by Joanne Dahme
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
prologue (1348 A.D.)
the pestilence
amulet
bordeaux
imposter
black heart
jester
the monk
the gravedigger
the merchants
the potion
betrayal
the tower
treason
journey
BEMBO
Copyright Page
To my mother, who gave me her abundant enthusiasm
and to my father who shared his love of books.
—J.D.
prologue (1348 A.D.)
WHEN I WAS GEIRGE’S AGE, I had an unsettling dream about Princess Joan, and this was at a time when the princess was a stranger to me, known only through a flashing glimpse from a faraway vantage point. As happens with so many dreams, I had lost most of the threads when I awoke. The dream returned to me as George and I lay amongst the king’s soldiers in the woods of Bordeaux, a fractured reflection of our current predicament. I almost cried out against the injustice of the tardy omen.
In my dream, I was lost, separated from my mother as we visited the mobbed stalls of the marketplace. I was swept away by the crowd and somehow found myself deposited on the steps of a grand cathedral.The blast of a trumpet preceded the explosion of the cathedral’s great wooden doors, which immediately expelled a procession of musicians, knights, and jesters, all colorfully costumed. I stood at the bottom of the steps, stunned by their beauty and grandeur, which was only eclipsed when the king and his family appeared. As I continued to stare senselessly, Princess Joan descended the few steps between us to stand in front of me.
“Are you alone, girl?” she asked. A gold crown studded with sparkling green stones lay upon her head. Her braided hair was draped over her left shoulder, like a sash upon her red velvet dress. She cocked her head at me and smiled. In my dream, I remember thinking it odd that the princess looked just like me.
“I am,” I replied, blushing at my impudence of dreaming my own likeness on the princess’s face.
The procession continued to move behind her but she took no notice.
“I would welcome your freedom,” she said, clasping her hands as if to contain something that might fly away. “I am like a prisoner in my own castle, awaiting a marriage that will result in a new castle with the same constraints. Would you wear my crown for a day, so I may taste what you live daily?” she added hopefully.
I said nothing as she carefully lifted the crown from her head to place it on mine. Although she was gentle, I was shocked at the weight and discomfort of it and feared touching it, as it was not my own.
“I will meet you here on the morrow. For now, join the procession and carry yourself like a princess,” she advised kindly. And then she scampered across the grass of the churchyard to join the mass of people that crowded the cobblestone street; her beautiful shimmering dress, for it sparkled a gleaming red in the sunlight, dissolved as she was swallowed by the throng within seconds.
I wanted to scream after her but I dared not. She was a princess and I was nothing but a beggar in comparison. I turned helplessly back toward the royal procession to observe the Black Prince withholding its progress with his gloved hand. “We must wait for the princess,” he declared with a mocking smile, as the king and the prince’s siblings paused at his bidding. He then extended his gloved hand to me. “Come along, sister. I would never abandon what is rightfully mine.”
the pestilence
ISTOOD ON THE DOCK, clutching a tied bundle of clothes beneath my arm. I closed my eyes, just for a minute, to see if I could still picture the four great ships, lined along the banks of the Thames like the powerful horses of the king’s greatest knights. Their sails billowed at the hint of an August breeze. The king’s red banner, with its three yellow lions frozen in mid-prowl, hung limply from the crow’s nest of each. I opened my eyes. I was mesmerized by them, despite their familiarity, because for the first time in my life, my brother, George, and I would be leaving London to accompany Princess Joan to Bordeaux and I didn’t know if we would ever return.The notion both frightened and thrilled me.
“George? Now where did he go?” I muttered to myself. I wasn’t worried yet, as it looked to be at least another hour before sundown, when George and I were to board the princess’s ship. George wanted to say good-bye to one of the shopkeepers whose stalls crowded the cobblestone plaza that spilled into the king’s dock. Besides the princess, nine-year-old George was my entire family, as we had lost our parents to the pestilence a few years before, the last time it had invaded the city. My parents had told me that the fever invaded London like a fog and that the air we breathed allowed it to go from house to house, infecting almost everyone with the illness that bruised the body both inside and out until it burned the life from you.
George and I had somehow evaded the bad air, and thus, at fifteen, I was George’s mother now, although he didn’t quite see it that way. George was a strange boy, I thought, shaking my head. Sometimes I worried that what people said about him, that he was a bit daft, might be true.
I walked slowly to the riverbank, following the sound of the Thames as it slapped against the city’s wooden bulkheads, as if affronted by the wall that separated it from the land.The air was damp and smelled heavily of fish and wet river grass, for the sun hadn’t been visible for days. Barges filled with people and crates jammed the river, waiting for the tide to drop so they could pass easily under the bridge. Only one small boat seemed to make steady progress, its oarsman rhythmically pulling against the surface of the water. A man with his hands shackled sat in the bottom of the boat, his hooded head jerking with the movement of the oars. I felt a sudden chill. I had seen too many boats bearing prisoners make a trip to the Tower, the king’s royal palace and fortress. It was said that those who went in by its river entrance, which led to the Tower’s prison, were never seen again. I thought of George, who was always getting himself into some mischief. Perhaps it would be best if we never returned to London.
My father had said that the Thames offered many things, depending on your fortune in life. It fed our wells, provided fish and fowl for our tables, and floated the ships that carried silks, wines, spices, and other goods from distant lands. “What England cannot create, the Thames will provide passage for,” he had told me, for he had unloaded many a ship when it reached the London port. But he had also heard that it was the foreign ships that had delivered the tainted airs of the pestilence.
I reminded myself that George and I had no cause for worry. The pestilence was gone, and although neither of us had ever sailed, Bordeaux was only a fortnight away. The princess told me that the king had promised it would be an easy trip across the channel to France. Three ships would be escorting the princess’s vessel, each filled with the king’s most powerful soldiers, “one hundred in all,” she had added with a confident smile.The princess was to be married to Prince Pedro of the kingdom of Castile in Spain and she knew that her father wanted nothing to stand in the way of this wedding.The princess noted that the king was anxious to ensure that the Plantagenet line would rule in Spain as well as England and France.
“Nell, will you be boarding soon?” I heard a familiar voice call from behind. I turned and curtsied to Sir Robert Bourchier, the king’s advisor who was also to join the princess on her journey. Sir Robert was a kind man who appeared to have a problem with his eyes whenever he encountered me. Often he would rub them, or squint, as if it were his eyes that placed the princess’s likeness on my face. But despite these habits, which only I seemed to instigate, he was handsome and made royal by his choice of the rich blue tunics he wore that flashed purple aga
inst firelight.
“Yes, Sir Robert. I’m waiting for George. He should be here by sundown, when we were instructed to board the ship.” I couldn’t help but steal a glance past the quay. The pestilence had orphaned many children, and they were easy to spot in their tattered clothes as I watched them snaking among the adults’ waists in the market, looking to steal a morsel. But I couldn’t spy George.
Sir Robert looked at me quizzically. “You look worried, Nell. It is only when you furrow your brows do you temper your resemblance to the princess.”
“I pray the princess never has a need for worry,” I replied. “She should never be so burdened.”
Sir Robert smiled, the creases around his eyes lending a kindness to his face. “Don’t be too long, Nell, or the princess will be anxious for you.”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said politely as he turned on his heel toward the ship.
I looked back at the river and thought about the first time that I had been mistaken for the princess. It was probably both the best and worst day of our lives, a circumstance that cramped my stomach from this mixed dose of sorrow and salvation. In my mind, the day is as sharp as if it occurred yesterday, although it had happened almost two years before. George and I were standing outside our door, which had recently been marked with a large black cross. It had been raining, and a fine mist still wet the air. I remember looking down at our muddied feet as I heard the somber clang of the bell the gravediggers rang—a doomsday toll that had suffocated all other sounds for weeks—before they appeared with the cart. I grabbed George’s hand as a big, dark man planted his fists on his hips and cursed at our slime-covered alley.
He stamped his foot before he pushed the boy toward our door. The boy slipped twice before reaching us. His clothes and face were streaked with dirt and his long brown hair pressed wet against his face and neck. He might have been a few years older than me, but he had the face of a cherub.
“Can you help me?” he asked, his voice trembling.
I said nothing and stared at the ground. I wanted no part of this. From the corner of my eye I saw two black rats leap from the pile of garbage that was growing beneath the window of a house a few doors away, as fresh contents were poured upon it daily.
The boy sighed before he pushed open our door. George tried to kick him but I yanked him against my stomach. By now, the man had managed to pull the cart to our door. He gave me a toothless smile.
“Sorry, girl. Is it your mother and your father, then?” he asked, cocking his head. George let out a tiny cry when he noticed the crumpled body already in the cart.
The man let go of the cart’s handles and gently pushed George and I aside.
First they brought out Father, the boy carrying his legs and the man his arms. I didn’t want to look at him. I wanted to remember Father as he had looked only weeks ago—brown and strong from his work under the sun on the banks of the Thames. Father was a fishmonger and had fed George and me a daily diet of his tales of the river life as well as the fish he caught. Now he was thin and the bones under his skin jutted out as if they were growing without the rest of his body. His clothes covered the sticky black sores that had grown under his arms.
Father had sworn that he had smelled the pestilence in the air as it rolled up the river during a particularly shrouded dawn, which had occurred only days before many of our neighbors began collapsing with the fever. Within a week, many had the painful black sores, which then caused nausea and the loss of one’s bowels. Death was quick to follow and as difficult to evade as one’s shadow. Father compared the pestilence with the plagues of Egypt that the monks talked about in the Bible. Horrible plagues of frogs, and locusts, and skin boils that God sent to earth to punish the Egyptians. Father said that the pestilence had invaded London before, but that this latest assault was particularly cruel and quick. Unlike the Egyptian plagues, God did not intervene to stop the pestilence.
“Don’t look at him, George,” I whispered as I covered George’s eyes. They sort of swung Father’s body into the cart. He settled awkwardly on the body beneath him.
Next they went in for Mother. I had meant to scream to George to close his eyes, to lock in the image of Mother as she was the last time we traveled to market. She had held our hands and pulled us beneath her apron as a team of ornery pigs scrambled through the narrow alleyway, pressing us against the peddlers’ carts. Mother had laughed at our cries, her blue eyes mischievous yet her smile kind. I remember believing then that nothing could ever hurt us as long as we were encircled by Mother’s loving arms.
What I did not want George to see was her once-beautiful face transformed into nothing but a skull with tangled blond hair, her gaze without interest or spark. I was ashamed that I had been afraid to close her eyes.
George and I followed the gravediggers to the road. I recalled feeling the coolness of the soft mud squishing through my toes. The old man and the boy were taking my parents to the church, to the pit that had been dug in the graveyard that would serve as the final resting place for hundreds. I thought George and I could stay with our parents there, unsure of where else to go.
The horses and soldiers approached as soon as the cart left our alley. The booming of the horses’ hooves as they hit the cobblestone, solid with life and power, rekindled, for a moment, a hope that something could beat the pestilence.The soldier on the lead horse raised his arm to stop their progress, to allow the cart to pass. Even soldiers were afraid of such a death.
“Dear God,” one of the men yelled. “It’s the princess!”
I wondered if the man was crazed, although he appeared healthy enough and was richly dressed. A quick look around confirmed my suspicion that only the two gravediggers, and George and I, stood staring open-mouthed at the small army in front of us.
I peered at the man who dared to cry out as if the cart were invisible, surprised by his outburst, as nobody paid any attention to anything here but the death. He was astride a huge white horse, from which he leaned forward to look intently at me. His face was covered by a thick red beard flecked with white, as was his hair, which fell in tangles around his shoulders. The skin of his face was pocked yet his eyes shone with a brazen vigor. Both the man and the horse were covered with a mantle of red decorated with yellow lions. The man wore a golden crown.
“You look exactly like my daughter, even if it is my daughter in one of my worst nightmares. Are your parents dead?” he asked.
Still I could only stare until George nudged me in my ribs with his bony elbow. “He’s talking to you,” he whispered.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for my rudeness, sir,” I replied, wondering if I should curtsy. “Only the death carts travel these alleys.” I was taken aback by his appearance here and I struggled to speak respectfully. Yet my voice rang meek in my ears. This man was wearing a crown. But why would someone from the royal family pass by our pestilence-filled alley? “Indeed, it has come for my parents,” I finally acknowledged.
“I am sorry, child. I’m afraid that not even your king can conquer the pestilence,” he said, “although I have vowed to do my best.This plague, if sent by God, does not bear a clear message as to my kingdom’s transgressions. I know not what to right.” He smiled bitterly as he turned to look at his soldiers, as if acknowledging their swords were but feathers against the air.
George grabbed my hand and I gasped involuntarily. Could this man be our king?
The gravediggers flinched at the pronouncement. They must have come to the same astonishing conclusion as George and me. We all plunged into a fearful silence. The only sound heard was the soft scraping of the window shutters in the houses surrounding us, squeaking in protest like house rats against their timid movements. Our neighbors—the ones that still survived—feared the death cart. But having a chance to gaze furtively upon a bearded king was a different matter.
“Are you the king?” George asked breathlessly.
I sucked in the tainted air.
“Indeed I am,” the k
ing replied, a touch of melancholy in his tone. “Are you her brother?”The king raised his chin in my direction, and for a brief moment, his face softened.
“He is, sir,” I replied, shamed at the thought of allowing George to carry this burden of speaking to our king. “Although I think I am his mother now,” I added softly.
This brought an amused smile to the king’s face.
“I offer a promise to you, child, if you are willing to make a vow to me in return,” he stated, reaching to pat his horse’s thick neck as the creature began to nervously stamp its feet.
The gravedigger boy turned to look at me, his eyes wide in his dirt-streaked face. He then mouthed,“Say something.”
“A-anything, my lord,” I stammered.
He nodded, satisfied. The three soldiers flanking him glanced at one another as if unsure of the king’s intent.
He turned to appraise them, causing all three to stiffen in their saddles. “These men,” he said, waving his hand in their direction, “are a part of the royal guard and can protect my children with their weapons and skills. What they cannot provide is a natural cunning,” he said, shaking his head as if his soldiers were remiss. Two of them looked stricken. One placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“But you, my dear, bear the face of my daughter, Princess Joan. Through your own countenance, and your willingness to serve as her best protection, you can keep her from harm better than any weapon in my kingdom. If you pledge to do this, I will have you and your brother escorted to my castle in Windsor, to live with us as my daughter’s servants.” He cocked his head, waiting for my reply.
George squeezed my hand again, hard enough now to crush its bones. The gravedigger boy turned to look at me once more. Before he could prod me, for I didn’t need his prodding, I replied. “Of course, my lord. It will be an honor.”
“Very good,” he said with gusto. Turning to the soldier on his right, he commanded, “Take this girl and her brother to the pest house.”
