about in it, and Mary had to turn away, sickened by what she saw smeared across their muzzles.
The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by buildings that leaned so far into the yard
that they stayed upright only by virtue of the heavy wooden supports that had been manoeuvred
into position underneath them. Damp and mould ran up the stone walls in long, green streaks.
The few windows in the buildings were tiny, and filled with waxed cloth rather than glass.
Smoke seeped out from rents in two of the cloth windows—there were no chimneys.
Doors hung askew, rags fluttered from nails, dirt and dung piled in doorways, water ran
in thin trails down plaster work.
This was not the work of the pestilence, but of the ordinary, everyday squalor of the
poorest of London‘s citizens.
―Madam,‖ Neville said, reading the horror in Mary‘s eyes and watching as one gloved
hand flew to cover her nose and mouth, ―we do not have to stay. We can send aid without having
to enter ourselves. Let me—‖
―No.‖ Mary shook her head. ―I will go in. I promised. But, oh, Tom, such squalor! I never
knew…‖
He shrugged. ―Welcome to London‘s bleak heart, madam.‖ He turned to the
men-at-arms, directing several of them to take watch about the courtyard, several others,
including Courtenay, to guard the entrance to the alley, and two more to make their way back to the Tower to make sure Bolingbroke knew where they were.
―No,‖ Mary murmured.
―He has a right to know, madam,‖ Neville said, and Mary sighed, and acquiesced.
―Mary?‖ Jocelyn called softly from a doorway on the northern side of the courtyard.
―Hurry, please!‖
Then she disappeared inside.
Mary locked eyes first with Margaret, then with Neville, then walked towards the
doorway.
―Culpeper,‖ she said, ―ensure that you come with me.‖
Culpeper sighed, but he followed Mary, Margaret and Neville inside.
As they entered the building, several round, pale faces appeared at some of the upper
windows, their eyes and mouths opened wide and glistening in faint light.
VI
Friday 24th May 1381
—ii—
Emma lay curled in a foetal position on her bed. Suffering coursed through her. She
burned with fever, and wanted nothing more than to toss and turn to try and seek in such
movement some relief from its raging, but buboes filled her armpits and groin, and any
movement made them sear with such torment that Emma would shriek in agony.
She was dying, and she knew it.
In itself the pain did not cause Emma the greatest distress. Instead, the knowledge that
she would die alone (Jocelyn had been gone twelve hours or more, and the fact that she was gone gave Emma some hope that her daughter had escaped this death pit of a city) and unshriven,
condemned to the fiery, tormented pits of hell because no priest was present to hear her
confession, was making Emma‘s final few hours of life pitiful in the extreme.
This was hell in waiting.
Jocelyn‘s fate also weighed heavily on her mind. Her daughter was too young to be able
to care for herself. She would be cast into servitude, or perhaps snatched to be sold into slavery
to the Moors. Worse, the criminal underworld of London would find her, and force her into
prostitution. Jocelyn was young and fair, and some noble would pay many gold pieces to be able
to rob her of her virginity.
Emma wept silent, wretched tears that coursed down her cheeks. Jocelyn would suffer no
matter what happened: either the pestilence would seize her and condemn her to an agonising
death in a gutter, or men would seize her, and condemn her to a life of whoring for every man
that had coin enough to pay for her.
And, as Emma well knew, once Jocelyn grew older and lost her youthful bloom, that
meant every man who came her way, fat, ugly, scabbed or otherwise. Anyone, if just to keep some food in her mouth. Anyone, if only to keep alive.
There was a sound, but in her state of fevered agony and despair, Emma paid it no
attention. There were always sounds: men, bending over you; rats, scampering past your pillow;
the even-more-wretched-than-she, scraping fingernails against closed doors; and always, always,
the censuring bells of St Paul‘s, ringing out their judgement, hell awaits, hell awaits, hell
awaits…
The sound came again, and Emma moaned, for surely it could mean only more misery.
Who now? Harrison, come to claim next week‘s rent? Some backstreet boy, come to steal her
pitiful belongings? Someone from the watch, perhaps, come to poke her to see if she were dead
yet?
Soon her corpse would be tossed onto one of the creaking death carts. Soon she would be
cast down into the blackness of a plague pit.
Is this all that life was?
―Jocelyn tells me that you are Mistress Emma Hawkins,‖ said a soft voice, and Emma felt
someone sit carefully on the edge of the bed, ―and that you are her mother. She has asked me to
aid you.‖
Emma tried to open her eyes, but they were gummed closed. ―Who…?‖ she croaked,
blindly reaching out a hand.
―Shhh,‖ the voice said, and then Emma heard it whispering to someone else in the room.
Who? Jocelyn? Was Jocelyn here?
Emma sobbed, unable to bear the thought of her daughter witnessing her miserable,
tormented death.
―Shhh,‖ the soft, gentle voice said again. ―Here.‖ And a blessedly cool and moist cloth
was wiped tenderly across her face, wiping clean her eyes, and trickling moisture into her dry
mouth.
Emma caught at the cloth between her teeth, sucking as much moisture out of it as she
could. She heard the voice again, speaking quietly to someone, asking for water.
There were footsteps, not hurried, but quick, and then the woman on Emma‘s bed had
slid one hand beneath her neck, raising her head forward and pressing a goblet to her lips.
The water was cool, and like nectar from heaven.
Emma drank greedily, and the woman withdrew the goblet. ―Not so fast, Emma. You will
make yourself ill.‖
Emma made a small sound. ―Ill? Madam, can you not see my condition? Am I not ill
enough already? Give me more water, please, I beg you.‖
And Emma finally managed to open her eyes, and see her saviour.
A face swam before her, and Emma had to blink several times to bring it into focus. A
woman with a gentle face—gentle because its bearer, too, suffered. Wan but clear skin. Huge,
kind, hazel eyes. Soft honey hair coiled under the finest of lawn headdresses. And the sweetest of
mouths, curled in a smile so loving that Emma thought her heart would break.
―Blessed Lady,‖ she whispered. ―Blessed Mary!‖
A shadow passed over the woman‘s face, then it cleared, and she smiled all the sweeter.
―Nay, Emma, just a poor woman such as yourself. And my name is Mary—you must have
recognised me from the day of my marriage.‖
Emma frowned. Not the Blessed Mary? But her name was still ‗Mary‘? Then she
remembered. She remembered a bright and sunny day, and a crowd about St Paul‘s. She
remembered fair Prince Hal, riding to his wedding. And she remembered the girl that he had wed, the modest Lady Mary Bohun.
And this woman wore her face.
The Queen of England sat on her bed, and wiped her brow?
―Madam,‖ Emma whispered, ―what do you here?‖
Mary indicated the several people standing about her in the cramped room: a handsome
nobleman, black-haired and bearded, frowning at her; a noblewoman, beautiful beyond belief,
and standing at the queen‘s shoulder; a red-haired thin man with a ridiculous bundle tied under
his nose…he looked vaguely familiar, and Emma fleetingly wondered if she had serviced him
sometime.
And there, staring at her from behind the beautiful woman‘s skirts, was her daughter,
Jocelyn. Emma tried to smile at her, but failed.
―I and my friends,‖ said the queen, ―are here to aid you, Emma. I had come with my
retinue from Windsor to do what I could for my poor people of London, when your lovely
daughter, Jocelyn,‖ and she held out her hand, and drew Jocelyn forth to stand at Emma‘s
bedside, ―begged me to aid you. I would not refuse her, nor you.‖
―Madam,‖ whispered Emma, ―please leave me! You will die if you stay. I am so hideous.
Oh, see, see how hideous I am! Go! Go! I do not want to be the one to kill you.‖
Mary leaned forward and placed her free hand on Emma‘s mouth. ―I would be honoured
to think that, in aiding you, I might myself die, Emma. You are not hideous, but beautiful.‖
―You do not know what I am!‖
―A whore,‖ Culpeper put in. ―I can smell it about this hovel.‖
The expression of sweetness in Mary‘s face did not alter, nor even flinch. ―You are a