A Widow Plagued
Authors: Allie Borne
A Widow Plagued
By: Allie Borne
A Widow Plagued
AllieBorne e-book/ July 2014
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2014 by Allie Borne
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or locales are entirely coincidental.
For
April:
the most romantic person I know
England, 1336
Deep
were the roots of the giant oak; so deep that they ran the length of the well some 50 yards off. Aye, and thick were the roots of the gnarled tree; so thick that she and her beloved could sequester themselves between two. Leaning against the broad trunk, the lovers were embraced by this land they protected. Resting her head against Sir Simon’s broad shoulder, Hen sighed. The dappled daylight checkered Hen’s bonny brown curls and winked at her from her husband’s chain mail vest.
“Must ye go, My Love?”
“Aye, Hen, I must. Ye know where my duty lies.” Picking up the well-worn letters, Sir Simon placed one in her hands. “Read me this one, from my mother, one last time. I wish to hear it in a woman’s voice.” Simon’s head tilted back in a vulnerable display of his throat. Each eyelid drifted shut as he surrendered to Hen’s dulcet tones.
“My Dearest Simon, I write to thee, also. I wish thee to know that thou hast brought thy mother great joy. Grow to be a man that will care for his wife and children as thy father hast cared for his. Learn his gift of words, so that ye can write to those ye love. A man must often hie from his home, defending the king’s interests. Words can be a great comfort. They will guide thy homestead and reassure thy mistress.
“My words to thee are thus: As I lay my hand upon thy cherub’s cheek, I know that heaven’s angels must weep. Thou art more precious than any soul that I have known. The angels will want ye back. Thou art too good, too pure of heart. I shall see thee soon, on the other side. When I do, my son, ye shall know thy mother. She will have the gladdest face; the arms opened widest for thy embrace. Live life fully. Love and laugh, then come home to me, thy devoted mother.”
Looking up from her reading, Henrietta caught the look of absolute peace and serenity upon her husband’s scarred and rugged features. The flattened bridge of his nose showed no tell-tale wrinkle. He was at peace with this mission. Hiding her face in his neck, she gave over to the baleful sobs she’d planned to hold at bay.
~
Turning from dream-filled slumber, Henrietta Danville sat up on her cot in the nursery and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Had it really been five years since her husband’s death? Five years since the loss of land, title, and privilege? Sighing, she rose to splash her face with water from the basin. Her daughter would not share the same fate. She would see that she was married to a man of means who would provide a stipend for his wife, in the event of his demise.
Love and devotion had been all she ever wanted. When she lost them, Henrietta had lost her will to live. Now, she subsisted. Caring for another man’s children was simply a means for supporting herself while she worked to ensure a brighter future for her daughter, Simon’s daughter. The day their daughter was wed, Henrietta could give up this life’s struggles and make it back into her husband’s arms once more.
With this purpose in mind, Henrietta leaned over her child tentatively, reluctant to break Sara’s restful sleep. But wake her, she must, if the child were to continue her education as a lady. Gently laying her hand upon Sara’s too thin shoulder, she squeezed. Sea green eyes popped open, instantly alert.
“Is it time for my morning ride, Mama?”
“Yes, my dear. Ye must make haste if ye are to avoid the baron’s men. They will be practicing swords soon.” Rising and covering her serviceable wool kirtle with an equally plain muslin smock, Sara padded softly out of the nursery and down the servant’s stairs, to the bailey. She shivered deliciously at the feel of dewy air upon her face and hands as she sat in the dirt to pull on her soft leather turn shoes. Pushing back her still loosened hair, Sara quickly braided it into a single plait down her back. Yanking a neighboring weed from its root, she wrapped the base of her braid and tied it efficiently.
Old John, the stable master had been kind enough to train Sara on proper riding techniques. Mrs. Danville, Sara’s mother, was hoping that by providing Sara with an education and prosperous surroundings, she might marry her to a likely squire. Sara had no such aspirations. She knew that she and her mother were now poor and without a proper guardian. The most she could hope for was to remain within Hampstead Manor, caring for the reigning heir’s brood, teaching them the art of needle point and the elite skills of writing and ciphering.
Without money, her unique education might keep hunger from her door. She had seen the little urchins from the village. Her life here, without a husband to cater to, would be God’s own blessing. Twelve years of hardship had taught Sara much. If protection is what she needed, her master could provide it. He had taken in Sara and her mother five years hence, upon her own father, Sir Simon’s death. Though poor in funds, her father had been rich in lands and heart-he had gifted his wife with literacy, enabling her to support herself as a nobleman’s nurse maid. Baron Sanders had been kind enough to support the young mother and her child, in return for the addition of Sir Simon’s unentailed acres to his estate.
“What a waste marriage is for women,” she muttered to herself. Master Baron Sander’s own wife lay dying in childbed as she spoke. Sara had no wish to follow this example. Shaking her skirt free from loose dirt and debris, Sara strode to the stable yard in search of her mentor.
All she found was an open expanse of packed earth at her feet. The curved hoof prints of a handful of horses overlapped and crisscrossed before her, their tell-tale droppings steaming in the chill morning air. Peering into the stable, Sara was beckoned by the soft rustle and snort of the stalled horses ahead. Looking over her shoulder, past the silent tree lines to the West and the keep’s barren edifice to the East, Sara decided to ready her mount, rather than wait and risk losing her chance at a ride. Entering the stables with purpose, she was unprepared for the page’s assault.
“Oomph!” Someone was atop of her, pressing her shoulders to the ground and her face in the dirt. Struggling to free herself, to get some air into her lungs, Sara wiggled onto her side.
“Ha! Thou art a spirited lass. I’ll warrant ye’ll be a good bit of sport.”
Sara’s mind numbed at the realization of what this young assailant planned. Growing more desperate by the moment, she wriggled herself free. Pushing up onto her knees and stumbling to her feet, Sara dashed to the tack wall, her arm outstretched. Just as the grimy page grasped her waste, her fingers closed around the whip. Flinging it behind her, she managed to land a “Crack!” upon the back of the youth’s scrawny calf.
“Eeeow!” he screamed, in amazement, loosening his hold.
Taking advantage of the slackening, Sara whirled about, bringing the whip up and back down with a vicious flick of her wrist. The young man’s cheek split open, spilling blood and, she noted triumphantly, showing a bit of muscle each time he swiped at the crimson tide.
“What is going on in here?” bellowed Sanders as he barged through the stable doors. Seeing the scene before him, his young ward wielding a whip and his page bearing a blood wound, he spun to Sara for answers.
“I-I am sorry, My Lord. T-Truly, I am.” Lip trembling, she continued, “This boy tried to ravish me, Lord Sanders. I was defending myself; on my honor, I swear it.”
Nearly fainting from the shock, the young page stumbled back, seating himself unceremoniously on his rump.
Looking again from his page to his ward, the gentleman shook his head, at a loss for how to proceed. “What use has a lady for honor? Honor is a man’s domain.”
Turning to the young man, he grabbed him by the back of his vest and yanked. Dragging him into the courtyard, he leaned close and growled, “I have no use for pages who do not know their place. Ye will not attack a child in my care. Go pack thy bag. I am sending thee home to thy father.”
Sara’s hands shook visibly as she raised them to re-hang the whip. Attempting to control her tears by breathing deeply, Sara gave herself a painful case of the hiccups. All she wanted at this moment was to make her way back into the sanctuary of the nursery, crawl into her bed, and cry herself to sleep.
Determined to do just that, she turned and ran headlong into the chest of her protector. “Sara, one moment, please.” Looking down at her leather clad feet, Sara paused in obeisance. “As I am sure thou art mainly ignorant of such things, I will explain to thee the consequences of thy behavior.”
Instantly, Sara’s looked up at her Lord in alarm. “Thou hast exposed thyself to the course actions of a young man. Thou hast ruined thy reputation. Thou hast sullied thy name. No noble would willingly marry a woman known to have lain with another man.”
“But, My Lord, I have done no such thing! I-I fell when he attacked me, but I did not lay with him; I fought him and was victorious. I defended my honor. Surely, My Lord saw this.”
“Tis a reputation a woman must consider, not honor. Only a man can defend his honor, or a lady's good name. As thou hast no father nor brother to defend thine, thou art without a reputation.”
Tears rolled down Sara’s face at the disgrace she had caused her mother. If only she had waited for Sir John to arrive at the stables! If only she had awoken and dressed earlier!
“Do not dismay, Sara. I will not turn thee out into the streets of the village. Ye may remain, and thy mother as well. I only tell ye to explain why I cannot honor thy mother’s request to find thee a suitable squire in betrothal. I cannot stake my reputation on thy sullied one. Can ye understand that, Sara?”
“Aye, My Lord,” Sara whispered, more dejected by her Lord’s rejection than by the fact that she no longer had any marriage prospects.
Nodding, Lord Sanders turned and strode from the stables. “Ready the men in the far pasture, Sir John! I would like to see some sword play.”
Waiting until the stable yard cleared, Sara crept back up to the nursery and drowned her sorrows in a sea of sheets and sobs.
Till Death do us Part
England, 1349
Sara Ann Hartford sat at her window seat, staring down upon the ramparts’ stony shoulders. It was a beautiful day. The sky beamed-grinning down his blue face at the verdant oak leaves who waved merrily back. They mocked Sara’s melancholy, beckoning her to come and play, as she once had done. Instead, she turned purposefully to her husband’s bedside. It had been almost two days since the sores on his neck had appeared, turning black and mushy.
“An heir, Sara, an heir! Where hast thou taken my heir? Thou hast killed him; I know it! Thou hast given me no heir in return. Sara, how could ye? My little Sara... Betrayed; I have been betrayed!” Lord Sanders called out in his disease-induced dementia.
“Hush, now, My Lord, hush. All is well. All will be well. Ye shall see yer heir anon, of that I am certain. Rest, now. Christian will come to greet thee anon.”
Dipping a rag into the pitcher at her feet, she carefully dabbed the sweat from Lord Sander’s face. Her ribs ached, barely able to contain the vast emptiness within. Two days she had been quarantined within this small section of the keep. Two days she had cared for her Lord, her master, her husband. For two long nights, she had endured his hallucination-induced tongue lashing.
She tried not to be angry with him. He was dying, after all. But, he must have known of his contagion at least a day before he succumbed to the disease. When he had fainted two morning’s hence, Sara had discovered a black pustule upon his groin. It had burst when she dragged him onto the bed. She shivered, remembering how the vile liquid had trailed darkly down his narrow thigh.
He would be dead within three days. She knew it then, and she knew it now. Once stricken, no mortal survived the Black Death. She would care for him and keep him comfortable, as he had done for her, all these years.
The
n
, she determined, pulling the thin, knitted throw nearer about her as she curled up in the armchair by the bed and rested her heavy head..
.
Then, I shall die alon
e
.
Startled from her brief nap, Sara became instantly alert. “Whose there?” She queried, alarmed. “I told everyone to stay away! I will fetch what is needed. Be gone!”
“Lady Sanders, how fare thee?” came a tentative young voice outside the chamber door.
“Hannah! Oh, Hannah, remove thyself at once. I am well, dear child. Get thee to thy rooms and stay there. Eat only what cook prepares with her own hands and check her daily for signs of the illness. Be gone!”
“How fares my father?” Hannah insisted.
“Very…ill. There is naught ye can do for him, now. Hannah, please, I cannot lose ye as well. Hie thyself to thy chamber, post haste! I beg of thee, remain within thy room until thou art sent for. Do ye understand, Hannah?”
“Aye, My Lady, I understand.” Hannah’s voice trembled.
“T’will not be much longer, Hannah. I believe that thy father will be joining thy brother in eternity, by this day’s end…Forgive me.” Sara’s quiet voice crossed the distance between the two women, enveloping Hannah in the frail comfort of shared exhaustion and grief.
“Thou art not to blame for this, Stepmother,” she returned bravely. “God knows ye have done yer best to care for them both. Only, I feel as if I should be of some assistance.”
“Thou wilt assist me by staying away,” Sara returned firmly. “I fear I haven’t the strength left in me to care for another dying family member. Ye must keep thy self well. Promise me that if I fall ill ye will not attempt to care for me, but thou wilt leave. Go further inland, away from the coasts, somewhere where this God-forsaken plague cannot touch thee.”
“I promise that I shall do as my conscious dictates, My Lady,” Hannah responded in kind. In truth, she lacked the courage to leave the only place she had ever known, thirteen and alone. “I find that I am most attached to thee. My fate, shall be thine. For now, I will wait in my rooms. I will return at the morrow’s end. Tomorrow, ye will open this door for me.”
“Tomorrow will tell. Goodnight, Hannah. God bless ye and keep ye safe.”
“Goodnight, Stepmother. I shall pray for thee, and for my father.”
~
“Uh!” Sara awoke with a start. Sitting up in her elaborately carved bed, she pushed the wisps of hair from her face and looked around her, at a loss. “Oh,” she sighed as she realized she had been dreaming again. The nightmares that once plagued her nightly, had dissipated of late. Six months had passed since her husband’s death, and yet Sara could still not seem to rid herself of the trauma.
Standing, she shuffled to the wash basin and poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher. She was five and twenty, much too young to feel the weight of a dowager. Replaiting her waist-length blonde hair, Sara climbed back into bed. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wondered, for not the first time
,
What will become of Hannah; what will become of me?
The succession of the title had been forestalled by three deaths. Each time an heir had been discovered, he had died before taking the title. Dear Christian had preceded his father to the grave. Next, Lord Sander’s cousin, Jonathan Grimes, had passed away of some apoplexy, just weeks before traveling to his new abode. She knew not of the third to meet his doom, but she assumed it had been of the plague, as so many were succumbing.
Exhausted, working daily to keep the disease from her door, Sara had felt only relief that the heirs had fallen ill before coming to Hampstead Manor. Not only would she have to beg the new lord to allow Hannah and her to stay, she would also be faced with the likelihood that a new person would carry the disease into their midst, causing others to die needlessly.
Since the return of her husband and stepson, Sara had kept the grounds on quarantine. Only the cook and the game warden had remained within the keep, only they had remained healthy and willing to live within the strict solitude that Sara enforced. Sara had become convinced that the plague's ill humors traveled in the air and on the skin.
Therefore, she ordered that the inmates of the castle wash thoroughly each day. They ate only the vegetables and fruits that came from the garden, and the livestock that remained in the stable yard. Because her husband and stepson drank directly from the well before falling ill, Sara forbade the use of its contents.
She had heard that the Jews only ever drank from the running stream because they had poisoned the wells. Sara scoffed at the gossip, but she thought there was something in what their holy books required. She too insisted that they all drink water from the stream. In this way, the disease had remained from their gates for these past months.
Looking down at her ever increasing belly, Sara hardened her reserve. She would do whatever it took to insure the safety of those in her care. As her babe stirred within her, Sara made her way to her tiny writer’s desk and sank awkwardly onto the stool. She could no longer avoid telling the king she was expecting. Once her child was born, it would be too late to negotiate. If the king were unaware of whether she bore a son or daughter, he would need to provide them with a guardian and not a new lord.
Precious time might be bought. Time in which they may be able to stay healthy and her bairn might have a chance at saving them all. So much rested on the outcome of this birth. Soon, she knew, a new master, with a new threat of contagion, would enter these walls. Soon, all that she had worked so hard to protect would be in danger.
Thi
s
, she surmised,
i
s the cause of my nightmare’s return. The new master draws nig
h
.
~
Sara was furious. How could they have abandoned all sense the moment the man’s boots struck the stone walkway of the courtyard? Dropping the blackberries she had picked, her basket tumbled and spilled the morning’s harvest about her tattered skirts. There stood the entire population of the keep, surrounding an imposing man. His dark garb and tousled brown hair attracted her eyes and her fear.
“Who art thou, Sir, and to what do we owe this most unexpected visit?” Sara demanded of the intruder, an imperious lift to her chin.
Turning from his conversation with the blushing Hannah and the beaming cook, Sir Gavin Williams encountered the sour face of his new dependent. Glancing from her bare head to her very pregnant belly, Gavin quirked an eyebrow and responded, “Why, I am the Lord of this manor, heralded by none other than my own personal assistant. He was turned away, however, a fortnight hence. Not even to be given sustenance in his Lord’s hall. I suspect this is the reason for thy lack of preparation?”
The young dowager lifted her chin and looked into this self-righteous brigand’s sage green eyes. “Art thou aware, Lord Sanders, that death lurks outside these gates? Hast thou not seen the victims of the plague upon thy journey?”
“If the young couple I found in the field a mile hence had anything to say, I am certain they would have told me their illness was catching. I suppose I should not have drunk from their water skin.”
As Sara blanched and sank upon the nearby step; Gavin came to her aid, offering her a hand up. “I jest, My Lady; I jest. Of course, I am aware of the disease. I am alive and well because I have been cautious. Hadst thou bothered to ascertain, thou would have discovered that my assistant had also been cautious with his person. He had to ride two days back to me, without food and with little water. Ye at least could have provided him such.”
“I apologize for our lack of hospitality. After two years of this dreadful plague, all men seem naught but walking corpses to u
s
.
Speaking with thee now, I am convinced we shall all be dead within the week.”
“I pray God sees fit to preserve us, My Lady. Although, the young couple I spied was lying frightfully close to the river; I hope that ye have not been drinking from that source.”
Again, Sara paled. “We dared not drink from the well. My late husband and his son drank from it before they fell ill. I have precious little cider left. What are we to drink?”
“I would imagine that ye could drink from the river, or the well. I have heard that boiling the water over a cooking fire keeps it safe. It seems to have the same effect of cooking meat; it prevents the water from upsetting the humors.”
“I cannot imagine how that will make much difference, but we can pray.”
Smiling benignly at her young stepdaughter, Sara looped her arm in Hannah’s and directed the group toward the main hall. Taking side-long glances at the new Lord, Sara couldn’t help but notice that he towered over the lot of them. She had always felt large in comparison with her first husband. Even with her ever-increasing form, this man made her feel frail.
“Adam is killing a hen for tonight’s supper, M’Lady. I had hoped to harvest the last of the yams,” Millie chimed in, in an obvious attempt to diffuse the tense interaction.
“That will be fine, Millie. Lord Sanders, have ye washed since arriving? I would like to provide ye with some soap and boiled water.”
“Aye. That would be appreciated. Hast the master chamber been aired?”
Blushing, Sara responded. “The late Lord Sanders passed in that chamber, Sir. I had the bedding burned, along with his personal items. The chamber has been aired and resupplied…I will need to move my things from the solar, My Lord, as I have not quite accustomed myself to my role as dowager…I find that the light in the room is best for needle work and with so few of us here, Millie, Hannah, and I oft times slept in the chamber...”
“Think nothing of it, Lady Sara, is it? Of course, the women made use of the space. I will take a smaller room, as I am yet a bachelor.”
“Forsooth, thou wilt not. I have been ungracious, thus far. As we are already here together, then if we be exposed, so be it. Thou wilt have the master’s chamber, for thou art the master. I will move into Hannah’s room. Twill suit us fine, shan't it, Hannah?”
“Verily, My Lady,” Hannah responded, in kind. “Has thee a betrothed, My Lord?”
“I have not. Until recently, I had not the means to support a wife. I have lived my life by the sword, fighting for his majesty as a squire, then a knight. Now that I am titled and landed, I find that healthy brides are hard to come by. Many noblewomen are not as resourceful as thy mother. They cannot support themselves without the aide of servants. The result is that they are eating and sleeping around the contagion. Many noble houses stand empty.
“Others are going hungry, as they cannot keep serfs who will work the fields. No serf wishes to work for a nobleman that cannot guarantee his security. Much is in chaos. Thy keep hast been blest to avoid the worst of it.”
“We have done so carefully and deliberately, Lord Sanders. Thus was the reason for refusing hospitality to thy assistant. Has he accompanied thee?”
“He died shortly after returning to me.”
“And ye say I misjudged him by turning him away?”
“Let us not dwell on the subject, My Lady. Instead, let us prepare ourselves for dinner. I ken ye have much to do to remove thy presence from the master chamber. Yet, if ye could spare a moment, My Lady, I would have words with thee, in private.”