In the very early hours of the morning, one of the imps inserted his long, thin, dark fingers under the lid of the cask and carefully opened it, placing the lid silently to one side.
He looked at his brother, blinked slowly, then gave a slight nod.
His brother lifted out a small handful of the black feathers.
“Go where you will,” he whispered, “and enjoy.”
Then he put his mouth to his open hand, and blew.
The feathers lifted out into the night, drifting this way and that, north and south, east and west, until, one by one, they dropped slowly, like soft sooty ashes, over the tenements of London.
Each one fell in a direct line, ignoring the wind, and each one fell, without fail, directly down a chimney to settle on the ceramic covers—called curfews—placed by householders over the coals for the night.
There, they clung to the handles of the curfews, ready to be taken up in the morning by whoever it was wished to relight the fire.
Eight days later, a gentle physician by the name of Nathaniel Hodges was called from his house in Watling Street to treat a young man who lived in a narrow laneway running off the churchyard of St Botolph Aldersgate. The moment Hodges saw the black swellings in the young man’s armpit he knew with what he dealt.
Hodges stepped back from the bed, and sighed, and shook his head at the man’s wife. “Pray,” he said, “and keep him comfortable. It is all you can do.”
From the house, Hodges went straight to his local alderman and reported that, regretfully, the plague had returned to London.
Two nights later, Catling sent the imps to the parish of St Giles-in-the-Fields, where they clung to the steeple of St Giles and cast their feathers into the night.
Two weeks later reports drifted into the Privy Council about the growing numbers of deaths due to plague. Fifteen hundred people in the parish of St Giles-in-the-Fields had died within the past eight days alone, and the council took the precaution of setting wardens at street junctions at the borders of the parish to prevent people leaving the plague-ridden area.
And then there was the area surrounding Smithfield. Although the first cases of the plague had been reported from there, the outbreak hadn’t been as heavy as that at St Giles-in-the-Fields. Now, however, it was growing, and creeping steadily through the ancient alleyways and lanes of the city.
Most worrying of all were the reports on the weather. It was unusually warm for the time of year, and dry, and with strong westerly winds. Historically the plague was always at its deadliest during hot dry spells when the wind blew in from the west.
The Council prepared itself for the worst, and sent a report to the king.
Fourteen
Whitehall Palace, London
Elizabeth was spreading washing to dry in one of the small inner courtyards of Whitehall when a servant came over and whispered in her ear. Elizabeth paled, but she nodded, set the washing to one side, and hurried to the servants’ courtyard where she found the imps lurking in a shadowy corner.
“What is it?” snapped Elizabeth.
The two imps, masquerading as usual as disreputable street youths, both raised their eyebrows. “Snarly lady today,” observed the first imp.
“Has she a fever, then?” said the other. “Do her armpits swell and discomfort her under the tight sleeves of that sweet bodice?”
“What is it?” Elizabeth said again.
“We come,” said the first imp, “because we carry a message from your one-time lover, Weyland. Remember him?”
Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “Yes?” she said.
“Don’t fret,” said the second imp. “The message is not for you. These are words that Weyland wants you to carry to the king, our Great Lord Almighty Charles, majesty, benevolence, defender of the faith, high prince of righteousness, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened yet further, but she said nothing.
“Tell him,” said the imps as one, their voices perfectly matched in bleakness, “that if the Londoners grow buboes, then it is because Weyland has planted the seeds. Tell Charles that Weyland is spreading his horror over London to show Charles his might, and to demonstrate that Weyland is unconquerable. Tell Charles that Weyland thinks that all this digging of graves in the churchyards and fields and orchards of London will surely scare out those kingship bands…yes?”
The imps’ voices had become singsong, but that did nothing to diminish the horror of what they imparted. “Tell Charles that he is to gather the kingship bands of Troy, and hand them to you, so that you may hand them to Weyland. Only then will the death halt. A simple enough message, yes?”
Elizabeth had taken two steps back as they spoke. “This is vileness,” she said.
“This is the way it is,” said the first imp, “vile or not.” Then the imps were gone, and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the shadowy corner of the courtyard.
Elizabeth walked slowly through the palace, dragging her feet, unable to hurry this ghastly message to Charles. Inevitably, however, her grudging feet drew her close, and she asked admittance of the king’s guards in a soft, hesitant voice.
Elizabeth was of Charles’ inner coterie, and the guards allowed her into the king’s private apartments without hesitation.
Charles was sitting, together with Catharine, Marguerite and several of his older bastard children, under an apple tree in the private courtyard off his apartments. The instant Charles saw Elizabeth’s face he waved the children to a far corner to play, then beckoned her close.
“What is it?” he said quietly.
“Weyland has sent a message,” said Elizabeth, not looking at Charles, so ashamed was she to be the one Weyland had chosen to bring this before the king.
“Aye?”
“Weyland has caused the pestilence which spreads through the city and its fields. He says the death will not stop until you gather in the kingship bands, and hand them to me, so that I may pass them to him.”
Marguerite hissed. “We should have known this outbreak was Weyland’s handiwork. Such foulness becomes him.”
For the moment Charles ignored Marguerite’s comment. He reached forward, and took Elizabeth’s hand, making her look at him. “I do not hold you to blame for such grim news, my darling,” he said. “Do not fear.”
“What can we do?” said Catharine. “You cannot gather the bands.”
Charles and Marguerite exchanged a look. Two of them Charles could very well gather, but this they did not remark upon.
“Dear gods,” Catharine continued, “the plague will spread and spread, inching its dark way into the soul of every Londoner. What can we do? Louis…Louis should—”
“Louis cannot be disturbed from his transformation,” said Charles, “unless it be for the direst reason.”
“This is not the direst reason?” Marguerite said.
“And what of Eaving?” said Catharine, too consumed with her worries to take much note of what anyone else said. “She is trapped within Weyland’s den, and may not move until Jane has taught her all she needs to know of the labyrinth. Gods, what is happening to her?”
Charles’ eyes flickered at that, but he said nothing.
“Weyland is the foulest creature ever to draw breath,” said Marguerite. “It will be a blessed day indeed when Eaving can escape him.”
Noah and Weyland had spent the entire day within the Idyll. They had touched, and kissed, but had not made love. Instead they talked, of who they had been in former lives, and what they had seen. By the late afternoon Noah was feeling restless—these remembrances had not always been comfortable—and so, Weyland trailing behind her with a smile on his face, she embarked on a far-reaching exploration of the Idyll.
Noah had known the Idyll was large, but had not suspected it was this vast. She explored for what felt like hours, and what she saw convinced her that in acreage alone (not even considering power and enchantment) the Idyll was far larger than London itself.
Chamber emptied into chamber after chamber, balconies led to walks along battlements that made Noah dizzy, stairwells rose and fell with apparent abandonment.
At last, growing tired, Noah paused, and Weyland took the opportunity to gather her in his arms.
“What do you think, then,” he said, “of what I have built atop the goddess hill? Is it a fine enough shelter for you?”
She tensed in his arms, and Weyland regretted the tease. Should he finish it now, then, and just ask for shelter?
Noah had put a bright, false smile on her face, and Weyland sighed, and let her go.
She turned—a little too abruptly—and walked through yet one more door onto a balcony that overlooked a vast vista.
Noah stopped the instant she saw what lay beyond the balcony. “What made you create this?” she said.
Weyland looked over the balcony to where stretched a succession of wooded hills, rolling into infinity. Mist drifted in the valleys and hollows between the hills and scarlet and blue birds dipped slowly and gracefully in and out of the mists.