at his eldest son. “Upstairs—the windows!”
Harry nodded, and darted away towards the stairs.
“William, what is going on ?”
“Pestilence,” William said, staring about wildly as if looking for something else to shutter closed.
Margery drew in a deep breath. “But we haven’t suffered from the pestilence in—”
“How long it has been doesn’t matter,” William said, and directed his middle son into the front rooms of the house to shutter the windows. “What matters is that the pestilence is back now. Have you opened the door to anyone this day? Any beggars, anyone who has touched you?”
Margery stared at him, then very slowly looked down at her apron. Wordlessly she tore it off, then bundled it into the coals in the hearth.
It was too late. By evening one of the apprentices, the cook, two of Margery’s sons, and William himself were fighting raging fevers. Huge swellings appeared in their armpits, at the bases of their necks, and in their groins.
They were tight and agonising, filled almost to bursting point with black blood and pus.
Margery did what she could—and she was left on her own to do it, because the two still-healthy servants had fledthe house at the first signs of sickness—but that was little enough. She moved from bed to bed, wiping faces and hands with cloths wrung out in cool, herbed water. When her youngest son and one of the apprentices began to soil themselves with great clotting black messes, she changed their linens, her heart almost failing at their screams of agony as she rolled them over.
In the dark of early morning, as she was trying to change the linens under the apprentice, three of his buboes burst, and he bled to death, screaming, in under ten minutes.
And the nightmare had only just begun.
By dawn, William was dead, drowned in the mass of blood and pus that had collected in his lungs. The child and the apprentice who had so far escaped were tossing with fever, and Margery, in emptying out a bucket of blood and pus-stained rags into the courtyard refuse heap, suddenly realised that her arms were aching, and difficult to move.
There were hard lumps in both of her armpits.
Margery stood there for long minutes, the bucket at her feet, staring sightlessly at the refuse heap before her.
She moved her arms, very slightly, and again felt the painful swellings in her armpits.
Margery began to weep, great sobbing gulps, full of exhaustion and terror. She remembered how only a day ago her life had been so good, how the future shone so bright, how she and William had done so well for themselves from such humble beginnings.
Now?
Now it was all gone. Gone in less than a day.
Margery slowly sank to the cold cobbles, lay down, and waited to die, staring up at the grey sky with her weeping eyes.
Much later, dogs began to feed on her almost dead body.
III
Tuesday 21st May 1381
—iii—
B olingbroke stretched tired neck and shoulder muscles, and looked one more time at the plans and documents that Dick Whittington had spread on the table. He lifted a candle—even though dawn light now shone through the windows, it was still not strong—and peered more closely at the plan of London spread before him.
He and the Lord Mayor, as also Bolingbroke’s Chancellor, the Bishop of London, and several other clerks and secretaries, stood in one of the upper chambers of the Tower of London Keep. Most of the palace was still undergoing renovation, but at least this chamber was finished, and warmed by a fire roaring in the grate.
Someone—Bolingbroke had forgotten who—had thrown rosemary and rue on the fire, and now the sweet scent of the herbs infused the chamber.
Bolingbroke didn’t think the herbs would have much effect in keeping the pestilence at bay.
The door to the chamber opened, and a man dressed in the livery of the Grocers’ Company hurried in. He bowedperfunctorily to Bolingbroke, then whispered in Whittington’s ear before hurriedly quitting the
Harry nodded, and darted away towards the stairs.
“William, what is going on ?”
“Pestilence,” William said, staring about wildly as if looking for something else to shutter closed.
Margery drew in a deep breath. “But we haven’t suffered from the pestilence in—”
“How long it has been doesn’t matter,” William said, and directed his middle son into the front rooms of the house to shutter the windows. “What matters is that the pestilence is back now. Have you opened the door to anyone this day? Any beggars, anyone who has touched you?”
Margery stared at him, then very slowly looked down at her apron. Wordlessly she tore it off, then bundled it into the coals in the hearth.
It was too late. By evening one of the apprentices, the cook, two of Margery’s sons, and William himself were fighting raging fevers. Huge swellings appeared in their armpits, at the bases of their necks, and in their groins.
They were tight and agonising, filled almost to bursting point with black blood and pus.
Margery did what she could—and she was left on her own to do it, because the two still-healthy servants had fledthe house at the first signs of sickness—but that was little enough. She moved from bed to bed, wiping faces and hands with cloths wrung out in cool, herbed water. When her youngest son and one of the apprentices began to soil themselves with great clotting black messes, she changed their linens, her heart almost failing at their screams of agony as she rolled them over.
In the dark of early morning, as she was trying to change the linens under the apprentice, three of his buboes burst, and he bled to death, screaming, in under ten minutes.
And the nightmare had only just begun.
By dawn, William was dead, drowned in the mass of blood and pus that had collected in his lungs. The child and the apprentice who had so far escaped were tossing with fever, and Margery, in emptying out a bucket of blood and pus-stained rags into the courtyard refuse heap, suddenly realised that her arms were aching, and difficult to move.
There were hard lumps in both of her armpits.
Margery stood there for long minutes, the bucket at her feet, staring sightlessly at the refuse heap before her.
She moved her arms, very slightly, and again felt the painful swellings in her armpits.
Margery began to weep, great sobbing gulps, full of exhaustion and terror. She remembered how only a day ago her life had been so good, how the future shone so bright, how she and William had done so well for themselves from such humble beginnings.
Now?
Now it was all gone. Gone in less than a day.
Margery slowly sank to the cold cobbles, lay down, and waited to die, staring up at the grey sky with her weeping eyes.
Much later, dogs began to feed on her almost dead body.
III
Tuesday 21st May 1381
—iii—
B olingbroke stretched tired neck and shoulder muscles, and looked one more time at the plans and documents that Dick Whittington had spread on the table. He lifted a candle—even though dawn light now shone through the windows, it was still not strong—and peered more closely at the plan of London spread before him.
He and the Lord Mayor, as also Bolingbroke’s Chancellor, the Bishop of London, and several other clerks and secretaries, stood in one of the upper chambers of the Tower of London Keep. Most of the palace was still undergoing renovation, but at least this chamber was finished, and warmed by a fire roaring in the grate.
Someone—Bolingbroke had forgotten who—had thrown rosemary and rue on the fire, and now the sweet scent of the herbs infused the chamber.
Bolingbroke didn’t think the herbs would have much effect in keeping the pestilence at bay.
The door to the chamber opened, and a man dressed in the livery of the Grocers’ Company hurried in. He bowedperfunctorily to Bolingbroke, then whispered in Whittington’s ear before hurriedly quitting the
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