LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (29 page)

As the men and women were ushered into the hall, Joslyn sent Oliver abovestairs with Emma. It was the day they had dreaded, and now that it was upon them, it was time to keep the promise she had made Liam—to be strong.

“’Tis come,” a woman blurted. “God’s fist has descended.”

Sir Hugh leaned forward. “Describe it to me, woman.”

“This past eve the marks came upon my husband. First the swelling, now all of him is covered with sores and he is heated somethin’ terrible.”

“How many more afflicted?” Sir Hugh looked to the others.

“My boy.” A man old enough to be a grandfather wrung his hood between his hands. “He ain’t gonna die, is he? He be my only boy, ye know.”

He might not wish to accept the answer to that, but he surely knew it. Once touched with the disease, it seemed only a miracle could save a victim.

“Your son must be removed from your home,” Sir Hugh said. “All laid abed with the plague are to be taken to the old village of Belle Glen.”

Joslyn frowned over the familiar name.

“Belle Glen?” exclaimed the woman who had spoken first. “’Tis burnt out—naught there but ashes.”

Now Joslyn understood why the name was known to her. It was where Maynard had hidden the coin.

“This past summer, Lord Fawke had several buildings erected to house the sick,” Sir Hugh said.

Father Warren stood. “I will be there to minister to the people, as will the good friars.” He nodded to three robed men across the hall, whom Liam had sent to Ashlingford two months past. “And the physician will tend the sick.”

“’Tis as Lord Fawke has spoken,” Joslyn said, looking from one face to the next, then beyond to the gathered servants. “If we are to survive, as much as possible we must continue as if this disease is not with us—removing our ill to the sick houses as soon as the first symptoms appear and resuming our tasks.” It was asking much, for it was said the plague took two to three months to run its course. A long time to live among death and pretend one was untouched by it.

“But how do we know removing them will make a difference in whether or not the rest of us live?” asked another.

“We cannot be certain,” Sir Hugh answered, “but there is good cause to believe there will be more deaths if they remain among us, whereas lives may be saved if the sick are taken to Belle Glen.”

All told, five cases of the plague had sprung up overnight. The villagers, far from calm, returned home to convey their loved ones to Belle Glen.

Standing in her chamber peering out the window, Joslyn watched Father Warren’s progress across the inner bailey to the outer, where two horses were saddled. Behind the priest trudged the physician, a man who had spoken no word throughout the meeting.

Though Joslyn did not know him well, having had no occasion to call for him, she sensed something was amiss. It had been more his place to calm the villagers than Sir Hugh’s or hers, but he had remained apart from them.

Would he abandon Ashlingford? Word was that many priests and physicians were fleeing their duty to the dying for fear of being taken with the sickness—especially as they seemed to fall victim to the plague more easily than others.

“Pray, do not go,” Joslyn whispered. Though more and more it was apparent physicians were powerless in combating the plague, they were needed to ease the suffering.

“Mama, when will Unca Liam come again?” Oliver asked.

He sat on the edge of the bed, tossing his top from one hand to the other. He was growing, his baby’s face becoming that of a boy’s, his arms and legs lengthening to the point new clothes would need to be sewn for him. And his mind grasped things that had been beyond him last year.

Lord,
she silently prayed,
do not let the plague touch my boy.

“Mama?”

“I do not know when your uncle will return.”

He sighed. “Been a long time.”

Painfully long. Since Liam had sent the brooch, three months had dragged by. “Mayhap he will come soon,” she said but did not believe it. Now that the plague was here, Thornemede would bow to it ere long—if it had not already. Liam would be needed there.

“Mama, why don’t Unca Liam marry you?”

Suppressing her startle, she searched for an answer, but could find none he would understand. “You would like him for a father?”

He dropped his top in his lap. “We could live together and I could play with Michael and Emrys…and that girl too.”

“Gertrude?”

“Uh-huh.”

Joslyn smiled. “That would be nice.”

“He gonna marry you?”

Her smile slipped. “It is not possible, Oliver.”

“Why?”

“I do not understand it myself. ’Tis just the way it is.”

He considered her. “You love Unca Liam?”

To deny it might have ended the discussion, but she could not. “I do.”

Oliver grinned. “He loves you too. Now you can get married.”

She put her head to the side. “How do you know he loves me?”

“I asked him.”

“When?”

He tapped his top. “Long time ago.”

“You are certain he said he loves me?”

Oliver nodded vigorously.

She wished he had said it to her. Of course, it was not as if his profession of love had been voluntary. How else was he to have answered Oliver’s question?

“See. Now you can marry.”

She sighed. “I am sorry, but we cannot.”

The disappointment that lowered Oliver’s mouth hurt her heart. “Am I ever gonna have a papa?”

She wanted to cry. He needed a father, one that Maynard had not been. However, she could not imagine wedding any man other than Liam.

She stood. “We shall see. Now ’tis time we wash and go to meal.”

Mounted at the head of four knights, Liam was moments from putting spurs to his destrier when the villager stumbled over the drawbridge into the bailey.

“’Tis the plague, my lord! My father’s laid down with it—got swellings in his groin and boils about his chest.” The young man thrust a forearm across his sweat-beaded brow. “Methinks my sister has it, too.”

Liam gripped the reins tighter, ignored the murmurings of his knights. He had thought he had a few days in which to ride to Ashlingford and assist Sir Hugh with the sick—and perhaps even journey to the lesser castle of Duns that Sir John reported as being stricken with its first victims. But he could not leave now that the plague had crossed Thornemede’s threshold. He was needed here, and since Sir Hugh’s missive assured him all was mostly under control, he could not leave.

“Are there others?” he asked.

“Don’t know of any more in my village, my lord. What are we to do?”

There could be victims in the villages beyond his. If so, more people would soon arrive at the castle seeking aid and reassurance. “Those stricken must be taken to the sick house without delay. By dusk, a priest and the physician will arrive to care for them.”

He dismounted, passed his reins to his squire, and turned to his knights. “Take this man up with you and return him to his village. All of you shall assist in moving his family.”

They looked uncertain, aware that to come into contact with the plague made them more vulnerable. Meaning Liam would soon know whether or not their loyalty to him had grown strong enough these months for them to brave his orders.

“’Twill be done,” the first knight answered.

The others agreed.

Liam searched their faces for untruths, but though they reflected misgivings, he was fairly confident they would obey.

As they rode from the castle, Liam looked to the captain of the guard where he stood before the open portcullis and, noting unease in the hard features, inclined his head. Gunter did the same, and Liam entered the keep. He ascended the stairs three floors to the rooftop, where Ahmad knelt on his prayer rug.

The Arab spoke low in his own language, and Liam translated his words into
God is great
, having heard it often since the man’s arrival at Thornemede a month past.

Ahmad’s recitation continued, then he lowered his head, spoke more prayer, and resumed his upright position. Further words, next the act of complete submission. Prostrated, his forehead, hands, knees, and toes all in contact with the ground, he thrice repeated a line of prayer and sat up again.

Liam had paid well to bring Ahmad to Thornemede after his search for a competent English physician proved unsuccessful. He only hoped the Arab was as capable as his reputation told.

Ahmad mostly kept to himself, but he seemed to put great thought in the little he spoke, exuding the wisdom of an older man though he could not be more than thirty and five. Most importantly, he had survived the ravages of the plague after treating a multitude of victims—many successfully, Liam understood.

“It has come,” Ahmad said, the accent of his language making his English almost lyrical.

“It has.”

Ahmad stood, rolled his prayer rug, and pushed his feet into the shoes he had removed. “Then it is time. How many?”

“Two.”

“The signs?”

“Swellings, and one has sores.”

“They have been moved to the sick house?”

“They are being delivered there now.”

“Then that is where I am needed.” Ahmad stepped toward the stairs.

“The friars will accompany you,” Liam reminded him, “as well as our priest.”

Ahmad looked around. “As you wish.” He began his descent.

Feeling old, Liam followed and let his thoughts run to Joslyn. It was so long since he had seen her he had begun to feel numb. And now it would be longer. It made him ache knowing how near he had come to being with her again and how much more distant she was now that the plague held him to Thornemede.

As if to attest to the importance of remaining on the barony, more villagers awaited him when he entered the hall, several with tales of further affliction. And it would only get worse in the days and weeks ahead.

He started toward them, but paused when Ahmad beckoned with his expressive eyes.

Liam strode to where the physician stood before the stairs leading down to the storeroom. “Ahmad?”

“You remember the powders?”

Though he had questioned the reason Ahmad wanted them—and in such great quantities—the man had said only that the various powders, among them sulfur and arsenic, would be needed. Though doubtful, Liam had purchased them.

“I remember.”

Ahmad lifted the sackcloths he held in one hand. “I have gathered some to take with me. As for the rest…” He handed Liam a rolled parchment. “I have written down how to mix them and in what quantities.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Four times a day the mixture is to be thrown on the fires in the hall and the kitchen. Also, it should be portioned out to the villagers for use on their own fires.”

Liam had heard of the use of such concoctions to reduce the risk of infection, but he had also heard they did little more than scent the air. Regardless, whatever sulfur was mixed with, it would smell unpleasant.

Ahmad clasped Liam’s wrist. “Trust me in this, my friend. Though I have been ridiculed for my use of the powders, they do help.”

“It will keep the plague from entering here?”

Ahmad shook his head. “It will come. It will take. But there will be fewer victims. You will do this?”

“I will.”

Ahmad’s mouth stretched almost to a smile. “You will see,” he said and departed.

Liam slapped the parchment against his palm. Weeks past, the villagers had been told the Arab would be treating those who fell ill. Although few had spoken against Ahmad, Liam sensed there would be trouble.

“I am sorry, Joslyn,” he murmured. She would have to be strong without him. In the next instant, he almost laughed. Of all women he had known, none were as strong as the dauntless Joslyn Fawke.

She would be fine, and when the worst was past, he would be with her—easier done if Philippa answered his missive. This day, he would send the queen another.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A fortnight passed before Liam received an answer to the missive he had sent to Ashlingford along with the powders.

Our physician has fled,
Sir Hugh wrote,
but it is just as well, for he could do naught to avert this terrible disease.

It was different at Thornemede. Initially, Ahmad had faced distrust and opposition, but he was more and more looked upon as God’s healer. The dead now counted eighteen, but of those stricken, seven had recovered beneath the man’s ministrations—an unheard of number. And in that was good and bad. Emrys had survived four days of boils and fever, but Michael rested beneath the dirt Liam had himself shoveled over the boy.

Liam closed his eyes, the memory of it gripping him so hard he longed to cry as he had when Ahmad laid the boy’s spent body in his arms. No more, though. There were other things that required his attention—namely, Ashlingford.

But what was he to do? Sir Hugh had written that the powder mixture was being used on the fires in the castle and villages, and though there were still deaths, they had slowed. He had also asked for more powder, their supply nearly depleted.

Liam would send them on the morrow. And there was more that could be done for Ashlingford. The difficulty was that, in doing it, Thornemede could suffer.

A few days was all it would take, he told himself, then Ahmad would be back at Thornemede and Joslyn…

She would know what he should have professed the last time he had seen her. Even in the absence of the one who inspired that emotion, it filled all. It remained.

Pausing just inside her chamber, Joslyn settled her gaze on Oliver where he lay on his belly on her bed, talking for his birch-carved soldier in his deepest voice and making horse sounds for the wooden destrier.

Joslyn frowned over Emma, who had fallen asleep in the chair before the brazier. It was not like her to leave Oliver wakeful and unattended, even in the same room. “Emma?”

Oliver turned onto his side and laid his head on an outstretched arm. “She feels bad.”

Joslyn’s breath came out in a rush, and she silently beseeched the Lord that it be something the woman had eaten. Still, she could take no chances. “Oliver, go to the hall and ask one of the men to come up,” she said over her shoulder as she crossed to Emma.