Infinite Sacrifice (29 page)

With only one kirtle to wear, I’m
in burgundy daily.

“Sexton,” I holler up, “we have
three this morning.”

“You, sweet wench, can call me
Ulric.” He wipes his hands on his hairy chest. “Little ones or fat
ones?”

Disgusted by his question, I spit,
“What difference does it make?”

“Easy there I simply might not have
the room for them, is all. I’ve had a busy morning,” he says as he
smiles and pats his full purse.

“I am sure they will
fit.”

He climbs down from his cart,
picking his teeth, then shifts some of the dead bodies to make
room. I turn away as I see him unbutton a leather vest, off one of
the dead.

“He won’t be needing this where
he’s going.” He chuckles.

When I look back at him, he is
wearing the vest. Putting both hands on the sides of the vest he
says, unashamed, “Don’t I look like a nobleman now?”

I guffaw.

“I’m not keeping it. I sell the
nicest pieces at a good price, you know.” He looks down at my
kirtle. “I do have some fine kirtles and can give you one for free
if you’re nice to me.” He leers as I stand, unamused. He shrugs and
moves another body. “This plague’s making me a very prosperous man,
young maiden.”

“Matron,” I correct.

“Matron? And living in a convent?”
He sighs. “And all this time I was worried you were wasting your
young maidenhead on God.”

I decide I’m not going to talk to
him anymore. I point to the shrouded bodies outside by the garden.
He yanks off the shrouds, balls them up messily, and tosses the
partially rigid bodies over his shoulder. Ulric throws the bodies
down like sacks of flour and stashes the shrouds in the front of
his cart.

I break my promise. “Those shrouds
are for their burial!”

He chuckles as I snatch them back,
climb the gruesome pile, and cover those I fed broth to only days
before.

“How about a little bas on the
cheek for my kindnesses?” he says, pointing to his filthy cheek.
“You do know I do this for the sisters out of the goodness of my
heart?”

“That and you find out who these
people are and collect the death tax for the city for a fair
price.”

He smirks. “You are a feisty one,
aren’t you?” he says as he leaps back up on his cart. “No wonder
your husband gave you to the nuns.” He drives off.

I’m always relieved when he leaves
but know all too well he’ll be back tomorrow to ferry more to
Smithfield’s plague pits.

Chapter 6

That day Malkyn speaks of the
recent Papal Bull that has been granted in these extraordinary
times of the Great Mortality.

She says to us at breakfast, “His
Holiness has purchased new cemeteries and consecrated the grounds
to help lessen the need for the plague pits. Due to the great
number of priests dying from the plague, the Pope has granted
blanket absolution.” She turns to me and explains, “Now, anyone can
give the last rites. So ladies, I will instruct you. I disagree
with the Holy Father’s next grant.” She shakes her head. “He has
waived the autopsy ban so that doctors can learn more about the
pestilence. Lastly, there are those in other countries that are
blaming the pestilence on the Jews in their midst. The Pope has
condemned all attacks on them.”

She makes the sign of the cross,
and we all continue to care for the ever-increasing sea of
sick.

There is barely any room between
each rag heap. I give water to a young maiden with a bubo on her
neck so large that it contorts her head to the side. She whimpers
in pain. I look up to see Simon standing there. He bends down to
hold her hand.

“What is your name,
maiden?”

“Helena,” the redhead answers
weakly. “I think I need to be sick.”

Simon reaches for the water bucket
next to me and holds her up to purge. Vomiting is another torturous
side effect of the disease. Sometimes victims will vomit for days.
I watch him as he dabs her mouth with a rag and lays her back down
gently.

She tries to speak, and Simon puts
his finger up to her lips to rest, but she continues, “You can’t
let those wretched rustics come and throw my body in a pile with no
feeling!” Her hazel eyes spin wildly. “Then the pigs come out at
night, advancing upon the newly dug graves to feast on our
corpses!”

“Calm now, lady, you have nothing
to fear. His Holiness himself has purchased consecrated ground to
make sure every last one has a dignified burial, free from vandals.
Never you think of that anyway; the soul is granted eternal life,
and the body returns to ash.”

She closes her
eyes and begins to breathe easier. I am convinced he is sent
directly from God to ease all suffering. I can think of no one else
in whose arms I would want to die. Malkyn begins to sing,
Languisco e Moro
, to
ease the fears and give a respite of peace from our desperate
situation. Oliver and Rowan find me and slip under my arms to
listen to her angelic song. There is no other place I’d rather
be.

That morning I cringe as I see
Ulric coming down the lane. It’s a sad morning, since Helena is one
of the ten shrouded bodies waiting for transport. I hear him
singing something jovially, and I can make out the words as he
draws closer.

“Ring-a-ring o’rosies, A pocket
full of posies, A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down!”

My face draws up in scorn as I
realize what he’s making light of, and he notices. “My sweet
blossom doesn’t like my little ditty?”

I can’t hide my disgust. “You are
vile.”

“It’s a children’s song! Little
wenchels are singing it all around the streets of London.” He
laughs. “It really stays in your head.” He leaps off. “I have a
special treat for you!” He goes behind his cart and pulls out an
incredibly sick-looking woman from the death-pale lot. “A
bubo-covered Winchester goose!”

He laughs and explains, “Don’t you
ever get out! That’s another name for the loose
wagtails—”

I put my hand up to stop him and
help her into the abbey, and when I come back out see Helena thrown
with her bottom up in the air on top of the heap, her beautiful red
hair spilling out over the back of the cart.

“Is there any way you could come
here after your first run, when your cart has more room in it?” I
ask as I cover her body with her shroud.

“First run! This here’s my fourth
for the day!” My mouth drops in surprise. “You nuns are working
miracles in there, only losing five to ten a day. Elsewhere one out
of every two people is dropping. Even on a good day, London loses a
small village to the pestilence.” He throws another body next to
Helena. “If I ever get this thing, I’ve told my wife to bring me
here so my little burgundy hen can nurse me back to
health.”

I can’t imagine him having a wife,
poor woman.

Emeline goes to work stripping the
Winchester goose, found to be named Gussalen. She holds up
Gussalen’s discarded burlap kirtle, which is stained with blood
from backside leakage, one of the worst symptoms of the plague.
Gussalen keels to one side as we’re rinsing the dirt off, and we
know to get her to a bed at once.

We lay her down as she begins
mumbling, “I did everything I was supposed to.”

“Yes, you are fine.” I pull the
wool over her.

“No!” she shouts, violently yanking
the blanket back down. “I crouched at the latrines, wafting the
stinking vapors over me. They said that I would build resistance to
the scourge.” She shakes her head deliriously.

I’ve heard that many people are
seeing nuns like Emeline and Malkyn who are surrounded by plague
and think that instead of hiding from the pestilence, they would
cover themselves in it. I pick up a ladle of water and begin
pouring it into her blue-toned mouth, and she spits the water out
in my face.

“What is that? Are you trying to
kill me? I need ale. Get me an ale!” Her front teeth are missing. I
throw the ladle back in the bucket and try to mop the water off my
face. “Ale is the thing that keeps the plague away. The more ale
and food you consume, the better your health. I need an ale!” Her
body goes rigid as she screams this.

I walk away. I thought she was
difficult the first night, but when her fever takes hold, she tests
the whole chapel’s nerves. Her screams and groans rise to such a
volume that the other sick beg us to remove her.

Simon comes and carries her out
into the small enclosure at the farthest end of the chapel, but we
can still hear her screaming, “There is no God! Where is God? Here
we are in His house and we all still perish!”

Then she laughs, throwing her head
back, braying. When she draws her last breath, all notice because
it is finally quiet. The dying all clap.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

As Emeline and I are boiling the
rags no longer needed by Gussalen, we see that a strange man has
tiptoed into the chicken coop. Emeline runs to notify Malkyn, who
comes out brandishing a pitchfork. We stand behind her as she jumps
out at the man wearing a strange hat and holding three eggs he
gathered from our roost. Seeing the armed Mother Superior, he
throws down the eggs, puts his arms up, and pleads, “Please,
Sisters, I beg you, forgive me!”

“If you are hungry, why not come
into our abbey and ask for a meal?” She brings down her fork. He
lowers his hands by his side and drops to the ground to try to
salvage the shattered eggs. “Forget the spoiled eggs. Follow us to
share our supper.”

On the way back, Emeline whispers
to me, “He is a Jew.”

Surprised, I ask, “How do you
know?”

“The hat he is wearing is a
Judenhut, a Jewish hat.”

Supper is served on the stone table
beside the garden. Someone long ago had moved a massive rock
between two long narrow stones, perfect for dining outdoors. We all
say grace while the man hangs his head respectfully in silence
during our prayers. When Emeline hands him a large bowl of
vegetable soup with rye bread, he bows his head in
thanks.

“My name is Daniel. I have fled the
persecution in France,” he says as if it’s a confession.

Malkyn only nods her head
slightly.

“I am a Jew,” he
emphasizes.

Still Malkyn nods. Daniel looks
shocked by this casual acceptance.

“How are things in France?” she
asks carefully.

He shakes his head.
“Terrible.”

Malkyn changes the subject. “How do
you make your living?”

“Before I was chased out”—he sucks
in a belch—“—excuse me, Sisters, I was a barber
surgeon.”

“How blessed for us!” She looks up
again in direct communication with God. “We are struggling to care
for the needy and sick, and in these times need every hand we can
acquire.”

He looks
surprised. “You want a
Jew
to assist you in an
abbey
?”

“There is no religious prerequisite
for caring for the dying and salvaging life.” He looks amazed. “We
can give you food and lodging in return.”

He looks out past the abbey to the
empty unforgiving streets and quickly says, “I would be a fool to
turn down that generous offer.”

Malkyn shows him to a side barn
that would serve as his quarters while he’s with us. He bows three
times to her as she walks away.

The next morning, I’m slapping away
fleas from my ankles and off the patients when Daniel comes up and
says, “I know how to purge those vermin.”

“How so?” I ask as he takes off his
vest and rolls up the large sleeves of his shirt, exposing a large
scar stretching from his wrist to his elbow. He leaves and comes
back in an hour. He instructs me to make two large circles for him
by moving the patients farther to the sides. He carries in stones
and builds two high fireplaces into which he throws juniper and ash
with sprigs of rosemary from Emeline’s herb garden. As soon as he
sets them ablaze, the putrid smell disappears and is replaced by a
comforting sweet smell. From then on Daniel keeps the fires lit,
day and night. He also fumigates over the sick, purging the
scourge. That alone improves the spirits of all who enter and
languish there. It also cures us of the unrelenting fleas; the heat
seems to keep them safely at bay.