The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  Ignoring the whimpers of protest from Goda, I struggled out of bed and blundered towards the door.

  Elis grabbed my leg as I stepped over him. ‘What’s amiss?’ he mumbled, only half awake.

  ‘Hob. I need to fetch him,’ I whispered. ‘Not safe out there.’

  I pulled the cord to raise the latch, but the door only opened an inch or two before it was snatched from my hand and slammed shut. Startled, I cried out. Elis scrambled to his feet, Daveth too and the boys, but they were falling over each other in the dark. I tried to pull the door open again, but it was being held on the other side.

  ‘Hob, is that you? Let go of the door.’

  A roar exploded outside, shouting, hammering, thumping. The door and shutters were rattling as if a hundred wild boar were charging repeatedly at the cottage. Round the edges of the shutters and through the cracks I glimpsed a flickering red glow. Fire! I was tugging frantically at the thick oak door, trying to force it open. We had to get out. Elis shoved me aside as he struggled to open it. Somewhere behind me a woman’s shrieks cut through the howling of baby Kitto.

  ‘Hold hard!’ a man’s voice shouted outside. And suddenly all fell quiet, save for the babby’s cries.

  ‘Elis? Daveth?’

  ‘That you, Cador?’ Elis called out.

  The rope of terror that had tightened around my chest eased a little. The bailiff had come to help. He’d driven off whatever was out there.

  ‘We are safe now, safe,’ I murmured.

  Reaching for Luke, I gripped his shoulder to reassure him, but he jerked away.

  ‘Put your shoulder to the door, will you, Cador? ’Tis stuck,’ Elis yelled.

  ‘Can’t do that, Elis,’ Cador shouted back. ‘Got to seal you in, you and your kin, till we’re sure the pestilence is not in this house.’

  Elis let out a bellow of rage, like a wounded boar, and started to pound on the door.

  ‘Elis!’ Cador raised his voice still louder. ‘Listen to me. Men in the village got their own families to think of. They see you and your boys wandering abroad, and there’s no knowing what some’ll do. You know what happened last time in these parts. Women and children, whose kin had died of the fever, got stoned out of the villages. Some were even herded over the cliffs and made to jump to their deaths, in case they spread the sickness to others. If panic takes hold, there’s no knowing what even decent folk will do. Safer for you to stay inside. Just till we know for sure. But we’ll not see you starve. Bald John here has a sack of food for you. You stand back, he’ll pass it through the casement on a cord.’

  The shutters flew open. Torchlight flickered over the dried fish bladders that were stretched across the opening to keep out wind and flies. They split with a crackle as a stick was thrust through them and a sack dangling on the end of a cord spun rapidly down to thump on to the floor. Almost before it reached the ground, the end of the rope slithered down behind it. The shutters were slammed and the torchlight vanished. We heard the sound of hammering as they nailed planks across the shutters.

  Aldith barged me aside and thumped on the door.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Cador. You’ve no right to lock us up as if we were common felons. We’ve chillern in here. My Kitto’s only a babby and my sister about to whelp hers any day now. I swear on the milk of the Blessed Virgin we’ll stay right away from the village. Camp out in the forest if needs be, till you’re satisfied we’ve not taken sick.’

  ‘And suppose you drink from the brook upstream and poison carries down?’ Bald John shouted. ‘Or your chillern wander back to the village ’cause you’re too sick to mind them?’

  ‘Whole village is agreed on it,’ Cador said. ‘’Tis safest for all of us. And I warn you, Elis, don’t even think of trying to break out. I’ll not stay any man’s hand, if you do.’

  It’s night in the cottage, though I think it must be day outside. Steel-bright slivers of light pierce the cracks between the planks they have nailed across the windows and the door, but they reach no more than a hand’s breadth inside. We’re trying to save what rush candles we have, burning them only when we cook and eat, extinguishing them as soon as we can, for who knows how long they may have to last. When they’re gone and the firewood is used up, we shall have no light at all.

  Elis wrenched the door open as soon as he was sure Cador and the villagers had gone, but the gap had been boarded up with stout planks and nails, and stones piled against them. Elis was certain he could work the boards loose, but Daveth said if they saw we’d tried to break out, they might refuse to bring us food or, worse, set fire to the cottage with us inside.

  ‘You heard him. Even if we pushed the chillern out through a gap, they’d more than likely stone them.’

  Even as they were arguing a thought struck me like a blow from a fist. ‘Little Hob! He’s still out there!’

  The shock of the mob arriving had driven out all remembrance of why I had been listening so hard only moments before I heard them.

  ‘He went out to the midden . . . They must have surrounded the cottage afore he could get back!’

  I stumbled to the window, pressing my mouth to the crack in the shutter and yelling his name, but Aldith pulled me back, shaking me.

  ‘Stop that! If any hear you they’ll know he’s out there and start hunting him. I dare say he ran off as soon as he saw that crowd coming. He’ll have hidden in the trees.’

  ‘All alone in that forest!’ I yelled at her. ‘How’s he supposed to fend for himself? Where’s he going to find food? He’d only a shirt on when he ran out. He’ll freeze! This is your Col’s fault. If your little heller hadn’t tormented Hob so, the boy would’ve used the pisspot inside.’

  ‘All boys tease each other, ’tis only natural,’ Aldith retorted. ‘If you didn’t coddle the lad so, he’d be able to stand up for himself.’

  Daveth laid an arm on his wife’s shoulders. ‘We can’t be falling out, not now. Might be a blessing your lad did run out, Sara. At least he’ll be spared—’

  He broke off and I knew he couldn’t bring himself to say it. I didn’t even want to think it. Being walled up was bad enough, but what if we were not shut in here alone? Suppose there was another with us, invisible, standing in the shadows, crawling over the walls, slithering between us. Who would it reach out and touch first?

  We eat a little of what the villagers gave us. The bread first, since it’s already a day old, and growing hard. We use it as a sop for the fish stew left from last night. Besides that, there is dried fish and conger eel in the sack, with some dried beans and peas. Not much for so many mouths, but I know few have anything to spare in the village after the storm. How long is this intended to last us? We have a little water, which I collected yesterday, but will they remember to bring more? I dare not waste any to soak the fish. We will need every precious drop to drink.

  On the other side of the thin wattle wall that separates our living space from the animals, my two goats and their kids bleat fretfully, unable to understand why I have not let them out to graze. I stir myself, light one of the tallow candles in the embers of the fire and clamber through the wicker door into the byre.

  I drag the stool over to where the she-goats are tethered and try to milk them, but they’re restless. They are used to being given fresh fodder to keep them occupied while they’re milked. They know something is wrong and will not stand still, keeping back their milk and kicking out at the pail until I am forced to call Aldith and Luke to hold both goat and bucket.

  Aldith won’t look at me. She grips the horns, muttering, ‘Whist, whist,’ as the cantankerous beast twists its head and tries to back away. I see her staring at the manger. It’s empty and there’s precious little of last year’s hay left in the loft. Their stone trough is barely half filled with water. I know what she’s thinking, what we’re both thinking. Will they let us out before we’re forced to slaughter them?

  Even in the mustard light of the tallow candle, I can see Luke’s face is wan, his eyes swollen. He
’s been crying, smothering the sound in the darkness, so as not to betray himself. Does he blame me? I want to hug him, hold him close, but I know he’d push me away.

  I want to hold Hob too, smell the sweat in his hair and feel the warmth of his soft cheek. He’s somewhere out there, alone and terrified. Is he hungry? What will he find to eat? A sob rises that I cannot suppress. Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m at the byre door, shaking it, trying to tear it open with my bare hands. Aldith seizes my wrist, and jerks me backwards.

  ‘Let me go!’ I shriek at her. ‘I have to find Hob. I must get to him!’

  Aldith holds me tightly. ‘Don’t you go fretting about him. Nights are getting warmer and he’s built dens often enough with the boys to make hisself a shelter to creep into.’

  Luke slams his fist into the byre wall. ‘I should have gone out last night, too, then I’d not be shut up in here with you. I could have found food easy.’

  ‘By stealing it!’ I snap. ‘And how long would it have been before you were caught and chased over the cliff by the dogs? Be thankful you’ve got a full belly. Your brother hasn’t.’

  Tears spring into his eyes again. I know this is harder on him than any of us. The boy’s out from morn to night even in the foulest weathers. Keeping him in the cottage is like locking a wild creature in a cage. I feel like those men Elis once told me of, tied between wild horses to be ripped apart. Part of me desperately wants both my boys to be out there, away from the sickness, but I want them in here with me where I can keep them safe.

  Aldith shares out the warm goat’s milk among the chillern, all except baby Kitto for she’s still nursing him.

  ‘Give what’s left to Goda,’ I urge. ‘She’s scarce eaten a bite.’

  Goda lies on the bed, turned on her side, her legs bent and her arm clutching her belly. She has stopped wailing. Now she stares blankly at the wall, as if her soul is travelling far off.

  She pushes the beaker away, but Aldith insists, holding her head with one hand and pushing the beaker to her lips as if she is teaching a child to drink.

  ‘Sup it! Else you’ll lose this babby an’ all.’

  Goda snatches the beaker and swallows it in one draught, flinging the empty cup at the wall.

  ‘My babby wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. I could feel him moving inside me. You killed him with your birthwort and dittany. Now you want this one to die, too, just to spite me. I shouldn’t be in here. I never went near those corpses. Why didn’t you tell them, make them let me out? You just want to keep me from my Jory. But Jory’s coming back for me, do you hear?’

  Aldith snorts impatiently. ‘Course he is. I told you that. Try the patience of the Blessed Virgin herself, you would.’ She rolls her eyes at me.

  The babe was rotting when Aldith and I pulled it out of her, but she still refuses to believe it died days before in her belly. Father Cuthbert didn’t help, telling her that she lost him ’cause of her sin. Up in the hayloft, baby Kitto starts wailing.

  Aldith sighs. ‘Wanting his milk now.’

  We’ve blown out all the tallow-candles. The red glow of the embers in the hearth lights up only the stones around it. Daveth is asleep. Elis whittles a piece of wood. He never looks at what he is whittling even when the lamps are lit. Col is playing with knuckle bones, testing himself as if the darkness is just another element of the game, another skill to be learned. It is strange sitting in this eternal night, hearing the sounds of daylight outside. Gulls shrieking, dogs barking, the goats still bleating to be let out. I keep remembering the morning the sun turned black and twilight came at noon. All the birds fell silent then. They sing now. It’s us who are silent.

  Where is my little Hob? Is he close by, hiding, watching the cottage? If only he would creep back and call out to us. I could talk to him, tell him what to do, how to keep himself safe. A word, one word, is all I ask, just so as I know they haven’t hurt him.

  ‘Luke?’

  He doesn’t answer me.

  ‘That box that you took from the sea, did you throw it back?’

  The dead chillern came from the sea, a curse that the sea threw at us. First the storm and Janiveer, then the pestilence – they all three came out of the sea. She wants the box. Whatever is in it, the sea wants us to give it back.

  Luke says nothing. He jiggles his leg up and down. It irritates me. Why does he do it?

  ‘Where is the box, Luke? Answer me.’

  ‘You blame me for this, don’t you?’ he demands. ‘You think it’s my fault – the storm . . . everything.’

  ‘Where is the box?’

  ‘Hid it. Knew you’d take it off me. Just wanted to see inside, that’s all.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Couldn’t get it open. But I will! Soon as I get out of here, I will. Then I’ll throw it back . . . then . . .’ His voice trails from defiance to defeat, as if he knows it is already too late.

  He scrambles to his feet, knocking into his father as he passes. Elis yelps and curses. ‘Stop charging about, boy! You nearly had my finger off.’ I hear him sucking the wound.

  Luke blunders through the wicker door into the byre, hammering and kicking the door on the far side, shouting and screaming, venting all his impotent rage on the wood. He will panic the goats. I yell at him to come back. But in the semi-darkness I feel Elis’s broad hand on my knee.

  ‘Leave the lad. He has to let it out. Can’t say as I blame him.’

  ‘The cut, is it deep?’ I ask him.

  He grunts. ‘More to worry about than a little scratch,’ he says, and he wraps the bottom of his tunic around his finger.

  Chapter 14

  Will

  Riddle me this: What brings ill fortune to him who rides and good fortune to him who flies?

  The lights of torches in the darkness marked each villager’s progress through the village. A scarlet flicker halfway up the hill, an orange one weaving along the shoreline until they converged in front of the brew-house, like sparks flying down into a fire.

  I knew that night would be my best chance of making another attempt on those piglets. I’d take two this time, three if I could. Eat some, smoke the rest. Something told me that every man and woman in the village was going to be snatching food like starving gulls before the month was out, so better I took those juicy little piglets before someone else did. I was most obliged to Cador for telling everyone he hadn’t selected for his walling-in army to stay inside with their doors firmly shut. If the Holy Hag heard anything outside, with luck she’d think it was Cador’s rabble and ignore it.

  If I was forced to flee the village, I’d need all the food I could carry, for the towns would soon be barring their gates to strangers, as they did the last time the pestilence struck. But I’d still not decided if it was safer to stay or go. Porlock Weir was the first village I’d come to when I’d found myself a vagabond. I stayed, though I hadn’t planned to, because at least I could take refuge in a cave, and forage for food along the shore. And, believe me, I was in dire need of free food and shelter. I even found myself envying the lepers. At least they could beg for alms. I couldn’t even do that to keep from starving without risking another whipping.

  The day Master Wallace, Sir Nigel’s steward, finally threw me out of Porlock Manor, having decided that even banishment to such a remote estate from the bustling life I’d enjoyed at Chalgrave Manor was not sufficient punishment for my heinous crimes, I waddled off down the road on my bandy legs, owning absolutely nothing in the world but a bruised and lacerated back. I had no home, no work, not even so much as a crooked farthing to buy a bite to eat, but of all the thoughts and fears that clamoured for attention in my head, the one that shouted loudest was that I no longer possessed a name.

  The day I’d been given to Sir Nigel – presented riding on the back of a hairy black pig and dressed like a little knight complete with a child-size lance – he informed me, after he and the company had stopped laughing, that from then on I was to be known as Gaubert. It was the name of the
dwarf I’d been bought to replace. Of course, it probably wasn’t that fellow’s real name either.

  An ancient servant who’d been in my lord’s employ all his life remembered the old dwarf well and insisted he was the same little man who’d been jester there in the time of his own grandfather, but then the old servant’s wits often wandered off to Faery Land, so I didn’t set much store by that tale. Just how many Gauberts there’d been in that manor house through the years the other servants couldn’t recall, but it didn’t much matter for we were all one to my lord and his household. It was the same with his hounds: his best pair of lymers were always called Holdfast and Sturdy, had been for generations. It was more convenient that way.

  Of course, Gaubert wasn’t the first name that had been thrust upon me. Before I’d been sold, my master had called me Courtney, his little joke for it means ‘short nose’. He liked a good laugh, did my master. But if my mother or father had ever given me a name before that, I’ll never know it.

  My master reckoned I’d been dumped on the steps of a monastery while I was still bloody from my birth. ‘Should be grateful,’ he used to say. ‘If I hadn’t stumbled over you first, you’d have spent the rest of your life eating naught but herbs, and freezing your cods off in a chapel all night, instead of sleeping by a warm fire in a lord’s hall, your belly stuffed full of venison and roast goose.’

  Maybe he was telling the truth and I had been abandoned by parents who couldn’t afford to fill another hungry mouth or by a mother frightened because she’d given birth to a bastard. But I know my master paid for other babies. Infants snatched from cradles or careless nursemaids and brought to him at night, half smothered in blankets. I’d seen the coins slipped into dirty hands.

  When I was a lad, I used to tell myself I had been stolen and some day my parents would find me, or else that I was the bastard son of some wealthy noble, who would at last claim me for his own. But that fantasy died as soon as I found myself cavorting and grimacing at my lord’s banquets for the entertainment of his guests. I was popular, a favourite even. The men laughed drunkenly at my jokes and the women petted me, like a winsome puppy, but I knew that even if my own father and mother had been among the guests and had recognised me as their own, they’d no more want to name me son than they would claim kin to a clothed monkey.