‘Greetings, my lord king,’ de Warenne said. ‘My lord of Pengraic awaits you and his wife in the Tower.’
Edmond nodded, looking down Wodestrate which led down to the markets about Saint Paul’s. This street had been untouched by the fire that had spread from the bridge, but now … now it was lined with burned-out buildings, sometimes three or four in a row, and many others that were badly fire-damaged. There was almost no one about, a few people walking this way and that, their shoulders hunched, but no sign of the thriving wood market that usually lined this street. A few dogs wandered, barking now and again, but their movement and noise only served to further accentuate the desolation of the street.
There was stink here, too, partly of the burned buildings and partly, I assumed, from some of the bodies left inside them.
Further into the city I could see trails of languid smoke rising through the still, foetid air into the sky.
I felt ill.
Hell had visited this place.
‘My God,’ Edmond muttered, ‘how is it that any have survived?’
‘Only by the miraculous intervention of the saints, my lord,’ said one of the aldermen. ‘The plague showed us no mercy.’
‘How many are dead?’ Edmond said.
‘Thirty-four thousand two hundred and fifty,’ the other aldermen said. Thirty-four thousand two hundred and fifty. My mind could barely encompass the number.
‘And many more fled,’ said the first alderman.
‘London is home to dogs and rooks now, my lord, and little else.’
Tears ran down my face. Was I responsible for this? Could I have somehow prevented it?
‘Are there any new infections?’ Edmond asked, and the alderman shook his head.
‘We have had no new reports of infection for nigh on two weeks now, my lord.’ He paused.
‘My lord king, we are glad you are home.’
Edmond nodded, and I saw tears glinting in his eyes, too.
And he would have been home earlier, if not for me.
And perhaps then dead of the plague, too, if not for me. ‘Is there plague elsewhere?’ de Warenne asked.
‘I have not had reports of it,’ said Edmond.
‘It appears to have died down.’
‘At least until the heat of summer,’ de Warenne muttered, ‘when it will doubtless re-emerge in its full anger.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Edmond, glancing at me, and leaving the other three looking puzzled.
We rode through the city, turning down West Cheap from Wodestrate.
Here was similar devastation, if not worse. Many tenement buildings and houses had gone, as had even some churches. There were buildings badly damaged and leaning but still standing — there was no one to tear them down. As we rode by one of them its roof timbers collapsed, sending our horses skittering and shying across the street.
‘What is Pengraic doing to help?’ said Edmond as we tightened our reins and pulled our horses back under control.
‘Everything possible,’ de Warenne said. ‘He has every available man out aiding those who still survive, organising shelter, food, comfort. But our forces were hit hard, too, my lord. The Tower … you will find the Tower almost deserted, and pits dug beyond its walls for your servants. It shall be easier to list those who survived rather than those who died.’
‘Sweet Jesu,’ Edmond muttered.
We were approaching the turn into Cornhill now.
‘I will go home to my house in Cornhill,’ I said, somewhat suddenly.
‘Not to the Tower. With my lord’s permission.’
Edmond looked at me.
‘My lady, you shall be far safer in the Tower.’
I raised an eyebrow at that.
‘I want to go home, my lord.’
‘You won’t avoid him there,’ he said, low.
‘I know, my lord.’
Edmond sighed.
‘de Warenne, we will detour via Cornhill. If my lady’s house is safe then I shall leave her there. But I need to see it is safe, first.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Our Cornhill house had largely escaped destruction, mainly because of the open areas about it. Nonetheless, it had been used as a hospital in the early days of the plague and two of the outbuildings had burned, and the roof of the main house was scorched.
To my utter relief fitzErfast met us in the courtyard. If he had survived, then the house might be in order.
He helped me down from Dulcette, a pale, thin version of the man I remembered.
‘FitzErfast!’ I said.
‘I am right glad to see you live!’
‘Not many others from the household do, my lady. There is only myself, a cook, three house servants and a man-at-arms remaining.’
I saw that he had my old eating knife at his belt, and I was absurdly pleased to see he had treasured it enough to use for his daily meat.
Edmond had also dismounted and came over.
‘Are you troubled by any ruffians, fitzErfast?’ he said.
‘Beggars? Unworthy itinerants? The homeless?’
FitzErfast gave a wan smile.
‘There are rich enough pickings and empty houses aplenty lying open for anyone who wishes in London, my lord king,’ he said.
‘We are left alone because there are still people here unafraid to wield a sword. But in any case, beggars and itinerants are few and far between. Either they died in the plague, or they are still too frightened to come near the city. It is safe enough here for my lady.’
‘Nonetheless, I shall leave ten soldiers here to guard her,’ said Edmond, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I was to be allowed to stay.
‘What food stores do you have?’
‘Enough for both my lady, her women, your men plus those already here,’ fitzErfast said.
‘Of recent times there has not been much call for food.’
‘The house is habitable?’
‘Yes, my lord. One upper chamber is water-damaged from a leak caused by a fire … but that leak is now fixed and the chamber only requires replastering to make it pretty. Meanwhile, it is still habitable.’
Edmond gave fitzErfast a nod and turned to me.
‘Any of my soldiers can reach me at any hour,’ he said, ‘if you need help.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said.
We looked at each other for a moment — an awkwardness that hung heavy in the air between us — then he nodded at me as he had just nodded at fitzErfast and turned back to his horse.
I was left standing in the courtyard with Ella and Gytha, a cart of our belongings, and the ten men Edmond had detailed for my care.
I felt very alone, adrift both in this ruined city and in my life.
Although it was a warm day, unusually so even for this time of year, the house was cold. The signs that the house had been used as a hospital during the worst of the plague were still here: cot beds, now stacked in an ungainly pile at the end of the hall; scorch marks in a score of places on the hall floor and on one wall; stacks of dishes; stacks of linens (I made a note to direct fitzErfast to burn them). There were no fires lit in any of the chambers, and the shutters closed in both the solar and my privy chamber.
‘I will direct the cook to prepare a meal for nones,’ fitzErfast said as we stood in the solar, Ella and Gytha moving to open the shutters and allow light to stream in.
I nodded.
‘And I will send a man to bring wood, and set the fires,’ he continued.
I nodded again. I was almost in tears at the loneliness in this house, and about us in the deserted streets.
‘What will become of this place?’ I said.
‘Of this house, or of London?’ fitzErfast said.
‘Both.’
He gave a little shrug.
‘They will both rise again, my lady. What appears a barren field today shall bloom tomorrow.’
‘I had never realised you such the optimistic poet, fitzErfast,’ I said. He smiled, bowed, and left.
Ella, Gytha and I unpacked what we needed, made the beds, swept and did what we could to make the solar and privy chamber comfortable and homely. The cook brought us a meal at nones, and we ate, and then all three of us mutually decided to have a nap.
We were exhausted, and more than a little heartsick at this our first day back in London.
Ella and Gytha shared a bed in the solar — they would move back into their dormitory chamber once it had been cleaned and warmed, and I lay down on the bed in the privy chamber. I fell asleep immediately.
When I woke, several hours later, as dusk was falling, it was to see Raife standing in the doorway, leaning against the timber supports, a cylindrical leather document holder held loosely in one hand. Watching me.
Chapter Two
I sat up, slowly.
I was shocked by the surge of emotion at seeing him. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t fear. It was, unbelievably, gladness.