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Prologue
1338
Ailyth knew that it was late, and she knew that her mother would never guess that she was still awake. Her mother would not even know what time she had been taken to her room; she would merely assume, as she always had, that Myfanwy had ushered her away at a suitable time and put her to bed. Her mother had long since given up on this ritual herself. When she had first experienced an unexpected and short-lived flush of maternal instinct she had once tucked Ailyth's blankets under her mattress so tightly that the wretched child had barely been able to breathe, and was found nearly suffocated the following morning. Would she ever realise, Ailyth wondered, that Myfanwy had given up this task as soon as the Ailyth could walk? Night after night, since then, the girl had put herself to bed along with the household maids, whilst Myfanwy sat in the parlour with the cook, emptying flagons of mead down her fat neck and singing rude songs about the men who came from Kernow.
A tear crept down her face. Her mother would never realise.
She had been in bed for six, maybe seven, hours and had been awake for just as long. The darkness had fallen early and, with the gentle snoring of three serving girls and two maids murmuring around her, Ailyth lay there in the frosty night, gazing at the moon and listening to the sounds of the gloam. An owl resting on the stone window ledge flapped his wings against the shutters, which frightened the girl so much that her whole body went rigid. Ghosts! They were trying to get at her! No doubt the maids would wake in the morning and find her body lying frozen beneath the blankets; her eyes cut with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream, her skin cold.
And all the while she would be lying stiff in her straw-padded bed.
The candles were cold. Ailyth wondered what time it was; straining her ears she could hear no noise coming from the banqueting hall. She listened carefully for some time. There was just the sound of the girls breathing, the trees swaying in the spinney, their leaves rustling in the winter wind, lulling her, lulling, lulling...
Then a noise, and she was wide-eyed and awake once more. Her mind was sleepy and confused, unable to pinpoint exactly what it was that had shaken her from sleep.
"Who's there?" she called, and her voice sounded far more afraid than she would have liked to admit. She glanced over at the maids. They were all asleep, she was certain of that. No, she had imagined it. There was nothing there. After what seemed like an eternity had passed she was sure she must have imagined it, until...
"Quick, lie him there on that table."
There was something going on. She could have sworn that everyone had gone to bed, it was late after all, but someone was definitely moving about downstairs. This wasn't unusual - sometimes the servants liked to wander about in a drunken state - but this was different. This sounded more like worried voices. It sounded like fear.
Almost without thinking, Ailyth slithered from her bed and placed her feet onto the icy wooden floor. The door creaked as she pushed her whole weight against it, making her stop still, afraid that the maids might wake up. There was nothing waiting behind the doors to pounce on her and, after she had summoned the courage to go on, she oh-so-slowly resumed her task, praying to the good lord Jesu that there were no demons waiting in the shadow to take her soul.
There was no light in the corridor; all of the candles had long since been snuffed out and it was then, in the dark passageway, that she realised that most of the household had indeed gone to their overcrowded rooms. Who, then, was making the noise? Tracing her fingers along the outlines of each smooth stone in the wall, she made her way forward, creeping towards each stepping-stone of light that shone through the narrow windows. As the moon bathed her hand in a moment of light she felt her heart flutter in her chest, and she prepared herself for the cut-throat who might be waiting for her.
Or maybe the monster...
She reached out and closed her fingers around a candlestick, so that she would have something to protect herself with. She held it close to her chest and, although it strained her arms to hold something so heavy for so long, she felt a little braver. The stairwell beckoned and she knew, she just knew, that whatever it was that was waiting for her was waiting for her in the banqueting hall. With slow nerves, she crept down the steps, too scared to face the unknown. Her stomach felt strangely light.
The door to the hall was ajar. Pressing her face to the gap, Ailyth could see a group of men, peasants and servants mostly, all crowded around the main table and arguing quietly between themselves. Ailyth knew she'd be in more trouble than she could cope with if she was caught, but she didn't dare move. After a few moments the men shifted a bit, and she could see a boy lying on the table. He looked very still.
"Dead, by God," someone said.
Ailyth leaned forward a little. She'd never seen a dead body before, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. She hoped that there would be lots of blood.
"Let me pass!"
The voice belonged to Father Simon, and Ailyth shrank back immediately. Although she didn't know why, she hated this man who smelled of incense and myrrh and she tried to hide herself in the shadows. But, feeling somehow that she was missing out on the good bits, she tried to take another look.
As everyone moved aside for the priest, Ailyth saw the body properly for the first time. The poor boy's head was twisted in agony to the side, and she saw that there were blisters around his mouth and dribbles of dried black blood at the corners. Father Simon made a shaky sign of the cross and, taking a rather blunt pair of shears he ripped the coarse hair shirt from the body's back.
"We found him in the tithe barn," a voice gibbered. "Didn't speak our language, sounded more Norman. Reckon he came on that ship. Never seen him before in my life."
But the father made no reply, and instead motioned to the half-naked corpse in front of him. He was covered in large, red, weeping sores, and huge black blood-bursted boils gathered around his armpits.
"Burn his body," he said grimly. "And the barn. This child died of the plague."
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