The Devil's Diadem (60 page)

Further into the city I could see trails of languid smoke rising through the still, foetid air into the sky.

I felt ill.

Hell had visited this place.

‘My God,’ Edmond muttered, ‘how is it that any have survived?’

‘Only by the miraculous intervention of the saints, my lord,’ said one of the aldermen. ‘The plague showed us no mercy.’

‘How many are dead?’ Edmond said.

‘Thirty-four thousand two hundred and fifty,’ the other aldermen said.
Thirty-four thousand two hundred and fifty
. My mind could barely encompass the number.

‘And many more fled,’ said the first alderman.

‘London is home to dogs and rooks now, my lord, and little else.’

Tears ran down my face. Was I responsible for this? Could I have somehow prevented it?

‘Are there any new infections?’ Edmond asked, and the alderman shook his head.

‘We have had no new reports of infection for nigh on two weeks now, my lord.’ He paused.

‘My lord king, we are glad you are home.’

Edmond nodded, and I saw tears glinting in his eyes, too.

And he would have been home earlier, if not for me.

And perhaps then dead of the plague, too, if not for me.
‘Is there plague elsewhere?’ de Warenne asked.

‘I have not had reports of it,’ said Edmond.

‘It appears to have died down.’

‘At least until the heat of summer,’ de Warenne muttered, ‘when it will doubtless re-emerge in its full anger.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Edmond, glancing at me, and leaving the other three looking puzzled.

We rode through the city, turning down West Cheap from Wodestrate.

Here was similar devastation, if not worse. Many tenement buildings and houses had gone, as had even some churches. There were buildings badly damaged and leaning but still standing — there was no one to tear them down. As we rode by one of them its roof timbers collapsed, sending our horses skittering and shying across the street.

‘What is Pengraic doing to help?’ said Edmond as we tightened our reins and pulled our horses back under control.

‘Everything possible,’ de Warenne said. ‘He has every available man out aiding those who still survive, organising shelter, food, comfort. But our forces were hit hard, too, my lord. The Tower … you will find the Tower almost deserted, and pits dug beyond its walls for your servants. It shall be easier to list those who survived rather than those who died.’

‘Sweet Jesu,’ Edmond muttered.

We were approaching the turn into Cornhill now.

‘I will go home to my house in Cornhill,’ I said, somewhat suddenly.

‘Not to the Tower. With my lord’s permission.’

Edmond looked at me.

‘My lady, you shall be far safer in the Tower.’

I raised an eyebrow at that.

‘I want to go home, my lord.’

‘You won’t avoid him there,’ he said, low.

‘I know, my lord.’

Edmond sighed.

‘de Warenne, we will detour via Cornhill. If my lady’s house is safe then I shall leave her there. But I need to see it is safe, first.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Our Cornhill house had largely escaped destruction, mainly because of the open areas about it. Nonetheless, it had been used as a hospital in the early days of the plague and two of the outbuildings had burned, and the roof of the main house was scorched.

To my utter relief fitzErfast met us in the courtyard. If he had survived, then the house might be in order.

He helped me down from Dulcette, a pale, thin version of the man I remembered.

‘FitzErfast!’ I said.

‘I am right glad to see you live!’

‘Not many others from the household do, my lady. There is only myself, a cook, three house servants and a man-at-arms remaining.’

I saw that he had my old eating knife at his belt, and I was absurdly pleased to see he had treasured it enough to use for his daily meat.

Edmond had also dismounted and came over.

‘Are you troubled by any ruffians, fitzErfast?’ he said.

‘Beggars? Unworthy itinerants? The homeless?’

FitzErfast gave a wan smile.

‘There are rich enough pickings and empty houses aplenty lying open for anyone who wishes in London, my lord king,’ he said.

‘We are left alone because there are still people here unafraid to wield a sword. But in any case, beggars and itinerants are few and far between. Either they died in the plague, or they are still too frightened to come near the city. It is safe enough here for my lady.’

‘Nonetheless, I shall leave ten soldiers here to guard her,’ said Edmond, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I was to be allowed to stay.

‘What food stores do you have?’

‘Enough for both my lady, her women, your men plus those already here,’ fitzErfast said.

‘Of recent times there has not been much call for food.’

‘The house is habitable?’

‘Yes, my lord. One upper chamber is water-damaged from a leak caused by a fire … but that leak is now fixed and the chamber only requires replastering to make it pretty. Meanwhile, it is still habitable.’

Edmond gave fitzErfast a nod and turned to me.

‘Any of my soldiers can reach me at any hour,’ he said, ‘if you need help.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said.

We looked at each other for a moment — an awkwardness that hung heavy in the air between us — then he nodded at me as he had just nodded at fitzErfast and turned back to his horse.

I was left standing in the courtyard with Ella and Gytha, a cart of our belongings, and the ten men Edmond had detailed for my care.

I felt very alone, adrift both in this ruined city and in my life.

Although it was a warm day, unusually so even for this time of year, the house was cold. The signs that the house had been used as a hospital during the worst of the plague were still here: cot beds, now stacked in an ungainly pile at the end of the hall; scorch marks in a score of places on the hall floor and on one wall; stacks of dishes; stacks of linens (I made a note to direct fitzErfast to burn them). There were no fires lit in any of the chambers, and the shutters closed in both the solar and my privy chamber.

‘I will direct the cook to prepare a meal for nones,’ fitzErfast said as we stood in the solar, Ella and Gytha moving to open the shutters and allow light to stream in.

I nodded.

‘And I will send a man to bring wood, and set the fires,’ he continued.

I nodded again. I was almost in tears at the loneliness in this house, and about us in the deserted streets.

‘What will become of this place?’ I said.

‘Of this house, or of London?’ fitzErfast said.

‘Both.’

He gave a little shrug.

‘They will both rise again, my lady. What appears a barren field today shall bloom tomorrow.’

‘I had never realised you such the optimistic poet, fitzErfast,’ I said. He smiled, bowed, and left.

Ella, Gytha and I unpacked what we needed, made the beds, swept and did what we could to make the solar and privy chamber comfortable and homely. The cook brought us a meal at nones, and we ate, and then all three of us mutually decided to have a nap.

We were exhausted, and more than a little heartsick at this our first day back in London.

Ella and Gytha shared a bed in the solar — they would move back into their dormitory chamber once it had been cleaned and warmed, and I lay down on the bed in the privy chamber. I fell asleep immediately.

When I woke, several hours later, as dusk was falling, it was to see Raife standing in the doorway, leaning against the timber supports, a cylindrical leather document holder held loosely in one hand. Watching me.

Chapter Two

I
sat up, slowly.

I was shocked by the surge of emotion at seeing him. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t fear. It was, unbelievably, gladness.

I hadn’t expected that.

‘You do not need to be frightened of me,’ he said, softly.

‘I am not.’

He stood straight, propped the document holder against the wall, then walked over slowly and sat on the side of the bed.

He looked very tired, impossibly wearied.

‘Edmond tells me the child is well,’ he said.

‘He is.’

‘And you?’

‘I am well.’

‘You almost died,’ he said, ‘twice. First by Madog’s hand, and then from childbed fever. By God, Maeb, I —’

‘I am alive now, as you see, thanks to Edmond.’

‘You should never have left the Tower,’ he snapped.

‘To travel so near your confinement, and then to be stolen by Madog and Henry!’

‘If I was stolen then that was not
my
fault!’

He glared at me, then very suddenly he relaxed and gave a soft laugh.

‘Look at me. I admonished myself over and over on the ride to this house that I must not snap at you, and yet it is the first thing I do.’

‘You were worried.’

‘Yes.’

‘Because if I died then you might not find your precious diadem?’

‘Because I love you.’

I dropped my eyes. I did not know what to think, or what to say.

‘You have not been able to find the diadem,’ I said, after a lengthy pause.

‘No.’

‘No doubt you searched this house inside and out while I was gone.’

‘I did.’

‘And yet still no diadem. Raife … I do not have it. I never have.’

‘The plague came here and stopped,’ Raife said.

‘The imps tell me it is here, somewhere. My master grows angry and fretful. He wants his diadem back.’

Oh, how easy those words now slipped into his speech. His master. The imps.

‘If I have that diadem,’ Raife continued, ‘then all this is finished. The death. The terror. I can end it all.’

‘Have you no soul to speak so easily of the death, the horror that has been visited on so many, among them your own wife and children? How can you still ride through this city, which has suffered so terribly, and still bear your head high? How can you —’

‘Maeb, I will ask you again. Please, trust me. Damn it! I wish Adelie had found the time to teach you your letters!
Trust me.
’

He took my hand as he said that, and I pulled it away immediately. Why in the name of all the saints was he carrying on about whether or not I could read?

‘I can’t trust you,’ I said.

‘And yet,’ he said, bitterness ringing every word, ‘whenever you have asked me for trust I have given it to you. At the ordeal … trust me, you said, and I did.’

‘I am blameless in this, and you are not. I will not trust you.’

He looked away, the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

‘Who were you,’ I said, ‘before you went down to hell?’

‘A man,’ he said.

‘And what sin did you commit to be sent to hell?’

Raife’s eyes narrowed and I wondered what lies he was conjuring for me. Then he gave a chuckle, which surprised me.

‘I lusted after beauty,’ he said, ‘nothing but a bauble. It seems such a waste, now.’

‘That was all?’

‘It was enough.’

‘You did not murder?’

‘No, I did not murder.’

‘What was your name?’

Sadness filled his eyes.

‘I cannot remember.’

‘How long ago did you live in your first life, when you were a man?’

‘A long, long time,’ Raife said.

‘Countless generations. I had to spend a great deal of time in hell, you know, to work my way up to being the Devil’s right-hand man. You just don’t do that overnight.’

There was definite humour in his eyes now.

‘Don’t jest of it,’ I said.

‘Would you have me weep, as I wept when I thought you lost on the way to Pengraic? When Edmond sent word that you lay at death’s door from childbed fever? When I thought constantly on the fact that it was Edmond with you at Pengraic and not I? Did you bed him, wife? Did you think to make a better alliance for yourself than that you made with me?’

‘I did not bed him,’ I whispered.

He reached out, touched my cheek briefly, then dropped his hand.

‘I wish I could believe that.’

Trust me
, I almost said.

‘I did not,’ I said.

Raife sighed, and looked away.

‘I have heard rumours of how Edmond reached you on that mountain.’

‘He used a falloway,’ I said.

‘The same knight who appeared to me in the forest east of London also appeared to Edmond, and led him to me.’

‘You have powerful protectors,’ Raife said.

‘Who is it, I wonder, this knight?’

The way he said it made me think that he knew who it was.

‘I believe it to be Stephen,’ I said.

‘Aye,’ Raife said, ‘it is Stephen, lost to the Old People, now. And Ghent too, from what Edmond said. Maeb, I am sorry for Ghent. He was good to you and loyal to me. I liked and respected him. He did not deserve that death.’

I was almost in tears at both his easy acceptance that the knight who protected me was Stephen, and at his sorrow for Ghent. That was genuine, I think. I could discern no dissembling beneath his words.

‘I wish …’ I said.

‘Aye,’ Raife said, ‘and I have spent these past months wishing, too.’ Then he rose, walked over to the door to close it, and came back to me.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘the diadem. But not tonight. Not tonight.’

He stood me upright from the bed, unclothed me, and disrobed himself.

We went to bed.

We lay there side by side for a time, staring at the ceiling.

Then Raife sighed and rolled over to me. He kissed me, and caressed my body.

I would have thought myself sickened to have him touch me, but I was not. I might have been afraid, knowing what he was, but I was not. I
was
very sad, for everything that had been, and might have been. I think it was for that reason that I allowed him to make love to me, and perhaps even sadness that allowed me to respond to his touch.

I don’t know what else it might have been.

For thirty years, I have convinced myself that it was sadness that made me accept him that night.

I did not once think that it may have been love, for that admission, literally and figuratively, would have led me to hell.