The miserable offenders were miserable indeed, heads bowed, hope sickly. I scanned the hill quickly, leaning forwards. Galileo was gone.
A woman gasped. Another screamed. Mompesson stopped talking, stood frozen. His wife lay prone upon the grass at the base of the bank. Even from a distance I saw the dark circle about her neck against the paleness of her skin. Mompesson dropped to his knees, cradled her head in his arm and cupped her face, calling her name, again and again. Several of the congregation fled, running for the safety of the forest. The rest edged backwards and away. None stepped forwards to help.
‘Come on, Harry,’ Dowling muttered, ever conscientious. I followed him, reluctant, down the hill.
Mompesson huddled over her chest, holding one of her hands in both of his, a strangulated wail leaking from his mouth. Dowling laid a hand upon his arm, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the woman. No need, for she was dead. Her mouth lolled open, face contorted into a twisted mask. A black bubo protruded upon her neck, tight and round.
‘It is a judgement,’ Mompesson whispered. Tears glistened upon his cheeks and along the ridge of his great nose.
I thought of Josselin’s words the day before and wondered for a moment if he might be right.
‘A judgement upon us all, Reverend.’ Dowling squeezed his shoulder. ‘The seers shall be ashamed, and the diviners confounded, for there is no answer of God.’
Which is not how the villagers would see it.
Catherine Mompesson stared into the blue sky, eyes still bright. The Reverend leant over her, searching for any sign of movement,
brushing his hands against her shoulders in a strange, repetitive motion.
‘Go home,’ Josselin cried from high up on the hill to the few that remained. ‘Everyone. Back to your houses.’
A collective sigh settled upon the grassy dell and in just a few minutes we found ourselves alone with Mompesson and his dead wife. Josselin remained aloof at the top of the bank, arms folded across his chest. Then he turned his back on us and walked away. Did we offend him?
Dowling pushed on Mompesson’s shoulder to attract his attention. ‘We will help you take her home.’
‘We need something to carry her upon,’ I said, alarmed. The rectory was a walk away, back up the hill and over the bridge.
Dowling stared at me, stern. ‘We have carried bodies before, Harry,’ he growled.
Aye, but not so many infected with plague. I looked to the heavens and resigned myself to fate. God had better be watching and taking proper notice. I took the woman’s ankles, grasped them firm and held them to my hips. Dowling lifted her by the armpits, where usually lurked more buboes. Faith was a dangerous thing and Dowling seemed determined to tempt it.
Her legs were still warm. I let Dowling lead the way and followed him into the copse. Mompesson walked alongside, hand lain upon his dead wife’s cheek. She weighed less than a child and we made easy progress.
Outside the rectory Mompesson stood staring as if seeing the house for the first time. ‘If you would be so kind …’ he said, leading us on.
The front room was simply furnished. Three heavy chairs, a cold, empty grate, and the stone floor swept clean. Mompesson hurried us
into the kitchen, gesturing at a sturdy wooden table. ‘If you would lay her down here.’
‘Where will you bury her?’ Dowling grunted, lowering her with care. Not a gentle question.
Mompesson began to weep, unrestrained, stretching out a hand to her still staring eyes. He paused for one final moment of intimacy afore closing her eyelids.
I tugged at Dowling’s sleeve. He lingered, reluctant, but Mompesson was oblivious. The bubo was bigger now, black as coal. Though her body was dead, the infection still grew. Mompesson wiped his hands upon her face and pushed his cheek next to hers, trying to climb inside her, so it looked.
I regarded his face, tears covering his cheeks, nose red and swollen. Difficult to imagine this was the man that rallied the courage of a village. I felt like a trespasser and headed back out into the sunshine.
I looked at my hands and prayed the plague did not already creep upon them, silent and invisible. ‘We must be more careful, Davy,’ I said, the words sounding ridiculous even as I spoke them. ‘If we will see London again we should be more discreet.’
‘Have faith, Harry,’ Dowling replied, so quiet I could barely hear him.
‘Good morning,’ Josselin’s throaty growl spoke from beyond the low stone wall. He stood upon the street alone, hands in pockets. ‘How fares the Reverend?’
‘Not so well,’ I replied, thinking to wipe my hands upon his cheeks.
‘I think you should leave him alone now,’ Josselin warned. ‘God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth. The Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries.’
‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ I asked. ‘I thought you hadn’t met him before.’
‘I haven’t.’ Josselin smiled his terrible smile, eyes gleaming bright. ‘Yet he nestled beneath Elks’ wing like a small chicken. For that he should be punished.’
Mompesson and the spies.
I looked left and right down the street, searching for Smythe. ‘You are alone,’ I observed.
‘I have no friends here,’ Josselin snapped. ‘I told you before, I don’t know these people. The villagers will suffer what fate God plans for them, and the spies shall be dealt with.’ He extracted his hands from his pockets and lay them upon the top of the wall. ‘You are spies, but you are agents of God besides. He sent you to release me of my chains.’ He cocked his head as if expecting a reply.
‘What of the man you spoke to at the service?’ I asked. ‘Is he not another of Clarendon’s men, a friend of yours?’
‘Clarendon employs a small army,’ Josselin replied. ‘Galileo is just another spy that asks questions and promises redemption.’ His eyes seemed to fix upon a point distant. ‘The less I speak, the more I learn. No man can resist speaking. If you would know what lies in a man’s heart ask nothing, for he will reveal it readily. Ask him a question, and he will protect even the most fleeting thought as if it were a great secret.’
I thought again of Dowling’s children and Jane’s pregnancy. Ask nothing was Josselin’s advice. It hadn’t worked thus far.
Josselin continued to stare. ‘I have a lot to do today. Later we will talk, for we must decide what to do next.’ He turned his attention to me, searching, like I was the harbinger of some great secret. I thought of Withypoll. We hadn’t told him about Withypoll yet.
He nodded slowly. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘If not before.’
Another day in Hell, but I couldn’t think how to protest. ‘We must eat.’ My stomach reminded me.
‘Go to Buxton’s house,’ said Josselin. ‘I will send Smythe with food.’ He waved a hand, again most royally, and headed off back towards the pond.
‘Back to the cottage, then,’ I said, watching him walk away, striding long like he owned all of Essex. ‘We should see how the Hancocks fare, anyway,’ I said to Dowling. ‘Now would not be a good time to plot an escape.’
The track back into the woods was once more deserted, all the villagers having hurried home despite their licence to wander.
Only the birds sang sweet.
Chapter Twenty
All the family being dead of the Plague, by reason thereof, I cannot come by them.
I heard the sound of wailing even before we reached the cottage. I thought I recognised the voice of Mary Hancock, desolation wracking her brittle soul. There was no end to it, it seemed, no escape. We could stop, turn, and walk the other way, but we would find misery there too. Death was all around.
The Hancock’s house nestled deep in the grass, just below the line of the road, sinking beneath a mound of creeping ivy. Loud weeping sounded from the window, the lament of a mother that discovers she may lose a child. Too late then for the Hancocks to think of leaving. Was it late for us too? My chest constricted and I struggled to breathe. Not the plague, I told myself, just naked fear.