The Devil's Diadem

by Sara Douglass

  I realised I must be an intriguing sight, covered with damp patches, no doubt some soot, and my eyes half wild and braids hanging in disarray.

  ‘Is the child born yet?’ asked one of the cooks.

  I remembered Stephen’s admonition, but what could I do? ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘And …?’ said another cook. ‘A boy,’ I said.

  There were smiles and a murmur of conversation.

  ‘Are mother and child well?’

  Oh, sweet Jesu, what could I say? Not truly. Both are blackened carcasses, gone either to heaven or hell, as the state of their souls dictate.

  ‘Both are well,’ I said. ‘Please send the food and water as soon as you may.’

  Then I left, not able to bear any more questioning.

  The solar was empty when I returned, and so I clenched my jaw and walked to the closed door of the privy chamber. I tried to open it, but was stopped by the bulk of Owain the moment it had opened a crack.

  ‘It’s Maeb,’ he said over his shoulder, then he admitted me.

  In the short time I had been gone, Stephen had managed to rouse everyone within to effect a remarkable change (I had no doubt it was Stephen, for no one else could have managed this). The bed had been stripped and all its clothes and hangings neatly folded, and placed in piles in the most shadowy corner of the room.

  In front of the piles of textiles lay two shrouded bodies, one tiny. They were not immediately apparent, and I noticed them only because I looked for them.

  ‘When the food and drink has arrived,’ Stephen said, ‘and the water with which to clean ourselves, we shall adjourn to the solar.’

  I looked at him, then at the others. They all, as no doubt I, looked haggard and unkempt, everyone’s clothes dampened and blackened here and there, hair straggled, eyes wide and shocked and staring at the horror they had lived through. One alone was bad enough, but I realised that if anyone saw this group as a whole they would know immediately that all sat badly with our lady and her child.

  Oh, sweet Mother Mary, our lady. I looked again at the shrouded body, and my eyes filmed over with tears. I had loved Lady Adelie for her gentleness and kindness to me, and for her uncomplaining duty as wife and mother. I hoped I could be as virtuous a wife and mother as she.

  I didn’t think, not until later, that my own life now lay in mortal danger, and if I should live to be a wife and mother then that would be only by the grace of one of Lord Jesu’s miracles.

  The food, beer and water came, and the servants departed, and only then did Stephen allow us to move from the chamber of death into the solar. He called a guard to the stairwell, giving the order that we remain undisturbed; asking him also to tell the nurse who looked after Rosamund and John to keep Alice and Emmette in their chamber until Stephen came to talk to them. We all washed, taking our turns at the three bowls, and Evelyn, Yvette and I took advantage of the screen which hid Evelyn’s and my bed to change our chemises and kirtles, glad to rid ourselves of our filthy clothes.

  Once we were done we sat in a close group about the fireplace which someone, I know not who, had lit. We had all served ourselves some food — ladled meaty broth into bread trenchers, or taken some of the cold meats and cheese — but few among us had great appetite, still lost in the horror of Lady Adelie’s and her child’s deaths.

  Jocea and Gilda shared a look, then put down their food.

  ‘Great lord,’ Gilda said to Stephen, and I looked at her, surprised both for the over-grandness of the title and the strange (for her) clarity of her voice. ‘Great lord, my sister and I beg your leave to depart for Crickhoel.’

  ‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘You may not leave this castle. I —’

  He studied them for a moment, then rose and summoned yet another guard. This man Stephen talked to quietly for a few minutes, then asked Gilda and Jocea to accompany him.

  ‘He will take you to the dormitories of the outer bailey,’ Stephen said, ‘for you shall be comfortable there, but you may not leave this castle.’

  I felt my stomach turn over as I realised why Stephen said this, and I put my bread trencher down blindly by my feet, spilling a little of the gravy to the floor as I did so.

  ‘My lord?’ said Gilda, completely puzzled, unable to work through the implications of what had happened this day.

  ‘Do you not realise what you would carry to the village?’ Stephen said, his voice hard-edged. ‘Do you not understand that all of us who had close association with our lady, now likely carry what killed her?’

  I could not look at him, and there was utter silence after Stephen’s words. I wondered who would break it, if any would be stupid enough to say something merry to relieve the tension, and jumped a little when a guard who’d been standing in the stairwell now stepped into the solar.

  ‘My lord, the wet nurse Sewenna is here. Should I admit her?’

  I had two thoughts at once: I could not believe she had taken so long to rouse herself to attend her lady — had the child lived it would have been half-starved by now — and I felt some anger that she had indeed arrived to intrude on the strange peace of our little group.

  ‘No,’ Stephen said, ‘tell her to return to her husband and children. We shall not need her.’

  I wondered what Sewenna would think of that.

  When that man had gone, Stephen sent the two midwives off with their guard and sat down again.

  ‘They are going to no dormitory,’ he said, ‘but into close confinement. It is necessary, I am afraid. For the moment I want no word of what happened to my lady mother and her child to spread about the castle. Maeb, what did you say when you went to the kitchens?’

  ‘My lord, the cooks pressed me on what was happening, for word had spread that your lady mother was in her labour. I said only that the child had been born, a boy. One of the cooks asked if they were well, and I said aye. I am sorry … I did not know what else to say.’

  ‘That was good enough,’ Stephen said. ‘Thank you.’

  His face was haggard, and I felt desperately sorry for him.

  ‘You must rue your entrance here yesterday,’ Stephen said to Evelyn, and I felt a sudden, terrible stab of guilt. Sweet Jesu, if only I hadn’t insisted, Evelyn would now be safe in Crickhoel, planning her journey back to join her daughter and the de Tosny family as they moved to safety.

  Evelyn, sitting close to me, reached out a hand and touched my arm. ‘Is it the plague, my lord?’

  I suppose someone had to ask. To confirm.

  Stephen shifted his eyes to mine. ‘Aye,’ he said, softly.

  ‘What can we do?’ Evelyn said, her voice strained but still so very calm. ‘Pengraic Castle is closed,’ Stephen said. ‘Yesterday we were keeping people out. Today …’ He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, and managed a wry smile. ‘Today we keep people in. My lady mother, may God and all his saints hold her and bless her, carried it hence, and now … It sits so long unnoticed, spreading silently. We have all been near to my mother and will have carried it further afield within the castle.’

  He paused. ‘Did no one notice? That my mother …?’

  I could not look at Yvette. ‘She had been coughing at night, this past week or so,’ I said. ‘I thought it only that the child … I did not even think … how could she have caught it, my lord? Where?’

  Again Stephen shrugged. ‘A travelling minstrel, a servant. Perhaps at Rosseley, perhaps on the journey here. Who knows? God, God.’ Again he paused. ‘Did none of you notice anything? That fungus was well spread … how could my lady mother have concealed it?’

  Now I looked full at Yvette, challenging her.

  She shifted uncomfortably, and finally spoke, her voice soft and apologetic. ‘The fungus came three days ago, my lord. My lady … my lady begged me not to tell anyone. We kept it well hid.’

  Stephen stared at her. ‘You did not think for a moment to tell me? You did not think that I carry full responsibility for all at Pengraic and should by rights have known? Sweet Jesu, woman, if I had
known, if Owain had known, mayhap we could have prevented my mother’s terrible death! She did not even have time to confess! Why the silence?’

  Yvette raised her head, and her voice was stronger. ‘Your lady mother was terrified,’ she said. ‘As was I. We feared what might happen if we —’

  ‘You think something worse could have happened than what actually did?’ Stephen all but shouted.

  Yvette dropped her eyes to her lap.

  Stephen sighed. ‘I will speak with d’Avranches,’ he said, ‘within the hour. He needs to know. Together we shall organise castle and garrison against the panic and sickness that will come. I will also send word to my father. I will need to risk a messenger, someone recently arrived who may not yet have had any contact with the plague in the castle. My father needs to know that the plague is here, and that his lady wife …’

  Stephen had to stop and collect himself. ‘We cannot let word of what truly transpired here spread about the castle. There would be panic. Thus we will tell people that while my lady mother gave birth to an infant son, both died within an hour. I don’t know … there must be some reason we can give?’

  ‘Your lady mother died of bleeding,’ Yvette said. ‘We could not staunch it. And the child? He was weakly and took a few bare breaths before expiring. If Mistress Maeb told people that all was well, then,’ Yvette shrugged, ‘she had left the chamber before these tragedies occurred.’

  Stephen nodded. ‘Good enough.’ He rubbed at his eyes, tired and emotional. ‘Sweet Jesu. I will need to tell Alice and Emmette their beloved mother is dead, although I will tell them Yvette’s tale, not the true tragedy. Owain, what can we do to prepare for the sickness spreading?’

  ‘I will sort through my herbs,’ Owain said. ‘Some may possibly be helpful. And I will organise men to clean out the chapel for the sick.’

  Stephen gave him a slightly puzzled look.

  ‘The sick need to go somewhere,’ Owain said, ‘and the chapel has a stone floor, walls and vaulting. It will be safe.’

  I felt sick. Lady Adelie’s torturous death could easily have set the castle ablaze with its wooden floors and panelling. It had only been by the fastest and most concerted effort that the fire had not spread from her bed (I remembered Stephen moving the poor child to the stone hearth to die in flames there).

  Suddenly I imagined a score of people burning at the same time.

  Suddenly I imagined flames crawling down my own skin.

  For the first time, I realised that I would likely die in the coming weeks.

  I bit my lip to stop the sob that almost escaped. Sweet Mother Mary, I did not want to die!

  I lifted my eyes, and met Stephen’s gaze. I saw in his face such sorrow, such care, that tears finally escaped, and the sob from my lips, and I bent my head and cried, given over to the grief of my lady’s death and my own impending doom.

  Chapter Six

  Numbed by all that had happened, I nonetheless managed to get through the day, glad to be busy. Stephen announced the death of his lady mother in childbed, and the baby with her. She was to be laid to rest that very same day (for anyone asking about the rush, Stephen said that his grief and the summer heat did not allow further delay).

  It was given to Yvette, Evelyn and myself to prepare Lady Adelie and her child for burial. The castle carpenters were building a casket for her, and we needed to shroud our lady in garments and wrappings suitable for one of her rank.

  Normally we would have washed her body, dressed her hair, and garbed our lady in her finest robes for burial.

  But none of us could face her blackened, terrible corpse. We had loved Lady Adelie and owed her full respect, but we simply could not touch her terrible corpse in its full, horrific nakedness. To this day it is a guilt I still carry. I wondered how it would be for me upon my own death.

  We first re-clothed the bed in fresh hangings and bedclothes and removed any trace of soot from the walls, floor and furniture. Then, gritting our teeth, we took Lady Adelie’s hastily-wrapped corpse from its shadowy corner, unwrapped as much as we could bear, then carried her to the bed. There she lay, wrapped in several layers of linen; we could not face unwinding her any more.

  We stood, and stared.

  ‘What shall we do?’ I whispered, feeling anew the terror of the manner of Lady Adelie’s death.

  Her corpse was twisted and contracted by the fire that had consumed it. Within the hour we needed to have her prepared for the casket the carpenters would be carrying into this chamber, and poor Lady Adelie needed to be laying flat, her arms crossed over her breast, in peaceful repose. If she were all crooked and twisted, then the tale that she had died in childbed was immediately going to be exposed for the lie it was.

  ‘We will need to fix things,’ Yvette said, full of practicality, and, her mouth fixed in a grim, tight line, she grasped Lady Adelie’s left arm, which poked upward beneath the wrappings. Try as she might, however, she could not move it.

  ‘We will need to break it,’ Evelyn said, and my mouth dropped open in horror as I stared at her.

  ‘When I was young,’ Evelyn continued, ‘my uncle died in a fire. His corpse looked much the same as the Lady Adelie’s. In order to fit him into his casket, we had to break his limbs.’

  ‘What can we use?’ Yvette said, and at that moment all I wanted was to flee the room. The thought of being here when Yvette and Evelyn …

  ‘Last year,’ Evelyn said, moving over to the fireplace, ‘there was a loose brick here in the hearth. If it has not been remortared … no, it is still loose.’

  Oh sweet Jesu.

  Evelyn came back to the bed, carrying the brick. ‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ she said, and she lifted the brick high.

  I turned away; I could not watch. But I stood there, my face in my hands, for the next while as a sickening series of thuds and snaps came from behind me.

  After a while, blessedly, it ceased and I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Maeb,’ Evelyn said, ‘but it needed to be done.’

  I wiped the tears from my face. ‘We should pray for her.’

  ‘Later,’ said Yvette, ‘when she is safely in her casket. We must continue now, for who knows when the casket shall arrive.’

  So we continued, the work not quite so vile. Lady Adelie was still wrapped in the linens — somehow Evelyn and Yvette had done their work without the need to unwrap her — and so we merely straightened her as best we could, avoiding looking at the loathsome stains where bodily fluids from her broken corpse seeped through the linens. We collected the form of the infant, also wrapped, and placed it across Lady Adelie’s feet, binding it tightly in place. Then we wrapped both corpses in many layers of some fresh unmarked linens, then in a thickly embroidered woollen wrap. These masked the destruction beneath, as well as the smell of burned flesh, and provided a suitable richness for Lady Adelie’s, and her child’s, rank.

  I suppose the other two women, as I did, wondered occasionally about the plague the corpses must carry, but then, like me, they had already been so heavily exposed to Lady Adelie that I think we feared her wrapped corpse less than her living body.

  We knelt by the bed, our hands clasped, our heads bent, and we prayed for our lady and her child. We begged Lady Adelie’s forgiveness for the vile things we had done to her corpse, and entreated the saints to take care of her in heaven, where she surely was.

  Then, when the carpenters arrived, we rose from our knees and allowed them entry.

  Lady Adelie and her child were interred late that afternoon in the chapel. It was a sombre affair for most attending — those of Lady Adelie’s children present within the castle, the senior commanders and soldiers of the garrison, the castle servants. But for Stephen, Yvette, Evelyn and myself it had an added overtone of dreadfulness. How soon before there were myriad services? How soon before a chorus of grieving carried on through each day and night? How soon before death grew so abundant that services were dispensed with and the dead buried unceremoniously in a pit beyond th
e castle walls and no one the strength left to grieve?

  Several of the wives of the castle servants stood to one side and wailed and sobbed, rending their hair. It was to be expected at a funeral for someone of the rank of Lady Adelie, and no one paid them much mind. Owain conducted the service with swiftness, spending only a little time on the sermon, speaking to us of Lady Adelie’s life spent serving her lord, her children and those within her household. He spoke also of the nature of grief and of comfort, and how we should hold dear Lady Adelie’s memory.

  I listened to little of it as I held dear Rosamund in my arms. I had not spent much time with her in the past weeks, for my service to her mother had taken up so much of my days. But now I cuddled her tight, stroking her forehead now and then and murmuring comfort to her. Poor girl, she did not understand what was happening, and was upset more by others’ grief and the wailing of the women than from her own comprehension of the loss of her mother.

  I held her tight, and wondered what would become of her.

  Looking about the chapel, I could see some of the subtle changes Owain had wrought to turn the chapel’s use from worship to care of the dying. Right at the back were stacks of trestle beds, from what I could glimpse beneath the cloth coverings. There were a pile of bowls and some cloths discretely stacked in another corner. The chapel had little furniture in the nave, but I did notice that some of the side screens had been moved against the walls. It would take little time for the sick to be accommodated.

  I bent my head and wept, now unable to keep my sorrow from Rosamund, my sobs joining in chorus with those of the other women. I had shed so many tears today, but it seemed that there was supply enough left to shed many more.

  That night, late, Stephen came to the solar. All three of us — Evelyn, Yvette and myself — shared this space, but now Stephen did not care overmuch for convention, or what Evelyn and Yvette thought.

  More than anything, that drove home how dire he regarded our situation.

  ‘Mistress Maeb,’ he said, shaking me awake by my shoulder. ‘Rise if you will, robe yourself, and join me. I will be waiting in the stairwell.’