Constant Heart (31 page)

“
M
arget? Marget!” Where was my wife? Of late she had not been herself. But I had not known her to have grown deaf.

I ran along the upper passage of the house and thrust open the door to Marget’s chambers. I did it with such vigor that it struck the wall and then swung back at me toward its frame.

“My lord?” She had put a hand to the seat of her chair as if to push herself up, but then stopped in the process.

“There is plague.”

“Plague? Where?”

“Along the docks. They are deserted as if never a man worked there. In a short time, it will overtake the city.”

She blinked at the news. Then finally her eyes sought mine.

I strode to her chair, squatted beside it, a hand on her arm. “You must leave. Now.”

“Of course we must go.” She did not move.

“Nay, my sweet. I must stay.
You
must go.”

“You must stay.” She said it aloud, but it sounded as if she spoke the words to herself. She turned her head toward me. “
Why
must you stay?”

“I expect any day to have a report from the Continent. News of the wars and of my interests in the Low Countries.”

“But . . . if you stay . . .”

I waited with some impatience for her to finish the sentence. Why could she not command her senses? There was news to be reacted to. There were things to be done. There were dangers to confront, decisions to be made. And yet she only sat and stared. “Marget? Are you well?”

She seemed to consider my question and then she nodded.

I grasped her hands.

She gasped as if in pain.

“You must go before you are trapped. As soon as the plague spreads from the docks, there will be no travel allowed from the city. I want you safe. At Holleystone.”

She nodded but made no move to leave her chair.

“Joan!”

The girl rushed to my side. Curtsied. “My lord.”

“Is she ill?” Had she already caught . . . ? Nay. I would not even think on it.

Joan shrugged. “There is no fever. No pain . . . least, no more than normal. She is just slow to move. For some time, she has had no . . . vigor.”

I peered more closely at her face. “She looks well.” And she did.

“ ’Tis the paint, my lord. It casts the illusion of health. Without it . . .” She shrugged once more.

I lifted Marget from the chair and carried her to her bed. And then I gestured for Marget’s companion. “Joan, you will have to see to the packing. You will leave, all of you, as soon as you are able.”

My maids busied themselves in the packing while I lay on my bed and watched them. The plague. In London. We had to get out. I could not get myself to move, and so I burst into tears. No one noticed, and I scarce had the strength to lift my own hand to my cheeks to wipe them away.

I watched as my gowns were flung into trunks. As my books were tossed into coffers. I saw my jewelry casket dropped to the floor and all my jewels spilled out onto the ground. I noticed a pearl roll toward my bed, but I could not cry out loudly enough for anyone to pay attention.

Later, when Lytham pulled me to my feet and dragged me out of my chambers, I had no power to protest. Frustrated with my sluggish gait, he bent down and swept me into his arms, carrying me out of the house, down to the stables, and placing me on top of my horse.

And then, finally, the words I had searched for arrived at my lips. “Do not make me leave you.”

“I cannot come.”

“Then let me stay.”

“I cannot do it.” He handed the reins of my horse to one of his men. And then he slapped my horse on her hindquarters, setting her to trotting. I grasped the horse’s mane in order to remain mounted. Turning, I caught Lytham’s eyes before he returned to the house.

“I will come when I am able.”

When he was able. But who could know, with the plague, if ever he would be.

Leaving Lytham House, we took to the road along with half the population of London. Would that we could have left by the Thames, but those watermen who had not died already would soon be quarantined. No one with a wish to live would step closer to the docks than was needed.

Church bells clanged. Chaos spun through the streets. Clothing and possessions were being thrown from many a window into carts waiting below. Pigs and dogs ran through the crowd, around people’s ankles and between horses’ hooves. And with such a press of persons, there was no way to avoid the gutters. The month’s filth was churned up with every step, its slime carried into the very center of the crowd and distributed throughout the street. I had never been more thankful to sit atop a horse, away from the refuse, away from the people who coughed and spat and wiped their noses on their sleeves.

Everyone was suspect. Every person assumed to be a carrier of the plague. And yet, so great was the tide of people flowing toward the gates that none could help being thrown up against his neighbor in the flight. As one, we pressed together toward the safety awaiting us outside the walls.

But among those of us intent on gaining the city gates, there were a few who wandered with red faces, cheeks glazed with sweat, arms lifted away from their sides—a certain sign of buboes growing beneath. The crowd tried to shift first one way and then another, to create a berth for the sick to pass. We succeeded only in stopping our progress forward.

One of Lytham’s men tried to make a path. “Clear the way for her ladyship! Make a path for the countess!”

None moved, save to turn their heads and give us ugly looks.

From my vantage in the saddle, I could see the gate. Could see clearly the heads of traitors adorning the wall above it. And I did not know whether my head too would soon be eaten to the skull by the worms of death.

God have mercy.

In my state of stupor and anxiety one phrase fixed itself in my mind. A childhood prayer, half remembered. The only part I could recall was,
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death
.

Now and at the hour of our death.

The hour of our death.

Death.

Was the prayer Catholic or Protestant? Would it help me or bring down upon my head the fires of hell? I did not know, but it seemed to be the only thing that I could do. I was trapped between the plague and the gate.

Then the crowd surged forward.

My horse was set to dancing by the sudden frenetic movement around her. She rose up on her hind feet, snapping the reins from my fingers, and started toward the gate at a run. My hands were useless. I could only wrap my arms around the beast’s neck and try to hold on. I added my voice to the cries of Lytham’s men. “Aside! Stand aside! Get you back!”

At first, the crowd closed in around us, probably loath to see us once more try to escape the city ahead of them. Then one man stopped his progress and cast a glance over his shoulder, noting my horse nearly upon him.

At his cries, the man beside him pulled him out of the way and the men before him cleared a path with frantic, waving arms.

I had almost gained the gate when a pig trotted into our path, followed by a child. I could not say whether it was a he or a she, for the slight figure was clothed only in a soiled jersey, tied up with a rope around its waist. It did not see me coming.

And the pig had decided to stop and root around in the filth.

“Get back! Clear the way!” I pulled on the horse’s neck and tried to swing her course, but she only saw one way out.

She put her head down and picked up her pace.

I only had time enough to see the waif turn, see its eyes grow wide in surprise, its mouth circle in terror before the horse trampled it beneath her hooves. And then we clattered beneath the gate and were free from the crowds.

Behind me, there was the sound of the thunder of hooves. And then, after, a thin wail of grief.

As I worked to loose myself from the saddle, my maids surrounded me.

And then one of Lytham’s men broke through their ranks. He rode toward me with a hand held up, staying me from leaping to the ground. “Nay, my lady. You must not stop.”

“But the child.”

“You cannot help it now.”

“But I—”

“It was not your fault. The child should have moved.” He urged his horse forward, and when my own horse tossed her head, he grabbed the reins and pulled us into a trot. My maids took up their places behind me. We did not stop until we had passed Knight’s Bridge some several miles farther away. As I held my seat, I repeated his words. Over and over and over until they became a sort of litany.

“It was not your fault. The child should have moved.”

We gained Holleystone on the fifth day. Our journey over, the wait began to determine if all had left the plague behind them in London. If we had brought the sickness with us, then there would be no escape. Once it broke out, it would be too late to take precautions. Too late to closet ourselves from one another.

As much as possible, I ordered the servants living at Holleystone to keep among themselves. As much as possible, those who came with me from London were expected to keep company with themselves. And with me.

But still, a muffled cough sent a vibration of panic through the air. A reddened cheek meant instant isolation for its owner.

Constantly we watched ourselves. And just as closely we watched our companions. We noted every weakness in our bodies with suspicion. Did a hand tremble because of illness or because of overwork? Was a sudden shudder caused by the presence of a draft or by the onslaught of sickness? Was there sweat upon a brow because of exertion or fever? Was a pain felt beneath the arm only the ordinary stiffness upon waking or was it a bubo in formation? Did a black stain upon the skin signal a simple bruise or the spread of the blackness of death?

We waited and watched and grew weary from constant vigilance. We were tempted toward madness with our unending thoughts of illness, our supposition of the plague’s approach, and our anticipation of a slow and excruciating death.

Ten days passed, and with several days more, two weeks. And then, finally, we declared ourselves saved. We celebrated by collapsing onto our beds from fatigue and partaking in sweet sleep.

At least that is what my maids did. Whenever I closed my own eyes, I saw before me the face of that child, forever frozen in my memory, just as it had looked before my horse trampled it into the ground.

May God have mercy on my soul.

35

S
oon as we had begun to breathe again, I found there was one more reason to be thankful I had survived. I felt a quickening within me and knew there would be a babe early in the coming year.

And so began another wait. A different kind of waiting, a restless sort of waiting. I rose each morning in hope of having some word, some message from Lytham. And I went to bed each night in disappointment. But at least I had regained my senses. As ever at Holleystone, slowly, my strength was being renewed.

One morning as I stood at my window looking off into the horizon, hoping to conjure some word from Lytham, the line between land and sky blurred, and the road seemed to shimmer darkly.

“Joan? What do you think of this?”

“Of what?”

“The road. There is something upon the road.” I stood aside and gave up my view.

She looked for only a moment, then returned to her task. “ ’Tis the people.”

“Which people?”

“Them that come from London.”

“From London?”

She looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “Aye.”

I declined my bread and wine and had Joan dress me plain, in a robe. Then I gathered Argos into my arms, summoned the steward, and asked him to take me to the gatekeeper.

He bowed at my approach. “My lady?”

“Those people out there, walking the road. They come from London.”

“Aye, my lady. Any who can escape the city does.”

“Hail one. I wish to speak to one of them.”

“ ’Tisn’t safe, my lady.”

“I need news.”

“His lordship would see me hung if any came sick onto the estate.”

“I do not want you to open the gate and let one in, I just want you to call one of them over.”

“If they come from London, they carry plague, my lady.”

“I need news.”

The keeper sighed and then bowed. “As you wish. Only hide yourself behind the gate there.” He pointed to the tall brick and dressed stone pillars that supported the iron gate.

I was loath to move, not willing to trust him at his word. But he stood firm, unwilling to do my bidding, until I withdrew.

I relented and he called out, “You, fellow! Come you here!”

I could not see the one to whom the keeper called, but I could hear their conversation.

“Aye? Have you any bread?”

The keeper stepped back so I could see him. I nodded a violent assent.

“Bread for news.”

“Bread for news, then. What news would you have?”

“How goes London?”

“London is well. It’s her people what keep dying.”

“ ’Tis bad?”

“Worse than last year. Worser than ’63, maybe. Bodies thrown to the streets. The Searchers of the Dead afeared to go near them, and the Bearers of the Dead afeared to collect them.”