The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  Wallace thumped the end of his stave on the wooden boards of the dais to quell the murmuring.

  ‘I know you’ll not be thanking me for fetching you here,’ he announced, not endearing himself to Lady Pavia by addressing the crowd of servants rather than her. ‘But I’ve been steward of this manor for nigh on twenty years and many a time I’ve heard wagging tongues fan a spark of gossip into a roaring blaze in less time than it takes to say a paternoster. So I thought it best you all hear the truth straight from the priest’s mouth afore the devil makes more mischief.’

  He nodded curtly to Father Cuthbert, who took a pace forward. ‘You’ve no doubt heard that the Great Mortality has these past months been raging in London.’

  A muttering broke out and someone jeered, ‘That news is such old fish not even a starving cat’ll sniff at it.’

  Wallace banged his stave on the boards again. ‘Kennel that tongue of yours, Jackin, ’less you want me to toss it to the hounds.’

  ‘I have fresh tidings,’ Father Cuthbert resumed, glaring pointedly at Jackin. ‘Many good men believed that the pestilence would not again spread as far as this corner of our fair land. While it ravaged France, it seemed that here in England it was confined within the seething masses and foul ditches of London.’ He glanced towards Lady Pavia and Sir Harry. ‘Indeed, Sir Nigel has sent some of those souls who are most dear to him to take shelter here in the belief that they would be safe.’

  Lady Pavia inclined her head, graciously acknowledging the compliment. But though she would never have betrayed her alarm in front of servants, she nevertheless felt her heart quicken. Was she not safe here, after all?

  ‘But I have just this day learned,’ Father Cuthbert continued, ‘that for some weeks now this deadly enemy, unseen by us, has crept upon us in stealth and has been besieging our very gates. Would that I had been appraised of these grave tidings sooner.’

  Muttering again broke out in the hall, but from the servants’ bemused expressions, Lady Pavia could see that their priest might as well have been speaking in Latin.

  She coughed pointedly. ‘Father Cuthbert, unless you are telling us that the French are laying siege to this manor, I suggest you speak plainly. Otherwise I fear these men will rush out armed with bows and pikestaffs to engage the invisible enemy.’

  ‘The French?’ For a moment, the priest looked as confused as the servants. ‘No, no, m’lady, it is the Great Mortality. It has broken out in Porlock Weir and the—’

  But he got no further. A howl arose from the crowd of men and women. Some were wailing and clutching each other, others angrily demanded to know When? How many are stricken? Are any dead?

  It took several hard thumps of Wallace’s staff on the dais and repeated bellowed orders to ‘Hold your noise’, before the great hall fell silent once more. Even then the steward could not silence the sobs of some of the women.

  Father Cuthbert held up his hands. ‘The people of Porlock Weir have sought to conceal the plague that has struck them, as a leper tries to hide his sores or a harlot her shorn head. They are ashamed—’

  ‘And so they should be,’ Lady Pavia snapped.

  ‘But,’ Father Cuthbert shouted, struggling to be heard over the hubbub that was once again rising, ‘those who are faithful in their prayers and tithes need have no fear. The Angel of Death will pass over this manor for, as it says in the holy scriptures, two shall be gleaning together in the field, one shall be taken and the other left.’

  Wallace took a pace forward. ‘There’ll be no gleaning in the fields with any of them from Porlock Weir, I’ll make certain of that. And I’ve sent a rider to find Sir Nigel to tell him all that’s afoot. Porlock Weir is his property and he must rule on what’s to be done. Soon as he learns of it, I warrant Sir Nigel’ll send a physician straight here to tend his kin and all who serve in the manor. So you can hush your noise, Maud. There’s no cause for you to keep wailing like a cat with its tail afire.’

  Sir Harry leaned across to Lady Pavia. ‘And I’ll wager my best horse the only physician Sir Nigel will spare for this manor will be a dead one.’

  He pushed himself to his feet. Laying his hand on Wallace’s shoulder, he tugged him round to face him. ‘See that you start provisioning this manor at once, Master Wallace. Dispatch every man and boy who can be spared to hunt down whatever wild beast and bird they can that’s fit for eating and set the women to smoke, salt and pickle them. Send every wagon you’ve got to buy what stores of flour there are to be had and—’

  Wallace brushed off the hand as if it was an irritating fly. ‘I know my duty as steward, Sir Harry. I’d not have been trusted with the keeping of this place for twenty years if I didn’t. And I was just on the point of giving those self-same orders, if you’d let me finish.’

  Father Cuthbert leaned in, almost shouting to make Wallace hear over the tumult that was growing ever louder in the hall. ‘I must insist that I be allowed to lead the servants in prayer before you send them about their work. Tell them to kneel.’

  Sir Harry gave a mocking laugh. ‘It would take the Angel Gabriel himself to drive them to their knees. And even though our steward here plainly thinks he’s Moses, surely even he does not claim to have angelic powers.’

  With a great effort Lady Pavia heaved herself from the chair and snatching the staff from the startled steward’s hand she rapped sharply upon the floor. Those at the front turned at once and while it took longer for those at the back to fall silent, eventually they all did, most from sheer amazement that a woman was calling for their attention.

  ‘Father Cuthbert wishes you to kneel and receive his blessing, which only a fool would refuse with Death knocking at our door.’ She rapped the staff impatiently again. ‘Quickly now, kneel, and then you may be about your duties.’

  Using the staff to balance herself, Lady Pavia sank painfully to her knees. She wasn’t at all convinced she would be able to rise again without assistance, but as her husband, Hubert, had always said, Example is better than precept.

  As it transpired, the Angel Gabriel could take many guises, even that of a redoubtable matron upholstered in pea-green velvet for, one by one, the servants pulled off caps and hoods and knelt. The last to kneel were Sir Harry and Master Wallace, though from the poisonous glances they were darting at each other and at Father Cuthbert, it seemed neither was entertaining spiritual or contrite thoughts.

  Lady Pavia barely registered the Latin invocations Father Cuthbert was intoning, for she was offering her own prayers with as much fervency as any angel. Though she was determined not to show it, she was as frightened as any of the women sobbing in the hall. Had it been only thirteen years?

  Hubert had been carried home on a bier by men with their faces masked in vinegar-soaked cloths. They had dumped him in the courtyard and lumbered wearily away, abandoning him to his pain as he lay shivering and coughing in the rain. Most of the servants had run off weeks before and those who remained had taken one look at the blue-black marks on their master’s face and backed away, crossing themselves and muttering wild incantations. So it had been left to Lady Pavia and an ancient maid to haul her husband into the great hall. Lady Pavia had hurried to the stables and was thankful to find two servants who had not fled, drinking from a flagon of wine and playing dice. She’d ordered them to saddle the fastest horses and fetch a physician and a priest. But though she had waited and prayed, neither man ever returned.

  Alone in the manor, Lady Pavia and the maid had soothed Hubert’s fever as best they could, with cloths soaked in thyme water, and trickled syrups into the corner of his mouth to ease his cough. She’d held the basin and rubbed her husband’s back as he vomited blackened blood. He’d fallen back exhausted and stared up at her from bloodshot eyes, his lips drawn back in a terrible grimace. ‘No herb . . . in the garden can prevail . . . against the power of death,’ he’d rasped. If her throat had not been choked with tears, she would have smiled. It was so like Hubert that his final words should not be whispers of love, or e
ven a prayer, but one of his favourite old saws. Doubtless he’d be ready with another for the Archangel Michael at the gates of Purgatory. But perhaps, if the Archangel thought the proverb wise enough, it would shorten Hubert’s days of torment. She hoped it would be so.

  All through that long night, Lady Pavia had sat beside her husband’s corpse in the vastness of the cold, echoing hall, praying for his soul. Even the maid had, at the last, deserted her. And when the candles finally guttered out, Lady Pavia had sat on alone in the impenetrable darkness, listening to the rain splashing down into the empty hearth and dripping from the eaves on to the flagstones outside. Somewhere a dog was howling. It howled all night.

  Finally, when dawn broke and a chill grey light seeped into the hall, she called out for someone, anyone, to come and help her bury her husband. But not even the birds answered her. It was only then, when she rose, stiff with cold, and staggered out into the rain, that she saw a heap of sodden clothes lying across the threshold. Only when she prodded them with the tip of her shoe and felt the dull weight of cold flesh, did she understand. The maid had withdrawn to die discreetly and alone, outside in the rain-soaked night, so as not to disturb her mistress in her grief. Tears had caught in Lady Pavia’s throat as she crouched down beside the old woman to cover her face, but even then she had not permitted them to fall.

  ‘I distinctly instructed that mulled ale be brought,’ Eda scolded. ‘This – this pagan brew is fit only for cottagers.’

  Rosa merely gazed at her, her expression unchanging and unfathomable.

  ‘Answer me, Rosa!’ Eda demanded. ‘Are you so stupid that you cannot tell mead from ale? That hardly augurs well for a stillroom maid.’

  But Rosa, unmoved, continued to gaze at her until finally it was Eda who was forced to look away. ‘I can see I shall just have to fetch it myself,’ she said, tottering out of the solar.

  Rosa waited until the door closed behind her, then lifted the steaming jug and glanced enquiringly at Lady Pavia. The sweet aroma of hot honey and thyme wafted across Lady Pavia’s nostrils.

  ‘My lady, warm metheglin is soothing to the spirits and wards off fevers. It is better than wine for the stomach.’

  Sir Harry grunted. ‘Nothing soothes the spirits or the stomach like wine.’

  ‘Wine gives me wind,’ Lady Margery grumbled, from her chair by the fire. The young wards giggled. Lady Margery’s farts, especially when she was dozing, were a source of constant amusement to them.

  Lady Pavia glared them into silence. ‘I will try a little.’

  Rosa poured the warm metheglin into a goblet. Lady Pavia sipped it warily. The herbed mead had not been drunk in court circles for years; nor was it served in any of the manors she visited. Indeed, she could not recall tasting it since she was a child, but she had to admit that it warmed the body right down to the toes.

  She nodded. ‘I will take some more and you may pour some for the Lady Christina. It will do her good, and the girls too. Lady Margery, I do urge you to try some.’

  Rosa inclined her head by way of acknowledgement and, padding softly across the solar on the thick yellow skin of her bare feet, she handed a goblet to Christina, briefly raising her grey-blue eyes to meet the girl’s with a steady gaze. Lady Pavia caught Christina’s hesitant, almost furtive, smile but, seeing no reason why there should be any secrets between a lady and a stillroom maid, looked around for another source and immediately found it in Sir Harry, who was gazing at the pair with a wolfish expression that made the dowager most uneasy.

  ‘Sir Harry,’ Lady Pavia said sharply, ‘now that the Great Mortality has crept so close, I think you would be well advised to return to my cousin. It would appear no corner of this land can be hid from this deadly cloud.’

  Lady Margery gave a deep moan, crossing herself more fervently than a nun. Lady Pavia ignored her.

  ‘I have no intention of leaving, Lady Pavia,’ Sir Harry said. ‘With this present danger threatening, Sir Nigel will be relying on me to guard his interests here. Indeed, I expect to receive word from him as soon as the messenger returns. Rest assured, I have dispatched my own rider to Sir Nigel. I would not trust any message the steward sent to be other than a hound’s dinner of rumour, boasts and half-truths.’

  ‘We should all depart at once,’ Lady Margery wailed, taking another large gulp from her goblet. ‘It is not myself I fear for, but those dear, innocent girls. If any sickness should befall his wards, Sir Nigel would never forgive me.’

  ‘Take another sip of metheglin, Lady Margery. It will calm you,’ Lady Pavia said, not unkindly. ‘You speak of interests, Sir Harry. What would those be exactly?’ Her gaze slipped sideways to Christina. ‘You appear to have taken very little interest in the running of the manor. I have not observed you examining the books or inspecting the barns. Indeed, you seem to spend an uncommon amount of time riding off alone.’

  ‘Hunting, Lady Pavia,’ he said. His gaze also darted towards Christina. ‘The chase quickens the blood and wards off sickness. But, alas, since you will not grace me with your delightful company, I am forced to hunt in wretched solitude.’ He gave a courtly bow of the head to Lady Pavia, but she was under no illusion it was her company he sought.

  ‘Your wretchedness has clearly affected your skill with a bow, Sir Harry, for I have not seen you return with any kill.’

  ‘Alas, I am too tender-hearted.’ He gazed directly at Christina. ‘I see the gentle hind or the graceful bird and I cannot bring myself to pierce its poor, trembling heart.’

  Although he had not asked for any, Rosa padded across the boards and held out a gently steaming goblet. He was motioning her to take it away when he froze mid-gesture, staring at the string of blue glass beads hanging about the woman’s neck. He caught hold of it, pulling it up so that the concealed portion slid out from beneath the top of her kirtle. It flashed like a silver dagger in the firelight. Dangling from the necklace was a curved tusk or tooth of some kind, the tip sheathed with silver.

  Rosa did not try to pull it back but stood patiently while he examined it.

  ‘What is this?’ Sir Harry demanded.

  ‘A bear’s tooth. Very sharp.’

  ‘Since when did bears have silver teeth? Take it off. I want to see it properly.’

  He barely released his hold on the necklace long enough for Rosa to pull it over her head and snatched it the moment she held it out.

  The three young wards abandoned their sewing, and came rushing over, pawing at the beads, like a pack of excited puppies.

  ‘If a bear had a head full of teeth as big as that, he could bite your arm off,’ Helen squealed.

  ‘It would bite your whole head off, silly,’ Anne said, trying to snatch at the beads. ‘Can I try it on?’

  ‘Girls!’ Lady Margery squawked. ‘Return to your sewing this instant.’ The three wards, scowling, slunk back to their seats. ‘The very idea of putting something round your delicate necks that has been worn by a base-born maid, much less the tooth of some savage beast!’

  The elderly aunt was still scolding and fretting in equal measure, but Lady Pavia was no longer listening, bemused by Sir Harry’s fascination with the amulet.

  He held it close to the candle. ‘Something is carved on the tooth . . . a snake and . . . a bird.’ He lowered the amulet, frowning. ‘Where did you get this? The silver cap alone is worth far more than any maid could earn in a year.’ He dug his fingers into her arm, but though it must have pained her, she did not cry out. ‘You stole this!’

  Rosa’s grey-blue eyes hardened to flint, but she said nothing.

  Christina jumped up. ‘She isn’t a thief!’

  She flushed as both Lady Pavia and Sir Harry stared at her in surprise.

  ‘The Lady Christina is a trifle impetuous,’ Lady Pavia snapped, ‘but nevertheless I, too, see no reason to accuse the maid of theft. If the beast’s tooth were the property of any noblewoman or -man, the amulet would have hung on a costly chain of silver or gold, not on a tawdry necklace of the sort
pedlars sell to ploughboys to give to their sweethearts. I think you had best return it to her, Sir Harry. And you would do well to keep it hidden, Rosa. I doubt Father Cuthbert would approve of a woman employed in Sir Nigel’s household wearing such an amulet.’

  Sir Harry hesitated. He tipped the necklace from one hand to the other, watching the blue beads cascade into his palm, before tossing it on to the table. Rosa scooped it up and hung it around her neck again, dropping the tooth down the neck of gown to lie between her breasts.

  Sir Harry suddenly smiled. ‘Forgive me. I was merely curious. I have seen the carving on that tooth before, but I can’t quite remember . . .’

  ‘On a stone, my lord?’ Rosa replied with equal sweetness. ‘There is one such on the mound towards Porlock Weir.’

  ‘A cairn!’ Sir Harry’s gaze flicked towards Lady Pavia, who was still watching him. But, as if he could not stop himself, he reached out once more and caressed the beads round Rosa’s throat. ‘And is this ancient mound where you found that beast’s tooth?’

  ‘The bear’s tooth was not found for it was never lost, my lord,’ Rosa said. ‘Much is lost and some found, but there is more, my lord. Much more, if you know where to look.’

  ‘There! You see, Sir Harry?’ Lady Pavia said. ‘If you are desirous of having a bear’s tooth yourself, there are plenty more to be discovered, without depriving this poor woman.’ She glanced out of the casement towards the dense, dark tangle of trees covering the steep hillside beyond the wall of the manor. ‘But I suggest you make sure the bear is quite dead before you pull out its teeth. If wild bears still exist anywhere in this realm, I would not be surprised if this desolate corner is their last hiding place.’

  But when she turned her head, she saw that Sir Harry was not listening to her: he was gazing intently at the retreating back of the stillroom maid, his eyes glittering with excitement. Lady Pavia permitted herself a self-satisfied smile. If Sir Harry was here to hunt for a hind, far better he should harbour a stillroom maid than Randel’s wife. And, besides, Lady Pavia had glimpsed enough spirit in Rosa to suspect she was more than capable of drawing the teeth and claws of any bear that attempted to pursue her, even a noble one.