Taking her by the hand, he said, “Kathryn Vicars, I love you, and I want to be your husband. Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Most positively, definitely yes!”
He slipped the wildflower ring onto her finger. She lifted his hand, motioning him to stand. They kissed in the twilight, held each other tight, and then kissed some more. It was Kathryn who broke away first.
“What do we do next?”
“We leave tonight, and we don’t look back. You wait here. I’m going back to the farm to fetch some clothes and ‘borrow’ one of father’s mares. We’ll take the road to Chesterfield; I know it well enough to travel in the dark. I have kin there, a bachelor uncle on my mother’s side who has no love for my father. Hopefully, he will let us stay a couple of days and not report our elopement to my mother. If we’re lucky, I can work for him in his tavern. If not, I can travel to Sheffield and look for an apprenticeship there. The rector in Sheffield can make our union legal, as well.”
She buried her face in his chest and squeezed him hard.
“Hurry, my love. Don’t make me wait one second extra to start our life together.”
“Not one extra second,” he replied, blowing her a kiss.
“Don’t forget to bring a lantern,” she called after him as he set off. “It’s dark.”
“I will.”
“And some food. I’m famished.”
“Yes, I’ll bring food.”
“Money, Paul. Don’t forget money,” she added, giggling.
And shoes, and britches, and a saddle for the horse … Not to worry. I’ll pack everything we need. I love you, my bride.”
“I love you … husband.”
CHAPTER 4
Rector William Mompesson knocked on the door to George Vicars’ cottage. After hearing no reply, he knocked again. No reply. Something strange was afoot, the young clergyman thought. The tailor had come to him three nights ago, reporting that his seventeen-year-old daughter, Kathryn, had gone missing. But in the days since, he had neither seen nor heard from Vicars. It was Mompesson who had organized the search party the night of Kathryn’s disappearance, calling upon eight of the town’s most able-bodied and reliable young men. Using lanterns and horses, they had combed the village and surrounding countryside for Kathryn. To Mompesson’s chagrin, and Vicars’ dismay, they had returned from the mission empty-handed. It was not until the next afternoon that the mystery of Katherine’s disappearance had been solved. Henry Foster had ridden into town to report that his eldest son, Paul, had disappeared the previous night as well. Foster had also divulged that one of his grey mares had gone missing — a mare that Paul was particularly fond of. Having witnessed the two young lovers together many a summer afternoon, it had taken the young rector all of five seconds to put the pieces together.
Henry Foster’s reaction to the news of the elopement had been to smirk, shake the rector’s hand, and request that if any word of the children’s whereabouts reached Mompesson, to please send for him at the Foster farm. George Vicars’ reaction had been to take the Lord’s name in vain, curse the name Paul Foster, and then offer a flustered and dismal apology to the rector for his expletives. Vicars then beseeched Mompesson to send the previous night’s search party further afield and to continue searching until his daughter was found and brought home safely to him. Vicars went on to say that Ethan Cromwell would be none too pleased, and the entire foolish business needed to be resolved before Cromwell returned from London in two days’ time. At least, this is what Vicars attempted to communicate amidst a furious and frothy coughing fit that spanned their entire conversation. The tailor’s hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead. The freckles on his normally cheerful face were drowned by a fever-red complexion. Mompesson pardoned the tailor’s ill temper without taking offense. Clearly the man was under considerable stress; everyone in town was aware of Ethan Cromwell’s intention to marry Kathryn Vicars. Everyone in town was equally aware of Cromwell’s hot and venomous temper. Evidently, the previous night’s search had taken its toll on Vicars, because he had come down with what appeared to be a dreadful case of flu. Mompesson had instructed Vicars to strip down to his knickers, drink a large glass of water, and go straight to bed. Vicars had nodded, turned, and dragged himself toward his bedroom, without bothering to shut the door to his cottage. The rector had wished him a good night’s sleep and told him not to worry — they would find Kathryn and bring her home to him before the morrow.
That was two days ago.
Mompesson opened the cottage door and was immediately hit with a wave of rank, humid air. All the curtains inside were drawn. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside. Flies buzzed with agitation at his intrusion, but then quickly settled back on the filthy plates and cups strewn about the cottage. Mompesson shivered, despite the sweltering heat. He swallowed, and resisted the childish urge to turn and run away as fast as he could.
“Mr. Vicars?”
He pulled back one of the curtains, illuminating the main room of the cottage with a shaft of warm yellow sunlight.
“Mr. Vicars?” he called again, louder. “It’s Rector Mompesson. I’ve not seen you out and about for a couple days … I’ve come to check if you’re well … Hello?”
Silence.
The door to Vicars’ bedroom was closed. The door had no knob or latch, only a triangular iron pull. Mompesson grasped it with two fingers and tentatively pulled the door open. The stench was unbearable. Ten times the pungency of what he had smelled upon entering the main cottage. He gagged involuntarily. A bedpan, over-flowing with bloody vomit and diarrhea, sat on the floor. Dozens of flies buzzed and crawled on and about the putrid excrement. Mompesson pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, crushed it into a wad in his palm, and then pressed it tightly against his nose and mouth. Then, he saw Vicars. No, not Vicars. A monster. Sprawled in bed, eight feet away, was a thing that bore only the faintest resemblance to the tailor Mompesson knew. A pulsing bubo, the size and color of a large plum, protruded from the side of the tailor’s neck. Violet, blood-filled patches blotted his grey-yellow skin. The ends of his nose and fingertips had begun to blacken from gangrene, indicating that the bacteria concentration in Vicars’ bloodstream was so high that his system had turned septic.
“Mompes … son?” Vicars mumbled, waking from his delirium.
Yes, Mr. Vicars. I am here,” the rector replied, making no move to approach the bed.
“What’s … happening … to me?” Vicars asked, in labored, wheezing gasps.
Although the young rector had never seen anyone infected with the bubonic plague, he was an educated man. He also made it his business to stay current with the news of the times, and the news was that plague had already claimed thirty thousand souls in London over the summer months. Now, Death had come to Eyam, and its bloodshot gaze was fixed squarely on him.
“There is no good way to say this, George, but you are dying. You have caught the Black Death,” Mompesson said through his handkerchief.
Vicars groaned and began to weep. This emotional upwelling triggered a horrific coughing fit that violently shook his entire body. He hacked bloody sputum haphazardly all over his chest and soiled bed sheets. The pain he felt was so menacing, so acute, that Vicars was not even aware of this repulsive display, nor the fact that he had lost control of all of his bodily functions.