by Tamara Leigh
"Mama?"
"I do not know when your Uncle Liam is going to come again," she said.
I le sighed. "Been a long time."
Aye, since Liam had sent her the brooch, three months had dragged by. "Mayhap he will come soon," the offered, though she did not believe it. Now that Ashlingford was under siege of the plague, it would not be long ere Thornemede also bowed to it. Liam would be needed there.
"Mama?"
“Hmm?"
"Why don't Unca Liam marry you?"
Joslyn could not have been more unsettled by his question. She searched for an answer, but he was still too young to understand. Hoping to evade his question, she said, "You would like him for a father, wouldn't you?"
He set his top in his lap and met her gaze. "Aye, then we could live together and I could play with Michael and Emrys ... and that girl too."
“Gertrude?"
"Uh-huh."
Joslyn smiled. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
He nodded. "So why don't he marry you?"
She had known he would not so easily allow her to sidestep his question. "It . . . just is not possible, Oliver."
"But why?"
Knowing there was no way to make him understand, Joslyn shrugged. "I do not understand it myself. 'Tis just the way it is."
He considered her a long moment, then asked, "You love Unca Liam?"
Though to deny it might have ended the uncomfortable discussion, Joslyn could not lie to him. She stepped to the bed and sat down beside him. "I do," she said.
Oliver grinned the grin of one about to tell something he knew to a person who did not. "He loves you too," he said. "Now you can get married."
Joslyn frowned. "How do you know he loves me?"
"I asked him."
"When?"
Thoughtful, Oliver rubbed his thumb back and forth across his top. "Long time ago."
"And you are certain he said he loved me?"
Pursing his lips, Oliver jutted his chin up and down. "Uh-huh. He said."
If only Liam had said it to her, it would have meant so much. Of course, it was not as if his profession of love had been voluntary, she reminded herself. How else was he to have answered Oliver's question?
"Now you can marry," Oliver concluded.
Joslyn shook her head. "I'm sorry, Oliver, but we cannot."
The disappointment that rose on his face tugged at her heart. "Am I ever gonna have a father?" he asked.
Joslyn wanted to cry for him. He did need a father, but she simply could not imagine wedding anyone other than Liam. Still, she could not tell him that. She swallowed the lump that had risen to her throat. "We shall see," she said, then stood. "Now we ought to wash up ere we go to meal."
His mouth turned down, Oliver lifted his top from his lap and slid down the side of the bed to the floor. Then he followed Joslyn to the basin and in silence washed and dried his hands.
Liam was mounted at the head of four of his men and ready to ride when the villager stumbled over the drawbridge into the bailey.
"'Tis the plague, my lord." The young man spilled his terrible news. "My father's laid down with it—got swellings in his groin and boils about his chest." He thrust his forearm across his sweat-beaded brow. "And methinks my sister is with it, too."
The knights began to murmur in fear among themselves.
Liam gripped the reins. Lord, he'd thought he had time ere the disease spread to Thornemede, at least a few days in which to ride to Ashlingford to assist Sir Hugh with the sick there. And to see Joslyn. However, he could not leave now that the plague had raised up Thornemede's first victims. He would be needed here, and as Sir Hugh's missive had assured him all was yet under control at Ashlingford, he could not leave. "Are there any others?" he asked.
"Don't know of any more in my village, my lord. What are we to do?"
There might be others in the villages beyond his. If there were, more people would soon come to the castle seeking reassurance. "Those stricken must be taken to the sick house without delay," Liam said. "By dusk, a priest and a physician will be there to care for them."
He dismounted and passed the reins to the squire who came forward. Then he addressed the knights. "Take this man up with you and return him to his village. I will expect all of you to assist in moving his family."
Every one of them looked uncertain, knowing that to come into contact with the plague made them more vulnerable than otherwise. Aye, Liam thought, soon he would know whether or not their loyalty to him had grown strong enough these past months for them to brave his orders.
"Aye, my lord," the first knight answered. "'Tis done."
The others nodded.
Liam searched their faces for the lie, but though they were all burdened with misgivings, he was fairly certain they would obey. Minutes later, they all rode from the castle.
Exchanging glances with the captain of the guard where he stood before the open portcullis, Liam read unease that few would have noticed in his hard features before he turned to enter the donjon.
Liam hurriedly ascended the stairs past three floors to the rooftop, where he found Ahmad kneeling on his prayer rug facing Mecca.
"Allah Akbar" the man said.
God is great, Liam translated, having heard it often during the month Ahmad had been at Thornemede.
The Arab's recitation continued a bit longer. Then he lowered his head, spoke more prayer, and resumed his upright position. More words passed his lips, followed by the act of complete submission. Prostrating himself so that his forehead, hands, knees, and toes were all in contact with the ground, he thrice repeated a line of prayer before sitting up again.
Liam had paid enormously to bring Ahmad to Thornemede after his search for a competent English physician had proven unsuccessful. He only hoped the Arab was as capable as the reputation that preceded him.
Though Ahmad had thus far kept much to himself, he seemed to put great thought in the little he spoke, exuding the wisdom of an older man even though he could not be more than five-and-thirty. Most importantly, he had managed to survive the ravages of the plague after treating a multitude of its victims—many successfully, Liam was told.
"It has come," Ahmad said, the deep accent of his own language making the English he spoke sound almost lyrical.
"It has," Liam replied.
Ahmad rose, bent and rolled his prayer rug, and pushed his feet into the shoes he had removed prior to prayer. "Then it is time. How many?" he asked.
"Two."
"And the signs?" "Swellings, and one has sores." Ahmad nodded. "They have been taken to the sick house?"
"They are being taken there now."
"Then that is where I am needed." Lowering his gaze, Ahmad stepped past Liam and toward the stairs.
"The friars will accompany you," Liam reminded him, and added, "and our priest."
Ahmad looked around. "As you wish," he said, and began the descent.
Feeling tired and older than his years, Liam followed Ahmad and, in the dim of the stairwell, found his thoughts turning to Joslyn. He had wanted to go to her this day, having been so long without her he felt almost numb. Of course, it was easier that way, but when the message had arrived telling of the plague come upon Ashlingford, the feelings had surged through him stronger than ever. If only there were some way he could be with her. . . .
He shook his head. The time was past. Unless he was truly needed at Ashlingford, he could not risk Thornemede to journey there.
As if to attest to the importance of his remaining here, a clamor of villagers awaited him when he stepped into the hall. More were afflicted—and it would only get worse as the days and weeks passed. He started toward them but paused when Ahmad appeared and beckoned to him with those expressive eyes of his.
Striding to where the physician stood before the stairs leading down to the storeroom, he said, "Ahmad?"
"You remember the powders?" the man asked.
How could he forget? Though he had questioned Ahma
d's wanting them—and in such great quantities—the man had said only that the various powders, among them sulfur and arsenic, would be needed. Liam had doubted him but purchased them anyway. "I remember," he replied.
Ahmad lifted the sackcloths he held in one hand for Liam to see. "I have gathered some to take with me," he said. "As for the rest..." He thrust a rolled parchment toward Liam. "I have written down how to mix them and in what quantities."
Liam took the document. "And what would you have me do?"
"Four times a day the mixture is to be thrown upon the fires in the hall and the kitchen. Also, it should be portioned out to the villagers for use upon their own fires."
Liam had heard of such concoctions being used to reduce the risk of infection, but had also heard they did little more than sweeten the air. Of course, regardless of what it was mixed with, sulfur was not likely to smell pleasant, he reminded himself.
Sensing his doubt, Ahmad clasped Liam's wrist with unusual urgency. "Trust me in this, my friend. Though I have been ridiculed for my use of it, it does work."
"You are telling me it will keep the plague from entering here?" Liam asked.
Sadly, Ahmad shook his head. "Nay, it will still come, but fewer will be taken with it. You will do this?"
As there seemed naught to lose, Liam nodded. "I will."
Ahmad stretched his mouth almost to a smile. "You will see," he said, and a moment later he was gone from the hall.
Watching his retreat, Liam thoughtfully slapped the rolled parchment onto his open palm. Weeks ago, the villagers had been told that the Arab physician would be treating those who fell ill. Although few had spoken against Ahmad at the time, Liam sensed there was going to be trouble.
"I am sorry, Joslyn," he murmured. She would have to be strong without him. In the next instant, Liam almost laughed at that. Of all women he had ever known, none were as strong as Joslyn. She would be fine, and when the worst was over, he would be with her again—even if Queen Philippa never answered his missive. Still, he would send another one today.
26
It was a fortnight before Liam received an answer to the missive he had sent with the powders to Ashlingford.
Our physician has fled, Sir Hugh wrote, but it is just as well, for there was naught he could do to stop the course of this terrible disease. It was different at Thornemede. Though Ahmad had initially faced much distrust and opposition, he was more and more looked upon as God's healer. True, the dead now counted eighteen, but of those stricken, seven had fully recovered beneath the Muslim's ministrations—an unheard of number. And in that was both the good and bad. Emrys had survived four days of boils and fever, but Michael now rested beneath the dirt Liam had himself shoveled upon him.
Liam squeezed his eyes closed, the memory of it gripping him with such pain he wanted to cry out again as he had when Ahmad laid the boy's spent body in his arms. No more, though. He shook his thoughts free of Michael. There were other things more pressing that required his attention—such as Ashlingford.
But what was he to do? Sir Hugh had written that the powder mixture was being used on the fires in the castle and villages, and though there were still deaths, they had slowed. He had also asked that more powder be sent, as Ashlingford's supply was nearly depleted.
He would send them on the morrow, Liam decided. There was more that could be done for Ashlingford, he knew. The difficulty was that, in doing it, Thornemede was likely to suffer. But a few days was all it would take, he convinced himself, and then Ahmad would be back at Thornemede.
Stepping inside her chamber, Joslyn paused at the sight that greeted her. Though Oliver lay on his belly upon her bed, talking for the birch-carved soldier in his deepest voice and making horse sounds for the wooden destrier, Emma looked to have fallen asleep in the chair beside the brazier.
Joslyn frowned. It was not at all like the old woman to leave Oliver unattended, even in the same room. "Emma," she said as she stepped forward.
Turning onto his side, Oliver laid his head on his outstretched arm and looked across at her. "She is not feeling well," he said.
Joslyn's breath came out in a rush. But nay, she told herself, it must be something Emma had eaten. It had to be. Still, she could take no chances. "Oliver, will you go down to the hall and ask one of the men to come up?" she asked.
"All right," he said, starting to rise.
"Then take yourself to the kitchens and tell Cook I said you could have a treat, hmm?"
"Uh-huh."
Looking back at Emma, Joslyn saw that the woman's color was high. Not the plague, she silently pleaded as she halted before her. "Emma?" she said. Receiving no response, she leaned forward and shook the woman's shoulder.
Emma opened her eyes. "I don't know what ..." she began, then shook her head. "I feel so warm, my lady, and all of me aches as if I were beaten."
"Have you any . . . swellings?" Joslyn asked.
Emma lifted her head. "Nay, my lady, 'tis not the plague," she said with certainty. "Just a fever. I'm sure it will pass in a day or so."
Joslyn was not so certain. "I am going to feel beneath your arms," she said. "Will you let me do that?"
Emma frowned. "You do not believe me?"
"I am not saying you lie," Joslyn hurriedly assured her. "I know you would not do that. 'Tis just that we must be certain."
Emma nodded and lifted an arm for Joslyn to feel beneath it.
Naught. "And the other arm," she said.
Emma complied.
Joslyn's probing fingers found a small mass in Emma's armpit. She was ill with the plague.
"Tis tender," Emma breathed, her drawn face begging to be given any other explanation.
Battling the tears that stung the backs of her eyes, Joslyn laid a hand to the woman's shoulder. "We must get you to Belle Glen," she said.
Emma dropped her head against the back of the chair. "Tis my due," she said. "For all the lies."
Joslyn was about to offer reassurance—useless as it was—when Oliver's thready voice spoke from across the chamber.
"Mama," he said, "is Emma gonna be all right?"
Thinking he had returned from the hall, Joslyn jerked her head around. But he lay on the bed as if he had not moved from it. "Oliver, I asked you to go belowstairs," she reminded him, fear making her voice sharper than she intended.
"But I don't feel good," he said. "I got a fever too."
His child's voice speaking the words over and over in her head—louder each time—Joslyn's heart came crashing down. Not her boy, she silently pleaded. Dear God, not her little one.
"A fever?" Emma said, the dread in her voice a shadow of that which gripped Joslyn. "Nay . . . cannot be."
Her knees beginning to buckle beneath her, Joslyn gripped the back of the old woman's chair.
"'Tis just all the sweets he ate at the nooning meal," Emma pleaded.
A sob Joslyn could do naught to hold back burst from her throat.
"Mama?" Oliver croaked.
Though she wanted to fling herself toward him, to grab him up in her arms and run as far from here as she could, she knew it would only terrify him—and it would all be in vain. Joslyn bowed her head and jerkily rocked herself forward and backward on her heels. She would not cry, she told herself.
"Thirsty," Oliver said.
Lifting her head, she forced a smile that felt so taut she thought it might snap, stepped to the bed, and lowered herself to the mattress edge. Reaching forward, she gently pushed a lock of golden hair off his brow and felt the heat of him. "What would you like to drink?" she asked.
Oliver clutched his wooden toys against his chest. "Honey milk," he whispered. "Real cold, Mama."
Joslyn pulled the smile tauter. "I will get it for you, but first let us move you onto a pillow, hmm?"
He nodded.
Sliding her hands beneath his arms, she pulled him up the bed and settled his head upon her pillow, but her seeking fingers found no masses. Much as Joslyn wished to revel in their absence, it
was too costly a hope, one that would cause her one moment lo soar and in the next might plummet her further into despair. She must check the groin. But not now.
Pressing her lips to his brow, which had grown even warmer, she said, "I will be back in a moment with your drink."
"Am I very sick, Mama?" he asked.
Her mouth was going to break with the false smile she continued to hold on to, Joslyn thought. "Just a little," she said, "but you are going to be fine. Now I will fetch you that honey milk." As she turned toward i he door, she looked at Emma.
Though the old woman had turned her head to the side, the stream of tears wetting her face was visible is she silently cried out a grief that was more for Oliver than herself.
Joslyn made it through the corridor and halfway down the stairs. Then, turning to the wall, she slid down to her knees. "Why?" she whispered. "Why?" Though the tears burned her eyes and strained her throat, she refused to give in to them. She could not, for then Oliver would see and know her fear. She must be strong.
She dropped her chin to her chest. What had she done to deserve this? she demanded of God where He sat unmoved in His heavens. What sin so great that Oliver must—
Liam. A taunting voice spoke above her pain.
Shaking her head, she begged, "Punish me, but not like this, Lord. My life, not Oliver's." But it was useless. All the pleading in the world would not stop the plague from burying Oliver, just as it had not stopped it for those who had already died. Slumping back onto her heels, Joslyn shuddered a long sigh.
"My lady." A soft, uncertain voice spoke from below. "Is it your son?"
Joslyn looked upon the woman servant where she hovered a dozen steps below. "Aye, and Emma."
"You would have me send for some men to bring them down?"
That they might be taken to Belle Glen, Joslyn knew. "First I need some honey milk," she said.
"Aye, my lady, I will get it for you myself."
"And something for Emma."
With a nod, the woman hurried down the stairs and out of sight.
"Tis an ugly place to die," Emma murmured past cracked lips.
Joslyn looked across at her. "Are you thirsty?" she asked. Though loath to leave the vigil she had kept at her son's side since coming here yesterday, she was the only one left to tend Emma and Oliver, father Warren and the two friars who had outlived the third were ministering to those in the other houses.
