to cover her confusion and distress. ―Tom, perhaps you can join with me in persuading the
queen, our beloved lady, that she should take better care of herself? She has spent far too much
of her precious energy in aiding the sick, when she should be conserving her strength for her own
battles ahead.‖
―Margaret speaks sense,‖ Neville said. ―Mary, what can you do here, as tired and ill as
you are? Please, rest a day or so at the very least.‖
―What can I do here, tired and ill as I am? I can give hope, and perhaps some comfort,‖
Mary said. ―Tom, Margaret, I cannot walk away from these people. Now,‖ she stood up, ―I have
been a-wasting my time here in this peaceful chapel for these past hours while men and women
have been dying in despair in the hall beyond. My self-absorption is reprehensible.‖
―Mary, no!‖ Margaret said, and reached out a hand.
Mary looked at her kindly. ―Will you help me, my Lady Neville?‖
Margaret shot Neville a despairing look, then sighed. ―Of course, madam.‖
XIV
Monday 27th May 1381
—iv—
And so began the nightmare once more. Mary may have been told of matters so great
they affected both heaven and hell, but that was as nothing to her when ordinary men and women
and children lay dying in agony in the room beyond. She, accompanied by Margaret , Jocelyn
(who refused to leave Mary‘s side), the Lady Alicia Lynley (who had returned from the Tower),
and two nuns, moved from bed to bed, daubing, sponging, and murmuring what comfort they
could.
To Mary, it seemed that the comfort must be of very little use. Nothing she could do
could ease the pain and horror of the pestilence that gripped these people. Nothing she did could
ease their worry about the spouses or children they left behind. Nothing she could do could ease
the forthcoming loss of their lives.
What Mary did not realise was the level of comfort she did bring to every person she
stopped by for a few minutes, and even to the mass crowded within the guildhall as a whole.
Here she was, the Queen of England, demonstrating with her very presence the love and care she
bore for the common folk of her realm. How many other queens would have done this much?
Mary was so ill herself, yet she still cared more about them than she did her own comfort and
easement.
To the common folk of London, not only those in the guildhall, but to everyone within
the city who had heard of her presence and work among those struck down with the pestilence,
Mary embodied the ideal virtuous queen. She was nobility and care and love personified, and in
many more than one instance, when a person prayed to the Blessed Virgin herself, they
envisioned not a cold statue before them, but the lined and exhausted face of their queen.
King Hal might direct relief efforts from the Tower, and might even stride the streets
offering words of hope, but his wife was among them, and bore the full weight of their grief
about her own shoulders.
By noon the stench within the guildhall had become almost unbearable. The day was
unseasonably hot, and the brimstone fires and their thick, drifting smoke only made the heat
worse. Jocelyn had finally succumbed to her weariness and the heat, and Mary had sent her to
sleep an hour or so in the small antechamber. As the heat had thickened through the morning, all
the ladies, Mary included, had stripped away their heavy-sleeved tunics and robes, and worked
only in aprons over their linen under-tunics. Dank sweat stained the necklines and armpits of
these under-tunics, and their hair hung in greasy tendrils, clinging to sweaty, grimy necks.
Mary and Margaret, one each side of the bed, attended three small children ranging in
ages from four to eight. The pestilence had struck the children, all girls, in its most virulent form.
Instead of the pustules and buboes erupting on the skin, they had formed inside the poor
children‘s bodies. Now the girls lay screaming, in so much agony from their internal swellings
that they could not move. Mary and Margaret could not even sponge them down, for every
movement, every touch, only increased their agony.
Margaret wanted more than anything to be able to use what little ability she had to ease
their pain, but she was exhausted beyond measure, and knew that she had no power left within
her to aid these three girls.
―How can God justify such horrific vengeance on these innocents,‖ she whispered, tears
streaming down her face. ―How? How?‖
Mary shifted slightly on the bed, then flinched as two of the girls screamed in agony at
the movement. ―There is no justification,‖ she began, but stopped and raised her head at a
commotion towards the doors at the rear of the guildhall.
People were shrieking, panicking, falling over themselves in an effort to clamber away
from something that stood just inside the doors.
Wincing at the effort—and the girls‘ cries at her movement—Mary stood upright, peering
with red-rimmed eyes, trying to see what had frightened people into such a panic.
For an instant a gap appeared in the press of people, and she saw what so terrified them.
Coldness overwhelmed her, then that was quickly consumed by such a rush of anger as
Mary had never felt before.
―Let me through,‖ she said as people rushed down the centre aisle of the hall. ―Let me
through.‖
Somehow, Margaret behind her, Mary managed to move towards the outer doors of the
hall. People streamed towards her, but without fail all moved aside at the last moment, leaving
her passage forward unimpeded. From his place at the other end of the hall where he‘d been
talking to Robert Courtenay, Neville pushed forward as well, moving quickly to reach Mary and
Margaret.
Finally, she stood face to face with the creature that had caused the panic.
―Get you gone from this hall, this city, and this realm,‖ Mary said in an even voice. ―You
are not wanted, nor welcomed.‖
The black Dog of Pestilence snarled at her, low and vicious. It had grown in the past
days, as if it had fed off the death which had followed in its passing, and now stood the size of a
small pony. Its hide was, if anything, covered with more, and larger, weeping sores than before.
Its small, piggy eyes were now bright red.
―Get you gone,‖ Mary whispered. She heard Margaret and Neville move up behind her,
and felt Margaret‘s hand on her shoulder. Neville stood slightly to one side, his hand on the haft
of his sword.
The Dog took a stiff step forward, and snapped, scattering thick yellowed saliva to either
side.
Behind her was only stillness, but Mary could feel the entire hall watching, holding its
breath.
―I say to you once more,‖ Mary said evenly, ―get you gone from this place. I like you
not.‖
A frightful shudder ran through the Dog‘s body. It snapped several more times, moving
ever closer with every snap until it stood only a pace from Mary.
―Mary,‖ Margaret whispered, ―please, get away from it.‖ Beside her came the rasp of
steel as Neville drew his sword.
―I am not afraid,‖ Mary said, addressing the Dog rather than Margaret or Neville, ―of
either death or of this foul beast that stands before me. I say to you, Dog, take me if you will…if
you think that my flesh is so sinful that you think it deserves the touch of your vileness.‖
She paused, and her fists clenched at her sides. ―Otherwise, I command you to begone
from this place! Begone, Dog. Go! ‖
The Dog snarled and snapped and slavered and postured, but it did not advance. Rather, it
took a half step back.
Neville, meanwhile, was watching Mary rather than the Dog, his eyes narrowed in
thought.
―I am Mary, Queen of England,‖ she said. ―I am England. If you want to punish England,
then take me instead of the innocent. Otherwise, get you gone.‖
She stepped forward one step, and half raised a fist. ― Get out of here! ‖
And the Dog, with one final snarling howl, turned and fled.
Mary staggered, and Margaret wrapped her arms about her, steadying her. ―He could not
bear to face goodness,‖ she whispered, tears streaming down her face. ―Well done, Mary.‖
Behind them, on the bed they had risen from, the three little girls gasped, then blinked.
All their pain had gone.
Neville lay in bed, weary, waiting for Margaret to join him. After the strange events of
the day, they‘d come back to the Tower apartments; slowly, for it seemed that all London had
turned out to cheer Mary.
The news of her banishment of the Dog of Pestilence had spread out from the guildhall
on a wave of relief and joy and, coupled with the instantaneous recovery of everyone suffering