"That canna be," Alice cried. "We were at Edmundsbury Castle a week ago for our lord's wedding and everything was fine."
Apprehension settled in Margery's belly like sour milk. Adults no longer whispered about the Terrible Thing, which was a terrible thing in itself.
"Me daughter talked to one of our lord's own men," Joan said, entering the cottage. "Why think ye so many lords be packing up to leave the manor? So many 'ave already died in Bury St. Edmunds and even Cambridge that the plague pits canna hold them all."
"St. Jude protect us!" Alice eyed the stalks of wheat molded in the shape of a cross mounted above the door, one of many plague protectors scattered about the cottage interior.
Joan inspected Alice. "Feel ye well? Your cheeks be red as raspberries."
The corners of Alice's mouth lifted in a smile that did not reach her eyes. "I feel fine." She made a great show of gaining Giddy's attention by clacking together various spoons carved from cattle horn.
After a final worried appraisal, Joan left.
Immediately Alice released Giddy and turned to Margery. "I am fearful for your father. I pray he is healthy, wherever he might be."
"I am certain he is, Mama." They'd no more than glimpsed Lord Rendell, who was married to Lord Ravenne's sister, at the Ravenne-Hart wedding. But surely her father was safely south again. Besides, wouldn't they have heard, somehow, had he been struck down? Yet Father Egbert said The Death came and went as quietly as the fog.
"Always remember you are the daughter of a great lord." Alice's voice was curiously slow and thick. "You will grow up to a fine life. My lord Thomas promised me. Pray very hard for him. I could not bear it..." She closed her eyes for a long moment before retreating to the bed. Sinking onto the coverlet, she buried her face in her hands. Then she raised her head. "Would you lay forth the midday meal, angel?"
Alf and Thurold returned from the fields and sat down to their cheese and bread. No one commented on Alice's absence, least of all Alf, who gulped his ale and chewed his food as if his wife sat beside him. Margery found it impossible to eat, for her throat had tightened until she could scarcely breathe and her gaze kept returning to her mother.
Alice struggled upright, staggered, steadied herself against the chest at the foot of the mattresses, and crossed carefully to her loom. Easing onto the stool, she folded her hands in her lap and stared at the hempen homespun.
After dinner, Alf plaited reeds into weeles for catching fish, just as he did every Sunday. Thurold rubbed goose grease into his boots and sang to Giddy, who played with a mortar and pestle. Margery cleared the table.
Giddy abruptly squealed, dropped her makeshift toy and headed for Honker, who had wandered in through the open door. Honker honked. Alice winced.
Mama's ears hurt. "Do you need something?" she asked. "Would you like me to send Giddy and the goose outside?"
"Thirsty," Alice said in that peculiar voice. "Ale, please."
Margery poured her a bowl. After drinking it, Alice folded her hands again and sat motionless, staring into space, until afternoon shadows crept across the cottage floor.
Alf put aside his baskets and stretched. "'Tis time," he said, referring to the dancing which took place every Sunday on the green.
"Go along," his wife said. "We'll follow later."
By the time they left the cottage, the sun had slunk below an overcast horizon. Margery's skin felt sticky, and the air smelled like clothes beginning to mildew. She turned and looked back at their cottage, whose lime white walls set it proudly apart from the dull yellow of the older homes.
Pipe music wafted from the green, but the hour was so late they would miss most of the festivities. Not that Margery cared, but Alice usually delighted in dancing.
Giddy clung to a cat she'd scooped up along the way, and repeatedly stopped to gather the tall slender foxglove she called "Thimble Flowers." Margery reached out to hold her mother's hand and tiptoed in order to avoid stepping on the last remnants of sunset, which spattered like drops of blood across the rutted road.
Someone headed toward them, still several houses away. Margery saw with relief that it was Thurold. No doubt he'd returned to check on Alice.
Margery waved to him.
Alice stumbled to a halt. Gazing up at the steeple of St. George's Chapel, she whispered, "Do you smell it, angel?"
A clammy wind fingered her cheeks and coiled round her heart. "Smell what, Mama?"
"Death? Death in the air?"
Near the junction of High and Queen Street, beside the Crown and Sceptre, Alice clutched her arms across her stomach. An animal wail of pain emerged from her lips, just before she vomited up a viscous mess, black as the converging darkness.
Thurold had reached them. "By the Cross! Mama has the plague!"
"Nay," breathed Margery. Helpless, she watched her mother vomit again. And again. Finally edging straight, Alice staggered to the inn's wall and leaned against it. Her face was lost in the darkness—all save her eyes which were bright with fever.
Thurold reached for her. "We must get her home."
"My head," Alice moaned, clasping her hands over her ears. "Pounds and pounds."
Margery swiveled around, facing the crossroads. She heard the pounding too, for it was coming from along Queen Street. Horses, probably several. 'Twould not be villagers who went everywhere afoot. Lord Ravenne? She turned to Thurold, but he was bent over Alice and didn't seem to hear. Margery's palms were slick with sweat. What if it was Lord Ravenne and he hanged Alice for vomiting on his street?
"Hurry," she begged, as Thurold tried to wrap Alice's arms around his shoulders and raise her to her feet.
One of the knights carried a torchlight which jumped and sputtered. Margery counted six riders—and Lawrence Ravenne.
Margery stared, paralyzed with fear. What would Ravenne and his men do to them?
The party rode closer. The knights seemed to fill the narrow street, their shadows shooting up against the surrounding cottage walls, melding into darkness.
Thurold had managed to get Alice upright and leaning against him. "Get on her other side so we can help her walk." When Margery continued gawking, Thurold yelled, "Move! And Giddy, leave that cat be. Walk over here, behind us."
Margery's legs finally obeyed her command to move. After reaching Thurold and her mother, she slipped her shoulder beneath Alice's armpit, and turned her face away with a grimace. Alice smelled bad, not like herself at all.
The knights rode a cart's length away.
Alice tried to twist around to face them.
"Ye be going home!" shouted Thurold, as if she were hard of hearing. "Ye'll feel better then!"
Alice made an unintelligible sound and halted in the roadway. Despite Margery's grip on her waist, she thrashed like a speared fish until she had freed herself. Bolting away from them both, she darted in front of the knights.
"Mama, no!" Terrified, held back by Thurold, Margery watched as the cursing knights drew rein.
"What is happening here?" Lawrence Ravenne's right hand rested upon the hilt of his sword.
Alice stumbled toward him. Clutching his boot and spur, she peered into his face. "My Lord Thomas?"
Loud voices, speaking in French. Then the torchbearer, who bore the badge of a hart, which Margery recognized from their lord's wedding, addressed Alice in English.
"Leave go of your lord, woman. Are you mad?"
Lawrence Ravenne tried to shake off her hand. 'Twas obvious he did not recognize Alice in the wild-eyed woman who clung to him.
"The plague," a second knight exclaimed. "Jesu, Larry, I'll wager the creature has the plague."
"Leave go!" Ravenne kicked at her, but Alice held tight. The other knights, fearful of contamination, made no attempt to pull her off.
"Do not hurt her!" Margery shrieked.
Darting between the horses, Thurold reached for Alice just as Ravenne struck her across the neck with the flat of his sword. Alice began to fall, flailed out, and frantically gripped his
leg.
Ravenne began beating against her back. "Leave go, you filthy peasant! Do not touch me!"
"Stop," shouted the most commanding of the knights, who also wore the hart badge. "Leave her alone and let us be gone."
Ravenne ignored his new father-in-law, William Hart, and slammed Alice again.
Thurold yelled. The knights yelled. Giddy wailed. Margery stood motionless. This new Alice, this disheveled creature with her unkempt hair, appeared frozen in the torchlight. Stubbornly, she clung to Ravenne's leg.
Lawrence Ravenne raised his sword.
The blade descended, arcing across Alice's back, cleaving through her as easily as Alf halved a cabbage. Margery screamed. Her mother crumpled, blood spurting from the juncture where the sword had sliced her spinal cord.
"Damn you, Lawrence!" shouted William Hart. "What have you done?"
Movement returned to Margery's limbs. Rushing forward, she knelt on the ground, searching her mother's face for some sign of life.
"So 'tis you, Margery Watson," Ravenne roared. "You all had best get that thing off the streets where she cannot spread her foulness."
Margery cried, "That thing is my mother!"
"I do not care who it is. Get her out of here. And be forewarned. If I am afflicted with plague, I will return and hang the lot of you."
Ravenne kicked his horse and bolted away. The other knights followed; only William Hart cast a final backward glance. With the men went their torch, its smoking trail curling about Margery and the rest before fading into the darkness.
Thurold stepped to Margery and pulled her to her feet. Both stood looking down at the shape on the road, of no more form than the ruts or garbage. No need to hurry in order to get Alice Watson home. Or to do anything else. Save bury her.
* * *
Alice was not buried in the churchyard. Hearing she had plague, Father Egbert refused to allow her there, or even to administer last rites.
"'Tis typical of priests," said Thurold. "When you need them they slink away, their tails between their legs."
Margery's torment now took a new turn. Without last rites God would never allow Alice into heaven, and without the benefit of consecrated ground she would become a spectre, wandering between earth and the hereafter, forever seeking entrance. This possibility caused Margery to cry harder than anything else, but when she told Thurold, he reassured her.
"Our mother will get a proper burial. I will see to that."
He and Alf dug a hole in the far corner of the curtilage and placed a pinch of earth, rather than the host, in Alice's mouth, after the manner of the old days. They fashioned a rough cross for the head of the grave, wrapped a blanket around her, lowered her into the ground and then Thurold muttered the Pater Noster and a handful of prayers for the dead.
Afterward, Alf jammed the cross in the ground, said, "'Tis done," and retreated to their cottage. Thurold smoothed the grave mound with his shovel.
Slowly, Margery, with Whitefoot padding faithfully beside her, retreated to the cottage. Every morning she had traveled this path, secure in the knowledge that nothing would ever change. Oh, seasons would come and go, and the amount of available food might alter, or the weight of the taxes levied. The number of Honker's goslings could change, as could the number of Walt the Miller's children. Even the king of England could change. But important things, like her mother, would always stay the same.
How could this have happened?
Whitefoot nuzzled Margery's hand. She knelt and hugged him.
The world will never be right again, she thought, burying her face against the mongrel's fur.
The impossible had happened. Plague had arrived at Ravennesfield. Not winds, nor amulets, nor bathing with pig urine, nor fires of green wood and herbs had kept it away. Death walked among them. Who would he touch next?
* * *
"Dig Giddy's grave next to her mother's," Alf said. "I will help after a time."
Watching her stepfather from across the room, Margery knew he wouldn't be helping anyone. Alf had the plague. Already he was staggering, just like Giddy, just like Mama. But Giddy had died so quickly. Would it take Alf long to die?
How long will it take me to die?
Giddy had not suffered much, and Margery was glad of that. Thurold said sometimes boils appeared, and then the death was long and agonizing. Margery didn't know if Giddy had boils, for no one had washed her. Alf had forbidden them. In death, Giddy seemed no bigger than her hempen doll.
By the following morning, Alf had slipped into delirium. However, he wasn't going to die as quickly as Mama and Giddy. He babbled and cursed and vomited until the cottage stank with him.
"He will be gone 'ere the day's out," Thurold said, "and 'tis dangerous to linger. We should leave the old man... let him die in peace."
"Leave? But where will we go?"
Thurold pushed her toward the door. "The fens."
Chapter 4
The Fens
The fenland was a forbidding area, treacherous to cross. Animals that strayed from the higher pastures sank without a trace, captured by the boggy peat. In winter, after the water froze, fenmen traveled on skates made from bones.
Thurold planned to live there until the plague had passed. Food was no problem. An abundance of birds thrived among the alders, willows, reeds and sedges, and the muddy waters teemed with fish.
"The winds be so fierce," Thurold told Margery, "they will blow away the Death."
Much of the fen's grassland still remained under water, so they retreated to Ravenne Forest, a private deer park. Villagers were generally forbidden inside the forty acres but Thurold fretted less over Lord Ravenne's wrath than the plague. In the past, Margery and her mother had often hunted among the beech and oak trees for plants used in the making of household products and remedies. With their lord's permission, of course.
Thurold built a hut, buttressed against a fallen tree, large enough so that they could lay down inside. When he left to fish or hunt, Margery gathered the few plants that were in season. Fearful of meeting Lord Ravenne or contracting the plague, she never ventured far from their shelter. If she scrambled onto the fallen tree, she could see beyond the forest to the edge of the fens. She could watch Thurold until he was but a speck and glimpse his return from miles away.
In the evening, they curled up with their backs against each other. The forest, so still during the day, stirred awake at night, like a snake warmed by the sun. Crickets sawed, frogs croaked, owls skimmed from treetops on whispering wings. Margery expected some horrible fen monster to come creeping through the brush, sniff out their shelter, and snatch her away from Thurold.
When she spoke of her fears, he laughed. "I've been over every inch of the fens, Stick-Legs, and I've ne'er seen monsters. I'll wager they do na even exist."
While Margery couldn't quite believe him, her worries transferred to more mundane animals, such as wolves. She imagined them circling their makeshift hut, waiting for Thurold to fall asleep. Then they would rush in, drag her away, and tear her to pieces.
"Wolves were driven out of England years ago," Thurold soothed. "They only return in bedtime tales to frighten babies, which you are not, so go to sleep."
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Thurold returned with a swallow kite. Wrapping it in leaves, he buried it deep in the coals from a small fire. While the bird cooked, he repeatedly surveyed the surrounding countryside.
"What is wrong?" Margery asked.
"I mislike fire. The smoke is too easily seen."
"But you built one yesterday. And charcoal burners are all about. Their smoke can be seen from forever."
Thurold smiled and mussed her hair. "Pay me no mind, Stick-Legs." But earlier he'd glimpsed Lawrence Ravenne and three others out riding. It looked to be his new wife and most likely her brothers, for they appeared young.
As Margery finished the last of their meal, Thurold suddenly bolted to his feet. She felt the color drain from her face. "What is it? Do you hear something?"
"Hush!" He pointed to their hut, which could not be seen by anyone entering the forest. "Go! Hide!"
Now Margery heard it–hoofbeats. She scurried toward the shelter while Thurold kicked dirt over the fire and spun around to follow her.
"Halt!" Margery recognized Lord Ravenne's voice, calling out first in French, then English. "What are you doing in my forest?"
Heart slamming against her ribs, Margery peered over a tree trunk in front of the hut at four riders and Thurold, who was moving away from Margery toward them.
"No," she breathed.
Now she knew all too well. Plague would not take her and Thurold, but Lord Ravenne would–cut them down and leave them bleeding on the forest floor.
Ravenne drew rein and looked down with eyes as chill as the fen waters. "I asked you, villein, what are you doing in my forest?"
Mindful of Margery's safety, Thurold strove for a respectful manner. "I was fishing in the fens, m'lord."
Ravenne stared toward the lingering coil of smoke. "Were you burning my wood? 'Tis against the law, though what do you care?" He glanced at his companions, who watched with mild curiosity. "Just use as you please, and be damned with what is yours."
Anger edged Thurold's words "I used peat. I took naught of yours."
"Do not be so harsh with him, husband," said his new bride. While the former Elizabeth Hart was large and almost mannish in her appearance, she possessed a pleasing, melodious voice and a gentle—some would say dreamy—nature. With a glance at one of her brothers, she added, "He looks little older than Harry."
Ravenne leaned forward in his saddle and crossed his arms over the pommel. "If left alone, children will grow to full-fledged criminals."
"'Tis a chivalrous thing to show mercy," she persisted, "even toward your villeins."
"This is not one of your romances, wife," he said, cutting her off.
Matthew Hart cast his new brother-in-law a baleful glance before returning his attention to Thurold Watson and the surrounding area.
A Knight There Was Page 4