by Diana Rubino
Now she could walk slowly, for she wanted to see it and breathe it all over again. The air was cold, and the invading chill penetrated her like a haunting spirit. The growing daylight filtered weakly through the stained glass windows but afforded little light as they made their way down the North Choir Aisle and past the coronation chair.
"Can I touch it, my lord?" she blurted out like a child, turning to the King, who smiled and nodded.
Knowing this was a privilege afforded to a select few who would ever pass through this kingdom, she reached out and slowly ran her fingers over the smooth wood, reading each scrape and notch the chair had endured over the centuries. She knelt and touched the Stone of Scone under the chair. The sandstone block was surprisingly smooth.
As their footsteps on the flagstones echoed throughout the cavernous walls and up through the vaulted ceilings, she turned her head in every direction in order to drink it all in. All around her were marble tombs, inscriptions, chapels, and fan vaulting splaying out above.
She walked down the same aisle young Henry and Catherine had as they had swept by her, the King's robe brushing her foot, their eyes meeting ever so briefly in total absence of recognition, on his way to becoming king.
They passed through the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and she knelt at the recess on the side of the five-hundred-year-old marble tomb where pilgrims had come through the centuries to beg cures for the plagues and pestilences that swept the countryside, snatching away lives at random.
She said a short prayer for Henry and walked further on, past the tomb of King Richard II and his queen, Anne of Bohemia, immortalized in gilt-bronze figures. She stopped momentarily to look at Edward III's tomb, his gilt-bronze effigy, and statuettes of his twelve children, as well as the black marble tomb and white marble effigy of his queen, Philippa.
They finally reached the Chapel of Henry VII, the exquisite airy fan vaulting spread out above them, the walls encrusted with tracery, niches crowded with statues of saints and martyrs. Henry limped up to the ornately carved bronze grille enclosing the tomb and opened the gate with a small key.
Amethyst stayed outside the gate and peered between the bars to get a glimpse of the elaborate tomb. It was of black marble, atop which rested gilt effigies of King Henry and Elizabeth of York, their hands clasped in prayer. Two gold lion cubs crouched on sculptured cushions at their feet, the folds so delicate and soft they could have been made of real satin. Golden angels with spread wings stood guard like heavenly sentinels at the four corners of the tomb, a gold medallion between them bearing coats of arms.
More golden angels graced the tomb around its sides. Henry reached for her hand and she followed him inside. After a moment, he relinquished his grip.
She stepped away, and let Henry have this private time with his parents. Walking around to the front of the tomb to the marble pillared altar topped with gilded angels, she knelt and prayed.
Looking up above at the curved arches that framed the delicate fan vaulting like a group of exquisitely carved wine goblets rising above the arched leaded windows, she swore she could see heaven.
They retraced their steps and exited the Abbey through the North Entrance, and she took one more look back at the towering Gothic structure, the house of God and the mortal remains of the great immortals.
"It is the most magnificent place in the entire world, sire," she sighed as Henry's attendants laboriously helped him into the carriage. With the King settled, she bounced up with a light boost from one of the men.
"Do you wish to spend eternity within the Abbey walls, Amethyst?"
"Oh, my lord, I couldn't! I mean, look at who I am!"
"If you so desire it, my darling, you shall repose there. And so will your children. After all, you are a Plantagenet."
It was the most gracious honor, the most distinct tribute one could be given, to be entombed in England's greatest church alongside kings and queens, princes, knights and nobles. It was a glorious display of respect from her king.
But as the carriage pulled away and the Abbey slid from sight, she no longer wished to speak of death or final resting places.
"I thank you my lord, but I am made of mere clay, not marble. The Abbey is not for the lies of me."
"I see. Yes, I think I have always known it," he said with a sigh. "How different you are from your ambitious sister."
"Thank you. I take that as the greatest compliment you can bestow upon me."
"One who would have done anything to be queen, and the other who has rejected the offer time and again. Though really, it was my fault, my own stupid fault for ever believing a word out of Anne Boleyn's mouth."
"But your father, my lord. Your parents. What did they say?"
He heaved a sigh. "What they always said. To do my duty. As must we all."
She shivered slightly. What would her duty be when the time came? Only the good Lord knew for sure. She prayed she would be ready for it, whatever it might be.
Cleobury, June, 1542
The sweating sickness broke out again, and within one week villages all around the district were reporting deaths.
Mortimer and Amethyst were just returning to Cleobury from London, where they had been buying fabrics for her autumn wardrobe, when they started to hear the rumors.
They hurried on, and as soon as they reached their stables, Martha the cook bustled out of the pantry, hands clasped, all color drained from her face.
"What is it, Martha?" she asked, clutching Harry to her breast in sudden alarm, for the house did possess an ominous silence, and no one had been in the fields when they'd arrived, which was highly unusual.
"'Tis the sweat, Lady Pilkington. The whole household's gotten it. I am the only one on my feet, for I had it when I was a lass. I shouldn't get it again, I expect."
"Oh, Jesu!" She turned to Mortimer, who was heading upstairs for the chambers.
"I shall look in on them," he called over his shoulder. "Keep the child out of here. Get him to the gatehouse. Have you tried to fetch Dr. Ashworth?"
"Nay, I couldn't get any further than the well. They scream for water every two minutes!" the cook said, wiping beads of perspiration off her face.
Amethyst ran back outside where her groom was guiding Lady, her new palfrey, to the stables. "Kevin, I must take her again! I must fetch the doctor! The whole house has the sweat!"
The groom shot her a look of panic and his face drained of all color, whitening like a pale moon behind the clouds. "God's foot, the sweat! Shall I go with you?"
"Nay! Go help the others but do not step inside. Fetch some water from the well and then take Harry to the gatehouse. I shall be back with the doctor shortly."
She rode as fast as Lady's strong legs could take her. The air was sweet and warm, the trees in bloom all about her. Patches of luscious green rose to the hills before her. The narrow road to Dr. Ashworth's residence was canopied with a tangle of trees letting in glints of sunlight.
When she approached the outskirts of his village, she knew something was terribly wrong. No one was about; windows were shut, all was quiet. It was more ominous than the approach to her own home, for here was an entire village deserted. She'd never felt so alone, so mortal.
She led Lady past the empty market square. The shops were shut tight, awnings drawn over the stands, doors closed. A few rotten apples and peaches lay scattered on the ground, the last vestiges of the abandoned hamlet. She shuddered, tightening her legs around Lady's smooth back, that close contact with another living being somewhat of a comfort.
She heaved a sigh of relief as she espied Dr. Ashworth's house in the distance, beyond the gravel path surrounded by massive oaks. She led Lady up the path. Then that same feeling of dread overcame her as she knew without even looking any further that the house was deserted.
Something made her continue on, and she dismounted Lady, tied her to a post and clapped the knocker against Dr. Ashworth's door. It opened after a short wait. A lass appeared, half hidden behind the door, loo
king more frightened than Amethyst was.
"Is Dr. Ashworth in?"
"Dr. Ashworth passed on, Madam. The sweat got the entire village. Nearly everyone has gone, but I stayed here, me mum, she's abed, not long for this world."
"Oh, Jesu!"
Dr. Ashworth, who'd tended Harry during a bout of fever, and cured Mortimer of agonizing gallstones with a simple surgery, was gone.
"The village, .it is deserted?"
"Either by choice or by death, Madam. It swept through but a week ago, and most fled, but the ones left perished, either still in their houses or buried by a brave few priests still about... Try the church if you seek help."
"Nay... Nay, that's all right, I must return home. God be with you, child." She backed away quickly, took a glance at an upstairs window, curtains drawn against the hot sun, looking very much like a death chamber—the entire village tormented with death.
She arrived back home in just over an hour, the sun poised low in a sky strewn with blotches of red, shedding a sloping path of light down the hills.
Mortimer was in the gatehouse, sitting on the small pallet, his chin in his hands, his black eyes staring out into space. Harry was sleeping peacefully next to him.
"Is he all right?" Her baby was all she could think of.
"He seems all right enough, spitting up and shitting all over the place as usual. What of Dr. Ashworth?"
"Dr. Ashworth died of the sweat. The entire village is deserted. I talked to one of his servants. Her mother was dying upstairs. There is no one there, Mortimer. We are alone! This is it! There will be no one left alive if this illness continues."
She turned away then, for she did not dare upset Harry, who was just awakening. She did not want him to sense any kind of danger. "How about the household?"
"Martha is wiping them down, going between the three of them. Thank God she already had the sweat and is immune. And what about you?"
It was the first question he'd ever asked her about herself. She turned to him, nodding. She and Topaz had both had the sweat during one outbreak when they had been staying with their Aunt Margaret, before the King had given them Warwick Castle.
"I have never had the sweat," he declared, as if he were proud of it.
Oh, God, just what she needed to know. "Nor has the child, clearly. We shall stay here in the gatehouse where we will be safe. The stable hands are assisting Martha with the other servants. We must get through this. We must!"
"I worry not." Mortimer calmly rose from the pallet, took Amethyst by the shoulders and led her over to the pallet. "Our marriage has not been dissolved yet. And if I am to die, I want to know my wife in my final moments."
He slid the cloak from her shoulders and yanked at the buttons of her bodice. He peeled off his breeches and hose, pulled her down beside him, and there he took her. The baby crawled to a corner, curled up and slept as his stepfather mounted his mother, and groaned, writhed and strained on the straw pallet amid her horrified protests.
The sun was about to dip below the cedar trees as Amethyst gazed out the window, up the path at the main house. One of the grooms headed for the well with a large bucket. She turned away, took Harry into her arms and nestled in a corner of the pallet, as far away from her sleeping husband as possible.
Only a fortnight, and she would be free of him. Unless he succumbed to the sweat... She pushed the thought from her mind and held her son even closer to her.
She awoke to the sound of moaning, and quickly turned to Harry. He was sleeping peacefully. She peered over at Mortimer. His stony features were contorted in pain. She instinctively reached out and felt his forehead, swept his hair back with her fingers. It was drenched, hot and oily. Oh, God Jesu, her thoughts had become reality. He'd caught the sweat.
She reached for the bucket. In the dim light the distant moon afforded, she wrung out the rag and began running it over his face, his arms, his chest. Mortimer gasped, begging her to take care of him.
Astounded at this drastic change, for she believed he would go to his death with the same stoic frigidity as he'd lived, she filled the pewter cup with fresh water and held it to his lips, propping his head up with her free hand.
"Mortimer, drink this." She parted his lips with the rim of the cup, but his teeth were clenched tightly. "Mortimer, you must drink this if you care to live!" she shouted.
With another painful groan, his head lolled to one side and fell back against the support of her hand. She remembered treacle being one of the remedies for the sweat, but there was none to be found here in the gatehouse.
Should Mortimer expire, she had to protect the life that meant more than her own—her baby's. She simply had no reason to live without Harry. She must go up to the main house to see if Martha could find some, unless she'd used it on all the other servants.
She bunched a blanket in the corner as far from Mortimer as possible, wrapped Harry up and, with another quick glance at her sleeping son, she slipped out the gatehouse door and sprinted up the path toward the main house.
She knew that the sweat lasted no more than a few days, and to keep the patient bedridden for twenty-four hours, followed by a week's quarantine. It was possible he would live. Whichever way it went, her marriage would be over soon, she told herself, opening the huge front door and closing it quietly behind her.
Her slippers scuffed over the stone floor as she headed for the staircase leading to Mortimer's solar. She would find Martha down the hall in Amethyst's outer chamber, where she always slept. Shadows crept up and receded as she made her way down the long gallery, memorizing the layout of furniture she could not see in the blackness.
Entering the chamber, she called for her favorite servant. "Martha...are you awake? 'Tis I, Amethyst. I need some treacle..." The room was as still as if no one were about.
She descended the staircase, her hand sliding down the rail ahead of her, guiding her. She turned and bumped into Martha at the bottom.
"Martha, Mortimer has been stricken! Harry will be next if I do not protect him! I need some treacle!"
"There is none, Lady Amethyst. Lady Amethyst...the other three...and Kev, they...they done passed on, sometime in the night."
Her gasp echoed through the dark rooms. "Oh, no!"
"We have to get their bodies out of here, you and me, afore they start to stink and putrefy in the heat."
"No, Martha, wait. I shall ride to Whitehall in haste, and summon the King's help. I shall be back by daybreak. Just go to the gatehouse and look in on Mortimer. Take Harry out of there, away from him. Bundle him in your arms and go to the stables until I get back!"
She turned, leaving a stunned Martha stammering her promise to do what she could. She fled to the stables where she saddled and mounted Lady, and rode off into the night towards London.
It was still dark when she approached the palace gates, but she felt as if she'd ridden non-stop for a week. Her bottom was aching so badly from the violent whacking against the saddle, she didn't think she would be able to walk.
She left Lady at the gatehouse, tied to a tree branch, for there was not a stable hand in sight. The yeomen guarding the gates recognized her, and she babbled incoherently about needing to see the King. She rushed through the dark galleries, past the great hall, silent in its slumber, devoid of all the glowing candles, music and voices, and headed for the King's apartments.
At the door to his privy chamber, his yeoman-in-waiting recognized her and let her pass. She burst into his bedchamber, tripping over the two sleeping yeomen on paillasses, falling onto Henry's Persian rug.
"Sorry! So sorry!" she stammered over her shoulder, scrambling to her feet, gathering her skirts, fumbling in the dim torchlight as she approached the King. His enormous bed dwarfed even his huge frame, but she could see his bulk beneath the covers, and stumbled over to him, tripping over the edge of another rug.
"Sire! Sire, please wake up, 'tis a matter of life and death!" She shook him gently, then more forcefully, as he was a deep sleeper, especially
after a night of heavy gorging and feasting.
He turned over to face her, and she could see him trying to focus in the weak stream of daybreak that was beginning to peek through the window.
"Amethyst? What is it?" he mumbled, his words garbled and sleepy.
"Sire, Mortimer has the sweat. It has just killed my entire household, and my baby is going to be stricken next!" Her voice shook with sobs. "I need your help! Please get Dr. Butts to come at once with some treacle, for my baby is in mortal danger!"
He reached out to her and she collapsed into the warm cocoon of his linen nightshirt. "It will be all right. I shall find Dr. Butts."
He rose and roused his grooms, who stumbled from their pallets sleepily and scurried around to get dressed. Moments later, they were summoning the doctor, and the King ordered his Esquire of the Body to dress him.