Infinite Sacrifice (Infinite Series, Book 1)

by L. E. Waters

  My thoughts drift to a seed stuck in my tooth since dinner. I try to dislodge it with my tongue as she rants on until she shakes me to pay attention.

  “Fires would not light, bread was molding, and crops were flattened by hail. Eighteen months of pouring rain! Even fine families like mine had trouble finding adequate food, as others were scavenging garbage—eating bird dung, pets, and even people!” She realizes how frantically her voice has risen and sits back in the chair, finishing in a hastened whisper, “It was terrible. I never want to witness such things again.”

  “That will not happen again.” She doesn’t even hear me in her tirade.

  “My father, very sensible man he was, took us and left. On our way out, we saw families: naked, skin and bones, on their hands and knees, eating grass like beasts! Many fields could not return to production for years, and some were ruined forever. I saw such horrors that I did not come back to London for many years, until your father brought me back.” She pulls my chin up for our eyes to meet. “We still have our manor in Windsor. You must speak to Hadrian about leaving at once before this spreads!”

  “Let us pray together now that this plague will not hit, and we will not have to go anywhere.”

  I help her onto her knees, shuffle beside her with our rosaries wrapped around our clasped hands, and we recant our Lady’s prayer.

  Chapter 2

  The prayers went unanswered. Three days later, Hadrian receives word the mariners who ventured onto the plague ship are extremely ill. Hadrian is called to go look at them. Believing the plague is caused by infected air, he asks me for my sachet of rosemary. He calls two houses down for his apprentice to assist him. He is in such a hurry to leave, he forgets to kiss me before he steps out the door.

  “Good-bye!” I call after him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

  Mother and I busy ourselves making smelling apples from black pepper, red and white sandal, roses, camphor, and four parts of bol armeniac. Mother has been advised that holding one of these apples under your nose lends protection from disease. I take my smelling apple and go out to the courtyard behind our stone house. It is quiet and peaceful in the garden. Most of the flowers are past bloom and now giving way to autumn’s crisp slumber. I can faintly hear the hustle and bustle of Cheapside. I am not permitted out of the house unless Hadrian gives me permission, so this is my favorite spot to be alone. I sit there looking at my smelling apple, hoping it will keep me safe.

  Hadrian comes back looking worried. At supper, he tells us, “It most definitely is the Black Death. It has already spread to the mariner’s families, in only three days!”

  I can’t eat with this news. “Are they going to recover?”

  “One man is almost dead, the other two, I do not know.”

  “You did not touch them, did you?” Mother asks, her thin brows drawn together.

  “Of course not! I had my apprentice go in and tell me of their symptoms. I instructed him through an open window, facing north.”

  We are both relieved at this and feel more at ease in his presence again.

  “Is there any treatment?” I ask.

  Our servants interrupt us as they bring in our fish dinner.

  Hadrian takes one look at it and says, “We will not be having fish anymore. Who knows what water it has come from and what foul air it has inhaled.” He pushes the dish back at the servant. “Find something else quickly. Some animal that has breathed only London air, and remember, no spices at all!” He turns back to us. “They could be spices sent from the Genoans’ galleys, for God’s sake!” I must have shown my confusion, since Hadrian rolls his eyes and spits, “The dirty mongrels we have to thank for spreading this god-awful disease to Europe.”

  Mother looks embarrassed that I hadn’t known this too.

  “Is there any treatment?” I ask again.

  “Well, if the lesions ripen, one should skillfully rupture it, but who is going to get close to a peasant plague victim?”

  “Is there nothing else to be done?” Mother wonders, I’m sure, for her own reasons.

  “Well again, if there were anyone foolish enough to attend them, bloodletting would surely draw out the body’s heat from fever. There has been some talk in France about certain plague antidotes.”

  “Antidotes?” Mother perks up at this information. “Where can we obtain them?”

  “Lucky for you and Elizabeth, I was so clever to have recently received them from the Parisian apothecary.” Mother and I smile at this. “That is what I was picking up at the seaport that day, ironically.”

  “How much antidote do you have?” I begin eating again at this happy news.

  “I have the whole assortment. One mixture of fig, filbert, and rue—all said to be beneficial. A bottle of little white pills of aloe, myrrh and saffron. I also have a few little pots of theriac, mithridate, bol armeniac, and terra sigillata. But the most potent and rare antidote I sent for”—he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little corked vial—“is this little beauty, ground emerald powder, the most powerful.”

  Our eyes sparkle as we fix them on the green shiny powder held in the glow of the candlelight.

  “How lucky we are, Elizabeth! To have such a wise and wonderful man in our house!”

  The dimple on the right side of his face deepens with pleasure at my mother’s recognition.

  “This is only to be used if nothing else works. Cost me a bloody fortune. Had to sell three horses from Windsor to obtain it, but it will serve us nicely, if need be.”

  “We made ten smelling apples this morning,” I say, trying to contribute.

  “Very good. I will need one for my apprentice and me on the morrow. I need to keep abreast of the emerging situation. Even though I have provided us the antidotes—”

  Mother interrupts. “But you will only save them for us, right? You are not intending to waste them on your patients, or worse, peasants!” Her voice rises to an uncomfortable pitch.

  “Calm down, Jacquelyn.” He leans back and stretches his long legs under the table. “Of course I will not waste them on peasants. The emerald powder is exclusively for us, but the other antidotes I will sell at a high price to dying lords and ladies in this city. We will reap a fortune from it.”

  “So wise, so wise,” she says, rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

  Clearly relishing her praise Hadrian says, “The question is not what can be done once stricken, but more importantly, what can be done as a preventive measure.”

  Mother and I lean in, waiting to be blessed with the treasured knowledge.

  “Do tell us?” Mother pushes.

  “Wine, and white wine is best, should be consumed at least once a day.”

  Mother nods aggressively in agreement as he continues, “All excessive exercise should be avoided. Also any activity which would open your pores should be avoided, such as bathing and intercourse. They all allow the poison to seep in.”

  He looks at me as he says this, and I am relieved to be able to avoid the unpleasant act for some time.

  “Fine advice. We shall have a glass of wine this very night!” Mother calls the servant, and we toast our goblets in unison.

  “To health in the midst of pestilence!”

  Chapter 3

  In the morning, I watch Hadrian dress for the day from under the warm covers of goose-down. He pulls on his constrictive hose, which unfortunately clings to every crevice and bulge. He throws his shirt over his woolen breeches that are dingy and loose from the infrequent washing. Lastly, he crawls into his forest-green kirtle, which is made of the finest crushed velvet from France.

  He nudges my shoulder. “Elizabeth, please wake for inspection.”

  I pull down the covers as he takes my pulse and feels for fever. He searches my abdomen, neck, and thighs for buboes: swellings caused by the plague. Finding none, he hands me the chamber pot. Used to this act by now, I casually get up, go behind the painted screen, and squat over the clay basin.

  “I have no b
owel movement this early,” I say minutes later as I hand him my pot.

  He looks disappointed. “You should have them regularly. You need to eat more figs. I have mine every morning upon waking. My digestion is remarkable.” He points to his full chamber pot by the bed.

  Taking my pot under his nose, he inhales deeply and ponders for a moment. “Definitely not with child. Nevertheless, we have only been married three months, so that is nothing to worry about. These are terrible times to bring children into the world anyway.” He pulls the urine in for closer inspection. “I see no evidence of contaminants.”

  He leaves both chamber pots on the floor for the servants to dump out the window later and leaves without saying good-bye. I weave my long, dark brown hair into a thick, shining braid and tie the bottom with a burgundy silk ribbon. I finish dressing with my embroidered burgundy velvet kirtle that mother gave me as a wedding present and go down for breakfast.

  Mother is already sitting at the table. “Hadrian gave me excellent praise of my bowels this morning. He said for you to eat more figs.” She pushes the figs toward me and then pulls her kirtle up to scratch at a fleabite on her knee, exposing the birthmark that is darkening with age.

  “Yes, Mother.” I take one and shove it in my mouth.

  “You know, I was first wary of your father choosing Hadrian to wed you. He came from a poor peasant family with no title or property. But your father was relentless on the fact that he was a medical prodigy from Oxford and was going to be successful.” She scoffs. “Thank God that unruly horse threw that lord off, shattering his leg in so many pieces that only Hadrian could fix it. Had that not happened, poor young Hadrian could not have gone to University, and we would not have our emerald powder, my girl.” She pats my knee. “As dreary and boring as he is, it has proved very auspicious indeed for us.”

  I didn’t have much say in the decision but am glad to have served my mother in this way, remembering all the criticisms she made daily about Father’s ill choice.

  As the weeks progress, Mother and I watch how the city changes from within the confines of our house. The hustle and bustle heard from afar fades, as the church bells ring constantly for funeral services. Men carry coffins on shoulders, with mourners trailing behind, at least twenty times daily down our street. People who venture out do so without stopping or speaking to passersby, holding their herbal remedies close to their noses all the while. Some of our faithful servants stop showing at our house, and no one knows if they fell ill or simply fear to leave their homes.

  Hadrian returns increasingly paranoid every night. “We have to ready to leave for Windsor soon,” he says at breakfast. “It is getting worse than I expected. Peasants are dropping in the streets off their carts and during their daily rituals. The city put an ordinance out today to force every property owner to make out a will. People are dying so fast they cannot find a notary to bequeath their assets!”

  “Have you made out a will?” Mother ventures.

  “Of course I have. All my business has been seen to.” He speaks with his mouth full of food. “I am worried about the peasants’ uprising as the death toll mounts. We need to ready ourselves to leave soon.”

  Mother wads up her cloth napkin and pushes her chair away from the table. “I can be ready by noon.”

  “I will wait until I see signs of danger, but we should always be ready.” He turns to me. “My apprentice has died.”

  I am shocked. “I had not even heard the boy was sick.”

  “Yes, he had been sick for a week. I had hoped he would improve. I left the aloe pills with his mother. I spent the last two years teaching him. What a waste.” He drops his fork in frustration.

  “The antidotes did not work?” Mother asks with fear. “You still have the emerald powder, though?”

  “Yes, I keep it in a safe place.” I notice he does not trust us with the whereabouts.

  “I need Elizabeth to come with me to my appointment tomorrow,” Hadrian says to Mother. “I must attend to a very wealthy lady who is paying triple my normal fees. A highborn woman such as this requires that only a woman can inspect her chaste body.”

  “There is no servant you can sacrifice?” Mother inquires protectively.

  “Only three servants have shown up to work today, and they are all male.”

  “I will go,” I say to Hadrian. “I will bring my smelling apple and be careful.”

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Hadrian helps me up on the cart. It has rained heavily; the manure and human debris stop up the gutters and cause the streets to flood with filth. Rats stream down the side streets, fleeing the water. Rakers kick the rats away as they try to unclog stoppages. As we pull away, I see one raker pull an exceptionally large dead rat out of the gutter by its tail. The streets are so empty I can see all the way down to an enormous bonfire.

  Hadrian, noticing the fires, explains, “King Edward ordered purifying bonfires to be lit at every port and street to ward away the plague. Guards are checking everyone entering the city, keeping all foreigners out. A little late for that, Edward,” he says in the direction of the palace.

  The city is at war but with the invisible enemy within. We get to the nobleman’s house in no time due to the small number of carts on the road. Hadrian holds up his smelling apple and grabs his leather supply bag, forgetting to assist me. I jump down but splash foul water up the hem of my kirtle.

  Hadrian looks at the hem with disdain. “You should be more careful, Elizabeth.”

  The servant who opens the door looks ill himself. Sweat beads on his pale forehead. Hadrian pulls me away, noticing the signs of sickness, asks him to lead the way, and keep his distance. The man pulls the tapestry aside that conceals the grand bedroom; only the finest fabrics and tapestries decorate the cavernous room. We can hear labored breathing and moaning emanating behind the drawn bed curtains of the massive, carved canopy bed.

  The nobleman is sitting beside the bed. He stands up to shake Hadrian’s hand, but Hadrian shakes his head at the request. “Not the time for such things.”

  The nobleman pulls his hand back and goes to open the bed curtains. He reveals a terrible sight that makes me freeze. There, on silk-tasseled pillows, lays a pale, sweating form with large black-and-blue splotches around her mouth, neck, and legs. Hadrian turns at the half-dressed sight and steps back behind the bed to respect her modesty, though it appears she cares little. Her eyes are glazed and fixed on the ceiling, not even noticing our arrival. Breathing seems to take every bit of her energy, and the lumps under her armpits are so swollen they caused her to keep both arms above her head. I’ve never seen such a terrible sight. I wish I had the strength to leave.

  Hadrian calls out, “Check her neck, underarms, thighs, and groin for buboes and tell me how many she has.”

  I walk up hesitantly with my smelling apple close to my nose and mouth trying to breath sparingly. Drawing near, I expect her to look at me, but she remains fixed. Even when I pull down her bed coverings to search her thighs and groin, she doesn’t flinch.

  “I count three buboes, two underarm and one on her thigh.”

  “Are they seeping?”

  “Two are seeping.”

  “Then we must drain the third.”

  My heart quickens at this task I never thought I would be asked to perform.

  “Come here, Elizabeth.” I walk around the bed as Hadrian is pulling out a thin iron rod. “Heat this up in the fire until it is red hot. Puncture the bubo dead center with only enough pressure to break the skin. Do not apply much force or it will erupt all over you.” I hesitate, yet he shoves the handle of the poker in my hand and says, “Do as I say.”

  I heat the iron as he instructed, walk over to the feeble woman, and lean over the large unbroken bubo. As I apply pressure to the purple lump, the flesh sears, and I gag as thick, yellow liquid squirts out. I pull back and hold my apple up but can still smell the rancid smell of pus.

  “What else do you need?” I choke out
.

  “Does it have a smell?”

  “Yes, like a cesspool!” I gag again. “Hadrian, I cannot do this,” I beg.

  “We are almost finished.” He says to the man, “Please excuse my wife; women are undoubtedly the weaker sex.”

  I feel I am failing him, so I go back over to her bedside. “Forgive me, husband. What else do you ask of me?”

  “What color is her spittle?”

  I lean in yet again and can smell her vile, rotting breath. “I see no color.”

  “Does she have any other markings?”

  I search her body with breath held. “There are black splotches on her chest.”

  “That is all. Close the curtains, Elizabeth. I would like to speak to the lord.”

  The tired, forlorn lord stands up to meet him over in the corner of the room.

  I overhear him say, “Lord, I do not think she has the extremely deadly pneumonic plague. Victims cough up blood and die within three days.”

  I hear a sigh of relief from the lord.

  “However, that is only good news to us, since it spreads more rapidly than the other form of plague. The lady will surely die.”

  I hear crying.

  “She has what we call ‘God’s tokens,’ those blue or black splotches. Those who present with these are sentenced to die within hours.”

  “There is no remedy?” he sniffs out.

  “Well, there is something that might work, but it is exceptionally expensive.”

  I can’t believe he is trying to profit from this; clearly the woman is at death’s door.

  “I will pay anything. You must give it to her!”

  “Elizabeth, come to my side.”

  I obey him. The lord looks foolishly hopeful as Hadrian holds out a small vial of golden liquid.