‘Indeed.’
He sat himself down on the dirt floor, and looked at me. I hoped he was only waiting for the bowl back, but I knew he was curious. Like a bird. Indeed, his bright eyes, coupled with his habit of asking a question and then waiting for the answer with his head on one side reminded me of a small, brown sparrow, except he was clothed in shabby Augustinian black. He smelled strongly of musty cloth, earth, and incense.
‘You speak in Latin, my child?’
I nodded, and taking care to make a few simple mistakes, said. ‘My father had dealings with the monks of the Great Hospital in Norwich. He taught me so that I was able to assist him when my brother died. And after my father died, I helped my husband.’
‘Ah. You can read, then?’
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to be dragged into the deep waters of women’s education. ‘But,’ I said, proudly, ‘I can write my name.’
‘Why that is excellent, my child. Your husband – he is a pilgrim?’
‘Yes.’ I mopped up the broth and swallowed the last of the bread. ‘He will journey to the shrine of St Thomas to ask him to intercede for us. These last years have not been good for us. Always, the plague comes back.’
‘It does indeed, child. But God and the saints hear every prayer. Place your trust in them and all will be well.’
I nodded, vigorously. His simple faith shone from him like a beacon and, for a moment, even I believed all would be well.
‘You will be safe here, tonight. The gates are locked at dusk. No one will approach. I will come back tomorrow, at Lauds, when, no doubt, your husband will be awake. I must caution you, however, it will be some time before he will be well enough for his pilgrimage. You would do better to return to Rushford and wait until he is recovered.’
‘I understand, brother. I thank you for the food and shelter. And God, of course,’ I added.
‘Amen,’ he said, and went away.
I always think that being an historian is very similar to asking Rosie Lee to do something. Both are examples of optimism triumphing over bitter experience. I settled down for the night in reasonable comfort, content to lie alongside Peterson in the pungent darkness, and savour the peace, grateful for the opportunity to mull over the chaos, confusion, and catastrophe that was my life at the moment.
It didn’t last.
For the first hour, all was well, but as the moon sailed across the sky, and owls hooted nearby, he grew more restless. To begin with, it was nothing more than a break in his breathing. Then it happened again. I sat up and listened to his breathing growing uneven and ragged. I touched his forehead and he was hot. I removed the blankets and bathed his face with water I’d drawn from the well. I wrapped his forehead in a damp cloth. Nothing worked, and as dawn approached, he grew worse. I know that fevers are always worse as the sun rises and sets and I was hoping his would disappear with the new day. That he would open his eyes, have a bit of a curse, sleep for a while, and then, with luck, be well enough to let me guide him back to the pod and to safety at St Mary’s.
Like most of my plans, it didn’t work out that way at all.
As the sun rose, I got a better look at him. He was flushed with fever and muttering to himself. I thought I would wash his face and hands in cool water, to try to make him more comfortable and that was when I saw them. Around his left wrist and a little way up his forearm – small, red fleabites.
I stared, aghast.
That bloody mattress! That bloody, bloody straw mattress! Home to every form of insect wildlife going, especially fleas. And this close to the river – infected fleas. Bound to be. Infected fleas from infected rats. How could I be so bloody stupid? Why hadn’t I chucked that stupid mattress out of the door as soon as their backs were turned? And the sodding blankets, too.
Peterson would have been bitten half to death in the night. What were the chances he would get the plague? Stop panicking, Maxwell, and think clearly.
He would be up to date with all his vaccinations. At St Mary’s, rarely a month goes by without them sticking us with something. Bubonic plague was not so threatening to the modern world, although every year a small number of people did still die of it. Antibiotics usually sorted it out and we had antibiotics. Stacks of them. In the bloody pod. Which I couldn’t access.
Calm down. He was a fit, healthy, reasonably normal modern man, strong enough to overcome infection. No, he wasn’t. He was a man with a head wound and a fever.
Stop that. These fleas might not be infected. Yes, they were. This was the 14th century. The plague was everyone’s constant companion. And this was a hospital. There was a more than good chance that someone plaguey had already died on this very mattress. Not understanding the causes of infection, they would just use it for the next patient, which was Peterson.