Page 73 of The Lovers
FIFTY-FOUR
James covered his face with a kerchief as he passed through Bishopsgate and into the city proper. He’d been in London just over a week ago, but things had changed dramatically during that time. A pall hung over the city, the people looking gray and frightened as they went about their business. The number of red crosses had multiplied drastically, and the streets were virtually deserted at a time of day when London normally buzzed like a giant beehive. No children played in the street, and few fine carriages passed by, the wealthy having either left the city or holed up in their houses, hiding from infection.
It was early July, and the heat of the summer combined with the raging pestilence made the air thick with evil smells. London reeked of death, open plague pits exhaling lye-scented fumes of putrefaction. James found himself holding his breath until he grew light-headed, but he could hardly stop breathing, so he tried to suck in air through the handkerchief, conscious that every gulp was laced with ill humors.
A gauzy mist curled between the houses, softening the sharp edges and obscuring the sky. It was thickest along the ground, almost masking the layer of muck and waste that coated the slimy cobbles. In some places, the refuse mixed with mud, forming ankle-deep rivers of sludge. James’s horse picked its way through this swamp, its ears pressed back and its nostrils flaring as its hooves nearly lost purchase several times. The animal was nervous, and unusually skittish, especially after the fresh air and open spaces of the countryside.
James tried to avert his eyes as carts piled with corpses slowly rolled past him, the drivers staring ahead with dead eyes, correctly assuming that their own sorry carcasses would grace such a cart before the summer’s end. James’s horse reared as a cloaked man wearing a leather mask with a long beak materialized out of the mist. The man was a plague doctor, and he gave James a brief nod before vanishing down a dank alleyway. What hope did one man have against the tide of sickness sweeping the city?
The Tower of London looked even more forbidding than usual in the swirling mist, the ravens screeching loudly as they flapped their black wings and flew from one rampart to another. The stink of rotting fish wafted off the river, and James heard the plaintive cries of the ferrymen as they called out to one another to relieve their boredom. They got few fares these days since most people left their houses only when absolutely necessary and saw little reason to venture across the river. The sickness would claim many, but so would poverty. Almost everyone’s livelihood had been threatened by the plague, and they were feeling the pinch.
An unnatural hush hovered over Molly’s street, her normally nosy neighbors all hiding indoors, whether by choice or necessity. James tethered his horse and slowly approached the house, fearful of what he’d find. Several dwellings were marked with the telltale red cross, and James breathed a sigh of relief when he took in the unblemished wood of Molly’s door. No plague, then, not yet. James knocked loudly, eager to see Molly and her family. Molly opened the door and yanked him inside, slamming the door shut behind him. She was hollow-eyed and tense.
“What are you doing here?” Molly hissed as she took in his travel-stained appearance.
“I came to see after the family,” James replied, surprised by Molly’s hostility.
“You must leave. Now.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“What’s happened? Are ye blind, man? There’s plague all around.”
James glared at Molly and took her by the shoulders. “What are you not telling me, Moll?”
“Beth’s been taken ill. Two days ago. Oh, I can’t bear to lose another child, James,” she wailed. “If anyone finds out, we’ll get shut in, and that will be the end of us all. You must leave. Save yourself, Brother. You still have a chance.”
“Molly, let me take Mercy. I’ll keep her safe.”
Molly stared up at him, her mouth working as she bit her lip. “Where would you take her?”
“I’ll take her back to Suffolk.”
“Oh, you think our esteemed father will look after his granddaughter, do you?”
“No, he’s banished me. But I can stay in the town, Moll. There are no cases of plague there yet. Life goes on much as before. The food is not tainted, and there’s fresh air from the sea.”
“All right. Take her, James. Keep ’er safe. I have to stay and care for Beth.”
“And Peter?” James asked, realizing that he couldn’t hear the sound of Peter working in his workshop.
“He’s gone, James. He’s been summoned to the palace. They need carpenters to make coffins. I haven’t seen ’im in nearly a fortnight.”
James nodded. Of course, there were thousands of people living in Whitehall Palace, and no carts would be collecting the dead in plain view. The nobility would have wooden coffins and proper burials, with a church service and mourners, not be tossedinto lye-filled pits. The afflicted servants and other lowly members of the household would be discreetly disposed of, so as not to offend the sensibilities of the wealthy.
“And the king?” James asked. “Is he still in London?”
“Rumor has it that ’e’s left for Salisbury with ’is court, but there are many who remain behind. Oh, James, it’s terrifying, this is.”
“Yes, it is. It’s much worse than any previous year.”
“There are shortages of food, and whole families die out once they’re shut in. I’m scared, James.”
Molly finally let go of her self-control and flung herself into James’s arms, weeping. “I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not going to die. Come with me, Moll.”
“I can’t leave Beth behind, and I can’t bring ’er along. She’ll infect the others and bring the pestilence to wherever we go. She doesn’t ’ave long, James.”
