That was two days ago.
Mompesson opened the cottage door and was immediately hit with a wave of rank, humid air. All the curtains inside were drawn. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside. Flies buzzed with agitation at his intrusion, but then quickly settled back on the filthy plates and cups strewn about the cottage. Mompesson shivered, despite the sweltering heat. He swallowed, and resisted the childish urge to turn and run away as fast as he could.
“Mr. Vicars?”
He pulled back one of the curtains, illuminating the main room of the cottage with a shaft of warm yellow sunlight.
“Mr. Vicars?” he called again, louder. “It’s Rector Mompesson. I’ve not seen you out and about for a couple days … I’ve come to check if you’re well … Hello?”
Silence.
The door to Vicars’ bedroom was closed. The door had no knob or latch, only a triangular iron pull. Mompesson grasped it with two fingers and tentatively pulled the door open. The stench was unbearable. Ten times the pungency of what he had smelled upon entering the main cottage. He gagged involuntarily. A bedpan, over-flowing with bloody vomit and diarrhea, sat on the floor. Dozens of flies buzzed and crawled on and about the putrid excrement. Mompesson pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, crushed it into a wad in his palm, and then pressed it tightly against his nose and mouth. Then, he saw Vicars. No, not Vicars. A monster. Sprawled in bed, eight feet away, was a thing that bore only the faintest resemblance to the tailor Mompesson knew. A pulsing bubo, the size and color of a large plum, protruded from the side of the tailor’s neck. Violet, blood-filled patches blotted his grey-yellow skin. The ends of his nose and fingertips had begun to blacken from gangrene, indicating that the bacteria concentration in Vicars’ bloodstream was so high that his system had turned septic.
“Mompes … son?” Vicars mumbled, waking from his delirium.
“Yes, Mr. Vicars. I am here,” the rector replied, making no move to approach the bed.
“What’s … happening … to me?” Vicars asked, in labored, wheezing gasps.
Although the young rector had never seen anyone infected with the bubonic plague, he was an educated man. He also made it his business to stay current with the news of the times, and the news was that plague had already claimed thirty thousand souls in London over the summer months. Now, Death had come to Eyam, and its bloodshot gaze was fixed squarely on him.
“There is no good way to say this, George, but you are dying. You have caught the Black Death,” Mompesson said through his handkerchief.
Vicars groaned and began to weep. This emotional upwelling triggered a horrific coughing fit that violently shook his entire body. He hacked bloody sputum haphazardly all over his chest and soiled bed sheets. The pain he felt was so menacing, so acute, that Vicars was not even aware of this repulsive display, nor the fact that he had lost control of all of his bodily functions.
Mompesson took several steps backward. He knew the disease was spread by contact, and he understood plague’s contagious nature. His mind raced, shifting from the events of the present, to a bleak and terrifying future. He had to take preventive measures. There would be panic; there would be fear. Since his tenure in Eyam as rector had not encompassed even one year’s time, there would be those who challenged his decisions, and his authority. He could not afford to worry about that now. Without swift and decisive action, the scourge would spread. Like a wildfire across dry, sun-baked earth, the Black Plague would consume everyone in its path. To save the neighboring villages of the Derbyshire, he would impose a quarantine. The citizens of Eyam must make a stand. Together and alone.
“Come closer,” Vicars whimpered.
“I cannot.”
“Help me.”
“Your fate rests in God’s hands now. Pray with me, brother,” Mompesson said. He bowed his head. “May the Lord forgive thee thy trespasses in life, and remember instead the times thou showed kindness, prudence, and generosity. May the Lord bless thee, takest thee into his arms, and welcome thee into his eternal kingdom of peace and love. Amen.”
The room was silent for several long seconds, then Vicars spoke in choking gasps.
“Tell Kathryn that … I love her. She has my blessing … to marry whom she will. Love is all that matters. On the dining table … you’ll find a letter … please give it to her.”
Tears pooled in the corners of Mompesson’s eyes.
“I will give her your message and the letter. You have my word. Rest now, George. You have made peace with God.”
Mompesson shut the bedroom door and crossed himself. He grabbed the wax-sealed letter on Vicars’ dining table, tucked it in his coat breast pocket, and with great haste ran from the tailor’s cottage.
First, he would bathe. Then, burn his clothes.
And after … there was much to do.
CHAPTER 5
“I’m so nervous, Paul,” Kathryn said, in a diminutive voice, barely audible over the grind of the carriage wheels on dirt and pebbles. “What if Papa won’t speak to me?”
“Of course he’ll speak to you. You’re his only daughter, and he adores you. Besides, what choice does he have? He can’t stay angry at us forever,” Paul said, feigning confidence. But he was nervous too. His thoughts were consumed by what his own father would say. He had abandoned the family right before the autumn harvest; they would be angry and disappointed with him. Luckily, Fosters were not opposed to forgiveness, provided that sufficient supplication was involved. He wouldn’t be surprised if he and Kathryn were forced to sleep in the barn for a fortnight as punishment.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, wringing her hands. “How do you think he’ll take the news that we’re married?”
“I’m sure he suspects as much. He will have made peace with the idea by now. And Cromwell too.”
She smiled a tenuous smile, but said nothing else.
Paul guided the carriage horse — the mare he had borrowed from his father’s stable — into town and onto Church Street.
“Paul, what is going on?” she asked gravely, pointing to a bright red cross painted on the wooden door of the Hancock cottage, as the carriage rolled past.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, there’s another … on the cottage across the street.”
She gripped his hand. A bitter November wind snapped at their cheeks and caused their eyes to tear. The overcast sky, grey and nebulous, reinforced the listless, somber atmosphere that hung over the village. The Eyam they held fondly in memory — the one from that sunny day in August — was like a sparkling diamond that someone had tossed to the bottom of a murky lake. Dread crept into their minds.
When they reached the Vicars’ cottage, Kathryn gasped.
A red cross emblazoned the front door.
Paul hopped down from his perch, and extended his hand to Kathryn, helping her down from the bench seat. He gave the grey mare a pat on the neck, and then he escorted her to the door. He knocked. After thirty seconds elapsed with no reply, he knocked again.
“Papa! Papa, it’s me, Kathryn. Please open the door!” she bellowed. Then, with her jaw clenched, she pushed past Paul, intent on barreling into the door. He caught her by the wrist and stopped her dead in her tracks. She glared at him, taken aback by the power of his grip.
“No, Kathryn. We dare not open this door,” he scolded.
“But Papa!” she cried.
“Your father is not inside. That much I’m certain of. We should go to the farm. My parents can tell us what is going on.”