“Neither.” Nicholas poured a cup and held it to the boy’s lips, supporting and soothing him. “Hush child, drink and trust God.” He turned back to David, saying softly, “Insensible with drink, pain eases and death slips in unnoticed. The church would not agree, but I’m no good with prayers and understand wine better. But this second child is burning. There must be a bowl or jug of water in the garderobe. Get it, and cloths if you can.”
The child wailed again, and Nicholas leaned over him, bringing the cup of wine to his lips. His limp and sweat soiled shirt was open at the neck, and across the little shrunken chest the rash of the Great Death had already spread in purple bruises and flat blackened stains. The wine spilled a little, oozing from the cracked and bleeding lips, but the boy swallowed and fell silent. There was dried blood around his nose, and more on his legs, leaking from beneath the hem of the shirt. The other child was also bleeding now, from nostrils, gums and anus.
David returned with water and rags. “My lord, you must not touch the children, nor think to wash them, if that is what the water is for. If someone must – then let it be me.”
“And if you catch the disease, what difference will that make?” Nicholas said. “For then you’ll surely pass it to me just the same.” He took the cloths, and cooled the boys’ faces, necks, and small bodies. “I’ve long respected your desire to help and do good, as you know, David. Though sometimes – as now – it’s a conviction that brings as much trouble as benefit.” As he touched the quiet boy, he drew away, sitting back on his heels. “This little one is now dead,” he whispered. “We brought no relief after all.” He looked up, then stood abruptly. “Is there no one else left alive in the house?”
David shook his head. “I think not, my lord, unless some other poor soul lingers on in the attic, or in the kitchens where the scullions sleep.”
“Dear God,” muttered Nicholas. “How can I risk infecting my wife, simply to bring a last moment’s comfort to a child I do not know? You’re a damned fool, David. We should have left at once.”
“It was my own intention, lord, but it’s hard to ignore children sobbing in pain.”
The older boy squinted painfully into the candlelight. As he spoke, he spat blood, and more trickled from his eyes. “My brother is cold, my lord. He needs the blankets more than me. And can you spare him more wine?”
Nicholas said softly, “Your brother is now asleep. Leave him be, child. Here, finish the wine yourself.” He knelt again, offering the refilled cup. He asked, “When were you first ill, since you are now so – very sick? Do you remember?”
The boy was drinking, gulping as though desperately thirsty, and when he answered, his voice was slow, guttural and slurred. “A day or two. Maybe three. Alan was sicker. I never told no one, and hid in my bed. Was that wrong, my lord? I didn’t want to be thrown out to the gutter.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, child,” Nicholas told him softly. “Close your eyes now, lie back and dream sweet dreams. When you wake, you will be better and the pain will be gone. You will be safe with your brother.”
He stood again, speaking under his breath, ordering his body squire to leave at once, to get to the stables and lead everyone waiting there out onto the highroad, heading south. “Reassure them, but travel slow. Tell her ladyship I’ll catch her up before she reaches the county borders.”
“My lord, you’ll stay?” David stuttered. “Even now, when you know the danger, and one child is already gone? You must know I cannot leave you, my lord.”
“Quiet,” Nicholas said, “and do as I say. I won’t desert a child so near to death. He has as much right to comfort as any other, and I can give him that.”
It was some time later when Nicholas returned to the stables. All the stable boys had run, taking the other horses with them, but Nicholas’s great bay remained fully saddled and kicking at the straw. Nicholas mounted and, heels to the horse’s flanks, immediately galloped out through the manor’s gates and down the wide hedged road beyond.
A fine drizzle misted the night, drifting in a silver haze beneath the stars. The moonlight was fading as he caught up with his own party a mile further south. Hearing the galloping hooves, they stopped and waited. The sumpter, head down beneath the rain, slowed as the rattling wooden wheeled cart swerved to a halt with a bounce of baggage, bundles and frightened women.
Emeline turned and rode back towards her husband. Nicholas held out both hands. “Don’t touch me,” he ordered. “You must not come too close. The fault was mine, but I will make amends.”
Chapter Thirteen
The line cut thin, the great blackness divided by a new born horizon. The slice widened. A pale grey slipped through, leaking daylight into the pitch of night.
The inn sheltered beneath the trees, a rambling assortment of buildings banking the road at its junction with the southern route towards London. As the dawn stretched into rose petal pink, the inn’s stables were a yawning bustle of waking ostlers, and the tavern doors were pushed open, brooms busy to the threshold. Nicholas dismounted and signalled his men to make sure the horses were fed, watered and scrubbed down. Within half an hour Emeline took a breakfast of bread, cheese and ale in their bedchamber overlooking the fields at the back of the first floor. Nicholas stood watching her.
He said, “I’ll sleep on the pallet. You won’t touch me or come close to me until I’m sure. In six days or a week’s time I’ll know if I’ve escaped. Or not.”
She stared gloomily at him. “What can you do? And how will you know?”
“It starts with a fever, as almost everything does. But if it’s the worst, then within an hour I’ll be burning up. The rash comes fast, livid spots spreading like decomposing flesh under the skin. First red and sepia. Then purple. Then black. Everything bleeds. Nose, teeth, tongue, eyes, ears. And lower down. Then finally the buboes start swelling up, great dark lumps at the neck or the groin.” Nicholas sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “But long before that happens, you’ll be gone. I’ll have sent you back west to your father.”
“It must be terrifying.”
“It is,” he said simply. “The lucky ones fall unconscious and stay that way until the body rots and they die.”
“Then,” she flung down her napkin and pushed her platter away, “I must stay and nurse you. How could I leave? Does anyone ever recover? Are there medicines?”
“Listen.” He shook his head. “Nursing doesn’t help. Enough wine to send me insensible is the best idea, as long as I don’t just vomit it back. I know doctors who treat it with tansy and willow bark but I also know that doesn’t work. Bursting the buboes simply causes more pain. People can die of pain alone. So death can take hours – or days. Some of the lucky souls recover, but most die. And you won’t have any choice about leaving. I’ll order Witton to chain you to your horse and gallop off with you. Either that or I’ll ride out into the night on my own to die in peace by some roadside.”
“You couldn’t.” Emeline glared at him, eyes glistening. “I’d – I’d –”
“What? Kill me?” He smiled, cold eyed and still keeping his distance. “There’s no surety about this, my dear. I’ve not given up hope. There’s always the possibility of a reprieve – just perhaps – since I spent so little time with the children. And there are stories – many stories – of families who are stricken and die, yet where one or two, even staying close, keep their sanity and survive. But until I’m sure, I won’t risk you touching me.”
Emeline knotted her fingers, staring down into her lap. “Why, Nicholas, when you knew exactly what it might mean? You should never have risked staying – or touching. And especially if you knew you couldn’t really help.”