The Devil’s Diadem by Sara Douglass

I took a step backward and, as I did so, Stephen put his hand to his mouth and stifled a cough.

Owain’s head shot up, his face white.

All order within the castle vanished. People fled, not caring if they took the plague with them. Guards no longer manned the gates and, eventually, they stood halfway open with no one bothered to close them.

No one wanted to enter.

Stephen and d’Avranches had tried to keep order, initially, but had ceased their efforts after it became obvious to everyone that the castle harboured plague.

The kitchen was deserted, save those who, like me, came to rummage about for something to eat. Evelyn spent all her time helping in the chapel, now thick with bodies that coughed fungus which spattered even over the strange paintings on the wall. I tried to bring her some food, but she said she felt ill and no longer wanted to eat.

I had the two children, John and Rosamund, in my care. Their nurse had fled one night, leaving her charges alone. When I checked them late one morning I found both children huddled together in Rosamund’s bed, their faces and bottoms wet, their eyes pools of distress.

I was furious with the nurse. Incandescent with rage, but I think, looking back now, much of that rage was frustration and fear finding outlet in anger. I scooped up the two children and cleaned them, and clothed them in fresh dresses and stockings, and hugged them tight.

John had a small patch of fungus on his right shoulder, even though he was not coughing. He had fought this longer than I thought possible, but now it appeared the plague tightened its grip on him.

I had come to expect that fungus now, on almost anyone I met, so it did not set me to tears and terrors as once it had. I merely determined to do as much for the children as I could. I owed that much to their mother, and put them to bed in a cot in their parents’ privy chamber.

I thought it would be a good place for them to die.

No one lived through this. Not a single person. Everyone died who went into the chapel, as did those who fell ill elsewhere in the castle and were left where they lay. Two buildings in the outer bailey had burned down. A floor had burned through in the northern keep. D’Avranches, I heard, had ordered any among the knights or soldiers struck down to be dragged — by their heels if necessary — through the keep and into either of the baileys, or to the chapel if they could be got that far. And for those left … I heard d’Avranches wandered the garrison at night, his dagger drawn.

It didn’t shock me. Everyone feared the fire, and I am certain those who met their end other than by the flames were grateful for it.

I began to re-think what Stephen had asked of me.

Anything was better than the terrible death the plague dealt.

The day after I brought Rosamund and John to the privy chamber, Stephen met me as I was climbing up the stairwell from the kitchen, a bowl of pottage in my hands. I don’t know who was going to eat it; both Rosamund and John were very ill, and I had no appetite.

‘Stephen,’ I said, my voice cracking, glad beyond measure to see him.

He looked terrible, his cheeks sunken, his skin grey, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. I tried to persuade myself it was exhaustion from all the care he carried on his shoulders, but in my heart I knew it was the sickness.

‘Maeb,’ he said, and caught me briefly to him, taking the pottage in one of his hands, the other sliding about my shoulders.

I cried a little as he held me, my heart broken over this waste of life, and that Stephen, too, looked certain to die. He was a good man, kind as well as noble, and he should have lived to become one of the greatest aristocrats of his age.

But no, it seemed that his life was to be forfeit, and all for no reason that I could determine.

‘Where are God and His saints?’ I said. ‘Why are we left to die like this, like dogs?’

He said nothing, just held me tighter, his face pressed into my hair.

After a while he spoke. ‘I have come to see John and Rosamund.’ Now his voice trembled. ‘I don’t know if … if …’

‘They are still alive,’ I said, ‘although both sicken. Come, I have them in their mother’s room.’

‘Emmette is dead,’ he said. ‘The fungus covered her face. I … I made certain she didn’t suffer.’

‘Sweet Jesu,’ I muttered, ‘how is it come to this?’

‘Through God’s grace,’ Stephen said, and his voice was rich with bitterness.

We climbed the stairwell and walked through the solar — empty, its contents scattered as if someone had rifled through them (could it have been me, in some delirium? I couldn’t remember) — and into the privy chamber.

John and Rosamund were in their cot, both quiet.

The cot was set on the stone hearth of the fireplace.

We walked up quietly and stood together, touching slightly, looking down.

Both children were sleeping peacefully, God knows why, because both of their faces were covered with the vile yellow fungus and they struggled to breathe through its furry grip.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. Why these children? What sin had they committed to be so punished? They were good children, both of them sunny and happy and a joy to all who spent time in their company. They had been born to a life of nobility and power, and yet what good had it done them? What point their lives?

Stephen caught my eye and gave me a long hard look.

I nodded.

‘Wait outside,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I will do them the honour of standing with them.’

He gave a nod, then took a pillow from the bed. It was large and would cover both their faces at once.

Somehow I was glad.

I took Rosamund’s hand and her little fingers gripped mine even in her sleep.

‘Do it now,’ I said, and I used my other hand to help push the pillow down onto the children’s faces.

Chapter Eight

We lay together on the bed, side by side, our bodies touching in a dozen different places. The privy chamber was very quiet now that the two children no longer breathed, but occasionally muffled shouts or wails came in through the window from the outer bailey. There was no movement or sound from within the great keep at all, and I wondered if it held nothing but corpses. How we had not yet burned down I did not know.

‘I have the sickness,’ Stephen said quietly.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘And you?’

I was quiet a while before I spoke. ‘I woke coughing this morning,’ I said. ‘My lungs rattled when I did so. I cannot bear to change my soiled linens and kirtle, lest I see the fungus.’

His hand fumbled to catch mine in its grip. ‘I loved you that first day I saw you, did you know that?’

I smiled a little. ‘No. I was too worried you might see the love shining from my own face. Your father was not happy.’

He gave a soft laugh, ending it in a bout of coughing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. ‘Before we left Oxeneford he talked to me most plain, said I was not to embark upon any ruinous affair of the heart with you.’

‘And yet here we share a bed, and my lord’s bed at that.’

Stephen chuckled again. ‘Oh, sweetheart, how I wish that …’ He stopped and gave a small sob.

I rolled over and buried my face in his shoulder. His arm held me close. We lay like that for a long time, each of us thinking wishes that, when we were well, we dared not consummate. And of which we now felt no need.

‘Even that day I first met you,’ he said, very softly, ‘I knew that you and I could never be.’

‘Why say that, Stephen? I love you truly, as I could love no other.’

He kissed the top of my forehead. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘perhaps you will live, somehow, and wed a great man and love him dear.’

I thought delirium had taken hold of Stephen’s mind.

‘Have you sent any more messages to your father?’ I asked, trying to deflect his mind from me.

‘Aye. One. For all the good it will do — even if the messenger lives to deliver it. I know my father. I know he will dash here, if he lives and has the strength. But for what? To find his family dead and gone.’