by Candace Robb
They had reached the grassy strays. Here no trees or buildings hid them from the sun. Bess could feel its warmth. It was easy to forget the pestilence on such a day.
Nell nodded to Bess. ‘You are kind. I have told you naught you could not hear from another.’
‘I trust you, Nell. You are no idle gossip.’
‘Never idle.’ Nell turned and slowly led her cow towards the river, where the grass was high.
In Spen Lane, near St Andrew’s Church, Brother Wulfstan noticed a red cross on a house that was one of the abbey’s properties in the city. He had thought the house vacant. But that meant nothing; many abandoned houses in the city were at present home to those escaping the ill in their own households, and sometimes it was the sick who were shoved through loose shutters and left to die, the shelter considered a kindness.
After a long night watching at the bedside of a dying child whose mother was too terrified to comfort her, Brother Wulfstan’s head and bones ached, his eyes burned, his tongue was woolly, and he yearned to sit on a bench in the shade of his garden sipping watered wine freshened with mint leaves. But if there was a body within he must say prayers over it and arrange for its removal. With Gog and Magog abroad in the land, he could not desert the needy. How much worse must it have been in the first visitation, when half the city’s inhabitants had died? Half his brothers had died also, but they had been cared for in their suffering, no one had been sent away.
Wulfstan took a deep breath of what little fresh air there was in the street, preparing himself for the stench of the plague dead. Holding a sack of herbs to his nose, he pushed open the door.
Light filtered weakly through shutters at the rear of the main room. Dust danced in the light. A rat ran over the monk’s foot and escaped out into the street. Wulfstan blinked as his weak eyes adjusted, took his scented bag from his nose, sniffed. He coughed violently as the stench hit him. Dead or dying. But there was no one in the main room. He opened a shutter better to see the room. A ladder led to a solar or loft. The thought of climbing it made him ache all the more. But he must. He opened another shutter to let in some air. It hung crookedly and banged against the wall.
‘Who is there?’ someone called weakly from above.
‘God go with you,’ said Wulfstan. ‘I am the infirmarian of St Mary’s, come to help you. I saw the cross on the door.’
‘Leave me. I am better dead.’
‘Do you have water up there?’
A brittle laugh. ‘Neighbours do not bring gifts when the red cross is on the door.’
Pressing his aching lower back, Wulfstan let himself out by the back door. Across the rear yard he explored the kitchen. A lidless jug half filled with water smelled musky. Best not to chance it. Beneath the table he discovered a bottle of wine. It was turning, but it would be useful for mixing a salve if he should need to. He put the bottle in his pack. Returning to the house, he climbed the ladder, slowly, gagging on the stench which grew stronger with each step.
‘I am a sinner, Father.’ The man’s voice was hoarse from fever and thirst.
Wulfstan had made it to the top of the ladder and was too short of breath to reply. He put the herbs to his nose, clutched his side and waited until the room stopped spinning, then walked round the screen which shielded the sick man from view.
The room in which he lay was large, with shuttered windows facing away from the street. The man was naked, curled up on a filthy pile of straw. A mouse sniffed at his clothes, which had been thrown over a stool. Wulfstan shooed the mouse away. The stench of plague mingled with urine and sweat. Wulfstan approached the pallet. ‘Was it for you they put the cross on the door?’
‘No. I took it as a sign I would not be disturbed.’
‘And then you fell ill?’
The man lifted his arm, revealing an oozing boil the size of an egg. ‘One has burst.’
And thus the intensity of the smell. ‘Praise God. It is a good sign, my son.’
The man curled up, facing away. ‘I do not need lies.’
‘It is no lie. Some whose boils burst live.’
The man turned his head. There was a flicker of interest in his wet, red eyes. ‘You speak true?’
‘I have no reason to speak otherwise.’ Wulfstan felt the man’s forehead. A fever, but not so high as to be dangerous. ‘It was painful when it burst?’
‘More painful before.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Dawn.’
The sickness might already be abating. Wulfstan noticed a boil in the man’s groin, almost as large as the one under his arm. ‘Your other arm?’
The man lifted it, revealing a small black knob.
‘Could you bear my lancing the burst one? And the others?’
The man closed his eyes. ‘Will it save me?’
‘If God wishes.’
‘And if He does not?’
‘It sometimes hastens the end.’
A deep breath. ‘Do it.’
Wulfstan noticed another blemish on the man. On one arm a red-lipped wound oozed puss and was hot to the touch. ‘How did this happen?’
‘A bitch bit me here. And there.’ He lifted his leg to display a scabbed thigh wound.
Wulfstan touched it, gently pressed it. ‘They do not look like bites.’
‘Forgive me, Father.’
Wulfstan glanced up. The man watched him with the eyes of a frightened beast. Wulfstan remembered him now. ‘Both wounds would have closed had you returned with me to St Mary’s. Why did you take the bag and not the man with skill to use the medicines?’
‘You will leave me now.’
‘No. It does not matter.’ Wulfstan opened his pack, handed the man a small leather flask of brandywine. ‘What is your name?’
‘Why?’
‘I must call you something.’
‘John.’
Wulfstan did not believe the man’s name was John, but it did not matter. ‘There is not much left, John, but drink what there is.’ While the man drank, Wulfstan knelt and prayed God to give him strength, a steady hand, and clear vision. And if it was not John’s time, that he might live and repent.
‘I left your things in a safe place.’
Wulfstan nodded as he knelt awkwardly on his aching knees, drew his knife from its leather scabbard. ‘Be as still as you can bear, my son. There will be pain, but the more you move, the worse it will be.’
First he probed the burst boil. John cried out. Wulfstan sat back on his heels, watched as the putrid blood flowed faster. He wiped the sticky poison from his hands with a cloth. In a small dish he mixed powder of hemlock with a few drops of wine, stirred it, poured more wine. With the edge of a square of cloth he applied the salve to the boil. ‘To ease the pain.’ He then folded the cloth into a thick compress. ‘Hold this over it with your other hand.’ The man’s breath was uneven. Wulfstan prayed God he was not killing him. He would like to see one man survive after watching so many die. ‘Are you ready for the other arm?’
A silent nod.
Wulfstan said a prayer, leaned back and squinted, drew the knife across the boil. Nothing. He had not pressed hard enough. Sweat blinded him. He wiped his eyes, said another prayer, tried again. As the blade sank into the skin, black poison shot out and John cried out in pain. Wulfstan hurried to the window and gulped the air. The rooftops swam before him and he clung to the windowsill as his legs threatened to fold beneath him. He was too tired. He should have gone back to the abbey. But if he saved the man …
John moaned.
Wulfstan turned, steadied himself, and keeping one hand on the wall crossed back to him. ‘Forgive me, my son.’
‘I can bear it,’ John whispered.
‘I shall lance the one below and let it drain while I mix the salve. Are you ready?’ Wulfstan wiped his hands, dried the sweat on his brow, knelt to the last boil. It lanced with ease. Now the dirty straw on which John lay was saturated with the poison. It would be good to move the man, but where to? And how, with Wulfstan�
�s head spinning and his legs so unsteady?
His hands shook as he mixed the salve, smoothed it on the boils. ‘I must leave you now. I will be back. Or one of my brothers.’
‘You will not say the prayers over me and shrive me?’
‘I must rest. I promise you someone will come.’
‘You never meant to save me.’
‘God help me, John. I am ill.’
The man turned away from him.
Wulfstan managed to make his way to the ladder. As he descended, he could not grasp the ladder tight enough with the bag in his hand. He let it drop to the floor. The loss of the burden helped, but his knees threatened to buckle on each rung. By the time Wulfstan had struggled down, he had forgotten the bag. He pushed open the front door, took a step backward. The bright sunlight burned his eyes and made them water so badly he could not see. He withdrew, finding the dark interior comforting. He settled down against the wall. A nap might strengthen him.
Twenty-three
A Day of Diplomacy
Owen discovered the physician’s house locked, the windows on his ground floor boarded up. He had hoped to look at the house, see whether someone might have stayed there and spied on Walter de Hotter. But the boards were well fastened. He moved on to the hospital to speak to Honoria about the foul-smelling physick that Nate said Julian had been taking the day he died.
But the sight of the almoner playing gatekeeper put all else out of his mind for a moment. Owen was accustomed to seeing the canon going among the poor, not guarding the gate. ‘Benedicte, Don Erkenwald. Where is Barker?’ In truth, the muscular, scarred almoner looked more at home in a gatehouse than among the poor.
‘He is assisting in the search,’ Erkenwald said with a grave nod.
Owen understood the nod as an invitation for questions. ‘You have found something?’
‘Nay. Lost. Two members of our community disappeared in the night.’ Erkenwald sank down on to a bench with a sigh, rested one elbow on his knees, his eyes level with Owen’s. A soldier’s pose, not a canon’s. ‘Matters have gone from bad to worse.’
‘Who has disappeared?’
‘Anneys, one of our lay sisters, and a child from the orphanage, Alisoun Ffulford. Did the boy not explain why Sir Richard sent for you?’
‘I must have been gone when he came. I had hoped to search the house of Master Saurian. But it is boarded up.’
Erkenwald sniffed. ‘And so it will be until the first frost. The physician fled the city.’
‘I had heard.’
‘I always counted him a coward.’
‘Some find it unbearable to work among the dying.’
Erkenwald looked at Owen askance. ‘A physician? Pah! I pray you, go to Sir Richard. He awaits you.’
As Owen crossed the yard, he wondered what new mischief was afoot. Had Alisoun’s lurker taken action? But what had Anneys to do with it?
A servant showed Owen into Ravenser’s parlour, where Owen was greeted by not only the master, but also Don Cuthbert, Dame Constance and Dame Beatrice. Ravenser rose to greet him, an unusual gesture. His expression echoed Owen’s anxiety. ‘We are guarding all gates to the hospital, and the lay brothers have begun a search with Barker in command. But I fear the man has fled with the child and the woman.’
‘Barker did not see them pass last night?’
Ravenser looked to Dame Constance.
‘Anneys lives in the lay sisters’ house in the city. Barker would have noted nothing unusual in her passing through, and he does not remember a child,’ Dame Constance said.
‘You have found no sign of the man?’
Don Cuthbert shook his head. ‘They have been searching since matins and have found no strangers amongst us.’
‘Tell me how you discovered they were missing, Dame Constance.’
‘Alisoun was not in her bed this morning, nor anywhere a child might roam. And when the lay sisters arrived they were without Anneys. Not that she is always prompt.’
‘You have searched for Anneys?’
‘We do not know where to begin.’
Nor do I, Owen thought. But it was not the sort of thing he cared to admit aloud.
Ravenser dismissed Don Cuthbert, Dame Constance and Dame Beatrice. When the others had departed, the master drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘The situation is worse than it was when you began, Captain Archer. Why is that?’ At that moment he looked more like his uncle than usual.
And had the same effect on Owen. ‘Have I kept aught from you, Sir Richard?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Have you kept aught from me? What of your argument with William Savage. Should I know the details?’
Ravenser’s colour heightened; his uncle knew no blushes. ‘You presume—’ He shook his head. ‘No. You are quite right. I attacked you for no reason.’
‘And William Savage?’
A sudden interest in arranging the items on the table. ‘Savage. It is quite simple. I refused his wife’s mother as a corrodian, though the terms promised to be generous. The discussion grew heated, we both said things we should not have.’
‘Such as?’
Ravenser paused in his fussing, frowned up at Owen. ‘You truly think it important.’
‘As you say, the situation grows worse. I am obviously missing vital pieces of the puzzle.’
A nod. ‘Savage mentioned the rumours of our financial straits, the corrodians dying conveniently, and then crowned it all with a new rumour, that Honoria de Staines was sleeping with corrodians of the hospital.’
‘A rumour? Or a fact, I wonder. With whom did he say she was sleeping?’
Ravenser looked alarmed. ‘It is of some import, then?’
‘It might be,’ Owen said.
‘He would not say. Hence I believed it was a bluff.’
‘Why was Savage so angry?’
‘I accused him of fearing his wife’s mother would take over his household. She is known to be most unpleasant.’
‘Sweet Jesu. His Grace could hardly be more tactless.’
‘My uncle would not have put himself in this situation, Captain.’
True enough. ‘Is there aught else you have not told me?’
‘I have bared my soul to you. Now make something of it.’
Owen rose. ‘Patience, Sir Richard.’
‘I am impatient only because I have been called south. The Queen is failing rapidly. But I do not like to leave until I know that the reputation of St Leonard’s is saved.’
‘Then pray that my day is fruitful.’
As Owen crossed the yard he met Don Erkenwald. Hands on hips, he looked militant despite his robes and sandals. ‘They have searched most of the area, Captain. No strangers.’
‘It tells us nothing. He would have been a fool to stay.’
‘The lay sisters mentioned a deserted house next to them, one that has seen trouble.’
‘Aye. And many another house emptied by the Death.’
‘Quite right. Where will you look?’
‘First I must speak with Honoria de Staines. Where might I find her?’
‘At the Barnhous. She is watching the sick infants. Then what?’
‘If I learn nothing from her, I have a mind to travel to a farm.’
‘Would that I had an excuse to accompany you.’
‘How are you with a shovel?’
Erkenwald grinned. ‘Very good. But that is not a unique skill.’
‘I might also need you to take up a weapon.’
‘What of your men?’
‘They will be busy searching the city. I would welcome your help.’
Erkenwald nodded. ‘Come for me when you are ready.’
Wulfstan woke once to feel someone brush by him. Then a child’s voice cried out, ‘Here. Is this the one we seek?’
A woman leaned close. ‘You have saved my son. I shall do what I can for you.’
‘Sweet Mary, pray for me,’ Wulfstan whispered.
Someone lifted him
and carried him into a bright place. Wulfstan’s eyes could not yet open before the Divine Light, but his heart was filled with joy to know that he had reached his Heavenly reward.
By the time Bess arrived at St Leonard’s, Barker was once more in charge of the gate. ‘Do you remember my uncle, Julian Taverner?’
Barker brushed off the seat of a chair, beckoned Bess to sit. ‘Master Taverner. He was a man respected all, no matter their station.’
‘He did that, Barker,’ Bess said as she settled down. ‘And he was a fair man, was he not?’
‘Oh, aye.’
Bess kept her eyes downcast as she said, ‘He left me with a delicate problem, my uncle.’ Now she peered up, pretending embarrassment.
The man’s bulbous nose twitched. ‘Oh, aye?’
‘As he was dying, he said to me, “Swear you will take care of her.”’
‘Who?’
Bess threw up her hands. ‘There. You see the problem. He died without breathing her name. But I have a thought it might have been his – his leman. And, well, you can see the care I must take in enquiring about her. I must avoid those who might talk to others afterwards. Ruin a good woman’s name.’
Barker made a sympathetic face.
‘Still, I feel a duty to find her and discover what I might do. What needs doing. And I thought – I hoped that you might have seen him walk out now and then. I know you would not be gatekeeper were you not a trustworthy, discreet man, and yet one who notices.’
Barker pulled himself up to his full height. ‘’Tis a delicate matter indeed, Mistress Merchet. And you are a good woman to wish to see justice done. Many would not feel so obliged.’
‘I would not think of ignoring my uncle’s last request.’
‘Surely. He had a honeyed tongue, your uncle. Any of the women might have been with him one time or another.’
‘Were there none he saw more than others?’
‘That would be Felice Mawdeleyn. And, well, there was a lay sister of late. But Mistress Mawdeleyn and your uncle were longtime friends.’
‘Will Mawdeleyn’s wife?’
‘Aye, the very same.’ Barker shook his head. ‘Will should have beaten her when she was contrary. ’Tis ever the problem.’
