by Cleo Cordell
Jessica battled for her life for eight days, while Franklin Mercer took himself off to bed and refused to get up.
Garnetta and Sellice took it in turns to sit with their sister. It hurt Garnetta to see what Jessica endured. There had been little enough love lost between them, but Jessy did not deserve this. No one did. The pestilence seemed to delight in stripping the humanity from a person, making them into a babbling tortured wreck. There was no dignity in the way that skin erupted into pus-filled blaines. Every orifice poured forth a stinking black fluid. The house reeked of the sickness. The stench of it clung to Garnetta’s skin, no matter how hard she scrubbed at herself. She thought she would never get the stink out of her hair.
The apothecary’s electuary did no good. Although she shouted for help from the upper storey of the shop, he did not visit again. She knew that he must be taken up with visits to other victims of the illness, but that did not help her feeling of isolation. Dear God, what good did it do to shut up the healthy with the sick? She had heard that the pestilence was a miasma, a noxious cloud that came drifting in from the sea, carrying with it all the rot and foulness from the ocean floor. If that was so, the very air they breathed was poisoned. What chance did any of them have? She felt helpless in the face of such an implacable enemy.
‘Please God, deliver Jessica from this torment,’ she prayed. ‘Forgive her sins, whatever they are. Merciful Father, I beg you, forgive us all.’
Time after time she repeated the words, kneeling with her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles showed white under the skin. She implored St Pernel to take away Jessica’s fever, read aloud from a psalter and prayed, head bowed, with Sellice, both of them confessing to imaginary sins and the smallest of shortcomings in the faint hope of placating the Almighty. But God did not listen. As Jessica grew steadily worse, Garnetta’s heart hardened against a deity who could visit such anguish upon his subjects, whose ears were deaf to her cries for mercy.
Jessica could keep nothing down save plain water. The flesh had fallen from her bones. She was barely nineteen, but she had the hollowed cheeks, dull hair, and shadowed eyes of an old woman. Her skin was like paper. Her lips and eyelids had a greyish-purple cast. As Garnetta sponged water over her sister’s ravaged limbs, washing away the thin black fluids that trickled from her, Jessica screamed in agony and rose up against her bonds. The swelling in her groin was as big as an apple, the skin covering it blackened, stretched, and shiny. When it began to suppurate, an evil-smelling pus leaked into the dressing they had bound over it.
However they tried, they could not keep her clean. Garnetta decided that they would no longer cover her with a shift. They could not wash and dry them fast enough. ‘But it’s sinful to display her body,’ Sellice protested.
‘Who’s to see?’ Garnetta said wearily. ‘It will save on the washing. Jessica no longer knows what is happening to her.’
The world had gone mad. There was nothing left of beauty or charity. Their existence had narrowed to a single room where the air was so foul you could cut it. They were probably all going to die. What did it matter if they went naked or clothed to stand before God? Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. She had worn the same gown for days. It was crumpled and stale smelling. Dampness prickled at her armpits. Her skin felt itchy. She could not remember when she last washed. They could hardly provide enough hot water for cooking and for Jessica’s needs.
The days ran into each other. The boards at the widows and doors made it gloomy inside the shop. The supply of candles was fast dwindling. They lit one only when strictly necessary. Luckily there was a good supply of charcoal. The brazier served for both heat and light. Garnetta’s nerves were strained to breaking point. Her fear that she would fall ill before Sellice or her father made her edgy and short tempered. She insisted on them examining each other for pustules. To her relief none of them yet had the signs. The occasional views of the yard through cracks in the planks were a reminder that life still existed outside. Goodly souls from St Bertrina’s church had arranged a round for delivering water and food for those entombed with their sick relatives. Twice a day she leaned out from an upstairs window and let down a length of cloth with a pail tied to it. Such visits broke the monotony of the bleak dark days. Even the rumble of the death carts was a sign of life. She saw how the bearers used long-handled hooks to drag the shrouded bodies across the cobblestones. Now and then the watch appeared, checking to make sure that people remained boarded up the required time and keeping looters at bay.
Garnetta hung on to her sanity only by a great effort of will. She forced herself to believe that the pestilence would pass without scything down everyone in its path. But it was hard to believe that anyone would survive. Perhaps this truly was the end, as prophesied by the white monks. She had seen them in the town square, the brothers of the monastery of the Holy Penitence, wearing boards tied over their white breech clouts. On the wood were painted graphic scenes depicting horrifying images of suffering humanity. Demons tore at human skin with white-hot pincers or turned them on spits over fires in hell’s kitchen.
She shuddered. The white monks were fanatics, but perhaps they had been right. If only there was someone to talk to, someone to share her thoughts with, who would makes sense of what was happening. But Sellice could only cope by following orders, dwelling on mundane tasks. Father was locked away in his own world where everything was beautiful and no pain or ugliness intruded.
Daily the death toll mounted. The bells of all the churches in the surrounding parishes rang by night and day. She recognized the tones of St Ralphite’s, St Kate’s-in-the-Meadow, the great mournful bass note of Holy Penitence. In the silence of the shop, where Jessica’s dry rasping breaths and whimpers of pain filled her ears, the bells were a blessed comfort.
‘Selly?’ Garnetta said, as she came back from the kitchen late the next afternoon. ‘Selly? You must have dozed off. Go and get some rest. I’ll sit with Jessy for a while. But first will you go upstairs and shout across to the Pen and Flower? Ask them how many dead today.’
Sellice nodded, rubbing her fists into her eyes and yawning. In a short while she reported back. Fully awake now and white-faced, she said, ‘Five more today. Josh, the cellar-man. Mistress Stokes, her eldest and two travelling men.’
‘Mother of God bless them,’ Garnetta murmured. If the deaths at the Pen and Flower were representative, then the whole town was now in the grip of the disaster.
When, two days later, Sellice complained that there was no more meat left to make stew, Garnetta’s fragile control finally snapped. ‘Mercy, but I’m sick of your whining! I have to think of everything. Father’s no good at all and you’re next to useless. If only you’d use your wits. There’s a sack of dried beans and two strings of onions. Use them and shave down the last of the chicken bones to make soup.’
Sellice stuck out her lower lip, her face crumpling. One fat tear ran down her cheek. ‘It’s not my fault that I’m not brave and strong like you. I know I’m older than you and I ought to be helping more, but I’m doing the best I can.’
Garnetta’s shoulders sagged. She did not feel strong. She felt very young and afraid. Her nerves were brittle threads which would shatter like glass at any moment. She clenched her hands into fists, fighting for control. She wanted to weep, to have someone put their arms around her, tell her that everything would be as it was. It did not matter if that was a lie. ‘Oh, Selly. I’m just so exhausted. You know that I don’t mean it. Come and give me a hug. That’s better. Where’s father?’
‘In bed,’ Sellice said sulkily, wiping her face on her skirt. ‘Same as he was yesterday and the day before.’ Her voice took on a waspish note. ‘Why should we have to fetch and carry for him? Tell him to come and help with Jessy.’
‘It wouldn’t do any good. I’ve tried,’ Garnetta said resignedly. ‘Just take him up some soup when you’ve made some.’ She hadn’t the strength left to bully him into facing up to what was happening. There was enough to
do with keeping Jessica washed, coping with the laundry, and trying to keep her spirits from flagging. If she saw his tragic face she might give way to her own panic and despair.
Franklin had always been a weak man – loving but lacking in moral courage. The mainstay of the marriage had been his wife. Yet, once he had come to terms with her death of childbed fever he had worked hard at building up the business, somehow still finding the time to teach Garnetta her letters and explain the complexities of keeping the shop’s ledgers. She recollected how Jessica had complained at the favouritism.
‘I’m the eldest. It should be me as does the learning,’ she had said, her voice rising on a whine.
Sellice had agreed. She always followed where Jessica led. Garnetta had held her breath, waiting for her father to sigh and give in as he usually did. One look from Jessica, who was the image of her mother, and he was lost. But on this occasion he stood firm.
‘Garnetta has the brain for bookwork. I need someone to help me keep accounts, make a tally of what is sold. You and Sellice are best suited for keeping house. That’s how it’s to be.’ When Jessica would have spoken up, he held up a warning hand. ‘Enough now. You’ll do as you’re bid.’
Despite Jessica’s sulks that was the way it had been. Consequently, unlike most other women of her acquaintance, Garnetta was able to read and write. She was conscious of the many disapproving looks from customers when they saw her entering the sales in the leatherbound book on the counter.
‘No good’ll come from book-learnin’ that girl,’ said Maud Flesher the butcher’s wife, wagging her finger. ‘It’s just storin’ up trouble for her. She’ll get to thinking she’s special. No man’ll take a wife who be cleverer than he is.’
‘Then it’ll have to be a special man who takes Garnetta from me,’ Franklin said, smiling mildly, proud of Garnetta’s nimble brain and the fact that her writing was neater than his own.
Well, much good her learning and her enquiring mind would do her now. Garnetta sighed deeply, pushing back the heavy fair hair which was escaping from the band she had tied around her forehead. The pleasant hours spent at her studies, the rows of neat figures on the rolls of parchment, the illuminated book of hours – all those things seemed a hundred years away, part of a different lifetime. The only reality was the shut-up building, the all pervading stench of death, the back-breaking work of looking after Jessica, and Jessica herself who was beginning suddenly to scream away her life’s strength. She writhed weakly on the fouled bed, the cords standing out on her scrawny neck, her mouth stretched wide as the terrible, ear-splitting sound rang around the room.
‘Oh, dear God,’ Garnetta groaned. ‘I can’t bear it any more. Shut up can’t you! Just shut up! Shut up!’
She banged her bunched fists against her forehead, screwing her eyes shut in an access of grief and horror, her eyelids pricking with unshed tears. Jessica obliged at once, letting out one long sigh that ended on a strange little whistle. After days and days punctuated by the rasping sound of her sister’s breathing, the ensuing silence was absolute. Slowly Garnetta lowered her hands and looked down at her sister. Jessica’s eyes were open. A string of black vomit hung from her parted lips.
‘Oh, Jessy. Oh, God help me. I didn’t mean it. Forgive me.’
Reaching out a trembling hand, she closed Jessica’s eyes. It was over. Her sister was at peace. Instead of the expected grief there was only a dreadful relief. She put her hands together and prayed.
A few moments later, Sellice came into the room, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands. ‘I found pepper at the bottom of the spice chest and a few costmary leaves. Here you are. It tastes good.’
From force of habit Garnetta thought first of comforting Sellice. She took the bowl from her hands. ‘I’ll eat it in back by the hearth,’ she said gently. ‘There’s no need to watch over Jessy any more. She’s in God’s keeping now.’
Together they knelt in prayer, Sellice white-faced and trembling. Even though they had not expected Jessica to live, it was a shock to see her lying lifeless. ‘Come with me now,’ Garnetta said after a time. ‘We’re both exhausted. We’ll eat and rest a little, then you shall help me dress Jessy and sew her in a sheet. I’ll not have her go naked into her death sleep.’ Sellice crossed herself, looking dumbly down at Jessica. We are both of us too worn out with grief to mourn decently, Garnetta thought. She did not realize that she was weeping until Sellice put up a hand and stroked her cheek.
They ate the soup in silence, Garnetta surprised to find that she was ravenous. Sellice ate little, skimming her spoon across the surface of the broth, chasing the floating circles of fat around the dish. She kept pressing her left hand to her breast, every now and then smoothing her hand across to her shoulder. Garnetta saw the tell-tale gesture, but did not want to believe what it signified. She put down her spoon and looked sharply at her sister. ‘Sellice? What is it?’
Sellice avoided her eyes, her mouth pulling away at the corners. ‘It is possible to have the swelling and get better is it not?’ Her voice was brittle, the terror barely hidden below the surface. ‘I . . . I feel so well. I have hardly any pain.’ Her eyes pleaded with Garnetta to agree with her.
Somehow Garnetta managed to smile encouragingly, although her throat and chest hurt so much she could hardly draw breath. ‘You’ll get well again. Never fear. Why don’t you go and lie down? After a rest you’ll feel a lot better.’
Rufus jumped down from the cart, leaving Bunner to secure the reins, and swaggered across the cobbles of Mercer’s Yard. ‘Bring out yer dead!’ he called cheerfully. It was more likely that he and Bunner would have to break down doors to collect any corpses that remained after a whole family had perished, but he kept calling out anyway. It made him feel important.
Lights burned in a few windows. He knocked respectfully on the doors of those houses. A sobbing and wailing accompanied the opening of one door as the occupants pushed two shrouded forms into the yard. One woman had to be restrained by her husband from rushing out into the yard as the bodies of her two children were carried out onto the cobbles.
Lowering the scrap of filthy cloth that covered his mouth, Rufus gave her what he imagined was a sympathetic smile. ‘God will keep the little uns, Missus,’ he said gravely. Sometimes kind words earned him a few pence. This time none were forthcoming. He made a sound of disgust. Digging the hooked pole into the tiny bundles he dragged the corpses over to the cart and left them in a heap.
Four today in the yard. Not bad. But it was the buildings where all was dark that interested him the most. He had had his eyes on the mercer’s shop for a few days. The coming of the pestilence was a godsend for a man like himself. Ordinarily he would be travelling the country, seeking work wherever he could find it. Winter always brought hardship. He had often been reduced to begging. This was the best employment he had ever had. St Bertrina’s kept the tally of the deaths in the area, paying four pence for each corpse brought to Christian burial. Then there were the ‘extras’ to be had as long as he and Bunner avoided the watch. He recalled the previous night’s work, grinning with satisfaction.
The wench who opened the door to them in Coster’s Alley had been too terrified by their threats to refuse them anything. She was a sweet piece, no mistake. Rufus scratched at his groin, his penis thickening as he remembered how she had looked spread out on the dirty straw of the stable.
Her body was lush, her skin soft and white. When he had pulled down the basque her fat breasts had lolled free. He had pushed her skirt up above her waist and looked down between her sturdy thighs. She had a lot of hair on her coynte. He liked that and straight away thrust his fingers into the fragrant furrow, searching for her opening and laughing when she brought her thighs together to trap his finger. She whimpered when he pushed his knee between her legs and leaned his weight onto her.
‘Wench don’t seem too eager,’ Bunner had chuckled, as Rufus fumbled with his belt. ‘You is losing your touch!’
Rufus ignored him, his sen
ses inflamed by the musky scent that rose from between the woman’s legs. Grasping the shaft of his cock he positioned himself, then pushed into her in a single stroke, feeling the heat of her flesh enclose him. She was tight and dry and moaned with pain, but he thrust away at her until she loosened up. The look of fear on her face quickened him. He licked at the tears which had slid from the corners of her eyes. Lovely. He was excited by the way she tried to hide her pleasure. She must be liking it. All women were whores. Did not the church preach that women were slaves to their ungovernable desires? And he had a fine thick staff of Adam to punish her for the sins of Eve. He jabbed at her entrance, making her wince and slid his tongue across his filmed teeth as he ploughed a fine furrow.
She pleaded and wept, still pretending not to like it. He was impressed. It proved that she was no cheap wanton, but a decent soul. It would never have been possible for him to tup such a woman in normal times. She would have twitched her skirts aside as she passed him in the street. The sweat stood out on his forehead as he laboured inside her. It was soon over. He grunted as he came. Withdrawing his dripping cock he grabbed a handful of the woman’s skirts and wiped himself. As he turned to go, she had spoken directly to him for the first time.
‘You’ve had what you want. Now take my poor master out to your cart.’ Her voice was frosty, but a bleak smile hovered around her mouth. ‘May you rot in hell.’
He knew what she was thinking, the sickness was already apparent in her over-bright eyes. Silly bitch. He was armoured against the pestilence, having ensured his protection at the earliest convenience by queuing up at the nearest whore-house along with all the town’s worthies. He grinned as he recalled the sight of the Reverend Harris standing in line with Flesher, Tyler, and Simkin – Captain of the Watch. He left the woman without a backward glance, leaving Bunner to drag her master’s corpse out behind him.