Eyam, England
September 1665
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.
Mompesson took several steps backward. He knew the disease was spread by contact, and he understood plague’s contagious nature. His mind raced, shifting from the events of the present, to a bleak and terrifying future. He had to take preventive measures. There would be panic; there would be fear. Since his tenure in Eyam as rector had not encompassed even one year’s time, there would be those who challenged his decisions, and his authority. He could not afford to worry about that now. Without swift and decisive action, the scourge would spread. Like a wildfire across dry, sun-baked earth, the Black Plague would consume everyone in its path. To save the neighboring villages of the Derbyshire, he would impose a quarantine. The citizens of Eyam must make a stand. Together and alone.
“Come closer,” Vicars whimpered.
“I cannot.”
“Help me.”
“Your fate rests in God’s hands now. Pray with me, brother,” Mompesson said. He bowed his head. “May the Lord forgive thee thy trespasses in life, and remember instead the times thou showed kindness, prudence, and generosity. May the Lord bless thee, takest thee into his arms, and welcome thee into his eternal kingdom of peace and love. Amen.”
The room was silent for several long seconds, then Vicars spoke in choking gasps.
“Tell Kathryn that … I love her. She has my blessing … to marry whom she will. Love is all that matters. On the dining table … you’ll find a letter … please give it to her.”
Tears pooled in the corners of Mompesson’s eyes.
“I will give her your message and the letter. You have my word. Rest now, George. You have made peace with God.”
Mompesson shut the bedroom door and crossed himself. He grabbed the wax-sealed letter on Vicars’ dining table, tucked it in his coat breast pocket, and with great haste ran from the tailor’s cottage.
First, he would bathe. Then, burn his clothes.
And after … there was much to do.