The Plague Read online

  The priest stood directly across from us now, on the other side of the bars, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He narrowed his bloodshot eyes.

  “Why are you digging these pits?” I asked. My heart was trembling. No one else said a word. The priest stared at us and then spat before answering.

  “I’ve heard from my friends that the pestilence is in France. It’s just a matter of time before it reaches England.” He was shouting so all could hear him. “We weren’t prepared last time.The dead outnumbered us.”

  “What friends?” George asked, truly interested. “Do you mean the angels?”

  “George!” I said under my breath, for I was sure the priest would take his question as jest.

  The priest stumbled a last step and, grabbing a bar, slid down so that his face was peering straight into George’s.

  “You could say that, my boy,” he wheezed, as if out of breath from the effort. He smelled of earth and sweat. “The angels come to me in dreams. I saw the fires in France.They are everywhere.”

  “He’s a heretic!” someone yelled. “Or he’s playing with the devil,” another voice replied. The hecklers were all dressed shabbily.The people standing near them backed away. They seemed more hesitant to attack a priest, even if the weapons were mere words.

  But the priest dismissed them with a wave of his hand. I yanked at George again as he struggled to pull his amulet from his tunic.

  The crowd started to press close again, curious to see what George was doing.

  Our soldier grabbed my arm and practically lifted me off the ground. “We are going,” he commanded. “Grab the brat or leave him.”

  I clutched George by the arm just as roughly as the soldier was holding me.

  “Wait!” he pleaded as he held the amulet in his hand. He pointed it at the priest. “I want you to bless this, so it will protect the king’s soldiers from the pestilence. All except that one,” he added, scowling at our soldier.

  “Are you daft, boy?” our soldier accused. “This priest is cursed with visions. Leave him!”

  I saw the priest’s eyes widen as he scanned the amulet and mouthed the word “rat.” He ignored the soldier as he thrust his bony hand out as if to grab it. As I watched in horrified fascination, two black rats scampered suddenly across the graveyard and leaped onto a gravestone, just yards behind the priest. They paused, balancing themselves, their noses and whiskers twitching, as if to see what the priest would do.

  I grabbed George by the hand and yelled, “Go!” to the soldier, who turned to clear our escape path. He held me by the arm as we ran, George begging us to go back for the blessing.

  The priest’s voice boomed at our backs. “Lord have mercy on us. For we are sinners and have earned the wrath of heaven!”

  I took one glance back to see the crowd dispersing. Some shook their heads, some covered their ears or mouth. Others nervously blessed themselves, just as Sir Andrew had earlier that morning.

  The princess had given us a good scolding when we returned to the ship. She had been waiting on the deck, with the short, round Father Paul beside her. I observed the soldiers’ amused looks as they leaned against the deck rails, enjoying the entertainment. George actually gave them a shy little wave, so pleased he was that they even noticed him.

  I felt ashamed as the princess gently reminded me of my rank and duty. I squeezed George’s bony hand—squeezed it hard—to share my discomfort. Despite George’s whimper and Father Paul’s indignant frown, the princess remained serene. Her green eyes showed kindness and her face remained soft, absent of the hard lines of anger.

  “You are like a sister to me, Nell.You sacrificed your freedom to do as you please when you swore your allegiance to me.” She said this a bit wistfully, as if sensitive to this price. “It is nearly dark and you must stay safe,” she said, causing Father Paul to pull on his brown robe distractedly. The princess turned to George. “And you, young one. It is your task to protect your sister, so that she can better protect us all.”

  “But that was exactly what I was trying to do!” George burst out. “I wanted the parish priest to bless my amulet.” He held it up.The amulet dangled from its crude iron chain for all to see.The princess barely looked at it as she addressed Father Paul.

  “You can bless it, I’m sure, Father.Why don’t we plan the blessing after morning services,” she instructed rather than asked.

  Father Paul sputtered as he examined the amulet still swaying in front of George’s face. He frowned in disdain. “If that is your wish, princess.”

  Before she returned to her quarters, she commended our “gallant” soldier, Henry, who proclaimed his name as he basked in the glow of her appreciation. How smart it was for him to follow us, she praised. When she nodded to Father Paul that she was ready to descend to her quarters, Henry gave me another quick wink.The impudence.

  The remainder of our two-week journey was uneventful, except for one of the last evenings on ship. I couldn’t sleep and I felt I was suddenly suffocating, my heart chasing the thoughts running through my head. I had crept from my bed to get some air on deck, careful not to wake the princess or George. I grabbed my cloak as I knew the nighttime sea air was cool.

  Suddenly I missed England and the Castle in Windsor. While lying in my bed, I began to worry that my memories of my mother and father would be left behind, buried with them in the graveyard with nothing to mark their existence but a stark wooden cross shared by hundreds.

  We were going to Bordeaux, and then on to Castile to live. I knew nothing of these lands or the ways of their people. How would I protect George and the princess when I didn’t know what to protect them from? It was then that I felt the ghostly hands that always seemed to press against my chest when I had such thoughts.

  The deck was deserted, with the exception of a few soldiers on watch. They leaned against the rails or masts and struggled to fight off the urge to doze as tempted by the gentle swaying of the ship.

  I pulled my cloak around me and walked barefoot to the rear deck. We had lost sight of Portsmouth after only a few hours of journey. Now all I could see was the ocean as dark as a raven’s wing sliced white by our ship. The moon, almost full, illuminated the ocean’s surface, proving how lonely it was out here. The boundless ocean made me want to cry, for I suddenly felt small and weak. Must not everyone feel this when they are on the sea? Only the king’s three other ships, one on each side of us, a bit more than a stone’s throw away, and the last, trailing in our wake, attested that we were not completely abandoned.

  It was then that I heard a high-pitched tinkling, a sound that reminded me of the bells of jesters, frenzied and staccato as they danced with abandon in the royal processions. I glanced at the stairs that led belowdecks. The sound was not coming from there. I cocked my head and realized it was coming from the sea. I held my breath. I had heard the tales the soldiers told about the ships lost to their waters, their crews crushed beneath the drowning weight of the waves to spend eternity haunting the living who dared to sail. They had whispered about the sharp, strangled cries, the tragic last gasps of those dragged to the sea bottom by the bulk of their armor. Or by the grasp of some unseen creature, they added when they knew George or I was listening. They had never mentioned bells.

  It rang again and someone called, the angry words lost to the salty air. Suddenly, the soldiers on watch jumped to their feet and swore as they clambered to the portside and drew their swords, still a little clumsy from sleep. I watched as they peered over the side, my heart thumping at the unknown terror that called to them. And then I heard the angry cuss and the soldiers sheathed their swords at their sides again. “My lord,” they mumbled as they bowed their heads.

  My lord? The idea was incredulous. It couldn’t be the king. I crept back and hid behind the mast as the soldiers heaved a dark figure onto the deck. He was taller and thinner in figure than the soldiers and wore a hood on his tunic that hid his face. It was only when he turned toward the moon that I caught a gl
impse of his profile—the sharp nose, the recessed eyes, and the ebony beard that he wore to a point like his shoes. It was the Black Prince.

  “Princess!” he called. He was known for his hawklike vision. My heart exploded as I stepped from my sorry hiding place and curtsied.

  “It is Nell, my prince,” I whispered.“I could not sleep.”

  He pulled off his hood as he walked over to me, a bit unsteady on his feet still.The soldiers stood along the rail, not knowing what to do next.

  He lifted my chin, his fingernails grazing my cheek. I made myself look into his dark eyes, hooded even more in the shadows of the silver light.

  “My, you could pass for my sister so readily.” The ice in his voice made me shiver.

  “I do not have her wisdom or beauty, my lord,” I insisted.

  “And so loyal.” He smiled, his chin growing longer with the act. “I will expect the same allegiance for the princess’s brother.

  “Of course, my lord.” My face was burning. I feared the prince, as many did. The tales of his cruelty in battle were shared heartily by the soldiers. I was glad it was dark.

  And then, just as quickly, he dismissed me, turning his back and calling to the soldiers to collect his things and bring them to his quarters.

  I watched them descend, the prince in the middle of his single line of knights, the last one throwing a sack over his shoulder as he stood in queue. I wondered why the prince had appeared in the middle of the night and from seemingly nowhere. I blinked in the moonlight, for a moment swearing that I could see the sack ripple with movement.

  bordeaux

  THE BLACK PRINCE barely acknowledged me during the remaining days of our journey. He kept close to his quarters. Only his bell, which would clatter off-key, as if it were cracked, served as a reminder that the prince was with us. He would ring it many times a day, whenever he felt the least discomfort from a hungry stomach or the threat of boredom. One morning I discovered George with his ear to the prince’s door, and my heart took a leap.The prince would have thrown him overboard if he caught my brother spying, of this I was sure. George protested that he wasn’t trying to be sneaky, he was trying to figure out what was making the nervous squeaking sound. “I never heard the prince make that sort of noise,” he said.

  The princess was delighted that her oldest brother had joined her on her bridal journey. Since the king had announced the princess’s impending marriage to the prince of Castile, the prince had fawned on her, lavishing her with praise and advice on her future role as queen. Before her betrothal, I had never witnessed the prince take much notice of his sister, so I could not help but to wonder about this sudden interest.The princess, however, welcomed this new affection.There was a marked change in behavior among the soldiers and the ship’s crew. Their earlier, lighthearted demeanor was gone. Even the rascal Henry dared not divert his attention to making sport.

  But the prince could be charming. I watched as he shared a meal in our quarters with the princess, while Sir Robert and Sir Andrew reviewed the princess’s itinerary once we arrived in Bordeaux. The prince raved anew about his sister’s beauty and her triumphant betrothal to Prince Pedro, telling her that together they would ensure the rule of the Plantagenet dynasty in Europe.Then, after she clapped her hands in delight over his attention, he would turn to the senior diplomats and tease them, imitating their mannerisms unmercifully. Sir Andrew would smile indulgently, but Sir Robert seemed to smolder beneath his restrained manner.

  I forgot my misgivings about the prince as we drew closer to Bordeaux.This was the king’s land in the French territory of Gascony. I had heard the princess tell stories of her brother’s bravery in battles at Crecy and Calais. England may have a smaller population than France, but it has more money and is expert in the arts of battle, she shared proudly. The king handsomely paid peasants and soldiers from many countries to wage his battles in France. These soldiers of the king wielded new weapons called longbows, which terrorized the horses, if not the men of the French infantry. I myself had seen our soldiers practice with these weapons. Their metal-tipped arrows could be released in rapid succession, like waves lapping against the bulkheads of the Thames in the wake of a ship. Their deadly arc propelled them hundreds of yards farther than the arrows of the crossbow. As a result of these battles and the soldiers who continued to fight them on behalf of the king, the king already owned parts of France, and his daughter, soon to be married to the prince of Castile, would allow the king to claim as his own the land of the Iberian Peninsula, too. It was said that the prince rejoiced in the terror wrought upon France and was as impatient as his father to expand the realm of the Plantagenet kingdom. Although I was uncomfortable with wars, particularly when I thought about the death they wrought, it made me feel safe that the princess and George and I were protected by the most powerful army in the world.

  The soldiers on our ship had shared some of their own battle tales and spoke reverently of the Black Prince’s dark armor and black heart. In battle, they would say, the king and his sons were expected to lead their army to victory without the weakness of mercy. I thought about George and knew that I would want the prince to do whatever was necessary to keep him safe.

  I found my heart hammering as we approached the fog-shrouded port of Bordeaux. George had been standing beside me on deck as we entered its misty waters. I heard him draw in his breath.

  “It looks full of spirits,” he exclaimed. Indeed it did.

  “All castles have that heavenly appearance at dawn,” I asserted, although our castles at home didn’t seem to rise from the waters.

  The sailors whistled to alert one another that we were drawing close. The soldiers on watch joined us on the bow. No one spoke.

  The white stones of the king’s castle—le Chateau de l’Ombriere—seemed to glow against the dark cliffs overshadowing the port. It could serve as a beacon to our ship, except the castle appeared besieged and deserted. The air tasted like vinegar.

  I could sense an odd foreboding settling on us, as if the fog were dampening our spirits. We all squinted into the gloom, as if trying to make out whatever was tainting our excitement.

  I could see the crenellated walls of the castle that zigzagged across the treacherous cliff. The castle’s watch-towers seemed to float above them, separated from their walls by wisps of clouds. Surely there were soldiers pacing the wall walks, with bows in hand. We were just too far away to see them.

  “Its drawbridge is up,” George said, breaking the silence. “That isn’t a very welcoming sign.” His voice was thin with worry.

  “And there are no other ships in the harbor besides our own,” I added distractedly, not meaning to say my thoughts aloud.

  “Nonsense!” a voice chided from behind.

  I turned to see the Black Prince joining our little band as he impatiently waved a hand at us. He was wearing a black tunic and stockings. Unlike his peers and diplomats who preferred multicolored garments, the prince always wore black. Only the gold-threaded belt slung about his waist provided some relief to his somber appearance. Although his eyes were bloodshot, his movements and voice sounded fresh.

  “Are you trying to scare my soldiers, Nell?” He was standing beside me now, speaking right into my ear.

  “No, sir.” I curtsied. “I was just surprised by the emptiness of the port. Perhaps it is still early,” I noted, feeling the stares of the soldiers, who seemed rooted to their places.

  Suddenly I felt George squirming between us.

  “Shouldn’t the ships be anchored, though? There are always ships anchored at ports,” he reasoned.

  The Black Prince glowered at George for a moment and then abruptly laughed. “You remind me of a bothersome rat, boy, always able to squeeze into the tiniest crevice. Tell me why you are on this journey,” he instructed while plucking at his beard.

  “I am with Nell,” he protested, glancing at the soldiers, as if they would intervene.

  “As you know, he is my brother, my liege. I am responsi
ble for him until he is of age,” I said. I was trembling, but I didn’t know if it was from fear or anger or perhaps a mixture of both. How I abhorred this prince, even though I knew that I shouldn’t. He was my king’s heir, appointed by God. He was also our protector.

  “I see,” he replied gravely. “Are you superstitious, Nell?” he asked. His hand was resting on George’s tousled hair. Its veins welled up as he flexed his fingers. I sensed that he was feeling just how easy it would be to crush George’s skull.

  “No I am not, my lord,” I replied with too much emotion. I needed to get George away from him.

  “My lord, look! The drawbridge is coming down.”We all turned to see Henry, who had at some point joined our party. He was pointing to the castle, looking eager to please his prince. He was not in his armor yet. In his dusty tunic and loose stockings he looked more like a boy.

  The Black Prince scowled. “So they have. Of course they have.They must see our banners!” And then he turned on his heel to return to his quarters. He stopped for a moment to shout one last order.“Make sure the princess is ready, Nell. She needs to look glorious this morning.”

  “I will,” I whispered, for he was already descending the stairs.

  I knew something was terribly wrong as we stood on the lowered drawbridge, waiting for the castle’s gate-keepers. As the spiked iron portcullis was slowly raised, a small terror gnawed at my guts. The Black Prince had instructed Sir Andrew to accompany our party to determine if the castle was fit for its royalty. Fifteen soldiers, including Henry, now dressed in his ill-fitting armor, surrounded Sir Andrew, George, and me. I was wearing the princess’s green silk dress again and couldn’t help worrying as George kept stepping on its hem. I was loath to say anything to him, as he had been making nervous sounds ever since we left the ship.

  The portcullis screamed against the effort to raise it, as if denying our right of entry. Surely the castle could not know that I am a fake. I could barely make out the figure of the armored gatekeeper on the other side of the tower’s arch. He waved us through and, in the mist, looked like one of the lost spirits I imagined at sea.