Culpeper glanced at Margaret, who was now staring at him with a somewhat disdainful
expression on her beautiful face, then addressed his queen again. ―Madam, my Lady Neville is
distressed, and perhaps she does not know the import of her words.‖
Margaret rolled her eyes slightly.
―This pestilence is a judgement, surely,‖ Culpeper continued, ―but we must not question
God. We are only sinful mortals, and cannot understand God‘s handiwork.‖
―I‘m sure that will give you enormous comfort when you lie shrieking in agony in your
pestilence bed,‖ Margaret murmured.
Culpeper flushed, then frowned. He looked about to remonstrate with Margaret when
everyone‘s attention was caught by the sound of footsteps.
They were light and rapid, approaching down New Fish Street.
Neville moved a little closer to Mary‘s donkey, and he glanced behind at the
men-at-arms.
They moved up, drawing swords, even though it was obvious that only one person
approached, and that a child from the lightness of the steps.
The next moment a child did indeed emerge from out of the fire, smoke and gloom. She
was young, only seven or eight, and slight even for her age. Her bare arms and face were grimy,
perhaps from the smoke and soot that drifted about from the brimstone fires, while
shoulder-length hair that was, under normal circumstances, probably very fair, clung to her
cheeks and neck in oily tendrils.
Huge black eyes stared at the group of men-at-arms and nobles who blocked her path,
and she sucked in a breath of anxiety.
She was trembling, but whether from effort or fright, none could tell.
She was dirty, but, all were relieved to note, did not display any signs of pestilence.
The child took a hesitant step forward, then, with an unerring instinct for who was the
most likely to aid her, she ran to kneel before Mary‘s donkey.
―Blessed Lady!‖ the child stammered, holding out her hands in supplication. ―I beg your
aid.‖
Mary smiled, and beckoned the child to rise and come to stand by her donkey‘s shoulder.
Neville moved very slightly out of the way, but he made sure that he remained close
enough to prevent any trouble should the little girl suddenly produce a dagger from her skirts.
Mary reached out a hand and touched the child‘s cheek. ―You shall have my aid,‖ she
said in a gentle voice. ―But first, tell me, how should I call you?‖
―Jocelyn.‖ The girl‘s eyes were fixed on Mary‘s face as if she thought her an angel.
―What a lovely name,‖ Mary said. ―I am Mary, and thus you shall call me.‖
Neville opened his mouth to object. Mary was the child‘s queen, and the child ought to
realise that she should address her queen with more respect than just—
With an amused glance Mary silenced whatever Neville might have been going to say,
before addressing Jocelyn again.
―Jocelyn, child, why do you run with such haste? Should you not be home with your
mother and father?‖
―I have no father,‖ Jocelyn said, ―and my mother is sick, near to dying. Please, will you
help her?‖
―There are hospitals,‖ Culpeper murmured, using a forefinger to press the herb bundle
the closer to his nostrils.
Jocelyn began to cry, pitiful hiccupping sobs that shook her shoulders. ―I asked the
monks at Saint Bartholomew‘s,‖ she said, her stammering even worse now, ―but they refused.
They said my mother had been struck down for her sins, and that she should learn to…to endure.
I was running to Saint Katherine‘s across the bridge, hoping that I might find someone to aid my
mother.‖
―And so you have!‖ Mary said. ―See? I have with me a physician—‖ Culpeper started to
say something, but Mary silenced him with a wave of her hand ―—and a lady to aid me, and,‖
she turned her head very slightly to smile at Neville, ―a man who can give your mother
absolution if that will aid her more than medicines can. Come,‖ she looked at Jocelyn again,
―will you lead us to her?‖
Jocelyn was still crying, but her sobs had quietened, and she managed a small smile.
―Thank you, Mary.‖
―Would you like me to hold your hand as we walk?‖ Margaret said, stepping forward and
squatting down before the child. She smoothed a lock of Jocelyn‘s grimy hair away from her
forehead with tender fingers.
Jocelyn stared a moment at her, thinking she had never seen a lovelier lady, then nodded.
Margaret rose, took the girl‘s hand, and they turned west into Thames Street.
They walked at a brisk pace, Margaret and Jocelyn leading, Neville staying close to Mary
in case she needed support to keep upright, Courtenay on the other side of the donkey, Culpeper
using his forefinger to keep the herbs pressed close to his nose and looking from right to left as if he expected further waifs to accost them, and the men-at-arms bringing up the rear.
After a few minutes Jocelyn twisted back to address Mary. ―We live in an alley near
Saint Paul‘s,‖ she said.
―Then the bells must give you great joy,‖ Mary said.
―They keep me awake,‖ Jocelyn replied, turning back to the street before them, and
Margaret suppressed a smile.
They‘d walked only a few more minutes, but close enough now to see the spire of St
Paul‘s emerging from the brimstone haze like a long-necked sea monster, when a vicious snarl
stopped them in their tracks.
They stared, looking about them.
There was nothing but the twisting, drifting smoke.
The snarl sounded again, low and, if possible, even more malevolent than previously.
Neville and Courtenay both drew their swords, Neville nodding to the men-at-arms to
position themselves about Mary.
―It is nothing to worry about,‖ he said to Mary. ―A stray, perhaps, terrified of the smoke
and stench.‖
―Tom,‖ Margaret said very quietly.
He looked to her. She was staring ahead as, very slowly, she backed herself and Jocelyn
up to within the protective circle of armed men.
Neville followed her gaze.
There was something emerging from the red and black smoke in front of them. A shape,
vaguely four-legged, and black, forming among the twisting tendrils and sparks within the
fumes. But a dog? It seemed huge, as if—
The beast moved forward several steps, and the smoke swirled back to reveal it.
A massive, grotesque hound, almost as big as the donkey on which Mary sat. Its
shoulders were so muscled they appeared out of proportion to the rest of its body. Its legs were
slim, but stiff as if ready to spring, its coat and skin eaten away by scores of suppurating sores.
Malignant, yellow eyes glared unblinkingly at them above a twisting, snarling muzzle.
―Tom,‖ Mary whispered.
He hefted his sword, as if about to step forward and confront the hound, but Margaret
caught at his arm.
―No!‖ she said. ―You cannot touch it. It is…it is the black Dog of Pestilence. God‘s wrath
incarnate.‖
Neville stared at the Dog, trying to gain its measure. That it was a supernatural beast he
had no doubt. But God‘s beast?
―A retributive strike,‖ Margaret whispered, now staring at him with strange-lit eyes, and
Neville understood that only he would be able to hear her voice. ―God‘s vengeance on the
English for having supported Hal‘s rise to the throne. Sweet Jesu aid us, Tom.‖
Then she turned back to the Dog. ―Go. Go! We will have none of you here.‖
The Dog stalked forward another two steps on stiff legs, his hackles raised, snarling and
snapping at Margaret.
Jocelyn had shrunk back into Margaret‘s skirts, and Margaret pushed the girl behind her.
―Go,‖ Margaret said, now whispering. ―You cannot touch us. Not yet.‖
The Dog growled one more time, low and vicious, its disappointment wrinkling about its
snout and eyes. Then it turned slowly, almost insolently, and stalked away into a side alley.
A few heartbeats after the Dog had disappeared into the dark, shrieks and wails issued
forth from the alley‘s smoke-shrouded homes.
―And so the pestilence finds new victims,‖ Margaret said. She locked eyes briefly with
Neville— God”s vengeance—then dropped her head and smiled at Jocelyn still clinging to the
back of her skirts. ―See, darling, the Dog has gone. Come, lead us to your mother.‖
Jocelyn looked to Mary for reassurance, received it in the form of a smile, then very
slowly led them forward once more.
Jocelyn and her mother lived off a tiny, enclosed courtyard, which itself ran off a narrow,
bleak alley. When they gained the courtyard Neville lifted Mary down from the donkey, holding
her arm as she found her balance.
Mary gazed about her with wide, almost disbelieving eyes.
Never had she seen such squalor in her life.
The courtyard was perhaps twenty feet by twenty, its cobbles so old and worn that they
had disintegrated almost into gravel. In one corner lay a muck heap, the only means the
inhabitants of this court had to dispose of their waste. Two small, almost skeletal pigs nosed