The Plague

by Joanne Dahme

  “That’s right, George.We will fight them to the end,” I said, attempting to rally our spirits against the object now occupying the space before us.The soldier snickered again and spit at our feet.

  The polished wooden block commanded the center of the stone-paved square, despite its size. Now that I stood directly in front of it, as I had made sure in the past that George and I never approached it, I could see the half moon shelf carved into its surface. The curve of its bowl was soft, as if offering a gentle rest to a doomed head. But the long, thin handle of the ax that rested against it belied any kind intent.

  Henry shifted his stance, blocking our view. “Don’t let him look at it, Nell,” he said, shaking his head. “It can do no one any good to taint one’s mind with such a scene. When we go to battle, we never think of the weapons that each man holds, but of only the men. Men are made of blood, and can thus be defeated.”

  Can they? I wanted to ask, but remained silent as a light drizzle suddenly touched my face, the mist clinging to my hair and eyelashes. Its clammy, spidery touch set off chills in my already trembling body.

  “Did you hear what Henry said, George?” I asked, wrapping my arms around his trembling waist. I could feel the bones beneath his fragile chest.

  “Yes, Nell,” he answered, his voice punctured by fear, I was sure. “I don’t want to die,” he said, “but I’m thinking about Mother and Father. In my mind, I can see them with their arms open to us.” He sobbed and I held him more tightly. I could taste the bile in my throat. I could not allow this.

  “Stand quiet,” the soldier with the barely bearded chin ordered us, touching the hilt of his sword, as if to show us that he meant what he said.We were to do nothing but stand there as the few surviving servants of the castle began to trickle from their quarters on the other side of the green.We stood stoically in our cluster on the edge of the chapel’s green, Henry first, with George sandwiched between us. Henry’s back was erect, his shoulders square, as if to protect us from malevolent stares from the keep and from the shock of the block. The prince had spent the night here, too.

  Not one of the king’s servants looked directly at us, though I recognized a number of them with whom we had shared the last few years of our lives—during our time with the princess.They began gathering directly opposite us, in a single line, with their backs to the Tower’s green and the castle walls. There was Mary, of gray hair and eyes, her apron always stained with the remnants of the meals she cooked. Jane was beside her, sniffling and clinging to Mary’s hand. Jane was about my mother’s age, and she had treated George and me with kindness.There were a few women, and some girls barely older than myself that I didn’t recognize. They all shared the hollowed eyes of the young who were terrified of this plague. On the end of the women’s line was the servant with the plaited hair who had accompanied Sir Andrew and brought us our soup. Where is Sir Andrew? Surely he would come through for us.

  The few men who gathered seemed surly. The blacksmith, the stable hand, a few of the king’s lesser guards all seemed impatient to be done with this and out of the rain. Many we had known were missing—victims of the pestilence. A few gasped and made the sign of the cross when one of the brooding black ravens that guarded the Tower hopped onto the block and stared at us all with its beady eyes. Many thought the ravens to carry the spirits of those who lost their heads here.

  “Away, foul carrion!” Henry yelled, lunging toward the raven while shaking his chains.The raven appeared to glare at Henry before languidly raising its wings to take off.This caused the men to laugh nervously, and they spit over their shoulders in unison.

  “We don’t need any more bad luck,” he whispered to George and me as he watched the bird alight on one of the Tower’s turrets. I could only nod my agreement.

  The light rain had stopped by the time King Edward and the Black Prince arrived on the green. I held my breath as I watched the royal guard, each soldier holding one wooden handle that extended from the legs of the king’s chair, carry him gingerly, as if the king were in a foul mood. His usually erect form was slumped and his graying hair still held the tangles of the bed. He wore the clothes that he had visited us in last night—the blue tunic and red mantle emblazoned with the Plantagenets’ yellow lions. The mantle lay across one leg as if he had carelessly sat in his chair. Unlike his guards, he wore no armor, and his head lacked a crown. I did my best not to look at the prince.

  The executioner, wearing black boots, tunic, and stockings, followed the knights. A black mask covered his eyes, which appeared startlingly blue as they peered through the cloth’s eye slits. He picked up the ax with both hands, as if its weight required his full strength. He gave it a practice swing.

  My heart began to shudder and I placed my hand on my chest to still it. Where is Sir Andrew? I looked down the path, towards the Tower’s door that emptied onto the green. I turned to look toward the servants’ quarters, and then searched the arches of the castle’s walls for a glimpse of him. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Henry and George had the same question in their eyes. Surely Sir Andrew will not desert us now?

  Not a word was said as the guards lowered the king’s chair, directly opposite us on the other side of the square, in front of the line of servants.The raven called and its cry echoed despairingly against the castle’s walls.The servants curtsied and bowed nervously, stepping back to give the king and his son ample space. I felt weak-kneed when I finally met the gaze of the prince.

  I could hear nothing for the moment but the blood coursing through my head. The prince was wearing his black cloak and the pointy boots he favored, which curved like serpent’s tongues at their tips. A gold crown studded with bloodred rubies rested on his head. I realized that in France he had preferred the hood of his cloak but he was home again, in the presence of his king, and today, unlike the king, he bore the crown. The prince nodded slightly as he gave me a satisfied smile. His black eyes held the cold of winter.

  I drew in a breath when I looked at the king. He appeared as he did yesterday, tired and defeated by age and tragedy, yet his eyes seemed to burn with an unmitigated anger. I prayed that this fury was not reserved for us. He drew his mantle across his broad chest as he stood, waving the guards away from him. He stared at us but addressed the Black Prince. “Shall we get on with it?” Disgust laced his words.

  “Indeed,” the Black Prince replied, raising his pointed beard in our direction. He rubbed his hands in apparent anticipation. A smile slithered across his face. He motioned to the pockmarked guard at our side. “Undo their chains,” he commanded, his words rising in a tease.

  One of the soldiers motioned for us to extend our hands. He unlocked the shackles from our wrists and they fell to the ground in a metallic thud. The soldier then pulled Henry from our midst and shoved him toward the block.

  “Yes,” the prince approved. “I want to save the churl for last.”

  “Henry!” I cried. George attempted to break away. He kicked and screamed when the soldiers grabbed him.The women servants let out cries of their own. They seemed to have no more stomach for death.

  “Mercy, my lord!” Jane, the servant who had treated us like her own children, implored the king. Her mouth was trembling. Mary, the cook, grabbed her arms. “They are barely grown.” Her words, a faint whisper, seemed magnified in the damp air. All gathered seemed to hold their breath.

  The Black Prince turned on her, as if to strike. The king stayed his hand.

  I felt faint with terror, but with this diversion, I managed to slip from the guards to approach the king.

  “My lord,” I said, closing my eyes to force the tears back as I curtsied.

  The king said nothing. He stared at me as if searching my features—my eyes, my hair, my mouth. For a moment I thought he might reach out to touch me. Me, the girl who still walked on this earth, daring to look like his daughter. His chin trembled so slightly that I believed only I could see the rush of emotion in his face. I wondered if he was thinking of t
hat day many years ago, when he thought I would be useful in protecting his daughter. But the pestilence was no regular enemy. It was willing to take the life of a princess just as easily as that of a pauper.

  “Nell,” he finally said, his voice firm. “I do not understand.”

  “Nor I, my lord,” I said, my voice faltering with the pain I shared with him. “I don’t know why the princess was taken instead of me.”

  I was not sure if that was what he was asking me, but I could not speak against the prince, not yet. Not while he still held the king’s grief in his hands.

  “Shall I speak on your behalf, Nell?” Henry called out from behind me. “I was a witness to it all, my lord,” he shouted. His voice was strong. I turned to see him straining against the guards who held his arms.

  George squeezed past them. “I can speak, too, my lord, for Nell has always been good to all people.” One of the guards swiped at him with a gloved hand, but George ducked and stepped away. “She especially loved the princess,” he insisted, his eyes filling with tears.

  A sob welling in my own throat threatened to silence me. I was blessed to claim such a brother and a friend.

  But then the Black Prince stepped between the king and me, shoving me aside with his hand. “Is that why you surrounded her with victims of this plague?” he sneered, seemingly angry that I had the attention of the king. “So that you could take her clothes and servants, so that you, not the princess, would become the next queen of Castile?” He sidled beside the king and leaned into my face, his pointed beard inches from my nose. A different fury roiled in his eyes. His fetid breath, like that of an animal’s, caused me to falter. I closed my eyes to his terrifying image. “The temptation must have been irresistible, even for one who pledged her life to protect the princess.” The words he whispered into my ears had the twist of a knife.

  “That is a lie!” Henry shouted. “My lord, you must let Nell speak,” he pleaded.

  The women servants lined behind the king’s chair nodded their agreement. “Yes,” they mouthed, grabbing for one another’s hands.

  I needed to be brave for George and Henry. Incredibly, I pushed the Black Prince away, causing him to stumble back. A delighted smile played on his face, which suddenly infuriated me.

  “She did die of the pestilence, my lord! It was all around us!” I protested.The king crossed his arms. His face was inscrutable. “I did not know how to protect her,” I added weakly.

  The Black Prince turned to address the king, the servants, and the guards, who now huddled behind them. Jane and Mary gazed upon their lords as if their world had gone mad.

  “How dare this wench address her king so!” the Black Prince bellowed, shock feigned by the wideness of his eyes. “Does your lord deserve such disrespect? Of course not!” he answered for them. “That is why they are here to die!”

  “The Black Prince is lying, Your Highness,” Henry said, in a voice firm and bereft of fear. It seemed that the three of us had crossed some line, where death seemed inevitable and all truths could be said. The servants and soldiers surrounding us gasped. The soldiers yanked at Henry’s arms, as if that would stop his speech.

  And then the prince’s predator eyes locked on Henry. He pulled a knife from the belt around his waist and held it to the air.

  I turned to Henry. His eyes were bright and his face severe. He would not heed such a threat. George thrust his arm around Henry’s waist and pulled him close. He knew the prince was capable of anything.

  My own heart refused to be silenced. I thought of all the people who had risked their lives to save us—Sir Andrew, the priest, the gravedigger, Albert and his brothers—and Gracias and his soldiers, who did lose their lives. I knew they were struggling to save England and Spain from a false marriage—one that could have possibly compromised the truce between our countries. But if that was all Gracias was looking to save, why did he come back to Bordeaux? Did I dare dishonor Gracias’s memory by remaining silent?

  “It was the prince who refused to leave Bordeaux, my lord, even when the mayor warned us that the plague fires were already burning,” I said, my voice rising over the din. “After she died . . . I was asked to play the princess. . . .” I stopped.What could I say as to not sully the reputation of his eldest son? There was nothing to be said.

  The king leveled his smoldering gaze on my face. Is all his anger reserved for me? I wondered. I prayed not.

  “I was not privy to the prince’s intentions,” I finally added, feeling the heated gaze of the king and the prince fully upon my shoulders. “In the end, I was scared and returned to Bordeaux, fearing that I could not live up to the divine qualities of the princess.”

  I looked into his eyes as I spoke. His eyes, which among all other features bore the only evidence of the howling rage beneath his pale skin. He reached behind his back for his chair, as if he intended to sit. One of the royal guards came to his side to guide him, but he motioned the guard away.

  I am nothing like the princess. She would never have embarrassed herself, nor have shamed the king by addressing him in such a manner.Yet he raised his bearded chin to me, and his eyes, suddenly more thoughtful, invited me to continue.

  “I could not protect the princess,” I cried. “I prayed at her death that it was I who succumbed to the pestilence and not your daughter. I loved her, too, my lord, as she was kind to George and me.” Despite my efforts, I began to weep.

  “Enough!” the Black Prince yelled. “This is treason! I will put an end to this now!”

  His voice boomed off the castle’s walls.To my eyes, he suddenly seemed to grow, looming many feet taller, beneath the protective shadow of his black cloak. He pulled his sword from his belt, tossing his knife to the ground. “Allow me, sir, to do the honors,” he said with a quick bow to his father. All eyes were riveted on the prince.

  And then someone screamed. I knew it wasn’t me, but it was the scream of a woman. More of the women joined them, as they pointed behind us, toward the White Tower.

  I turned to see the creatures, pausing and sniffing at the air as they raised their heads over the rim of the moat, before tumbling onto the land. They moved like soldiers on a sneak attack, running in bunches along the shrubbery that grew beneath the lowest set of windows in the Tower.They bled out from the Tower like a mud-colored shadow, slinking toward us across the castle’s green. Some followed the cobblestone path that emanated from Traitor’s Gate.They moved as if they believed they were invisible to us, sprinting, stopping, turning in circles—to ensure that they had not lost our scent. There must have been a hundred of them running in the slick, cruel packs that had occupied my dreams.The rats.

  They must have entered through Traitor’s Gate—the only living creatures small enough to slip through the watery portcullis and breech the sanctum of the Tower.

  “What fresh treason is this?” the Black Prince screamed, raising his sword at me as if I had somehow commanded his vile little army. He then turned to the king, his own vermin-like eyes narrowing.“My lord, is this your game?” he asked, his voice straining to remain calm.

  The king was back in his chair, as if he found the scene exhausting, yet I noticed that his veined hands gripped the armrests as if at any moment, he might spring at the prince. “No, my son. I believe that Sir Andrew had a finger in this.” A guttural growl soaked his words. The king pointed in the direction of the gate.

  I glanced toward the gate to see Sir Andrew, in a red tunic and blue cloak, trotting along the edge of the moat toward the stairs of Traitor’s Gate, his wild white hair shining like a beacon on this gray day. He held what looked to be a horn in his hand—an ivory horn—like that of a unicorn’s used by generals to summon their men to battle.

  The scene before us was like a dream, as Henry grabbed my hand and picked George up, holding him in his arms. Is that what the Black Prince used to muster his rats? I remembered seeing that horn once before in the hand of the prince as he danced around the bonfires on the beach at Bordeaux. Somehow,
Sir Andrew had gotten hold of it and was using the rats to distract or make our plea to the king.

  They were everywhere now, a small, vicious army looking to satisfy their battle lust. The rats were leaping onto the backs of the women, climbing up tunics to bite an exposed hand or throat. The women were not armed or protected by armor.Their terrified screams pierced the air. Jane and Mary cowered against the Tower’s wall, closing their eyes and screeching at the new horror before them. The younger women seemed to draw the rats as they flailed and kicked at the creatures. The rats’ lust for battle seemed to magnify.

  It was then that the king came alive.

  He stood, slowly drawing to his full height as he snatched the sword of one of his royal guards. “Find another sword, man, and defend the women! All of you! It will not be said that a few rats can scare the king’s army!” he roared. He then pointed the sword at the Black Prince, who was scowling peevishly at the mayhem around him. “Allow my son to lead you. I am told that he has experience with such witchery.”

  The king and Black Prince locked gazes until the prince’s sights dropped to the ground. “We will send them back to the moat!” the Black Prince ordered, pushing past the soldiers in front of him with a shove.

  Henry pulled me toward the king, lowering George to the ground in front of the king’s knees. “If I may leave them with you, my lord, as I find myself a sword to join the fray.” The mischief was back in Henry’s eyes. Is he really so confident that we have regained the king’s affections?

  The king did not smile, but nodded as he took hold of my hand. He held it fiercely. “Take the sword of one of my ancient guards.” He pointed toward an old man in chinked armor, who was stumbling on the cobblestone path as the rats leaped against his legs. “The old are not a match for such evil,” he growled.