The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  The cave itself was like the inside of a winkle shell, broad at the front, but narrowing and sloping sharply upwards, round a curve at the back. It might once have been a tunnel leading who knew where, but the back was blocked by a fall of huge boulders as young Hob soon discovered, much to his disappointment, although his attention was briefly captured by what appeared to be the ribs of some gigantic animal embedded in the wall.

  ‘Those,’ I told him, ‘are the bones of a ferocious dragon, which used to terrify passing fishermen with its roaring by day. At night it sent great jets of fire into the dark sky, luring ships to the shore where they’d smash into the rocks below. The dragon used to snatch the sailors off the deck in his huge claws and devour them head first, like you’d crunch an apple. Everyone was terrified of the beast, and not even the bravest knight in the land could slay it, for before they even came close enough to thrust in their lance, the dragon would see them and shoot out a blast of fire, which roasted them to ashes.

  ‘Then one day a fearless dwarf crept into the cave under the very nose of the dragon, and because he was so short the dragon didn’t see him. The dwarf tickled the dragon under the armpits till it rose up, bellowing with laughter. Then he ran under its belly and thrust a sword up into its heart. The dragon gave a mighty roar that made the whole hillside tremble and the beast came crashing down on to the floor of this cave. It would have squashed the dwarf flat if he hadn’t managed to roll away just in time.’

  Hob stared at the giant bones and back at me, clearly uncertain what to believe. Then he giggled.

  The rest of the cave held nothing more exciting than driftwood drying for the fire and a jumble of flotsam I’d gleaned from the seashore, which I thought might one day prove useful – lengths of old rope, pieces of sea-bleached sailcloth, empty kegs, lumps of tar, even shells and dried starfish I thought I might fashion into something I could sell, if only I had the skill. But there was nothing among those poor treasures to capture the interest of a boy who had lived all his short life by the sea.

  Hob kept wandering back to the mouth of the cave. The tide was receding and before long the fishermen would follow it out, pushing themselves over the soft sand on the sledges they called mud-horses to harvest the eels, fish and crabs from their traps. If one should happen to glance our way and recognise him, or if Hob took it into his head to wave at someone he knew . . .

  I tried to distract him, and lure him deeper into the shadows, by getting him to help me disembowel the other piglet. We had to singe the hair off the skin strip by strip, with glowing sticks pulled from the fire, before I could cut it up and hang the pieces in the smoke. I’d smoked fish before, but had little idea how long it would take to cure the meat. Dwarfs, thankfully, are seldom set to work in the kitchens, for we can’t reach the tables or shelves, although I did hear of one dwarf who fell out of favour with his lord and, in place of the dog, was locked inside a tread-wheel that turned the great spit on the fire. He was made to walk all day and half the night in the heat of the roaring flames and stinging smoke, turning the wheel to roast the boars and oxen. I shuddered, just thinking about it. I’d been fortunate there had been no such wheel in Sir Nigel’s manor, or I might have suffered the same fate.

  As we dismembered the piglet, the boy kept gazing at me. I could tell there was something he wanted to ask. Finally, he blurted it out: ‘You’re no bigger than me, but you’re very old. My head only comes up to my father’s belt. If you had a son would he only come up to your belt? If he did he’d be as small as a chicken.’ He chuckled. ‘People would keep treading on him . . . He’d be small as a cat. Small as . . . cat’s shit. Small as . . .’ Hob cast around to find some other insignificant thing to which he could compare my imagined offspring.

  I pretended to lunge at him. ‘I’m going to catch you and tickle you to death like that dragon.’ It was a foolish mistake.

  Squealing in delight, the boy leaped up and dashed across the cave towards the opening, turning his head to see if I was chasing him.

  ‘No, Hob, come away from the entrance. Someone might see.’

  But it was too late! I heard someone, a way off, give a cry. I rushed to the mouth of the cave, grabbed the boy and dragged him back into the shadows.

  ‘Stay down,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t move!’

  Cautiously I peered out. The tide was still ebbing, but I could tell from the wet boulders that only a foot or so of water still surrounded my rocky staircase. Cador and old Abel were splashing their way around the base of the cliff, making straight for me.

  My thoughts were spinning. I could hide the boy behind the curve at the back of the cave, but it was too shallow to conceal him for long if they started to search for him. I had only moments to decide. I seized the lad and hurried him to the far side near the entrance, keeping him pressed between me and the wall of the cave. With the tide not yet fully out, if Cador and Abel were to walk around to the front of the outfall of rocks they’d have to wade out into much deeper water. An old fisherman like Abel knew better than to attempt that if he couldn’t see what was under his feet. So I wagered they’d start to climb up from the side they were approaching, where the water was much shallower. There would be a few moments when they’d be so close to the base of the rocks that the mouth of the cave above them would be hidden from their view.

  ‘Listen, Hob,’ I whispered. ‘Cador is searching for you. If he finds you he’ll lock you up in a dark hut all alone.’ I quickly pressed my hand over his mouth to stop him squealing in fear. ‘When I tell you to, you must climb out of the cave on that side and duck down so they can’t see you as they come up. Wait until you see Cador and Abel step into the cave then, quick as you can, scramble over the rocks to the other side where the water is shallow and work your way round till you reach the goat path that leads up on to the cliff. Don’t make any sound. If you see anyone at all, you must hide. Then you run for the forest. Don’t go near your cottage. I’ll come and find you tonight, bring you food. But you mustn’t let them catch you? Understand?’

  He nodded, though I could see the fear in his eyes. ‘Good lad. Don’t you worry, I’ll come as soon as it’s dark.’ I glanced out again. I couldn’t see the men, which meant they couldn’t see us. ‘Now, Hob,’ I whispered. ‘Over the side and keep low.’

  Like most boys raised on the shore, Hob was as surefooted on the rocks as the goats that came to nibble the seaweed. He vanished. I slipped back into the cave, rapidly gazing round for any signs that might betray he’d been there. Moments later, the shadow of Cador fell across the entrance, followed by that of Abel, who was wheezing badly after the climb. Would Hob remember what I’d said? I retreated further inside, hoping to draw Cador and Abel away from the cave mouth and, like dogs on a leash, they followed.

  Cador looked down at me, a grin spreading across his ugly face. ‘At least we’ll not have to search far for the evidence of this crime. Matilda swore blind it was you stole two of her grunters last night and what do we find here? That’s one.’ He pointed to the dismembered piglet still lying on the floor.

  I can curse a man for being seven kinds of fool in three different languages and I used every one on myself at that moment. I’d been so sure they were searching for the boy, I’d entirely forgotten about the piglets.

  Cador dipped his knife blade into the stew pot and skewered a large piece of pork. ‘And I reckon the second must have thrown hisself in here. I’d better taste it, though, just to be sure. Wouldn’t want to go accusing a man without proof, now, would we?’

  He chewed the meat with undisguised relish, before fishing out two more pieces, one of which he handed to Abel before devouring the second himself. ‘What you think, Abel? That taste like grunter to you?’

  ‘Hard to be sure,’ Abel said. ‘Need another chunk, maybe two, afore I could tell for certain.’

  ‘Seems to me, Abel,’ Cador said thickly, through a mouthful of pork, ‘we caught our thief, plain as a fox with a hen in its mouth. And since he’s no money to pay
a fine, I reckon they’ll have to hang him.’

  Chapter 17

  Sara

  St Columba trod on a flounder one day and slipped in the water, so the saint cursed the fish and for ever more the flounder’s face will be lopsided as a mark of the saint’s curse.

  All is not well. We have moved Elis into the byre. We had no choice. His stench is making us all vomit. I tethered the goats as far away from him as I could. They are weak, bleating incessantly day and night from hunger and thirst. One kid is already dead. Aldith cut it up and added it to the pot. The others are dying.

  Elis lies in the fouled straw. His head is forced sideways, almost touching his shoulder, by the great swelling on his neck. There is another in his groin. The pain is terrible. The slightest movement or brush of a blanket makes him cry out, and sweat breaks in great beads over his body. Black marks have appeared on his limbs, like huge bruises. Blood pours out when he shits and his piss is scarlet. Both stink, like his breath, worse than a rotting seal putrefying in the sun. I gag whenever I go near him, then feel so ashamed, for I shouldn’t be revolted by my own husband. I feel again the guilt I knew when I ran from my mam all those years ago. Is God punishing me for leaving her by sending the same foul sickness to my husband? Blessed Virgin, forgive me, forgive me. I will not leave Elis. I swear I will not!

  But he no longer knows me as his wife. Sometimes he thinks I am his mam, though she has been in her grave these many years. Other times he shrinks from me, screaming that I am a demon come to pull him down to Hell. How can he not know me after twelve years’ sharing my bed? It hurts to see the fear and hatred in his face when he looks at me. He babbles incoherently and, in spite of the pain and his weakness, tries to crawl to the door, crying out that there are wolves attacking his beasts and he must drive them off. He shouts at us to let him out and fights with what feeble strength he has, lashing out wildly until he collapses again and we can drag him back to his corner.

  It is Luke and I who must drag him back. For Daveth, too, lies in the byre, coughing blood, gasping, his belly swollen, eyes bulging as he gurgles and gasps for breath, like a drowning man.

  The water is all but finished. The villagers have not returned. Can they smell the stench even through the walls, hear the screams of pain, the mad ravings? Maybe they are afraid of what they might find next time they open those shutters. But I am terrified they will never open them again.

  Chapter 18

  Porlock Manor

  A friend is never known till a man have need.

  Medieval proverb

  Christina’s eyes ached from staring out of the slit window of the turret. Wait, she told herself. Go too soon and someone would see her. Leave it too late and she’d be caught returning. She had to judge the moment exactly right. But how could she, when she could barely see anything more than a sliver of the courtyard through the narrow slit? She slapped the cold wall in frustration.

  A few days ago she’d been gazing from that window and thought she saw her beloved crossing the courtyard, just a glimpse, enough to make her heart pound and her stomach leap, as it used to when her eyes searched for him in her uncle’s great hall at Chalgrave Manor, or when she walked in the shade of the orchard there. And though she knew it was impossible that he could be here in Porlock, still she could not tear herself from that casement. He had been everything that Randel was not.

  While they had all been guests of Sir Nigel at Chalgrave, Christina’s mother and Randel had been often in each other’s company, whispering and laughing together as if it was they who were betrothed. They flirted, tossing mocking jibes about Christina back and forth before the company, like young lovers sharing private jokes. But her gallant defender had seen her humiliation and he’d interrupt with some word, drawing the mockery on to himself to spare her.

  One night her beloved began to talk loudly of having seen a loathsome darnel in the meadow, but that the daisies flourished and would choke it out. She knew he was telling her that Randel was nothing but a noxious weed and of the strength of his own silent love for her. She had adored him for that and loved him the more for knowing she would understand his message, but when she glanced up and saw her uncle watching, her stomach had contracted in fear. If he guessed . . . if he knew . . . Take care, my love, take care!

  A crash echoed across the courtyard, followed moments later by a sharp crack and a yelp of pain. Christina pressed her face against the gap in the stones, but all she could see was a servant trying to balance a huge platter of meats as he craned round to stare behind him. She imagined that one of the scullions must have slipped on some goose dung as he left the kitchens, dropped a dish of food and felt the smart of the cook’s calloused hand for it.

  For the third time in as many hours Christina drew back slightly from the slit, but she kept her gaze fixed on the fragment of the courtyard as she eased her hand down the front of her gown and gingerly pressed the linen strips bound cruelly tightly about her breasts. The soggy green poultice of pounded colewort and sage leaves beneath oozed through the bandages, but her breasts felt just as swollen and tender as they had yesterday, perhaps even more so. Christina did not know whether to smile or sob.

  Eda had slapped the mess on to her hot, aching breasts, threatening to tie her wrists to the bedposts if she did not stand still.

  ‘Be grateful Master Wallace dismissed the stillroom maid, Rosa, this very morning, else I would not have been able to make this without her demanding to know who it was for.’

  Her fingers jabbed the green mash on to Christina’s tender nipples.

  ‘You’ve no cause to be pulling faces, m’lady. If the cup is bitter it is you who made it so and you who must swallow what you have brewed. If you had convinced Lady Pavia that you need rest, she would not now be insisting you be moved to the solar. How do you imagine you can hide the wet patches on the front of your gown or mask the stench of milk? Do you think I can smuggle the bastard to the solar for you to give suck? Your milk must be dried up. I’ve told Lady Pavia that you’ve a bad headache and cannot endure noise just now. But that will hold her off for only a day or so, so pray that your milk dries quickly. That’s if your prayers don’t sink straight down to Hell. You’d best try lighting a candle to Mary Magdalene for she’s the only saint in heaven who’s likely to hear the prayers of a harlot.’

  If her milk dried she’d be free to leave her turret prison. But if it did, Eda would never again bring little Oswin to her. She had made that quite clear. ‘There’ll be no reason for you to see it,’ she’d said, with a malicious smile that made her look even more like a snarling ferret than usual.

  ‘But he’ll starve,’ Christina had protested tearfully.

  ‘I dare say the little bastard will thrive well enough on goat’s milk. Plenty do, more’s the pity. It won’t care whether ’tis a whore’s teat it’s sucking or a bit of rag stuffed in an old cow’s horn, so long as it gets its fill. Takes after its father, that one.’

  A voice whispered in Christina’s head, urging her to stay silent, for she knew Eda was trying to goad her into betrayal, but her anger and hatred of the old witch would not heed the warning. ‘You don’t know anything—’

  Fortunately, Eda chose that moment to give a particularly vicious tug on the linen strips she was winding so tightly about her chest. The shock of the pain had brought tears to Christina’s already swollen eyes, but it snapped her into sense. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out and, no matter how much Eda jabbed with spiteful tongue and cruel fingers, the girl refused to allow another sound to escape her, until finally the old woman gave up and retreated from the chamber.

  Christina pressed her face to the cold stones again. The trail of servants carrying dishes towards the great hall had slowed and none was coming out. It meant that, having served their master’s guests, they would be sliding on to their own benches at the bottom table to devour their own meal before the next courses needed fetching. She must go now and quickly.

  She ran acros
s the room and clattered down the spiral staircase, wincing as every step jolted her bruised and tender breasts, but she could not afford to slow. She struggled to lift the latch and pull open the heavy door. Had Eda locked her in? She tugged harder and, to her immense relief, the door creaked open. Keeping to the shadow of the doorway, her gaze darted around the courtyard. She blinked in the bright evening sunshine, unaccustomed to light after weeks confined to the gloomy chamber.

  The courtyard was empty, except for a few chickens scratching at the dung and a couple of hairy young pigs trying to roll in the water-splashed weeds that were struggling to grow between the cobbles around the well. A clamour of chatter, laughter and the clatter of knives against pots drifted out from the casement of the great hall, almost drowning the faltering notes of the lute played by some servant, who made up for his lack of skill with his heavy-fisted twanging of the strings.

  Christina, holding her skirts out of the dust and dung, scurried along the wall towards the archway that led into the wider yard beyond. It, too, was empty of people. A few horses tethered in the stables turned their heads to watch her and nickered to each other. A hound scrambled up and ambled towards her, its chain clanging over the stones, but it was used to servants coming and going at this hour and did not bark.

  Christina ignored it and darted towards a cluster of wattle and daub buildings that huddled against each other at the far end of the courtyard. She hesitated. The smell from one of the small huts suggested it was the brew-house for ale, but which of the others was the stillroom? Servants might be asleep behind those doors or else tending fires, and what explanation would she give if she went blundering in?