowd parted, making way for a man carrying a young girl. The man placed his daughter atop the flagellants' pile of discarded white and red robes. Her face was covered with black spots; a trail of blood snaked from her open mouth. Beneath her armpits nested a cluster of buboes.
"Plague!" Sosanna Hart shouted, pointing.
Harry screamed and collapsed against Matthew's chest.
William wheeled about, pushing his wife before him. Sweeping an arm around each of his sons, he raced toward the courtyard and the waiting horses. Others ran past, echoing Sosanna's cry.
Releasing Matthew and Harry, William lifted Sosanna onto her mare, then vaulted into his own saddle. Despite his trembling legs, Matthew also managed to seat himself. But Harry merely clutched one of his jennet's stirrups, and sobbed helplessly against its barrel. In passing, William hooked his youngest son around the waist and deposited him atop his mount.
Matthew followed their parents out of Carter's Lane. "Make haste," he urged Harry, who lagged behind.
"Wait," Harry wailed. "Matt, wait for me."
But Matthew pretended not to hear. A knight must be prudent as well as brave.
The family reached Aldergate without further incident, and by the time he had passed through the city, Matthew's natural confidence had returned. Now that he was headed to Edmundsbury Castle, he had naught to fear. In his latest dispatch, Matthew's soon-to-be brother-in-law, Lawrence Ravenne, had written that East Anglia was one of the safest places in all of England.
And so the Hart family retreated from one danger and rode directly toward another.
Chapter 2
East Anglia
Margery Watson awakened with an enormous yawn. Overhead, drying strips of eel stretched across the wooden platforms. Beside her, three-year-old Giddy stirred and sighed before settling deeper into the coverlet of dogswain. Usually her half-sister thrashed in every direction, but now she pressed against Margery's back.
If I move, Giddy might wake and cry. Sometimes she wished God had never sent her a little sister, especially one so whiny and bothersome. Whitefoot is far more agreeable.
Honker strutted through the front door of the Watson cottage, trailed by her goslings. Even that cantankerous old goose had been blessed with a sweeter nature than Giddy's. Margery tried to ignore her half-sister's breath, blowing hot and cold against her spine. Snail-like, she edged away.
The sounds of an awakening Ravennesfield drifted in from the open window. Cocks crowed, Whitefoot barked, shutters slammed, a swinegelder blasted his horn. Margery had heard similar sounds every day of her nine years. They made her feel safe, and nearly as happy as when her mother, Alice, held her and stroked her hair. Which was not at all the way she felt when Lord Lawrence Ravenne intruded upon them. She hoped their lord would soon leave Ravenne Manor, never to return. But he might stay a long time, because of the Terrible Thing. Margery wasn't certain what the Terrible Thing was, since grown-ups always lowered their voices whenever she or the other children came near.
Margery watched her mother arrange turves inside the hearthstone. As she struck flint against steel to start the fire, Alice sang a familiar lullaby. Listening, Margery felt even better than when she contemplated their new cottage, which was the finest in all of Ravennesfield, and topped with real wooden shingles. Before, rain would work through the thatch and stream down the walls, making such a mess that Alice would spend days cleaning.
Happily, her mother no longer had to fret over leaking roofs. Because of me, Margery thought. Because of my father. My real father. She mouthed his name. Thomas Rendell. Lord Thomas Rendell. It was lofty sounding, with none of the coarseness of the names she usually heard—Alf Watson, Will Brakest, John Bune. And while Lord Rendell oft seemed as unapproachable as his title, Margery had to admit he was always nice to her. Thomas had given Alice the silver coins she kept hidden in the storeroom loft—coins that had built their cottage and provided their cow, Crop Tail. They had also bought Margery's soft feather mattresses and all the other amenities that Father Egbert said caused Alice to commit the sin of pride.
"Good morrow, Stick-Legs."
Thurold Watson plopped down upon the scarred clothing chest at the foot of the bed and put on his knobbed shoes. Her stepbrother was much nicer than Giddy. Thurold never tattled, and he only complained about their lords—never her. While at thirteen years of age he liked to pretend that he was fully grown, he could still be persuaded to play Hide-the-Thimble or Hoodman's Blind. Thurold's mind was as quick as his manner of moving and talking, though Father Egbert, who'd taught him and a handful of other village boys the rudiments of reading and writing, lamented that a passable mind should not be cluttered with heretical thoughts. Whatever that meant.
"Come along, boy," Alf Watson called. "We've the harrowing to do, and ye be slower than a cart bogged in mud."
Rising from the chest, Thurold shrugged his thin shoulders into his old coat of cary cloth. "I can work ye into the earth, old man," he muttered, but Alf didn't hear, and the tension Margery often felt around Thurold and Alf evaporated. When they two argued, her belly would churn and her head would pound, though she couldn't blame Thurold for snapping at Alf, who, was a man of few words—a few sullen, sarcastic words.
Thurold swiveled to face her. "Time to get up, Stick-Legs. Alice says ye've dyeing to do."
Margery rolled off the mattresses onto her feet and stumbled across the floor into her mother's outstretched arms.
Alice kissed the crown of Margery's tousled head. "Good morrow, angel."
Seated at the trestle table, Alf grunted his disapproval. When he was drunk, he sometimes taunted Margery for being spoiled and worthless and presuming high above her station, another puzzling turn of phrase.
Since Alf's opinion was of no importance, Margery ignored him. He was merely a husband-of-convenience, after all. Alice had married Alf Watson four summers past, after his entire family—save for him and Thurold—had perished during an outbreak of the scarlet sickness. Thurold said the disease caused those afflicted to burn with a heat as fierce as the flames of hell. Margery often thought about hell and wondered how painful it would feel when flames licked at her body for all eternity. She imagined horrible welts popping out on her skin and her hair blazing like a torch. She did not want to go to hell, which was too bad, because Father Egbert warned that most everyone was going to end up there.
"Is it not time ye be about the milkin', girl?" Alf mumbled through a mouthful of buttered black bread. "The sun be already 'alfway cross the sky."
Margery made a face against the folds of Alice's gown.
Alf tossed the dregs from his ale into the fire, retrieved his wide-brimmed hat from a peg, and stalked out the door, followed by Thurold.
Once they were alone, Margery washed and dressed and sat down on a stool so Alice could comb her hair. She looked forward to this moment, when Giddy was still asleep and the others had left the cottage. Sometimes her mother schooled her on her grammar, which she said must match Margery's favored position in life. Sometimes Alice discussed plant lore, including wondrous techniques such as drawing down the moon in order to charge seedlings with its special power. Sometimes she explained how to keep creatures from the other world at bay, creatures such as Night-Elves which caused nightmares by riding their victims like mares, and which could be thwarted by hanging verbena or St. John's wort throughout the cottage.
And sometimes Alice talked about Thomas Rendell. A powerful lord far to the south, whose family was famous for, among things that Alice did not elaborate upon, an event called the Cherry Fair. While her mother was not sure she'd ever even seen an actual cherry tree, she still described it and the legendary fair in great, if inaccurate, detail.
Today, easing a comb through Margery's chestnut-co
lored tangles, she said, "Your father has such grand hair."
People oft remarked on Alice's own flaxen mane, which when braided fell thick as a man's arm to her waist. Unlike the other village women, she seldom covered her head.
"Father's hair is black, is it not?" Margery asked, knowing full well it was.
"Sometimes it looks black and sometimes more the deepest brown. And 'tis so thick. And soft as down, just like yours."
Margery was pleased at the lilt that warmed her mother's voice. Yet when she herself dwelt upon her father, she felt more confused than happy. She saw Lord Thomas Rendell yearly at Sturbridge Fair, and he seemed a kind man. But like all members of the nobility, he was as alien as the will-o'-the-wisps inhabiting East Anglia's marshes. In his presence, Margery would think how different he smelled and how odd his voice—soft and quick like stream water racing over rocks. And Thomas Rendell was tall, not stooped and stocky and weathered like the men she daily saw.
He was also a knight.
Margery was very confused about knights. Thurold held them responsible for all the world's ills, but Father Egbert said they must be respected since they defended Englishmen and women from the French.
Knights also played a very loud game called "tournament."
The tournament Margery had attended last spring at Edmundsbury Castle had been more frightening than the earthquake which had shaken the ground at Michaelmas. The lists had been filled with monsters, and the jousting had been noisy and bloody. Father Egbert might liken knights to St. George the Dragonslayer but they seemed more akin to the Terrible Thing.
"Tell me how you and Father met at Sturbridge Fair," Margery urged her mother, as Alice plaited her hair. Margery knew the story of her parents' introduction by heart, but Alice enjoyed the re-telling. The basic facts were simple enough. Thomas Rendell's family lived days away, near Thomas Becket's shrine in a place called Canterbury, but Sturbridge Fair attracted visitors from across the kingdom. Silks from Italy, iron from Spain and timber from the Baltic all found their way to Cambridge and the fair. During the fall of 1338, Thomas Rendell had found his way there, too, and Margery had been the result.
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