The Crippled Angel (10 page)

Thursday 23rd May 1381

E
mma Hawkins hurried down Carter Lane by St Paul’s, then ducked into a small alley. The streets were deserted save for a few scurrying people, and those wretched souls manning the plague carts on which were piled the dead. Fires coughed and spluttered on their diet of wood, brimstone and saltpetre at intersections and in marketplaces: their noxious fumes twisted and writhed into the air, tangling about eaves and overhangs before rising into a sky made scarlet with the sunset and the smoke of the fires.

There was the faint sound of wailing and sobbing in the air, anguish seeping out from behind closed doors and shuttered windows where men and women and children lay dying in unspeakable agony. Occasionally the muted, sombre tones of shroud-wrapped bells tolled indifferently from one of the city’s parish churches.

Death lurked everywhere: in the stench of uncollected corpses upon the air, in the miasma of the fires, in the sewage choking the gutters, in the soft lament from tight-closed houses. Emma gathered her shawl more tightly about her face, gagging as she coughed, and regretted her decision to walk the streets in search of custom.

But she and her daughter needed to be fed, whatever crisis gripped the city, and Emma knew she would get God-all custom huddling at home behind closed doors. She stopped briefly, leaning against a closed door, and tried to catch her breath. Well, it was time she admitted she was going to get God-all custom out here as well. No point in even hoping. She should get home. Her daughter Jocelyn would be worried about her—she’d spent an hour this morning begging her mother not to go out into the streets—and the longer Emma stayed outside the more likely the pestilence would snatch at her.

Ah, that she
could
not think about! Pestilence crawled over the entire city, dealing death to scores every hour, and Emma simply refused to contemplate the idea that she—or Jocelyn—might be struck as well. Fate had already been unkind enough to her. It wouldn’t deal her this death blow…would it?

If only Jocelyn was older. Emma couldn’t afford to die yet. Jocelyn was only eight. Too young to work, too young to marry, and too young (by a year or two) to follow her mother out into the streets. Not that Emma would wish that on Jocelyn. It was too great a burden of sin for her frail shoulders.

“Only one of us need spend eternity in hell,” Emma whispered. “And I will not have it be my daughter.”

She struggled a little further down the alley. The air was thick with the noxious stink of brimstone and ash—was she in hell already? Had she died without knowing?—and night was closing in about her fast. Too fast. Emma coughed again, and then almost panicked as she tasted blood in her mouth.

No! No! She’d bitten her tongue…that’s all. Please sweet Jesu, let that be all!

Emma groped along one wall with one hand until she found a gate. She opened it, stumbling through into a courtyard, then hurried as best she could to the small door set to one side of the yard. Here she and Jocelyn lived in their two tiny rooms. Small, dismal, cold, but
home.

She heard Jocelyn’s small voice pipe a welcome, then, horribly, the deeper voice of her landlord, Richard Harrison.

“Come to collect the rent, my dear,” he said.

“Now?” Emma whispered, closing the door behind her and drawing the shawl back from her head. Her face was thin, her hair more grey than fair, her eyes enormous and black.

A faint flush glowed on her forehead and cheeks.

“Now?” she repeated, incredulous. The city was dying, gripped in pestilence sent from hell, and
Harrison had come to collect the rent?

Then her mouth twisted bitterly. Why not? Why not, when he might be too dead to enjoy it tomorrow?

Emma folded her shawl and nodded towards the other room. “Quickly, then. I have Jocelyn’s supper to prepare.”

Harrison grinned. “You’re in no position to tell me quick or no,” he said. “Rent’s rent, and it must be paid as owed.”

Emma shot him a black look, then smiled at Jocelyn. “We won’t be long,” she said, then walked into the tiny, inner room.

All it held was a narrow bed and a stool.

Emma looked at the bed, unbuttoning her dress, and sighed as the door closed behind her and she felt the great bulk of Harrison fill the room.

He was big and heavy and cumbersome and painful, but all of this Emma blocked out through years of experience. She arched her back as best she could with Harrison’s weight atop her, and moaned with as much feigned pleasure as she could manage, and closed her eyes against Harrison’s sweaty, straining face above hers, and her mind against the ponderous thrusting of his body.

Sweet Jesu, why was he taking so long?
Reluctantly, Emma opened her eyes.

Harrison’s round, pasty-skinned face wobbled above her. His eyes were closed, and his expression was one of the greatest concentration. His hips continued to thrust himself deep into her, his massive belly crushing her against the bed,
the rest of his weight supported on arms locked rigid and splayed to either side of her body.

Thankful his eyes were closed, Emma allowed herself a grimace of distaste.
Everything
about him wobbled—his face, his fleshy shoulders, the rolls of fat down his back, his buttocks.

And it all sweated, great glistening globules of—

Emma went rigid, her eyes starting, then she screamed and tried to writhe away.

Under his left armpit was a massive, black swelling!

“Am I driving you wild?” he whispered, his eyes still closed. “Am I? Am I?”

Emma screamed again, trying with all her strength to topple the man off her. But he was too heavy, too strong, too determined in the sating of his lust.

His efforts increased, and as he did so the bubo in his armpit swelled until the skin enclosing it stretched thin and tight.

Sweet Jesu, this was Death riding her. God’s judgement on her sinful life.

The door to the room flew open. Jocelyn, her face crinkled in worry at her mother’s screaming.

Emma saw her over Harrison’s heaving shoulders, and she screamed yet again, not only with fear this time, but with horror that Jocelyn should finally see what she had spent eight years keeping from her.

Harrison climaxed, and as he did so, the bubo in his armpit burst.

He was long gone now, his face lax, his eyes glazed, and apparently still unaware of what his body harboured. He’d left the instant he’d pulled himself free from her body, and shucked on his clothes. Then he pushed past Jocelyn, still standing, staring at her mother on the bed. When the outer door had slammed behind him, Emma pulled the soiled sheets about her, trying to not only hide her nakedness, but also to clean off the filth from the burst bubo.

Jocelyn had stood, staring, frightened, until Emma quietly asked her to fetch a pail of water from the other room so that she might wash herself.

Now, sitting shivering before the small fire in the inadequate grate, Emma knew that she, and probably her beloved daughter, were doomed.

Death had been a-visiting.

Outside a dog howled once, then was silent.

Emma shivered some more.

Jocelyn sat down at Emma’s feet, and silently held out to her mother a piece of bread. Emma took it, even though she felt ill, and forced down a few bites.

Satisfied, Jocelyn lowered her head to watch the flames, and once her gaze had turned away, Emma hid the bread in a pocket in her skirt. She reached out a trembling hand, and touched Jocelyn’s shining fair hair.

What would happen to her when I am dead?
Emma wondered, then began to weep, silently, despairingly.

Then, on cue, the fever struck, and Emma shuddered.

“Mama?” Jocelyn twisted about. “Mama?”

“Jocelyn…”

“I will fetch the physician.”

Emma smiled tiredly. “I have no coin with which to pay the physician,” she whispered.

“Then I will fetch the monks to take you to Saint Bartholomew’s.”

Emma began to laugh, a grating, grinding sound that was more sob than laugh. “I have no virtues with which to pay the monks,” she said. “I am
un
virtuous, and they will not save me. Their hospital is as unobtainable to me as is heaven.”

“Then
I
will save you,” the young girl said with such a determined air that Emma almost believed her.

With the utmost effort, Emma raised a shaking hand and touched her child’s cheek. “You are so beautiful,” she said.

Friday 24th May 1381

—i—

M
ary leaned forward very slightly, just enough to touch Neville’s arm to stop him, then stared about in horror.

They’d entered London across the bridge a few minutes ago after a careful two-day journey from Windsor. The journey had not tired Mary as she’d feared it would. Men rather than horses had carried her litter, and they were as gentle as might be. Her physician, Nicholas Culpeper, travelled with her entourage, and made sure that she took regular doses of monkshood and opium poppy. The strength of the mixture should have fogged her mind, but Mary was so overwrought with the horror she knew had descended on London that she managed to remain both relatively pain-free and clear-headed, something for which she thanked sweet Jesu many times daily.

They’d set out from Windsor at daybreak on Wednesday. Thomas Neville led the entourage, which consisted of Mary herself, Margaret Neville, one other noblewoman, Lady Alicia Lynley (Mary’s other ladies were so terrified at the thought of returning to a pestilence-ridden London that
Mary had bid them from her service), Neville’s squire Sir Robert Courtenay, Nicholas Culpeper, two of his apprentices, and an escort of fifty armed men-at-arms.

They had approached London from Southwark. Here Mary had excused from her company the greater number of her men-at-arms, Lady Alicia Lynley, and Culpeper’s two apprentices. They would journey on to the Tower by boat to apprise the king of her arrival in London.

Here also Mary had alighted from her litter, saying only that she felt well enough to ride something small and manageable, and the litter would be too cumbersome to negotiate the twisted, narrow streets of London with ease.

At this Neville had argued vehemently with Mary, saying she could do little within the ravaged city, that it was suicide to even think of entering, and that she would be vastly better off going straight to the Tower and to Bolingbroke, both of which were, at the least, pestilence-free.

Mary had listened to him with the utmost courtesy, saying once he had paused to draw an indignant breath that if he and Margaret did not fear for their lives then neither should she. Besides, she would do more good for the Londoners
in
London than walled within the safety of the Tower, would she not?

Neville, as Margaret, tried for another hour to persuade Mary not to enter London. In the end, Mary had been forced to command them to allow her. She was queen, and as queen she was going to enter London to do what she might.

And so they went, everyone walking save Mary who sat atop a sweet-tempered pale cream donkey that Neville had found for her in the stables of one of the Southwark inns.

Its owner was long dead, and the donkey seemed pleased at being pressed once more into service. It appeared also instinctively to know Mary’s frailty, for it stepped slow and sweetly, gently easing down each hoof so that Mary might not be jolted.

And thus, Neville leading Mary’s donkey, Courtenay and Margaret walking on the other side, and Culpeper bringing
up the rear with the remaining ten men-at-arms, they crossed London Bridge.

Armed men had stopped them halfway across at the drawbridge, but had let them through the instant they recognised Mary. When the party gained the intersection of New Fish Street and Thames Street on the city end of the bridge, they all stood still, slowly coming to terms with the horror that had enveloped London.

Evening had fallen, but it did little to hide the hellish streetscape. Red, noxious smoke billowed everywhere. Fires sparked and roared in the intersections ahead. People, little more than huddled humps, scuttled from doorway to doorway. A cart, overloaded with corpses and drawn by an emaciated limping horse, emerged momentarily from the roiling smoke, rattling slowly down the cobbled surface of New Fish Street. A grotesquely cloaked and masked shadowed figure tugged at the horse by its bridle, and, even after the cart had vanished back within the smoke, Mary and her escort could hear the man cursing at the poor beast, trying to make it hobble faster.

Through this nightmarish landscape filtered the noise of lament, and above all clung such a stench of rotting flesh that Mary had to hold her gloved hand to her mouth for a moment or two to stop herself from gagging.

A muffled bell tolled once, twice, and then jangled frantically as if whoever held its rope had succumbed to convulsions.

It suddenly fell silent.

“Is this Satan’s work?” Mary whispered, finally lowering her hand

There was a silence. “God’s retribution, more like,” Margaret said in a toneless voice.

Neville glanced at her. Her face was drawn and pale where it wasn’t clouded by the flickering shadows of the flames and smoke. Her eyes stared, unblinking, straight ahead.

Mary turned her head so she could see Margaret herself. “God? Why would He visit us with such agony?”

“Because He hates Hal,” Margaret said.

“But if He hates
Hal
, then why destroy London? Why destroy the innocent?”

Margaret looked away from the hellish landscape before her and towards Mary. “Because that is what He is best at,” she said softly.

“Madam,” Culpeper said, stepping forth. He was a thin, flame-haired man with a great beaked nose that currently sported a bunch of herbs tied under it. This bundle was attached to two strings that ran behind each ear. Every time Culpeper moved the bundle of herbs jiggled slightly from side to side. Neville thought it made the physician look ridiculous. But, he supposed, if the herbs gave the man comfort in this most comfortless of times, then who was he to laugh?

Culpeper glanced at Margaret, who was now staring at him with a somewhat disdainful expression on her beautiful face, then addressed his queen again. “Madam, my Lady Neville is distressed, and perhaps she does not know the import of her words.”

Margaret rolled her eyes slightly.

“This pestilence is a judgement, surely,” Culpeper continued, “but we must not question God. We are only sinful mortals, and cannot understand God’s handiwork.”

“I’m sure that will give you enormous comfort when you lie shrieking in agony in your pestilence bed,” Margaret murmured.

Culpeper flushed, then frowned. He looked about to remonstrate with Margaret when everyone’s attention was caught by the sound of footsteps.

They were light and rapid, approaching down New Fish Street.

Neville moved a little closer to Mary’s donkey, and he glanced behind at the men-at-arms.

They moved up, drawing swords, even though it was obvious that only one person approached, and that a child from the lightness of the steps.

The next moment a child did indeed emerge from out of the fire, smoke and gloom. She was young, only seven or
eight, and slight even for her age. Her bare arms and face were grimy, perhaps from the smoke and soot that drifted about from the brimstone fires, while shoulder-length hair that was, under normal circumstances, probably very fair, clung to her cheeks and neck in oily tendrils.

Huge black eyes stared at the group of men-at-arms and nobles who blocked her path, and she sucked in a breath of anxiety.

She was trembling, but whether from effort or fright, none could tell.

She was dirty, but, all were relieved to note, did not display any signs of pestilence.

The child took a hesitant step forward, then, with an unerring instinct for who was the most likely to aid her, she ran to kneel before Mary’s donkey.

“Blessed Lady!” the child stammered, holding out her hands in supplication. “I beg your aid.”

Mary smiled, and beckoned the child to rise and come to stand by her donkey’s shoulder.

Neville moved very slightly out of the way, but he made sure that he remained close enough to prevent any trouble should the little girl suddenly produce a dagger from her skirts.

Mary reached out a hand and touched the child’s cheek. “You shall have my aid,” she said in a gentle voice. “But first, tell me, how should I call you?”

“Jocelyn.” The girl’s eyes were fixed on Mary’s face as if she thought her an angel.

“What a lovely name,” Mary said. “I am Mary, and thus you shall call me.”

Neville opened his mouth to object. Mary was the child’s queen, and the child ought to realise that she should address her queen with more respect than just—

With an amused glance Mary silenced whatever Neville might have been going to say, before addressing Jocelyn again.

“Jocelyn, child, why do you run with such haste? Should you not be home with your mother and father?”

“I have no father,” Jocelyn said, “and my mother is sick, near to dying. Please, will you help her?”

“There
are
hospitals,” Culpeper murmured, using a forefinger to press the herb bundle the closer to his nostrils.

Jocelyn began to cry, pitiful hiccupping sobs that shook her shoulders. “I asked the monks at Saint Bartholomew’s,” she said, her stammering even worse now, “but they refused. They said my mother had been struck down for her sins, and that she should learn to…to endure. I was running to Saint Katherine’s across the bridge, hoping that I might find someone to aid my mother.”

“And so you have!” Mary said. “See? I have with me a physician—” Culpeper started to say something, but Mary silenced him with a wave of her hand “—and a lady to aid me, and,” she turned her head very slightly to smile at Neville, “a man who can give your mother absolution if that will aid her more than medicines can. Come,” she looked at Jocelyn again, “will you lead us to her?”

Jocelyn was still crying, but her sobs had quietened, and she managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mary.”

“Would you like me to hold your hand as we walk?” Margaret said, stepping forward and squatting down before the child. She smoothed a lock of Jocelyn’s grimy hair away from her forehead with tender fingers.

Jocelyn stared a moment at her, thinking she had never seen a lovelier lady, then nodded. Margaret rose, took the girl’s hand, and they turned west into Thames Street.

They walked at a brisk pace, Margaret and Jocelyn leading, Neville staying close to Mary in case she needed support to keep upright, Courtenay on the other side of the donkey, Culpeper using his forefinger to keep the herbs pressed close to his nose and looking from right to left as if he expected further waifs to accost them, and the men-at-arms bringing up the rear.

After a few minutes Jocelyn twisted back to address Mary. “We live in an alley near Saint Paul’s,” she said.

“Then the bells must give you great joy,” Mary said.

“They keep me awake,” Jocelyn replied, turning back to the street before them, and Margaret suppressed a smile.

They’d walked only a few more minutes, but close enough now to see the spire of St Paul’s emerging from the brimstone haze like a long-necked sea monster, when a vicious snarl stopped them in their tracks.

They stared, looking about them.

There was nothing but the twisting, drifting smoke.

The snarl sounded again, low and, if possible, even more malevolent than previously.

Neville and Courtenay both drew their swords, Neville nodding to the men-at-arms to position themselves about Mary.

“It is nothing to worry about,” he said to Mary. “A stray, perhaps, terrified of the smoke and stench.”

“Tom,” Margaret said very quietly.

He looked to her. She was staring ahead as, very slowly, she backed herself and Jocelyn up to within the protective circle of armed men.

Neville followed her gaze.

There was something emerging from the red and black smoke in front of them. A shape, vaguely four-legged, and black, forming among the twisting tendrils and sparks within the fumes. But a
dog
? It seemed huge, as if—

The beast moved forward several steps, and the smoke swirled back to reveal it.

A massive, grotesque hound, almost as big as the donkey on which Mary sat. Its shoulders were so muscled they appeared out of proportion to the rest of its body. Its legs were slim, but stiff as if ready to spring, its coat and skin eaten away by scores of suppurating sores.

Malignant, yellow eyes glared unblinkingly at them above a twisting, snarling muzzle.

“Tom,” Mary whispered.

He hefted his sword, as if about to step forward and confront the hound, but Margaret caught at his arm.

“No!” she said. “You cannot touch it. It is…it is the black Dog of Pestilence. God’s wrath incarnate.”

Neville stared at the Dog, trying to gain its measure. That it was a supernatural beast he had no doubt. But God’s beast?

“A retributive strike,” Margaret whispered, now staring at him with strange-lit eyes, and Neville understood that only he would be able to hear her voice. “God’s vengeance on the English for having supported Hal’s rise to the throne. Sweet Jesu aid us, Tom.”

Then she turned back to the Dog. “Go. Go! We will have none of you here.”

The Dog stalked forward another two steps on stiff legs, his hackles raised, snarling and snapping at Margaret.

Jocelyn had shrunk back into Margaret’s skirts, and Margaret pushed the girl behind her.

“Go,” Margaret said, now whispering. “You cannot touch us. Not yet.”

The Dog growled one more time, low and vicious, its disappointment wrinkling about its snout and eyes. Then it turned slowly, almost insolently, and stalked away into a side alley.

A few heartbeats after the Dog had disappeared into the dark, shrieks and wails issued forth from the alley’s smoke-shrouded homes.

“And so the pestilence finds new victims,” Margaret said. She locked eyes briefly with Neville—
God’s vengeance
—then dropped her head and smiled at Jocelyn still clinging to the back of her skirts. “See, darling, the Dog has gone. Come, lead us to your mother.”

Jocelyn looked to Mary for reassurance, received it in the form of a smile, then very slowly led them forward once more.

Jocelyn and her mother lived off a tiny, enclosed courtyard, which itself ran off a narrow, bleak alley. When they gained the courtyard Neville lifted Mary down from the donkey, holding her arm as she found her balance.