A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (21 page)

‘I understand, brother. I thank you for the food and shelter. And God, of course,’ I added.

‘Amen,’ he said, and went away.

I always think that being an historian is very similar to asking Rosie Lee to do something. Both are examples of optimism triumphing over bitter experience. I settled down for the night in reasonable comfort, content to lie alongside Peterson in the pungent darkness, and savour the peace, grateful for the opportunity to mull over the chaos, confusion, and catastrophe that was my life at the moment.

It didn’t last.

For the first hour, all was well, but as the moon sailed across the sky, and owls hooted nearby, he grew more restless. To begin with, it was nothing more than a break in his breathing. Then it happened again. I sat up and listened to his breathing growing uneven and ragged. I touched his forehead and he was hot. I removed the blankets and bathed his face with water I’d drawn from the well. I wrapped his forehead in a damp cloth. Nothing worked, and as dawn approached, he grew worse. I know that fevers are always worse as the sun rises and sets and I was hoping his would disappear with the new day. That he would open his eyes, have a bit of a curse, sleep for a while, and then, with luck, be well enough to let me guide him back to the pod and to safety at St Mary’s.

Like most of my plans, it didn’t work out that way at all.

As the sun rose, I got a better look at him. He was flushed with fever and muttering to himself. I thought I would wash his face and hands in cool water, to try to make him more comfortable and that was when I saw them. Around his left wrist and a little way up his forearm – small, red fleabites.

I stared, aghast.

That bloody mattress! That bloody, bloody straw mattress! Home to every form of insect wildlife going, especially fleas. And this close to the river – infected fleas. Bound to be. Infected fleas from infected rats. How could I be so bloody stupid? Why hadn’t I chucked that stupid mattress out of the door as soon as their backs were turned? And the sodding blankets, too.

Peterson would have been bitten half to death in the night. What were the chances he would get the plague? Stop panicking, Maxwell, and think clearly.

He would be up to date with all his vaccinations. At St Mary’s, rarely a month goes by without them sticking us with something. Bubonic plague was not so threatening to the modern world, although every year a small number of people did still die of it. Antibiotics usually sorted it out and we had antibiotics. Stacks of them. In the bloody pod. Which I couldn’t access.

Calm down. He was a fit, healthy, reasonably normal modern man, strong enough to overcome infection. No, he wasn’t. He was a man with a head wound and a fever.

Stop that. These fleas might not be infected. Yes, they were. This was the 14th century. The plague was everyone’s constant companion. And this was a hospital. There was a more than good chance that someone plaguey had already died on this very mattress. Not understanding the causes of infection, they would just use it for the next patient, which was Peterson.

Well, there were things I could do.

I rolled Peterson over and pulled the mattress out from underneath him. I took it outside and dropped it a good long way off.

I undressed him, right down to his shorts, took his clothes outside, and shook them vigorously, and then checked him all over. He had more bites around his ankles. Struck by a sudden thought, I checked myself. Yep. Two or three around my right ankle. Don’t scratch, Maxwell.

I went over every inch of him – and I do mean every inch, checking his body for those small, deadly signs of plague – the sinister black marks of gangrene that gave the Black Death its name.

Finding nothing, I sat back on my heels with a sigh of relief. No gangrene, no skin lesions of any kind, and, most importantly, no signs of swelling in his armpits or groin. This might be just a simple fever associated with a blow to the head. We might be that lucky.

I’d just talked myself into this state of completely unjustified optimism when Peterson awoke.

He opened unfocused eyes, blinked, and closed them again.

I sat quietly and a few minutes later, he opened them again. This time, they stayed open. I said quietly, ‘Hey.’

He made a sound.

I dipped my fingers in the water and gently touched his lips. He licked the water, thirstily. His eyes wandered around the little shed, rested on me a moment, and then closed again, but I was satisfied. He’d woken up.

Brother Anselm would be here soon. I went to the door to wait for him, looking out over the green gardens. The air smelled of recently turned earth. Rows of onions, peas, and beans ran from left to right. Here and there, I could see a bent, black back hoeing slowly in the sunshine. Away to the left, two lines of washing flapped gently in the sunlight. Three sisters were laying mattresses out to air in the sun because they genuinely believed that cleanliness was next to godliness. Everyone here was fulfilling their purpose in an atmosphere of calm tranquillity. Even the little brown sparrows, hopping over the freshly turned earth, sang sweetly. The monks had done their best to recreate the world they believed God had intended for us. I could see the attraction of spending the next few days here in perfect safety, but I couldn’t leave Peterson untreated. If he woke again and could be safely moved, then by this time tomorrow, I could have him back at St Mary’s.

I sat in the sunshine and fretted.

Chapter Thirteen

It came on unbelievably quickly. I’d read reports of people who were going about their business in the morning and were dead by tea-time. People dropped in the streets and died where they fell. Most people died within twenty-four hours. With the plague, the longer you survived, the longer you were likely to survive.

I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there when I heard a sound behind me, and turned from the tranquil scene to confront something from my worst nightmares.

Peterson lay, tossing and turning, red with heat and sweat. His hair was plastered to his head. His entire body shook with fever. His arms and legs flailed wildly. He seemed to have no control over them and it was plain to see that every movement caused him great pain. Every time I covered him with the blankets, he threw them off again, becoming increasingly violent with every minute. His eyes were open, but jerking wildly from side to side. He had no idea who I was. I don’t think he even saw me.

Our luck had run out.

With a wildly beating heart, I checked each of his armpits. They were clear. No swellings of any kind.

Then I checked his groin. And there it was. In the crease at the top of his leg. The bubo. Still quite small, but already it looked tight and angry.

My heart stopped. I felt the world recede. Oh God, Peterson had bubonic plague. The Black Death. The one that swept across Europe, killing almost everyone in its path. The plague had arrived in England around 1348, liked what it saw, and wouldn’t leave for hundreds of years.

A sound at the door made me turn. Brother Anselm stood there, dark against the sun.

I stood up and held out my hands, palms towards him. ‘Do not enter, brother,’ I said, quickly. ‘You must not come in.’

He ignored me, stepping forward for a closer look, his experienced eyes taking it all in. He said quietly, ‘How long?’

‘About an hour.’

I could see the pity in his eyes.

‘You must pray for him, my child.’

I nodded. I would. It would probably be more effective than forcing him to drink his own urine or cutting live pigeons in half and tying them to the infected parts of his body. I was cold with fear because in this world, the cures were as horrific as the diseases and I was helpless. I couldn’t do a single thing for him.

I pulled myself together. Yes, I could. There’s always something you can do. Even if it was just ensuring everyone stayed away from him. That should give him a fighting chance.

‘Brother, you should go. You can do nothing. God will decide what happens here.’

I was right, but he still hesitated in the doorway. He was a good man.

‘You understand, I must close the door.’

‘I understand.’

‘And lock the door.’

‘I understand.’

I was on my own. They wouldn’t take him into the hospital now.

‘I will come every day.’

He would. I knew instinctively that he would.

‘I will pray for his soul.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And yours.’

Well, about time someone did.

‘Thank you, brother.’

He stepped back and pulled the door to behind him. I heard the bar being pulled across.

I was on my own.

The little shed was pleasantly dim. Enough sunlight filtered through the rough plank walls to give a reasonable light. Chinks of light shone through the roof. If it rained, I would have a problem.

I studied my resources. A few gardening implements leaned against one wall. Piles of empty sacks were stacked in one corner, together with some lengths of twine that had been rolled into a big ball. Peterson’s discarded clothing, neatly folded, lay nearby. I had his two blankets, his boots and hat, his staff, and the small knife he kept in his boot. A hidden pocket in his cloak revealed some waterproof matches, a compass, and a small pepper spray.

There was a bucket of water by the door and a small wooden bowl. I suddenly realised Brother Anselm hadn’t left us anything to eat. We could both be dead in a few hours. Perhaps they wouldn’t bother feeding us.

Not that I had time to eat. I spent all my time trying to keep him cool. On the one occasion I tried to get him to drink something, he knocked the bowl from my hand. Shortly afterwards, he seemed to fall asleep. I didn’t know whether to let him sleep or whether to keep him conscious. Since he was in such pain, I left him, just trying keeping his head and hands cool and watching the swelling get bigger. I couldn’t believe how fast it swelled. If I took my eyes off it even for a second, it seemed to have grown again when I looked back. It looked angry and painful. I knew that if it burst, there was a chance of recovery. And he only had the one bubo. And he would have been vaccinated against just about everything under the sun. And he was strong. I told myself he could survive this …

He was caught in a vicious circle. The fever kept him restless. Every move was agony. The pain inflamed the swelling, which increased the fever. And so it went on.

Hours passed. I sat beside him, wetting his lips with water and considered my options.

When he started to scream, I made the decision.

I stood up and undressed, laying the linen shift aside and redressing in my dress and surcoat. Using his knife, I cut and ripped my shift into strips for bandages. I filled up the bowl with water and had it ready. I took a sack, cut that up as well, and mixed it with a little twine. Both sack and twine had been waterproofed with something that smelled like creosote and which I hoped would burn well.

I sat back on my heels and rehearsed everything in my head, going over it all several times, making sure I had everything I needed close to hand, because once I started there would be no going back.

I made a little fire, gently puffing the flames into life, and adding small strips of sacking. I didn’t want a massive conflagration, just a small flame. Just enough to sterilise a knife and burn the soiled dressings.

All this took time and when I looked at him again, he appeared to have lapsed into deep unconsciousness. I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not. Hoping to God that I hadn’t left it too late, I pulled off his shorts and set them to one side.

Here we go.

I held the knife in the flame for a few seconds, commended us to every god I could think of, and gently pulled his leg away from his body.

The swelling was huge and ugly. The size of a golf ball, it nestled in his groin. In the last few minutes, it had turned from red to purple. I could almost see it throb. Peterson had grown ominously silent. Dried saliva caked the corners of his mouth, dark with blood where he’d bitten his lips in pain. His breathing was all over the place. I was gripped with a sudden urge. Do it now. Before it was too late.

Still not knowing if I was doing the right thing or not, I carefully placed the tip of the knife in the centre of the bubo. He jerked and I nearly dropped it. Do it quickly, Maxwell. Do it now.

I sank the knife into the swelling. He shrieked and a huge fountain of hot, thick, yellow-brown pus erupted out over my hand. I discarded the knife, picked up the first bandage from my pile, and began to clear away the matter, glancing anxiously at Peterson as I did so. After that initial shout, he’d fallen worryingly quiet. But he still had a pulse and that was good enough for me.

I squeezed and mopped and squeezed and mopped. The stench was awful. The discharge colour darkened to brown. Streaks of blood began to appear. I kept at it because there was no going back now. I remembered Hunter once telling me that the secret with any infected wound was to keep at it until the blood flowed. Then you could be almost certain everything was cleared out.

On the other hand, this was Peterson’s groin and there were some major arteries in this area – to say nothing of various bits of equipment he appeared to set great store by – so definitely no more knife work.

I worked away, mopping and swabbing, throwing the soiled linen into the fire. I was beginning to worry I’d run out of dressings, when I saw it. A nasty, stringy clot of blood and pus.

My eyes stung with sweat. I blinked hard to clear my vision, because I couldn’t afford any accidents now. I took the knife and using just the point, gently teased it free. It came out quite easily, and suddenly, there was blood. Bright red blood.

The relief was overwhelming. I took a clean pad and pressed hard with both hands. He murmured and shifted, but I wouldn’t let go. He was just going to have to lump it.

Finally, I took my hands away, gently removed the dressing, and looked. A small trickle of blood oozed gently, but nothing to worry about. I replaced the dressing with a clean one and bandaged it in place as best I could. It’s an awkward area on a bloke – too many knobbly bits.

Then I sat back on my heels, carefully washed my hands, and got my breath back.

Peterson lay like a stunned ox for the rest of the day. I left him to sleep, and when I could force my aching back and legs to move, I cleaned up the obvious signs of my butchery, washed myself all over as best I could, had a long drink of water, and watched him like a politician studying his popularity ratings.

I was awoken by the sounds of the bar being removed and Brother Anselm telling me there was food outside.

I cautiously opened the door and looked out. He stood some ten feet away.

‘How is your husband?’

‘Better.’

He looked a little surprised. I think he thought I was making it up so I could escape. Or that I was deluding myself.

‘No, brother, the bubo has burst and his fever gone. He is sleeping now.’

‘God be praised, that is good news, indeed. But you must watch him.’

‘I will, brother. Thank you for the food.’

‘And you, my child, how are you?’

‘Well, so far, thanks to God.’

‘You know I cannot let you go.’

‘I understand.’

‘It is almost certain that you will contract the disease.’

‘I may not, brother. My parents both died of the plague when I was a child and I did not contract it then, either.’

He nodded. ‘I have heard that survival when young sometimes ensures survival later in life. Your parents’ misfortune may be your salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am praying for you.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you.’

I meant it. It was so good to have someone on my side, for once.

Even though I was stranded in the 14th century with a plague-ridden Peterson, targeted by the Time Police, and worried out of my mind for Leon, it was the most peaceful evening I’d had for a long time. Nothing erupted. There were no crocodiles. The weather was pleasant. No one came close enough to shoot me.

I finished the bread and cheese he had left me, chewing carefully because medieval bread is full of medieval grit and I didn’t need a broken tooth on top of everything else.

I sat next to Peterson with my back against the wall. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. The fever had gone, leaving him semi-conscious and very weak. He could still succumb to infection or any of the other unpleasant diseases rife in the 14th century. I tried to get him to sip a little water, lifting his head to help him drink. His eyes were open but he didn’t recognise me, or anything around him. He could still die. He probably would. Once again, I was an historian watching someone die.

While there was still enough light to see by, I checked him over again. There were no other swellings that I could discover. His body was much cooler to the touch and his pulse slower and stronger. I peeled off his dressing, peered closely at the wound. It looked fine, but just to be on the safe side, I lowered my head and sniffed.

A feeble voice demanded to know what the hell I thought I was doing.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak properly. I cleared my throat. ‘Checking for infection. Close your eyes if it bothers you.’

‘They are closed … Makes no difference. I can still hear you … snorting away like a pig … rooting for truffles.’

‘Trust me – if I find one down here it’s all yours.’

There was no reply. He seemed asleep.

I followed his example.

It had been another long day.

We both woke several times in the night. I helped him sip a little water. This led to problem number two. Well, number one, actually.

‘I’ll get the bowl.’

He was too feeble to do it for himself. I helped a little. Despite my best efforts, he managed to pee on me Not for the first time. We both stared at the ceiling. I sought for something to say. ‘Have you had your holidays yet?’ seemed a little inappropriate.

With the air of one making polite conversation, he said, ‘How’s your arm now?’

‘Fine. I’d forgotten all about it. How’s your head?’

‘Fine. I’d forgotten all about it.’

It was like draining a reservoir and took about the same amount of time.

Finally, he said, in a tired thread of a voice, ‘You shouldn’t have to do this for me.’

‘You should be grateful you don’t have to do it for me. We don’t all have outside plumbing. Imagine the difficulties involved with aim and flow control.’

‘Oh … gross.’

‘Exactly. Your problem is that you don’t know when you’re well off.’

He averted his gaze from my ham-fisted assistance. ‘You’re right.'

I tidied him away afterwards and picked up the bowl and got to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’ he said, in sudden alarm.

‘Just taking the piss.’

He was awake when Brother Anselm knocked the next morning.

I called out and he cautiously opened the door.

A great shaft of sunlight flooded the little shed. Peterson blinked in the sudden brightness and tried to put up a hand to shade his eyes.

I said quickly, ‘Husband, this is Brother Anselm; to whose goodness we owe our lives. And to God, of course.’

He stood in the doorway, beaming. ‘Praise God for his goodness. This is a miracle indeed. And you, my child, you are well?’

‘Yes, indeed, brother.’

‘And the swelling?’

‘It has gone. The fever dropped immediately. I have kept the wound clean.’

‘Let me see.’

He knelt beside Peterson, who once again suffered the indignity of crotch sniffing.

‘Everything seems as it should be.’ He hesitated. ‘You understand that because there is still a risk …’