by Joanne Dahme
“Henry, let’s have a look at your hands!” I called over to the row on the other side of me. Henry was farther ahead than George and me, and I realized that he had been silent since we entered the arbor.
He looked back at us and waved a purple hand over his head, but he did not smile. I watched as he pushed a strand of his brown hair away from his eyes with the back of his wrist. He was wearing only his tunic and stockings, as he had left his armor back in the church kitchen. He suddenly looked like a young man to me, barely older than I.
“Are you all right, Henry?” I asked, as if anyone could be all right under our circumstances. But right now, the sun was in the sky, the birds of the woods were chattering happily, and the branches of the arbor suggested a fortress around us—one made of sticks, but still a fortress. And the air was dizzyingly sweet with the odor of fermenting grapes.
“I’m going to move down the row, Nell,” George said. “My bucket is nearly full. I will be back after I empty it.”
I nodded but kept my eyes on Henry as I approached him. He turned his back to me as he continued to pick.
“Henry? What is it?” I asked. A nervousness made my voice tremble just a little. I reached to touch him on the arm but paused when he replied.
“I have done you wrong, Nell,” he said. Now he turned and looked me fully in the face. His brown eyes glistened in the sunlight. A welt, probably earned from a tree branch during last night’s ride, crossed his left cheek. He looked so vulnerable.
“What do you mean? You have placed your own life in danger by helping us escape the prince. For that I am extremely thankful,” I gushed. For I could not imagine what I would be doing now if it were just George and me. Although Henry was only one soldier, I was grateful to have someone to share my burden.
He shook his head. “No. I mean many those two years ago, back in England.That scared, stupid boy who dragged the death cart for your parents—that was me.”
I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly I was there again, in that mud-filled alley in London, when a thin boy with wide dark eyes asked for my help in collecting my dead parents. I could see that boy in Henry’s face, just as I thought I had seen it back on the ship. He was looking down at his feet now, just as he had that day that changed our lives so drastically.
This time I did touch his arm. “That was not your fault,” I insisted, my voice catching in my throat. “You were doing the king’s bidding, as all the pestilence watchmen were required to do.”
“No. It was horrible, taking the loved ones from their families while they grieved. If it were now, I would pass by your house, despite its markings.” He looked up at me fiercely, his chin raised and his face taut.
“I know, Henry.” I smiled, my chest suddenly feeling light at the thought of having someone else in the world. “Let’s empty our buckets and get a cup of water from the well in the churchyard. George must be there already.”
But George wasn’t there.We ran into the churchyard, scattering the chickens as they clucked indignantly.
“George!” I called into the kitchen, not wanting to raise my voice for fear of alerting the monk of my whereabouts.
The air was leaden with silence.
“Let’s look in the square. We can see most of the village from there,” Henry reasoned, tugging my hand to guide me back into the yard. The chickens had already regrouped and were pecking at the pieces of bread that the monk must have scattered earlier. We went down the alley between the church and a neighboring house whose shutters were closed tight. In a moment, we stood in the square beneath the warm October sun. It was empty and quiet, as if the cursed village had swallowed up George.
I looked around, willing George to appear. I could feel the sweat of fear on my forehead and the stickiness of my fingers against my palms.
“Don’t worry, Nell. He must be with the monk,” Henry assured me.
It was then that we heard a young boy’s cry, a cry full of pain and anguish.
“George!” I screamed, turning in the direction of the heartbreaking wail—a small thatched house three away from the church. Its door was open.
I grabbed Henry’s hand. Despite the short distance, I could barely breathe when we reached its threshold. The sunlight that cut between our shoulders splashed across three figures—the monk, kneeling in prayer, a young boy with terrified eyes lying on a straw mat, and George, with his hand cradling the boy’s head as his other hand held a cup to the boy’s lips.
I suddenly felt cold to my bones. “George,” I gasped. “Get away from the boy.”
I cringed at the harshness of my words, but the boy had the plague.
“B-but Nell,” George stammered, as if shocked. “The boy would not drink anything till I helped him.”
“Friar,” Henry interrupted. “Does this boy not have the pestilence? George is clean!” Henry said accusingly.
The monk slowly lifted his bald head, his hands still clasped in prayer. “Your brother is a healer, princess. He has much to do in this village today.”The monk’s gaze fell upon George and the sick boy. “Your brother has a gift,” he continued. “He has already convinced three children to drink. And when he left them, their fevers had cooled and they soon fell into a restful sleep. Would you not have wanted the same for your parents, child?”
So George had told the priest. I threw George a murderous look.
Henry took my elbow. “Let him be, Nell. I had watched many die as we waited in the streets with the cart. None looked as peaceful as this boy.”
Henry was right. The boy’s initial look of terror, possibly from our bursting into the room, was gone. A sleepy, serene expression now occupied his small face. There was nothing for me to do but turn away.
That night, in the barn by the vineyards, I held myself tight as we lay in our beds of straw. I thought about how Henry and I had returned to finish our work plucking grapes as George made the sick rounds with Friar Phillipe. When he was finally returned to me, I anxiously searched his face and body for signs of the fever, or the black roses—the horrifying bruises that bloomed and bulged near the armpits or groin—that marked the pestilence.
“You don’t feel hot?” I interrogated George nonetheless.
He shook his head and rewarded me with his toothless grin. “No, Nell. Please. I am okay. Just a little tired.” He pulled out his amulet and rubbed it between his hands. “I think this is helping the village,” he said in wonder. “As long as I have it, maybe I can make people well.”
Henry eyed the amulet suspiciously and, with a snort, rolled away from us to sleep.
I pulled George close to me. “We will ask the monk about your amulet tomorrow. Let us find out what he believes about its power.”
George nodded and closed his eyes and, within minutes, was fast asleep. Sleep didn’t tarry for me either, as I too felt physically exhausted. I woke only once, when I thought I heard the soft scratching of rats on the other side of the barn’s walls. I held my breath and waited, but heard nothing.Yet the sound of tiny paws burrowing into the dirt filled my dreams.
the gravedigger
Dawn HAD BARELY SHAKEN the world awake when Friar Phillipe rapped on the barn door. “Princess,” he called. “I have packed a basket of food for you and your companions. The gravedigger will be here anytime now.”
Henry was putting on his armor while George was sleepily pulling pieces of straw from his hair as he sat on the pallet. I had already decided that the dress I had been wearing would make do until we reached Bordeaux. I hurried to open the door. The monk’s gaze dropped to the ground when I looked into his shadowed face.
“Thank you, Friar. We are so very grateful.” I winced at the suffering that seemed to pull his features downward. How awful for him to be left behind.
“Je suis désolé . . . I’m sorry I could not offer you better lodging, princess, but I dared not take a chance with any of the homes. I don’t know yet which ones are safe.” He looked up, but past me, into the barn, as his fingers worked the rope of his ro
be like a rosary.
“We were very comfortable,” I replied. “You have much greater burdens to worry about.”
He nodded and then, surprisingly, stepped around me as if to enter the barn.
“The boy,” he said quickly. “May I have a strand of his hair, to assist me with the healing?” His eyes pleaded with me for a moment before they locked on to George.
“His hair?” I repeated. I, too, turned to look at George, standing now beneath the barn’s loft, which was piled with more hay. Straw was still sticking to his black stockings as he waved a hello to the monk. The sunlight streaming in through the open shutters lit George from behind like an apparition. Henry simply frowned as he stared at the monk.
“You will be leaving in a few minutes, but if you leave me a token of the boy, his healing powers may continue to sustain us,” he reasoned. His hand slipped into the pocket of his robe.
I looked from George to Henry. The monk is our friend, I reasoned. He would not do anything to hurt George. And I myself had witnessed this strange power in George that never presented itself until yesterday. The monk was now fidgeting with the object in his pocket.
George approached the monk, who had yet to cross the barn’s threshold. He pulled his amulet from his tunic as he walked. “Should I leave this with you, Friar? It was made by a blacksmith in England to protect us.” George held it close to the monk’s face.
The monk’s eyes widened and he stepped back. “Aucun merci. No thank you, child.” He pushed the amulet away with his hand. “Such charms are too easily changed. Your hair is all I need.”The monk slowly reached toward George’s head.
“Let me assist you, Friar,” Henry interrupted. I could see the tension in his movements, although his voice was free of any sign of impatience. He strode over and held out his hand. “Your knife, Friar? I will cut you a lock.”
The monk looked at Henry in surprise and slowly removed a small carving knife from his pocket.
“Come here, George,” Henry instructed. “I’ll give the monk a small strand to protect you from a tonsure.” Henry smiled then, and playfully boxed George on the ear. George grinned nervously but did what he was told. The monk’s face was pale as he watched this odd ceremony. Tiny dust motes floated in the air of the barn, making the entire scene seem unreal.
“I’m stepping outside to get some fresh air,” I said. I felt shaken and I was unsure why, and I did not want to watch Henry cut off a clump of George’s hair. I walked and paused in the open grass between the barn and the churchyard, as I willed the sunlight and the smell of morning to warm my clammy hands. Our horses were munching on a shared bale of hay in the churchyard. The monk must have given it to them before he came to the barn. It was then that I turned to walk to the back of the barn, needing to reassure myself of one more nagging fear.
My heart stopped as I reached the barn wall. We had slept by its interior side. The edge of grass had been stripped here to reveal a trough, six inches deep into the earth, six feet long along the edge of the barn, as if dug by tiny paws. I cried out as I dropped to my knees to see if a section of the barn wall had been breached. The wall appeared unbroken, even though the wood had been gnawed to splinters where it met the dirt.
“Is that him?” George asked in wonder, squinting into the horizon of the dirt road that led to the village square. I could just barely make out a figure, as its form was still protected by the shadows cast by the canopy of the trees that grew up to the road, trees always ready to reclaim even this small strip of civilization. Whoever, or whatever, it was moved with a slow, consistent diligence.
“It must be the gravedigger,” Henry said with certainty. “He moves like a man who need not fear other men. Only the gravediggers are feared as much as death.” I looked at Henry’s long face, but he was staring gloomily ahead.
The monk had left us in the square as he went to begin his sick rounds. A fresh lock of George’s hair was in his pocket. We had our basket of food, and our horses were fresh and nervous again, sensing that we were ready to begin our journey. I did not tell Henry and George about what I had found at the back of the barn. I am not sure why, except that somehow I feared that it would only bring us more bad luck. Instead I stood silently in the square, standing on top of the smooth cobblestones, the church at our backs.The ring of silent houses surrounded us, each holding its breath, as if waiting for us to leave.
“George, did you meet any villagers yesterday that were not sick?” I asked, almost in a whisper in case they were listening.
George cocked his head. A tuft of his blond hair stood up where Henry had taken the knife. “I did not, Nell, but I think Friar Phillipe took me only to the houses where everyone was sick.”
I nodded. I did not know what to believe.
“I can hear his approach,” Henry announced to quiet us. We said nothing, but listened to the rhythmic squeak of the cart’s wooden wheels. “It’s a high squeak,” Henry said after a few minutes. “The cart must be empty.”
George picked up the food basket, and Henry and I each led our horses around the square to stand at the village’s entrance. We must have looked like quite a sorry welcome to the gray-bearded man, dressed in a dirty brown tunic with torn red stockings. He pulled a large wooden cart by two handles. His arms were thickly muscled and his eyes a lively blue. I wondered if we all gaped when he finally stood before us and dropped the handles of the cart to bow.
“Princess, it is my honor to escort you to the cimetière.” He smiled the unperturbed smile of a child. Only George could have matched it.
We stared rudely, until Henry echoed, “To the graveyard, sir? We are supposed to be going to Bordeaux.”
“Yes.”The gravedigger winked. “But I am to take you only as far as the cimetière. No one promised you une ligne droite, a straight line to Bordeaux, did they? That would not have been wise. Even a gravedigger knows that.”
Henry scowled. “What did that Gracias scoundrel get us into? Nothing has made sense since we left the prince,” I heard him mutter under his breath. He threw a suspicious glance back into the village.
“Perhaps that is why we are still safe,” I offered, throwing him a warning look instead of reaching for his hand to calm him as I wanted to do. But I knew that, as I was acting as the princess, such gestures were forbidden. “The Black Prince may be on the road we took from Bordeaux as we speak,” I added. I wished I believed it.
Henry only looked at me, unconvinced.
“Your cart is empty,” George pointed out, seemingly mesmerized by the gravedigger.
“I finished a collection last night,” the gravedigger replied matter-of-factly. He then lifted his head and sniffed at the air. “Ah, I’ll be back tonight, but the number is less than I thought.” His brazen blue eyes twinkled at George. He then swung around to me.
“I see that I cleaned out my cart for naught.” He lifted his chin at our horses. “Unless the boy wishes to get in. We have fifteen miles or so to travel.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” I answered abruptly. “The boy will ride with me.”
We rode for hours, along well-worn trails cooled by the thick awning of forest trees.Trees massive in girth and muscle hemmed us in on both sides and I imagined I could feel the weight of their presence on my shoulders. The smell of damp earth filled our nostrils as we breathed air usually reserved for the creatures of the natural world. We listened for the sounds of horses and stopped periodically to touch the earth, but we felt or heard nothing but the sounds of wild animals. The few villages we passed, although occupied, quickly became deserted when the cart approached. One look at the gravedigger and the adults would toss their children under their arms and bolt their doors. I began to think our gravedigger was better protection than the Black Prince’s fifty men.
The gravedigger pulled the cart at a quick pace, never grimacing at the load. For being a man who usually keeps company with the dead, he was surprisingly talkative. George, of course, was charmed. Henry ignored the chatter and
was intent on peering into the forest. A nervous sweat shone on his forehead. I guessed he thought that the gravedigger would not be much of an ally under an attack.
“How old are you?” George asked, probably confused by the gravedigger’s gray beard yet jet-black hair. The gravedigger’s face was deeply lined, though.
“As old as the four pestes, the pestilences,” he replied, “which makes me the oldest man in the monde.”
“Aren’t you afraid of death?” George asked. “Nell and I hated the cart when it came to our house in England.” I gasped. George seemed to find comfort in telling the whole world about our parents. Henry frowned and looked away.
“George,” I interrupted a bit harshly. “There is no reason to tell everyone about the death of your parents. People will fear you.” I tried to convey my real meaning in my voice. He must remember that until we were safe in England, I was the princess and Nell was nothing but a sorely missed sister.
George nodded in an exaggerated way, his blond hair flipping up and down with the movements, but the gravedigger did not seem to hear us.
“I must be immune to death by now, garçon. I’m all weeped out.” The gravedigger suddenly stopped. “J’ai senti, I smelled the pestilence on you just now, on that teasing breeze. Not the poison vapors, but the ombre the Black Death casts on souls.” He looked around us quickly and ran from horse to horse, sniffing the air again. The horses whined and backed away.
“What is it that you are wearing, boy?” he demanded. “Suddenly you reek of death. I know it’s not your spirit.”
My hand instinctively covered my chest. The amulet. “Show it to him, George,” I ordered. George meekly leaned around me, pulling the amulet from his tunic.
The gravedigger nodded. “Best be rid of that,” he said, and we continued on our path.
“What happened here?” George asked in wonderment. We stood on the rim of a wide valley, its gentle slopes marred by the burned out trunks of forest trees. The air still reeked of the stinging odor of a ferocious blaze that had blackened the earth, searing away the grass and shrubs that had once carpeted the forest floor. In the center of this valley cut a small stream. Its waters ran black, as if a recent rainfall had carried away the charred pieces of bark and dirt that now lined its dead banks. Within these blackened borders lay the graveyard—patches of raw earth rent with gaping holes like the pustules of England’s plague.
