But had he gone to the window and looked past the half closed shutters, he would have seen his wife, her cape clasped tight around her, walk resolutely past the spreading oak tree outside, and disappear into the moon dappled shadows beneath.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Emeline walked on, wandering into the little copse of beeches beyond the courtyard and away from the road. The Fox and Pheasant had been built on a rise where the Dorset countryside undulated, looking from its ridge down to shallow slopes, then sweeping into equally shallow valleys. The previous night’s deluge had eventually dried under the sun, though the thicker undergrowth remained sodden and the grass where the trees shaded the ground was still springy with damp.
As usual she was thinking of Nicholas.
Beyond the clustered beeches the land dipped suddenly and a small stream ran through the grass below. Emeline walked to the higher edge, looking down. The stream was still running high, partially overflowing its banks, though the buttercupped grass sloped, so escaping waterlog. A man, small and very thin, was filling his bucket at the stream, bending over, one knee to the flowers. Too late in the evening to wish being seen by strangers, Emeline remained under cover, wondering if the flashing dancing spring was fresh enough to drink. She had rarely drunk water unless first boiled, but the stream looked cold and clean enough to drink. Then she realised something.
The man below her appeared unable to rise. He had filled his bucket, not too heavy since it was not so large, yet could no longer lift it nor get to his feet. He rose once, stumbled, and fell again to his knees. He knocked the bucket and it began to spill, then rolled. He reached and caught it, hugging it to his lap, and began to sob. From where she stood, Emeline could hear the guttural misery and for a moment thought of her own retainer Bill, sick above the stables. The world, so full of sorrow and murder, seemed suddenly a sad and lonely place, worthy of a man’s tears.
She began to climb down, slipping a little on the damp slope. Although the man might be embarrassed to be seen so helpless, it was help she thought he needed. The moon, half full and sprinkling pearly reflections across the stream’s weedy reeds, showed a young man acting as an old one, stumbling, his back bent and his strength feeble. Remembering the thief at the swamp, she was nervous of tricks and of trusting those who might lead her into greater danger. Yet as she watched, the man again leaned forwards to fill his bucket but toppled, almost falling into the water. Emeline paused, then made her decision.
As she arrived beside him, he looked up and stared, eyes wide as if alarmed. Emeline mumbled, “I’m alone, sir, and only wish to help. To carry perhaps –” though her voice faded out.
He appeared more frightened than reassured. “Get away,” he wheezed. “I need no help.” He was very young, even handsome, but his hands were wrinkled and he could barely rise from his knees though he steadied himself, both hands to the ground.
Emeline said, “Should a woman not help a man? I thought perhaps you were ill. I simply wanted to help.” He didn’t answer so she continued, “The water looks good enough to drink. I could carry it for you. A companion of mine has recently been taken ill. Influenza, perhaps. Are you also – unwell?”
He peered around as though watching or wondering, then his voice sank to whispers. “It’s my poor wife needs help, lady, and thank you. If you’ve no fear of infection, we’d welcome that help.”
Frowning, she said, “No one welcomes infection, sir. Is a doctor in attendance?”
He managed a small smile. “In attendance? No, lady. There’s no doctor in our village.”
“A doctor was called for my companion, so one must be nearby.” She shook her head. “Though it’s very late, sir. I’ll carry the bucket willingly, but not too far, and forgive me but I’d prefer not to come too close. Then I’ll return to where I’m staying and send the doctor after you.”
He lived in a village nearby, he said, and his own home was on the outskirts. His wife would be so thankful. A man with a wife then, and since he had not asked for help, and had at first refused it, Emeline felt no threat. She filled the bucket from the stream and did not find it so heavy. The man walked very slowly and a little behind her, hobbling across the grass to the pathway, and dragging his feet. He was dressed in an unbleached shirt long over baggy felted hose and wooden clogs. He seemed poor, but she had no purse on her to give him. She could at least, she thought, pay the doctor before she sent him on to visit the man’s wife. But now she felt she had gone far enough. She stopped and set down the bucket.
The footsteps were already close before she heard them. The man heard, again seemed frightened and fell suddenly to his knees. Footsteps along the pathway out of the shadows, and within a heartbeat they were surrounded, five men brandishing sticks. The sick man bowed his head and began to cry. Emeline stared around her, now equally frightened. “If,” she said loudly, “you are thieves, then you’re remarkably stupid ones. You can see this poor man is ill and hasn’t anything to steal, and I carry nothing but water in a bucket.”
The men scowled. “You’ll not accuse us of thieving, mistress,” one said, “nor act grand when tis only our duty we’re doing, and risking our lives at that.”
“Bring your water,” said another, pointing with his stick. “and follow us, but no running, mind, for I’ve authority to stop anyone – even females – from running off.”
Emeline did not understand. “How foolish. Why should I run off? And this man is incapable of it, for he’s sick.”
“Sick – indeed he is,” said a third man, “and if you’re not a fool yourself, lady, then you’ll know how and what of, and should guess our orders, and the need for them.”
Now more confused than frightened and more angry than confused, Emeline refused to move. The man she had gone to help remained on his knees. The ties of his shirt had fallen open. She looked down. She saw the rash, its dark bruises rising up the muscles of his neck and covering the pulse at his throat. She felt suddenly very cold, as if packed in ice. Emeline whispered, “Is it – the pestilence?” The man continued to cry and did not look up. She asked him, “But if it is, even if you needed help, how could you want to infect a stranger, someone who was kind and so deserved kindness in return?”
The man spoke between sobs, and did not look at her. “Did I deserve this?” he gasped. “Did my wife? I took our baby son from her body just four days ago, for no other soul would enter our home, and yesterday morning our little boy was dead. My Maud is dying too, but in an agony of thirst. There is nothing left in the house so I came only to get water for her. But I cannot carry the bucket. At least let her drink before she dies in my arms.” His voice weakened but he continued in a rush, as if he had to explain what he had suffered. “At dawn today I buried our pretty baby Dickon,” he said, “though he never had the benefit of a Christening for our priest is dead, nor has a consecrated grave, for I’m forbidden to leave the house.” His voice was lost in tears. “Will the merciful God refuse him heaven, when he had no time to sin, but only time for pain?”
The five men grunted, shaking their heads and pushing at him with their sticks, refusing to touch him with their hands. “Get you home, Ralph Cole, and take your bucket. Let your wife drink while you say your prayers, but don’t you leave your house again.”