Mompesson crossed himself and nodded at Henry. Henry glared back for a long second, stepped up into the saddle of his grey mare, and trotted off in the direction of the Foster farm. Mompesson watched until horse and rider had faded from view, and he began the short walk back to the church. He was not worried about the Fosters breaking quarantine, even though the family had ample reason to. Henry Foster was as virtuous and stalwart as a man could hope to be. More than Mompesson knew himself to be.
Henry cursed as he rode. Everything was going wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. During the previous fall, the scourge had claimed over ten percent of the village population. He and Alice had been convinced that if they could ride out the fall epidemic, the Plague would be snuffed out over the winter months. The winter had indeed been cold and harsh, and their theory seemed prescient. Only a handful of villagers died from November to April, but instead of disappearing in the spring, the Plague returned with a vengeance. Over fifty people had died in April and May, and additional deaths were expected in households with family members who had recently fallen ill. Isolating themselves at the farm had been a short-term strategy, designed to carry the family only into spring. They were running out of food and supplies at the farm; it would be impossible to sustain the family without future trade. He had planned to trade in Chesterfield, but the quarantine killed that plan.
He had all of the puzzle pieces laid out; the problem was that every time he tried to fit one in place, fate shook the puzzle board. If only the vote had been delayed a couple of weeks, his plan would have worked. Or, if Kathryn hadn’t had such a difficult labor, she would have been healed and able to travel before the vote. Or, if she hadn’t dilated early and been ordered on bed rest, then he could have driven the kids to Chesterfield to birth baby George there. Now, it was too late. The vote was taken. He had voted in the minority. Quarantine was in effect, and he had sworn an oath to uphold the decision. For the first time since last August, Henry Foster felt helpless. Hopeless.
Thanks to Rector Mompesson, his family was locked inside the cage with the beast … where it would devour them … one at a time.
CHAPTER 8
Kathryn closed her diary and held it tight against her bosom. Tears streamed down her face. She had just finished what she knew would be her final diary entry. Instead of writing about death and fear — the two demons waging war for control of her mind — she had written about life and love. Like her father before her, she had mustered the courage to memorialize her final goodbye to her only child in a letter. The only difference was that she chose to compose her letter as a diary entry. The concentration required to overcome the pain she was suffering had taken every fiber of her being. She was exhausted — so close to Death — and drifting in and out of consciousnesses.
For the first and only time her life, her body did not feel like her own. The communion between her flesh and her mind was disconnected. This body was a foreign, alien thing — sweating, wheezing, leaking, bleeding, and bulging — servant to some sadistic master. She was powerless to resist; the pain was all consuming. She was beginning to think that Death would be a pleasant relief. She heard the door squeak open downstairs and the sound of heavy footsteps. The men were back.
Paul pushed open the door to the their bedroom and walked to her bedside. His eyes were bloodshot and wet, and he had smudges of dirt on his trousers, hands, and cheeks. He sat on the bed and took her hand. He said nothing … just stared at her with forlorn eyes.
“Did you bury him?” she mumbled.
“Yes.”
“Your brother has found peace then.”
He nodded.
The sound of breaking glass echoed from downstairs. A moment later, she heard Henry Foster sobbing in deep, woeful bellows.
She tried to talk but instead coughed and wheezed until she hacked up a bloody mouthful of phlegm. She spat the vile glob into a bedpan that Paul had positioned under her chin. He set the bedpan down on the bedside table and wiped his bride’s forehead with a blood-stained cloth.
“You should stay away from me. I’m going to be the death of you, my love,” she managed in gasps.
He shook his head stoically. “I won’t get sick. I cared for my mother, my brother, and now you. The scourge does not hold sway over me. Father seems to be immune to it as well. It’s always been that way. Mother used to joke that father and I were such hearty stock that we have sap from an English Oak for blood.”
Her eyes rolled back in her sockets and she began to moan. He squeezed her hand and said her name repeatedly, panicking, but he could not snap her out of her fit. After what seemed like an eternity, her breathing steadied and she was able to focus on him again with glassy eyes.
“Paul. I want to see my baby. Bring him to me. Bring me my little George.”
He swallowed hard and wiped his eyes. “I can’t, Kathryn. Don’t you remember?” After Paul’s mother died, and Kathryn and his brother, Hector, began to show symptoms, Henry had ordered Paul’s sister, Penny, and remaining brother, Martin, to take baby George to Chesterfield. They had broken quarantine. “Don’t worry. Martin returned last night with the news. George is safe; my sister will care for him at Uncle’s house.”
She wailed with such anguish that he thought his heart would rip in two. It was the forlorn sound of a mother who just realized she would never see her child again. He stroked her sweaty, matted hair until she calmed. She sat quietly for a few minutes and then fixed her worried gaze on him.
“Where is my son? I want to hold my baby, Paul. I want to see my baby,” she begged.
He looked into her eyes. She was delirious. It was pointless to explain again. “I know you do, sweetheart. I know. Soon. I promise.”
Two hours later, her fever returned and she shook so violently that he was afraid her bones would rattle loose from the sockets. He piled every blanket and piece of clothing they owned on top of her until the tremors subsided.
“Open the shutters, please,” she asked him.
He did as she requested and a golden beam of sunshine emblazoned the room. She smiled.
“Paul, I don’t want to die here.”
“I know, sweetheart. I don’t want you to die either.”
“No,” she coughed. “I don’t want to die here.”
“Then where do you want to go?”
“Take me to Cucklett Delf. To our spot under the old elm tree.”
“When the time comes, I will. I promise.”
“Take me there now, Paul.”
Paul lifted his dying wife gingerly out of the open-air carriage, and carried her in his arms across the meadow of Cucklett Delf. He did not stop to rest until they reached the shade of the majestic English elm. Gently, he lowered her to the ground and helped her recline, with her back resting against his chest, and his back propped against the trunk of the tree. They sat in silence, together as one, listening to the birds and breeze. They watched the sun inch closer to the horizon. He kissed the top of her head again and again, telling her how much he loved her each time. At sunset, he picked a wildflower and stripped the leaves off. He bent the stem into a loop, and wove the remainder around itself. At the top of the impromptu ring sat a violet flower. Then, taking his wife’s trembling hand, he slipped the wildflower ring onto her ring finger, just as he had done nearly a year before.