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Chapter Fifteen Nim had heard the men walking around her grandfather’s house, but hadn’t taken any notice of them. They didn’t matter and, anyway, they would be dead soon. Everyone would be dead soon. Picking up the woollen shawl her grandmother had made she covered her grandfather’s face to hide the look of agony he wore, even now that his soul had left his body. It had taken so long for him to die and, now that he had gone, none of it seemed real. She thought he’d be sweating and oozing black pus forever.
The shawl wasn’t quite straight. Evening it out a little, she could imagine her Gra’ma watching her tidy him up and saying, in her peaceful old voice, “ah, just so Nim. It’s just so.” She stood back, almost admiring her work.
“Is it neat enough, Gra’ma?” she whispered. “Is it just so?”
She glanced across at her grandmother, still lying in her straw bed with the blankets tucked under her chin. If she squinted her eyes and tilted her head, Nim could just imagine that her nose was twitching, and that her chest was rising and falling. Silly, really, trying to trick yourself like that. Gra’ma was gone too, but peacefully, thank the Lord.
Nim stood staring around her, not knowing what to do next. Suddenly the house was too empty, too still. A thick, putrid dust was beginning to settle; she could see it caught in the light seeping down the chimney. Gramps and Gra’ma would never have slept this late before. By this time, usually there would be something appetising bubbling over the fire in the cauldron, and Gramps would be feeding the animals they kept in the lean-to shed against their house. Gra’ma would be telling tales of the otherworld to her, and her little brother. Her older brother, Harold, would pretend not to listen; he was too grown up for all of that, but he’d have his ears open all the same.
She checked over to the far corner of the room. Harold and the little one were still there, facing the wall. She hadn’t dared go and check whether they’d died too, but they hadn’t moved in three hours, not even in pain, so they must be, mustn’t they?
Yes, it was too quiet now, but she didn’t dare make a noise. It was a time for silence, sitting by the ashes in the hearth. Curling up next to the cold body of her Gra’ma, all Nim could do was close her eyes and wait for the gravediggers to come and take the dead. They would be here soon, she supposed, and she would watch the last of her family be lowered into the earth, just as she had watch her parents get buried in the churchyard two years before, after the great freeze. She wouldn’t cry this time. She was nine now, too old to cry. She was the only one left who could be brave.
But who will come to see me buried when I die? she thought as she wrapped her arms around her stiff grandmother and waited.
When the banging started, Nim didn’t care enough to get up and check to see what it was. At first she thought it must be the priest coming to check on her but, when no-one came through the door, she realised that it wasn’t and rested her head back onto her Gra’ma’s arm. Go away, she thought. Leave me alone. Just let me stay here with my family.
It was the sound of Nim coughing up the dust that caught Ailyth’s attention. The doors and the windows of the house had been sealed shut, without so much as a protest from the little girl who waited silently for her time to come.
“Someone’s still in there!” she cried, tugging at the arm’s of the men who had nailed the entrances up. They haven’t realised! she thought. Sweet Jesu, they thought everyone was dead, but someone’s still alive.
“And?” the man said, shaking her off him.
Confusion registered on Ailyth’s face. “Well...you made a mistake. They’re not all dead, we have to save them.”
The three men gave each other secret smiles from under their eyebrows and shook their heads.
“We made no mistake, maid,” one said to her, and the look he gave her explained everything in no uncertain terms.
“No,” she whispered. “No, you can’t burn them alive! That’s murder.” She tried to dodge around them, but one caught her by the wrist, and RiffRaff fell off her shoulder.
“Whoever it is has been in that house for a week now,” the man said, shaking her. “And the plague’s been in there too. I promise you, if anyone is still alive then they’d be dead of the sickness themselves in a day or two, and at least this way they can’t spread it on to anyone else.”
“But they might be healthy!”
“And chances are that they ain’t,” the man said, although his voice wasn’t unkind. “When the plague enters a house, it takes everyone. It’s better for us all this way.”
Ailyth struggled out of his grip and ran around the outskirts of the building. There was no way in and, already, the smoke was thickening in the sky. How could people let this happen? A small crowd had gathered to watch the infected building burn, and she wondered how many of them knew that at least one occupant was to be burned alive.
Nim was panicked now. The heat had crept up on her, slowly getting warmer and warmer as the roof burned, when suddenly it engulfed her, and made her cheeks feel as though they were burning. As smouldering straw and bits of wood fell around her, she clung onto her Gra’ma’s body, too terrified to move. What was happening? Why was her home burning? Had she died, and been sent to hell?
A burning ember fell from the ceiling and singed her dress, and she gave a short scream. This was too real now, this wasn’t hell. She didn’t want to die like this.
Ailyth heard her scream, and realised that the person trapped in the building was a child, and helplessness sank within her as she realised that there was no way in.
“Someone help me,” she begged the crowd of watchers. “There’s someone still alive in here.”
They all looked at her blankly, not appearing to have understood what she said.
“Come away from there,” one of the men said, pulling her away. “You’ll get hurt.”
“No!” she cried, “it’s a child.”
A ripple of sound moved across the crowd as they took in the news of what was happening. Most of the people turned away, unwilling to help but unwilling to see. They accepted what had to be done. But one woman did burst into tears as she realised what was happening, and her husband thundered towards Ailyth.
“Is there any way in?” he asked gruffly, rolling his sleeves up.
Ailyth shook her head. “Everything’s been boarded up,” she said.
To her dismay, the man then walked back towards the crowd. Ailyth’s hope failed her. The only person who would help, she thought, has given up already.
The walls of the house were, like so many other buildings in the village, woven bands of wood packed with dry mud and straw, and she dug her fingers in them and began to try and tear it down. But before she had even made a dent in it, the man reappeared, with a large mallet in his hands.
“No, not like that,” he said, sweat from the fire trickling down his red face. “You’ll rip yer fingernails out if you carry on like that.” He gestured for her to stand back and, with a heavy swing of his shoulders he embedded the mallet into the wall.
With the speed of a falling tree, he pulled it out and slowly swung again, and this time Ailyth could see the dried mud crumble and the wood behind it split. It was working.
After a few more swings, and with flaming thatch falling all around them, they could finally see into the house. Pulling at the wall with their hands, they felt the workmen hovering around them, unsure whether to stop them from undoing their work or whether to stay away from the flames themselves. But the decision was taken out of the hands as first Ailyth, and then the man who had helped her, burst into the building.
“Let’s go,” one of the workers said to the others. “We can always tell his Lordship that they did this after we was gone.”
Inside, the building was a furnace breathing smoke, and Ailyth’s eyes began to water. Gasping for fresh air, she crouched to her knees.
“Hello,” she croaked. “Who’s in here? Where are you?”
The only reply she got was the roaring of the fire as it crackled around her. Shaking, she looked up and saw the ceiling was a ball of orange and reds, scorching her cheeks.
“We’ve got to be quick,” the man said, spluttering behind her, “or this place will be our death trap. Can you see anybody?”
“I can’t see anything,” she said, reaching out across the floor before feeling her hands close on a leg. “There’s someone here!” she called.
“Alive?”
“I don’t know,” she said, feeling her way up to the face. The body was stiff; the first dead body she had touched, and she leapt back as though she’d been burned. “No,” she shouted. “This one’s already dead.”
A small flame dropped from the ceiling, onto a bed of straw hidden by the smoke. Both rescuers saw it light, and began groping around the floor even more urgently, knowing that they had little time before they too would succumb.
“I can’t breathe,” Ailyth coughed, her lungs tight in her chest. “It’s burning.”
She fell forwards, dazed by the smoke and, in a dream, she felt her hand brush against another. It was smaller, and limp, and a smile formed on her face.
The man rushed towards her as she fell. “Come on,” he said, “we’ve done all we can, but we have to get out now.”
“I’ve found her,” Ailyth gasped. “She’s here, next to me.”
Picking up both Ailyth and the relaxed body next to her, the man forced his way through the hole they’d made and back into the cooler air. Moving as far away from the fiery wreck as he could, he lay them both down on the grass and bent double to catch his breath back.
“Ailyth!” Granfer called, bursting through the unsure crowd still milling around and wondering whether the right thing had been done. “Ailyth! Are you mad? What have you done?”
“They were trying to burn it down,” she wheezed. “There was a little girl inside.”
“And you could have died! In fact, I’m very surprised that you didn’t, you smell like a hearth! What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”
Ailyth smiled weakly. “Granfer,” she said, “shut up and fetch me some water. You would have done exactly the same thing.”
“I know,” he grumbled. “But you’re too important for stunts like that!”
She smiled feebly as he fussed around her, and let her body loosen. The little girl was safe now, she could see her spluttering and crying as the woman who had wept wrapped her arms around her and comforted her. A relative, mayhaps, or a family friend. Either way, Ailyth knew that Nim would be looked after, and prayed that the kind family wouldn’t be shunned because of it.
A cup of water was pressed into her hands, and Ailyth guzzled it gratefully.
“What a commotion,” the person who had brought it to her said, and she immediately recognised the voice of Ulfred. He looked at her fondly. “That was s very brave thing you did,” he told her.
“What else could be done?” she asked.
Ulfred gently wiped the soot off her face. “It certainly served to remind me how wrong Canute and the Abbot were,” he said. “You’re a good person, Ailyth.” He gazed at her for a moment, before adding “hey! Where’s your rat?”
Instinctively, Ailyth reached to her shoulder but he was right. RiffRaff was not there. In a panic, she sat up.
“Riff’?” she called softly, expecting to see him come bounding towards her. “RiffRaff?”
Her eyes were automatically drawn to the burning building, and her heart gave a spasm of fear.
“He’s in the building!” she cried. “He must have fallen off my shoulder. He’s...he’s in there, we need to save him.”
To Ulfred’s alarm, she struggled to her feet just as a beam supporting the roof crashed into the flames.
“Riff’!” she screamed, not caring who was listening. She darted forward, but Ulfred pulled her back.
“Don’t, Ailyth,” he said gently. “I know you’re very fond of it, but don’t risk your life. It’s only a rat.”
“No,” Ailyth moaned, pulling against him. “You don’t understand, he’s my friend!”
She twisted against his hold, but Ulfred wouldn’t let go, convinced that the smoke had unbalanced her humours and was sending her mad. He was relieved when Granfer reappeared, carrying more water.
“Help me,” he said, ducking away from her flailing arms. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“RiffRaff’s in the building,” she sobbed. “Granfer, please, you’ve got to get him.”
Granfer’s face paled. “By the blessed mother goddess,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”
A shrill voice cut through their worry and, to any other listener it sounded only like a high-pitched squeak. But Ailyth and Granfer both recognised the sound of the rat in a panic, and were relieved to hear that it wasn’t coming from the fire.
“Cats!” he squealed, hurtling towards Ailyth with little regard to who saw him. “Lots of cats, and they’re after me!”
He threw himself onto Ailyth’s dress and clambered up to his favourite perch on her shoulder. Trembling, he watched as three ragged, patch-furred felines sped towards them and, even though he knew he was safe, he couldn’t help but hide in Ailyth’s hair.
Feeling his friend’s hand resting protectively on him, his courage returned a little and he peeked his nose out to sniff the air. “Thought you had me then,” he taunted as they grew nearer. “Not so brave now, are you? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
But the cats had no plans on stopping and, as they reached Ailyth, RiffRaff gave a tiny squeak of fear.
“It’s all right Riff’,” Ailyth said, watching as the cats ran past them. “I don’t think they’re interested in you.”
The animals seemed crazed, running blindly towards the burning house almost as though they didn’t see it, and veering away from it only at the last moment. It soon became apparent why. A group of villagers, mostly youngsters but also with some adults, were following the cats with fury in their eyes, each brandishing a weapon of sorts. Some held a mallet, others just a plain piece of wood, but it was clear from the way they roared that there was dark mischief brewing.
One of the men broke away from the mob and circled those who had been watching the house burn. Leaping forward with the dexterity of a cat himself, he caught one of the screeching felines and began to pound at it with his stick.
“What’s going on?” Ulfred whispered, trembling at the inhuman behaviour he was witnessing as another cat was caught, and treated with the same brutality.
Granfer caught the arm of one of the mob, and shook with fury as he saw that he too had the broken body of a cat slung over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
The boy gave a toothy grin. “Getting rid of the cats,” he said. “They’re to blame for the plague, loitering around and passing on their disease.”
“This is madness,” Ailyth gasped. “Burning children alive, torturing animals.”
She twirled around slowly, taking in the faces of the crowd, distorted by their jeers and the orange glow of the flames. “What have you become?” she cried, cutting through the clamour for death. “Look at yourselves. Is this how you want to be remembered? For acting like you’re possessed by the devil at a time when you should be looking after one another.”
The serfs stopped at this outburst, and the last remaining cat made his escape. Staring at the remains of the building, and the crumpled bodies of the cats they had been taking their fear and despair out on, shame began to fill them.
Searching the crowd, Ailyth saw a familiar face. The rioting in the streets had brought their lord down from his manor house, looking as tired and defeated as he ever had, and she turned her attentions to him.
“This is madness,” she repeated quietly to him. “Look at what your people have become.”
Shaking furiously as she returned to the church, Ailyth sank immediately into a heavy sleep, where flames engulfed her and cats chased humans through the street. In her dreams, RiffRaff was being kicked across the fields by a crazy mob, and she woke covered in sweat, clutching the rat closely to her.
“Don’t you ever run off from me again,” she sobbed. “You gave me such a fright. What if they had decided rats caused the plague? What would I have done without you then?”
Her angry words to the lord, at least, had had some effect, and she woke in the morning to find a small gathering by the altar. The priest and Ulfred she knew, and the lord, but there were several faces she didn’t recognise, and guessed that they must be village elders.
“We can’t bury people on unconsecrated land,” the priest was saying and, judging by the weary look on his face, he had been having this argument all night. “And the bishop will not let us bless a field unless we send him money.”
“Then we will send him some,” the lord replied gravely. “The simple fact is that the churchyard is full. Would you have us leave the bodies to rot in the streets?”
The priest fell silent, and the lord took this to mean that this argument had been settled. “It’s agreed, then,” he said. “We will now bury the dead in a mass grave in Ranulf’s field. Have the children been collected yet?”
What? Ailyth thought. What’s going on now? She looked out of one of the windows. The sun was high; it was nearly midday.
“Aye,” the weary voice of the priest replied. “They have. They’re already on the wagon. Young Eoif and Colm will be leaving as soon as you give the word.”
Now Ailyth’s interest was definitely lit. Pleased though she was that Colm and Eoif had resolved their differences, she couldn’t see why it was that they would be taking children anywhere.
“Good,” the lord said.
“Not all of the children are going,” a man pointed out, looking every bit as exhausted as the priest. “Some won’t leave their families, and there are some families who feel the best place for them is here, despite everything.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Well, that’s just how it is. Some people are prepared to take the chance to keep their families together. Most of the children are going though.”
So the children were being evacuated, sent away from the plague-ridden manor. Sad though it was that families were being divided, she knew it was the best thing that could be done. The children must be protected as best they could. but, what she couldn’t understand was why their parents didn’t just go with them.
“I want for, strong men at each end of the road, day and night,” the lord finished. “We close the gates as soon as the children are gone. If we are to do this, we are to do it properly.”
Silence answered him, and Ailyth got up. It was clear that they were trying to impose some sort of order, by burying the dead and looking after the children, but she didn’t like the way his final words had silenced the counsel and scattered them dejectedly.
“What’s going on?” she asked Ulfred as he left the gathering, deep in miserable thought. “What’s been decided?
He couldn’t meet her eye. “The road through Crediton,” he explained heavily, “Is the only road into Devon and Kernow. Every man, woman and child who wishes to gain entry to the counties must do so by passing through here.”
“Yes, I know that,” Ailyth said. “Which reminds me; has Canute passed through yet?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “He won’t be able to get to you now.”
There was something in his voice that was warning Ailyth. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly.
“What I mean is,” Ulfred replied, “They’ve closed up the road. Both the entrance and the exit. From now on, nobody will be able to get into Crediton, or leave it.”
“But that means no-one will be able to get in, or out, of Devon. You’ll be cutting the counties off from the rest of the country!”
“Yes,” Ulfred said. “That was our aim.” He took Ailyth aside gently. “We’re sealing the manor off,” he said.
“But...but...” Ailyth spluttered, so shocked that she couldn’t find the protest she knew was buried in her. “But you’re trapping people in here with the plague! No-one will be able to escape it.”
“We know,” Ulfred said, and she could see the pain the burden of this decision was causing him. “But we’re prepared to sacrifice ourselves. Crediton is dying, Ailyth but, as far as we are aware, the rest of Devon and Kernow is as yet unaffected. The plague hasn’t reached down that far yet. By sealing ourselves off yes, we are condemning ourselves to virtual death, but think of all those who we might save.”
It made sense, Ailyth realised that, but still she couldn’t bear the thought of so many people being forced to remain trapped in a manor of death, without even being allowed a part in the decision making.
“Some will get out,” she said. “They’ll...they’ll go through the fields.”
Ulfred shook his head. “The manor, the manor house and all its farmland is surrounded by walls so high no even a giant could scale them,” he said. “They can’t go through the fields.”
“But...if people are desperate to get into Devon, they can walk through the woods around Crediton.”
“Maybe,” Ulfred admitted. “But we’ve done all we can.”
A thought that had been lurking at the back of RiffRaff’s mind now hit him with full force, and he whispered in Ailyth’s ear. Ulfred could see her grow white as she asked, “When do the gates close?”
Ulfred looked away. “They already have,” he said.
With an anguished cry of betrayal, Ailyth snatched up her cloak and called to Granfer, who was dozing in the apse. Together, with the old man limping behind, they fled the church and made their way hurriedly to the far gate, the exit from Crediton.
It was too late. A small crowd had formed, and every sign of despair was evident as the serfs realised that there was no way out, that they were trapped. Some were crying, some pleading, and many had to be held back by the men who had been appointed as guards.
“Look, we don’t have the keys to the gate,” one was trying to explain to a tearful woman who, evidentially, had decided to keep her child with her. “We can’t let you out, no matter how much money you offer me.”
With a growl of frustration, Ailyth turned to Granfer. “Now what do we do?” she asked. “We’ve got to get out...we’ve still got to stop this plague, and we can’t do it here.” Angrily, she kicked a pebble. “That traitor Ulfred. We should have left earlier.”
“There’s no point in saying ‘should have’ now,” Granfer said calmly. “What’s done is done.” He rubbed his nose. “Beside, we can go through the fields.”
“Didn’t you here what Ulfred said?” she demanded. “Tall walls...what hope do we have?”
“Ailyth, I am a faey,” Granfer reminded her. “I do have some powers that work outside of Albion. Come on, we’ll go now while everyone else is distracted.”
Obediently, Ailyth followed him back up the main road which divided Crediton in two.
“Should we take Ulfred with us?” Ailyth asked after a while in silence, knowing that it wasn’t his fault that this desperate decision had been made.
“He’ll stay,” Granfer said. “He told me as much last night. He likes it here, he likes the people. Besides, he feels needed, and he can’t return to the abbey after what happened with Canute.”
“But Crediton already has a priest,” Ailyth pointed out.
“A priest who has started to vomit blood, and has the buboes under his arms,” Granfer said grimly, and Ailyth stared at him in shock. “He’s been too devoted in visiting the houses of the sick,” Granfer explained. “Crediton won’t have a priest for a great deal longer.”
“Poor man,” RiffRaff said. “He risked his life to give comfort to the dying, and this is how he’s been rewarded.”
“I’m sure it’s the same story everywhere,” Ailyth said. “It’s clear that those who have contact with the ill are those who get ill next.”
There sad talk was soon interrupted by the intrusive sound of a cowbell being rung and, from the side of a row of small huts, two men appeared in filthy clothes, pulling a cart behind them.
“Bring out yer dead,” they called, in time to the bell, and Ailyth could see that the cart was filled with bodies wrapped in sheets and rugs, and woollen shawls. “Bring out yer dead.” The men, like many others, had tied flowers across their faces so that they weren’t forced to breathe in the stench of rotting corpses.
A door opened near them, and a nervous, sad looking man pushed out the body of an older man, and the cart-pullers made their way towards it.
“What are you doing?” Ailyth asked, watching the macabre spectacle unfold before her.
“What’s it look like?” one of them said. “Collecting the dead for burial.” They heaved their morbid cargo onto the cart, and carried on their way.
“What on earth possessed you to volunteer for such a job?” Granfer asked, astonished that such risk-taking should be going on.
“Payment,” was the simple reply. “We’re being paid very handsomely.”
“What use is money, when you can’t go to market to spend it?”
The first man smiled slyly. “Ah, well, I ain’t being paid in money,” he said. “I’m allowed to marry the lord’s daughter for doing this. If I survive.”
They walked alongside the dead-collectors as they turned off from the main road and walked towards a field, a little way away from the houses. A pit had been dug in one of the fields; Ranulf’s field, Ailyth supposed, and with a respect she didn’t anticipate, dead-collectors lowered each body into the mass grave.
“It’s all right,” the first man said. “This field’s been blessed. It’s as holy as a churchyard now.”
Ailyth nodded, with a fixed smile on her face, and began to edge around the field. Granfer followed and, so absorbed were the dead-collectors in treating their cargo with care, they didn’t see them break into a sprint across the fields.
“Just head straight towards a wall,” Granfer puffed as he struggled to run on his injured leg. “We’ll find our way as soon as we’re out of this place.”
Ailyth nodded, and carried on running, although this wasn’t easy to do on a field covered with shorn wheat and, by the time she had reached the wall, her legs were covered in scratches.
Together, they looked up at the obstacle they had to face. Ulfred had told no lies; there was no possible way over the wall. Even the tree that grew next to it was smooth, so climbing that was out of the question too.
The sound of angry voices drifted over to them, and RiffRaff started hopping on Ailyth’s shoulder nervously.
“We’ve been spotted!” he squeaked. “Look, behind you.”
Ailyth and Granfer spun around, to see two men on horseback riding towards them. Although they were too far away to be heard clearly, it was obvious that they were furious that someone should dare try and break the rules set down by the lord of the manor, and they had come to enforce them.
“Quickly Granfer,” Ailyth trembled as the riders began to gain on them. “Do something. There’s no time to lose.”
“Ailyth, you’ve been a worrier since the day we met,” Granfer smiled, and placed his hand firmly on the bark of the tree.
As though waking, the tree stretched its branches out in a yawn and, slowly, lowered one down to Granfer’s level. Tipping his cap in thanks, he jumped onto the branch and gestured for Ailyth to do the same.
Wobbling uncontrollably at the very thought of balancing on a moving tree, Ailyth clung onto the branch as it slowly raised itself from the ground, lifted it’s passengers over the wall and lowered them softly down on the other side.
“Much obliged, madam,” Granfer said as he hopped off, and turned to see Ailyth still gripping the bark, terrified.
Prising her off, Granfer smiled as though helpful trees were an everyday occurrence (which, she supposed, they would be for him). Pointing to the woodland in the distance he cried, “What a stroke of luck! By coming this way, we’ve got even closer to Albion! About halfway into the forest, I think, though you can never be sure. The entrance keeps changing.”
“Isn’t the entrance the clearing with the little pool?” Ailyth asked. “Where I saw the White Hart?”
“Yes, but it’s rarely in the same place twice,” Granfer said. “It would be terribly easy for the likes of you to find if it were.”
With the optimistic feeling that, finally, her quest was beginning to come to a close, Ailyth allowed Granfer to lead her deep into the fresh, plague-free depths of the wood, and felt a flutter of nervousness pass through her as she realised that, after weeks of trying, she was nearly home.
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