Well, there were things I could do.
I rolled Peterson over and pulled the mattress out from underneath him. I took it outside and dropped it a good long way off.
I undressed him, right down to his shorts, took his clothes outside, and shook them vigorously, and then checked him all over. He had more bites around his ankles. Struck by a sudden thought, I checked myself. Yep. Two or three around my right ankle. Don’t scratch, Maxwell.
I went over every inch of him – and I do mean every inch, checking his body for those small, deadly signs of plague – the sinister black marks of gangrene that gave the Black Death its name.
Finding nothing, I sat back on my heels with a sigh of relief. No gangrene, no skin lesions of any kind, and, most importantly, no signs of swelling in his armpits or groin. This might be just a simple fever associated with a blow to the head. We might be that lucky.
I’d just talked myself into this state of completely unjustified optimism when Peterson awoke.
He opened unfocused eyes, blinked, and closed them again.
I sat quietly and a few minutes later, he opened them again. This time, they stayed open. I said quietly, ‘Hey.’
He made a sound.
I dipped my fingers in the water and gently touched his lips. He licked the water, thirstily. His eyes wandered around the little shed, rested on me a moment, and then closed again, but I was satisfied. He’d woken up.
Brother Anselm would be here soon. I went to the door to wait for him, looking out over the green gardens. The air smelled of recently turned earth. Rows of onions, peas, and beans ran from left to right. Here and there, I could see a bent, black back hoeing slowly in the sunshine. Away to the left, two lines of washing flapped gently in the sunlight. Three sisters were laying mattresses out to air in the sun because they genuinely believed that cleanliness was next to godliness. Everyone here was fulfilling their purpose in an atmosphere of calm tranquillity. Even the little brown sparrows, hopping over the freshly turned earth, sang sweetly. The monks had done their best to recreate the world they believed God had intended for us. I could see the attraction of spending the next few days here in perfect safety, but I couldn’t leave Peterson untreated. If he woke again and could be safely moved, then by this time tomorrow, I could have him back at St Mary’s.
I sat in the sunshine and fretted.
Chapter Thirteen
It came on unbelievably quickly. I’d read reports of people who were going about their business in the morning and were dead by tea-time. People dropped in the streets and died where they fell. Most people died within twenty-four hours. With the plague, the longer you survived, the longer you were likely to survive.
I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there when I heard a sound behind me, and turned from the tranquil scene to confront something from my worst nightmares.
Peterson lay, tossing and turning, red with heat and sweat. His hair was plastered to his head. His entire body shook with fever. His arms and legs flailed wildly. He seemed to have no control over them and it was plain to see that every movement caused him great pain. Every time I covered him with the blankets, he threw them off again, becoming increasingly violent with every minute. His eyes were open, but jerking wildly from side to side. He had no idea who I was. I don’t think he even saw me.
Our luck had run out.
With a wildly beating heart, I checked each of his armpits. They were clear. No swellings of any kind.
Then I checked his groin. And there it was. In the crease at the top of his leg. The bubo. Still quite small, but already it looked tight and angry.
My heart stopped. I felt the world recede. Oh God, Peterson had bubonic plague. The Black Death. The one that swept across Europe, killing almost everyone in its path. The plague had arrived in England around 1348, liked what it saw, and wouldn’t leave for hundreds of years.
A sound at the door made me turn. Brother Anselm stood there, dark against the sun.
I stood up and held out my hands, palms towards him. ‘Do not enter, brother,’ I said, quickly. ‘You must not come in.’
He ignored me, stepping forward for a closer look, his experienced eyes taking it all in. He said quietly, ‘How long?’
‘About an hour.’
I could see the pity in his eyes.
‘You must pray for him, my child.’
I nodded. I would. It would probably be more effective than forcing him to drink his own urine or cutting live pigeons in half and tying them to the infected parts of his body. I was cold with fear because in this world, the cures were as horrific as the diseases and I was helpless. I couldn’t do a single thing for him.
I pulled myself together. Yes, I could. There’s always something you can do. Even if it was just ensuring everyone stayed away from him. That should give him a fighting chance.