We trotted to the edge of the fermtoun. The gentle April warmth was perfect for sowing, but the fields were empty. Not a soul spread seeds, or a single child chased away the flock of crows in one or the swirling cloud of starlings in another. The breeze still had a bite to it, drying the sweat on my brow, but it did nothing for the fear that gripped me. I kicked Gràsmhor to a canter, Gil right behind.
When we neared the base of the small hill where the church stood, I could hear chanting. I pulled up in the middle of the rutted dirt road. The wind rippled the smoke from a roof hole of one of the cots bringing the scent of burning wood. A dog cocked its leg against a tree, and I stared at the church door, my hands flexing on my reins. It was no feast day and my heart raced.
“Sir Archibald,” Gil said, “why would they…”
“I dinnae ken,” I barked.
I sounded angry but I was not. I was afraid. The people were in the church, and the priest was singing a psalm. I could hear his sonorous voice and make out some of the Latin words. Words that I knew.
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice!
The door of the church opened. Out came the priest, a crucifix held aloft, high above his head. The people of the fermtoun followed, four graybeards first, followed by younger men and the women holding the hands of children, tugging them along. Joneta, head bowed, walked beside Brian, but no sign of Granny Matylda. Their faces were long and solemn, eyes fixed on the ground beneath their bare feet. All had ashes smeared on their foreheads.
Marching determinedly toward the cots, the priest continued his chanting though the words changed. “Et anima mea turbata est valde; sed tu, Domine, usquequo?” “
My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?
I slid, legs weak, from the saddle, trying to count the faces I recognized. There was Gil’s mother, father, and his brother, Filan. Grasping my pommel kept me erect during their slow march around the village. When they finally winded their way back to the church door, they dropped to their knees. The priest made the sign of the cross above their heads and gave them his blessing.
Gil ran toward his family.
I walked to meet Joneta, heart racing, and caught hold of her arm. “What has happened?”
Her eyes downcast, she pulled her arm free. “Come see.”
Brian ran ahead, and I followed her into the cot. The fire was low on the hearth. Her granny lay on a pallet beside it. The room stank of vomit and piss. I hurried to kneel beside the old woman, pushing stands of sweat-soaked gray hair from her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her lips were dry and cracked. Black patches splotched her face and hands. “Water,” she croaked, but I was not sure she knew who I was. I slipped my arm behind her shoulders, resting her wobbly head on my chest.
Joneta squatted with a cup of water in her hand. She held it to her granny’s lips, but granny had trouble controlling her tongue as though it was already dead. Most splashed down her chin and onto her chest. She choked, so I frantically patted her back. Then she was limp, her breathing noisy and labored.
I gently lowered her onto her back and pulled the coverlet up to her chin.
Joneta put her hand on my face and turned it to her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and moist with tears. “I confessed our sin and did my penance. Father Absalom says if we truly repent our sins, mayhap the Lord God will forgive and spare us.”
A pain in my chest was like being stabbed. “Then I will confess too. Whatever I must.” I was not sure I believed it. Surely the English had confessed and had prayed. It had not saved them. I thrust my hand through my hair and gripped it. Perhaps my doubt was another sin. How could I know?
I rose and helped Joneta to her feet. From the solemnity of the penitential procession, granny could not have been the first. “Who else?”
“A week ago, a peddler came fleeing Roxburgh. He told us the plague was in the town but claimed he did nae have it. He seemed well, but the next day he sickened and died. Next was Raso’s wee daughter.” She choked back a sob. “Three days before, she was an impish lassie playing in the mud. Yestereve she died.”
She tugged on my sleeve, tears running down her cheeks. “Go confess. Now. Please.”
After promising her I would, I asked, “Where is your father? Does he ken?”
“He and Nigell took the sheep toward the hills for lambing.” She wrung her hands so hard it must have hurt. “I dinnae ken what to do!”
“Leave it to me, hen.” I did not know what to do either, but I would not tell her that. “Your granny and Iain need you.” I gave her shoulder a light squeeze and went outside, thankful to take a breath of fresh air free of the foul smell. Ingelram was the most prosperous of the freeholders in the fermtoun and the acknowledged leader. We had to let him know what was happening here—what was happening to his family.
I strode to Raso’s cot, chewing my lip and my heart thudding. What did you do when there was nothing you could do? This was worse than any battle I had ever faced. When I hammered on the flimsy door, Gil opened it and invited me in.
Raso’s wife sat at the table, face in her hands as he patted her shoulder, a helpless look on his face.
“I heard about the lad,” I said and crossed myself. “I shall say a prayer for him.”
Raso and Gill crossed themselves. She did not move, but her body shivered. “Bairns—” His voice choked. “—die sometimes. But we thought he was past that.”
What could I say in the face of that grief? “We need to send for Ingelram.”
“Granny Matylda?” Raso asked. “Is she…”
“She lives. But nae for long, I fear.” I strode back and forth across the small cot, flexing my hands in frustration. “I dinnae ken what we should do. We cannae send to Roxburgh for a doctor.”
Raso blew out his cheeks and let out a noisy breath. “We need to talk, all of us men. You can tell us what you have heard of this plague. If anything is to be done, Father Anselm or Ingelram will ken what it is.”
“I could go for him,” Gil put in. “With the lambing, they will bide in the near hills, and I ken the way thon.”
We agreed that was for the best, so Gil left, and I went to the church where Father Anselm was kneeling before the altar. He seemed no more sure than I that if God had decided we must be punished, our penance now would help. Even so, he heard my confession.