The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  The mud beneath her feet is slimy and slippery, as she’d known it would be. Another step, and then a fall, a splash, a sharp cry of pain. She does not rise, but sits, grasping her ankle. Father Cuthbert runs around the edge of the pool, and without pausing to remove his shoes, edges down to the water’s edge.

  ‘Are you hurt? Have you sprained your ankle?’

  ‘It is jarred, nothing more,’ she says, struggling to rise. She does not address him as Father. She does not want him to be reminded of his vows. Let his eye and groin remind him that he is a man, nothing more.

  He offers his hand. Hers is cool in his sticky palm. Then, with only a moment’s hesitation, his arm slips round her back, beneath her armpit and across her soft breast as he lifts her and supports her as she hobbles back and sinks down on the withered grassy bank.

  He has to release her then – he no longer has any pretext for holding her. But he runs both his hands down the muscles of her leg, checking, as he tells her, that the limb is not injured. He checks slowly, thoroughly. His voice has an odd high pitch to it.

  He sits down next to her, staring at the dead pool, but his eyes steal secret glances at her breasts, her belly and her thighs, like a naughty child, afraid of being caught.

  ‘It is filthy water to wash yourself in.’

  ‘I had not remembered the pond has dried up. It was so hot. I longed to bathe and since we cannot go to the sea . . .’

  He could walk away now. He could fetch her clothes to let her cover herself. But he does neither. Instead his hand creeps spider-like towards her thigh. She leans forward so that the bear’s tooth necklace swings free from her damp skin. The glinting silver tip wrests his attention from the curve of her leg.

  She smiles, twisting her body towards him and cupping the tooth in her hand, so that he can examine the carving on it. ‘The snake and the bird. You know them, of course. The emblem of St Cadeyrn.’

  ‘I do not venerate the saints of the Celtic Church. The Holy Catholic Church is the only true faith. Only she may lay claim to unbroken succession from St Peter.’

  ‘I thought the chapel at Porlock Weir was dedicated to him.’

  ‘It is dedicated to the Blessed St Olaf, King of Norway, who brought that country to Christ.’ He glowers at the tooth and almost seems to forget that it hangs about the neck of a naked woman. ‘You should wear a cross, not that heathen object. Now that the pestilence rages, death might strike at any time and that will not keep you from Satan’s grasp.’

  He reaches towards it as if he would tear it off, but instead his fingers linger over her skin.

  She thrusts herself gently towards him, so that his grasping fingers flatten over her breast. ‘But why do they say the chapel belongs to St Cadeyrn?’ she murmurs. ‘Is his symbol carved in there?’

  He stares at the amulet, which dangles against the back of his hand, pinning his fingers to her flesh. ‘There is a reliquary. It is valuable. It cannot simply be discarded,’ he says irritably. ‘If I could—’

  But he is interrupted by a shout. ‘What an edifying spectacle – the pious priest and his whore.’

  Father Cuthbert jerks round, scrambling to his feet in undignified haste. Rosa does not move. Sir Harry is standing behind them, his face flushed and perspiring – his padded gypon is far too heavy for such a sweltering day. His hand is clenched tightly around the hilt of his long dagger in the sheath that dangles from his belt. Father Cuthbert’s hand slides to his own knife.

  ‘The maid slipped and fell while she was bathing. I was merely assisting her until she could stand again.’

  ‘Bathing – in that?’ Sir Harry sneers. ‘I saw you. Pray tell me how exactly you assist a woman to stand by groping her breast.’ He takes a pace towards Rosa, who still sits on the bank, legs drawn up. He grabs her by the hair, jerking her head back, but she makes no attempt to defend herself, though she could. Pulling his dagger from its sheath, he uses the point of the blade to hook the bear’s claw necklace up in front of her face.

  ‘This is what your holy swain is really interested in, Rosa, or did you think it was you? Were you flattered that a priest should choose you over the pretty little creatures in the manor? He wants to know where King Cadeyrn’s treasures are to be found, all the gold that was buried with him. That’s what he wants from you and he’s prepared to commit any sin to get it!’

  ‘I know nothing of any treasure.’ Father Cuthbert’s face is pale with rage. ‘I don’t even believe Cadeyrn existed. It’s a mere legend, a superstition for the gullible who would rather put their trust in pagan stories than in Christ.’

  Sir Harry gives a slow, humourless laugh. ‘And yet you have his reliquary hidden in your bag. How so, if the man is merely a fireside tale?’

  ‘You searched my possessions!’

  Father Cuthbert launches himself at Sir Harry, his knife in his hand. The suddenness of the attack catches the nobleman by surprise. Father Cuthbert strikes out wildly, his blade slashing across Sir Harry’s chest. Woollen padding bursts from the tear in the velvet gypon. Sir Harry yells in outrage as if his guts have been spilled.

  He tries to raise his own dagger, but the point is still hooked under the bear amulet hanging around Rosa’s throat. She gasps as the necklace jerks against her neck. The string of blue beads snaps so suddenly that Sir Harry is thrown off balance. The knife lurches upwards, missing Father Cuthbert’s nose by a hair. A shower of beads bounces on the baked earth. The priest lashes out to protect himself with a savage, but uncontrolled, blow. Where Father Cuthbert is aiming is hard to tell, but as Sir Harry twists to avoid the blade, he slips on the beads and the priest’s knife catches his elbow. Carried by the force of his fall, the blade slices up his arm to his shoulder, ripping not only cloth this time, but flesh too. Blood gushes from the long wound.

  Sir Harry lies gasping on the ground, clutching his arm, pressing the gash to staunch the flow. The bloody knife falls from Father Cuthbert’s hand and he sinks to his knees, staring in horror at the wound he has inflicted. Rosa runs back to the pile of her clothes. Snatching up her shift, she rips the linen with her teeth, tearing a long strip from it. Pressing the rest of the garment to Sir Harry’s arm, she ties it tightly in place with the strip. Father Cuthbert still kneels on the scorched grass, unable to move.

  Rosa snatches up the bloody knife and, quicker than a cut-purse, conceals it beneath the heap of her gown. ‘I will get rid of this, Father. You must go quickly to the water trough in the herb garden and wash the blood from your hand and sleeve. No one’ll be there at this hour. Then return to the house. I’ll take him to the stillroom and stitch the wound. It is only a flesh wound.’

  ‘A flesh wound,’ Sir Harry squeals. ‘He nearly took my arm off. I’ll see you dance on the gallows for this, priest!’

  ‘You can move your fingers,’ Rosa tells him. ‘There is no lasting damage. The wound will heal well if you let me tend it. But it would be wise to say that you cut your arm in a fall. Sir Nigel and the Black Prince have fought valiantly in many great battles. They would despise any nobleman who couldn’t defend himself against an untrained priest armed only with a knife.’

  Sir Harry snatches his arm away from her, wincing at the pain. ‘Don’t think you’ll escape unpunished, priest. You’ll pay for this and pay dearly. I’ll see to that myself. You too, woman. You’re the cause of all this. You know where Cadeyrn’s gold is hidden, and before I’ve finished, you’ll be begging to tell me.’

  Chapter 45

  Will

  Riddle me this: I saw a man who never was, who smiled and wept, and walked and talked, but uttered not a sound.

  Saw another body float past my cave on the high tide, lying on his back, staring up at the dawn-pink sky, his face and hands blackened from the pestilence. His arms were moving gently up and down with the motion of the waves, as if he was simply enjoying a swim after a hard day’s work. Maybe he’d been thrown off a ship or dumped in the sea further along the coast by villagers who’d hoped he’d wash up on so
meone else’s beach. If he floated ashore, the women would just push him out again with long poles. They hadn’t the strength to bury their own dead, let alone a stranger.

  As soon as the tide receded I clambered down over the wet rocks and picked my way towards the cottages. I could hear Sara and Aldith yelling at each other from the other end of the beach. Sara was telling her to stop idling and find food or mind her daughter. Aldith, who no longer cared for anything, not even her own child, was shrieking back at Sara, taunting her for failing to find Janiveer.

  Aldith had a point. The journey had been a waste of time, but time was the only thing we had left to waste. We’d learned precious little except the mad hermit’s prediction about Janiveer’s bones, which I’ll grant you sounded profound, but then so does a drunk jester and his words mean nothing either. I suspected the whole mummery had simply been a ruse to get rid of unwanted visitors to Kitnor, and if that had been all the harm it had done, it was no harm at all. But Sara had paid dearly, losing her ring and her hope that her sons were alive. And, if I was any judge, that journey had probably caused her to lose her cottage too.

  The villagers stood by the notion that the blaze had been started by nothing more than a spark from the fire, not properly banked down for the night. Sara, they said, was half crazed with grief, and women like that forget to do the most basic things. Else she had fallen asleep before she could tend it, worn out by that foolish journey. But though Sara was grieving she had not fallen into the numb stupor that was gripping some of the other women in Porlock Weir. They just sat and stared at nothing for hours, not stirring even when they were shaken. No, Sara was more determined than ever to find Janiveer, for she had convinced herself that only she could tell her where to find the bodies of her sons. I knew the fire had not been started by her carelessness. I reckon someone had deliberately set the thatch alight from outside the cottage, and I had a shrewd idea who it was, though I had no proof and not a clue as to why.

  A couple of women were picking their way across the wet sand towards the fish weirs. Once, only those who had the rights to the weirs could pick the fish, but no one cared about rights any more. Whoever got there first grabbed their fill, though there were fewer fish than before, for in several places the stones had fallen away and the ditches behind them were becoming ever shallower as the sand washed in. But even so, most of the women were reluctant to be the first to arrive for, as well as fish, the sea washed in things no one wanted to find.

  I never wanted to see or smell another fish. Meat: that was what I craved. The Holy Hag had no piglets left to steal, so I’d been trying my hand at setting snares in the clearing at the edge of the forest. I’d not caught much so far. My old master had taught us many things, but setting snares was not a skill he’d ever imagined a jester would require. My catch so far had been a fox that had tried to savage me when I went to release it and a squirrel, which had been welcome enough, though there wasn’t enough flesh on it to keep a pixie fed for a day, never mind a ravenous dwarf, but I had repositioned my snares and tried to convince myself that this time I’d find a plump pheasant or even a hare in one.

  A rattling and rumbling made me glance back. Sybil, the brewer and baker, was pushing a wheelbarrow covered with an old blanket up the rough, sun-baked track. Although she’d twice the muscles of most men, she was struggling with her load, weakened, like everyone in the village, from the diet of little more than fish. I knew that, whatever she was trying to move, it was unlikely to be kegs of ale. She stopped to wipe her brow on the back of her hand, then bent to lift the handles again.

  She shoved it hard, trying to get enough momentum to roll the wooden wheel up the steepest part of the rise but, as I watched, it hit a stone jutting up out of the track. The wheelbarrow tipped sideways and the contents and blanket slithered out. Sybil sank down helplessly on the side of the path, her head in her hands. Reluctantly, I edged towards her. The blanket still partly covered the bundle, but as I drew close, I saw something pale sticking out from beneath. The blue-mottled toes of a foot, the nails yellow and thick.

  I hastily took a few paces back, but Sybil glanced up. ‘Don’t fret, sprat. It was the flux that took him, not the pestilence.’ She waved a meaty red hand towards the huddled figure lying on the track. ‘Old Abel’s finally gone, the stubborn old goat. Complaining right up to the end that he wanted ale and bread. Took him fish and fetched him water, but he had such a thirst on him. Kept telling him the stream was almost dry, but he was always grumbling that I didn’t bring him enough.’

  ‘He should have been grateful,’ I said. ‘You didn’t need to take him any at all. He was no kin to you, was he?’

  She shrugged. ‘He was a good customer, when I’d ale to brew.’ She sighed. ‘Couldn’t leave his poor old body in his cottage to rot, but it doesn’t seem right, laying him in that pit as if he’d got the pestilence like them.’ She spoke as if there was shame in their deaths.

  Between us we heaved the body back into the wheelbarrow and I helped her trundle it down to the shore. We dug a hole in the wet sand and mud, heaving stones over it to keep the corpse anchored down. He’d been a fisherman once. Lying between land and sea, where he could listen to the gulls and the waves, was as good a place as any to rest. Better than that foul, stinking pit, anyway. I left Sybil squatting on the sand, staring out at the sea.

  She turned her head as I waddled away. ‘Sara’s right,’ she called out. ‘You may be a runt, but you got more kindness in your small frame than men three times your size. And its kindness means far more to a woman than any amount of fine looks or gold, for they’ll not keep her warm or comforted.’

  I must have looked alarmed, for she gave a roar of laughter. ‘Don’t you fret, sprat. I’m not looking for a husband. With my girth I’d likely squash you as flat as flounder if I took you to my bed.’

  She stared at the rocks covering old Abel, and such an expression of grief swept across her face that I wanted to hug her.

  ‘Besides,’ she murmured, ‘I don’t reckon we’ll ever see weddings or happiness again after this. Feels like the whole world is dying.’

  When I finally reached my snares they were empty. They’d not even been disturbed. Either I was hopeless at setting them or even the game had deserted the forest. I shifted them again and carefully covered them. Maybe all the birds and beasts had moved on in search of water. There was one snare left to check. I’d set it further into the forest, hoping that, if nothing else, I’d at least trap another squirrel. I pushed and trampled through the dry undergrowth. The blackberries were wizened and shrivelled before they’d had a chance to ripen, and even under the deep shade of the trees, the ferns’ fronds were brown and crumbling.

  I’d tied an old length of cord around the tree trunk so that I could spot where I’d concealed the snare. I found the marker cord easily enough; after all, I’d only set it there the night before. But when I cleared away the fallen leaves I’d used to hide it, I discovered the pegs I’d hammered into the ground had been wrenched out and the snare-line snapped. Something had got caught in the trap, but it had broken free. I cursed heartily as only a dwarf, fake or otherwise, can.

  I was waddling away when a flash of red caught my attention among the brown undergrowth. I moved closer. It was the bloody leg of a fox. My snare was pulled tight about it, but the top of the leg had been ripped from the body at the hip. I have to confess to being a little sick at the sight. I felt a pang of guilt that the wretched creature should have been so desperate to get away that it had torn off its own leg. But was that even possible?

  I searched about, wondering if the creature was lying injured somewhere close by. It took several minutes to find it, but eventually I did. The fox was lying beneath a tree – or, rather, what was left of it. The carcass had been chewed and mauled, the bones cracked and splintered. The head looked as if someone had attacked it with a pollax, smashing the skull and tearing off half of the face, ripping the bloody flesh down to the white bone beneath. Something had kil
led the fox and ripped it from the snare with tremendous force. A pack of feral dogs or even other foxes? Foxes running in packs, swarming out of the forests into villages and towns. I glanced anxiously about me, feeling pairs of eyes watching me from the shadows.

  But the idea that this might have been dogs was not a comforting thought either. Even longshanks fear packs of wild dogs, especially when you see what they can do to a sheep, but at least most men stand head and shoulders above dogs and can run. When you’re a dwarf, your face is pretty much on a level with a dog’s, and light of foot we may be, but fleet of foot we are not.

  I began to edge away as softly and rapidly as I could, trying not to break a twig or make a sound, though even I could hear the rasp of my breath and the thumping of my heart. I was so busy looking over my shoulder for fear that I was being stalked, that I stumbled over a loose stone and fell to my knees.

  As I heaved myself up on the rough bark of a tree, I suddenly saw what had been too far above my head for me to notice before. There were long thick scratches on either side of the tree trunk, so deep that the naked flesh of the tree showed through the grey bark. Those marks were fresh and I knew not even the largest mastiff in my lord’s kennels could have reached up to claw that high. I ran as fast as my bandy legs would carry me, and didn’t stop until I’d reached the burned shell of Sara’s home.

  Gasping for breath and sweating like a whore in a stew-house, I crumpled down on the sun-scorched grass on top of the rise in front of the cottage. Even after a week, the stench of burned reeds and charred timbers still hung in the air, but that didn’t seem to trouble the rooks that perched in a long line along the top of the blackened shell cawing loudly and pecking at the walls, as if they were determined to reduce those to rubble too.