P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

She was recovered by then so she heaved herself up and took her knife, heated it in the flame and carefully prised off the seals on the door, leaving them hanging by their cords.

Cautiously she opened the door while the young man stood back, looking worried, and then she braced herself and went in.

The smell was bad but mainly because of the magnificent fighting cock roosting on the bedhead. It took its head out from under its wing and crowed once, then settled down to watch her with the cold beadiness of all fowl. The place was a mess, the small chest was open and its contents flung on the floor, the main bed had been stripped and the mattress lifted, slashed open. The man in the truckle was obviously dead, but the boy lying on the straw pallet just inside the door was not. He was trussed like a boiling chicken and efficiently gagged and as soon as she came in his tear-swollen eyes flicked open and he started grunting at her frantically.

She put her head round the door. ‘There’s no plague here,’ she said. ‘Or not yet. Come and look.’

Carey came in after only a moment’s hesitation and stood staring at the scene for one frozen second. His fists bunched and his blue eyes blazed with rage.

‘God damn them to hell.’

Seconds later he had his knife out and was carefully cutting the boy free of the ropes, undoing the gag and helping him spit out the wad of cloth in his mouth. The boy was weeping and couldn’t talk because his mouth was too dry. After shutting the door to stop the cock getting out, Nan gave him some of the wine posset she had brought with her, mopped it when he dribbled. Carey was rubbing his purple and swollen hands and feet.

‘Don’t talk for a bit,’ he told the desperate boy. ‘It’s all right, Simon. Don’t worry.’

Leaving Nan to give Simon more wine and help him use the pot, Carey went over to the truckle bed and stood looking down at the twisted body there, the sheets filthy with blood and muck. Nan came over to look.

‘He died hard, God rest him,’ she said objectively. ‘Was he stabbed?’

Carey had tears running freely down his face. He checked the body carefully and shook his head. Then he went to the window, opened the shutters and flung them wide so the man’s soul could fly. He stood there a while, his head bowed. Nan waddled over to give him her handkerchief so he could blow his nose, and then he went back to the boy who was still weeping, clasped him like a brother and patted his shoulder.

Whatever the little ferret-faced man on the bed had died of, it certainly wasn’t plague. There were no swellings at his neck, nor was his face blackened. From the disgusting state of the blankets, she thought he must have died of a flux or bad food. She carefully shut his eyes and put pennies on them to hold them shut, then she drew up the least horrible blanket to cover his face.

‘One minute, mother,’ said the young man behind her, his voice still choked.

She stepped aside and watched as he gingerly felt about the little man’s soiled doublet and then reached under the pillow. He drew out a worn silver flask, that had once been nicely chased and enamelled. He looked at it carefully, then opened it and sniffed what was inside.

‘Do you know what he died of?’ she asked, seeing the enlightened expression on Carey’s face.

‘I think so,’ he answered her gruffly. ‘I saw a man die of the same thing yesterday morning.’

Nan tutted. ‘It’s no kind of plague I’ve ever seen. It isn’t even the sweating sickness.’

Carey shook his head. ‘I think it’s not catching either,’ he said. ‘Except one way.’

He didn’t explain any more, only went back to where Simon was sitting, tearing ravenously at the bread and cheese Nan had brought for her own meal. Carey squatted down in front of him.

‘All right, Simon, what can you tell me?’

‘It was awful, sir, it was terrible.’ The boy was rubbing his cheek muscles and jaw hinges and wincing. His face was bruised and his lip was swollen from a cut but he was so desperate to talk that he was almost gabbling. ‘Uncle Barney was sick in the night, he was up and down and then he was sick something horrible, and he wouldn’t let me help, only said he thought it was something he’d eaten and he’d be better in the morning. So I went back to sleep, like he said, sir, I never meant him to…d…die…I never thought…’

‘I don’t think there was anything you could have done for him, Simon. Did he drink from this flask?’

‘Oh, yes. He had it refilled at the boozing ken down the way, and drank that as well, said it was medicine, only it wasn’t, it was aqua vitae, but that was before he took sick. He was scared because he had a headache and a fever like me, he was scared he had plague, see.’

‘How’s your head?’

‘It’s better, sir,’ Simon sounded surprised. ‘And me neck isn’t stiff or anything. Do you think I won’t get it, even though I kissed me mam goodbye?’

‘You might not. Nobody knows why some people get it and some people don’t.’

Simon was crying again. ‘Me mam’s dead now, in’t she, sir? That’s what Uncle Barney said. He said, if she was all covered in black spots, then she’s as good as dead.’

Carey sighed. ‘I don’t know because I haven’t seen her, but I’m afraid that is true.’

‘Oh, sir. What am I going to do? Everybody’s dead. ’Cept my sister and I don’t like her.’

‘Shh. Everybody has to die sometime.’

‘Yes, but not all at once. Not like that.’ He gestured at the shape on the truckle bed.

Carey sighed again. ‘Tell me what happened. Your Uncle Barney was sick and you went back to sleep.’

‘Yes, sir, ’cos I never knew how bad it was, he didn’t tell me, he said I should…’

‘Nobody’s blaming you for sleeping. What happened? How did you come to be trussed up?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, I went to sleep, like I said, sir. Next thing I knew, it was still night and they was banging on the door.’

‘Who was?’

‘They was. The men.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Didn’t say, sir. I didn’t want them to disturb Uncle Barney what had just dropped off, as I thought, so I went to open the door and tell them to be quiet and they just pushed it open and came in and one of them grabbed me and I tried to fight but he just clipped my ear and held me tighter and they searched the room. One of them looked at Uncle Barney and said, “Jesus”, and then another one asked me questions.’

‘What did they ask?’

‘Where you were, sir, which I didn’t know because Uncle Barney didn’t tell me, and where your brother was, which I didn’t know either and where some money was which I said you had and what we were doing in London which I said was looking for your brother…’

‘Did they hurt you?’

‘They knocked me about a bit, sir.’

‘I can see that. Did they do anything…er…else?’

Simon shook his head. ‘No, sir. Only they said they were going to tie me up and gag me because I was a bad boy and then they’d make sure nobody came in here at all until I was dead of thirst only they wouldn’t if I’d tell them what they wanted to know, but I didn’t know it, so I couldn’t and Uncle Barney was dead so they couldn’t ask him and they were worried in case it was plague, so they did what they said, they tied me up and…and…then they left me and then they scorched the cross on the door, I heard them, so I knew nobody would dare to come in and…and…’

Simon’s shoulders hunched over and shook with sobs. Carey sat down next to him and let the boy howl into his shoulder. When the storm had died down a bit, he asked very softly, ‘Did you know any of them, Simon? Had you ever seen any of them before?’