All Fall Down (5 page)

 

 

T
here are two sorts of people in our village – free men and villeins. If you're free, you can go where you want and do what you want and marry who you want, and so long as you don't break the law no one can stop you.

If you're villeins like we are, you can't.

Being a villein means you belong to Sir Edmund and Lady Juliana. Mostly what it's about is money. We have to pay fines to Sir Edmund if we want to leave the village, fines if we want to marry someone outside the manor, fines if we don't go and work on his land when he asks us. Everything we grow on his manor belongs to him, so if he got really hungry he could take that too. He never has, though.

There are some lords who don't ask much of their villeins. Some ask for no work at all, others maybe for a few days at harvest. Sir Edmund is harder than most. We have to work two days a week on his land, and five at harvest time, which is when we have the most work on our own land. Father usually hires labourers to work for us, but it's still a long, weary, aching business, working until five on Sir Edmund's
land, then coming back to our own to start the harvesting again.

Robin's mother is a villein too, but she never does her days in the fields.

“I've got enough work of my own,” she says, “without doing some old windbag's weeding for him. Let him come after me if he wants!” Sir Edmund's steward doesn't fight, though. He fines her a couple of pence every manor court, which she never pays, and leaves it at that.

There are three ways to stop being a villein. You can be given your freedom, you can buy it, or you can run away and live in a town for a year and a day. Most people don't. My father actually had enough money to buy his freedom last year, but he used it to buy John Adamson's plough land in Three Oaks instead.

“But you could have been
free
,” I wailed.

“But you could have been
fed
,” he wailed back, and that was that.

I care about land as much as Father does, but I hate belonging to another person. I've always hated it, as far back as I can remember; it's like an itch that won't go away, no matter how hard you scratch it. Robin hates it too. When we're grown and married, we're going to work and work until we've saved enough money to buy our freedom. And then our children will be free, and they'll be able to go where they want and live how they want, without caring about Sir Edmund or the law or any of those things we have to worry about.

And that's a promise.

 

 

“
D
o you think I should have told someone?” I say to Robin. It's a few days later, and we're bringing the animals home from the pasture, me with our cow and the two oxen, Robin with their old milk cow with the crumpled horn. The sun is setting warm and hazy behind us.

“No . . .” says Robin, but his voice is puzzled. “But why do you care so much?”

Why do I care? I don't know. Yes, I do. It's because if I can keep little Edith – flaxen-haired Edith, small-boned and frail as a baby chick – if I can keep her alive, then there's hope for the rest of us: Ned and Maggie and Edward and all the muddle of people that I love. Except that by keeping her alive, I may be bringing this sickness closer to my family. It makes my head ache, trying to make sense of it. Am I being a good Christian by helping Radulf take in the homeless? Or am I stupid and careless and dangerous? If the sickness comes here –
Isabel, it's coming here too –
will it be my fault?

“Wouldn't you care?” I say, instead. “A little girl Ned's age?”

“Of course . . .” says Robin. “But plenty of little girls Ned's age have died of this thing already.

“Well . . .” I say. “If she's brought the miasma, it's already here.”

In the last few days the number of refugees coming down our road has shrunk to almost none. Very few people have come north at all, in fact. No carters, no traders, no pardoners or pilgrims or any of the ordinary people travelling through the village on their way to Duresme or York. It's eerie.

At the forge, Robert the smith is shoeing a horse. His son holds the horse's head, while Robert hammers the nails into the foot. There are a few women talking by the well and a little gaggle of children playing with a kitten at the side of the road. Tolly Hogg the swineherd is bringing the pigs back to the village and a few chickens are pecking in the dirt. Everything is ordinary, and happy, and safe.

 

Back at the house, Alice is scolding Ned.

“I told you to mind the fire, not go and play dice on the green! Now look what's happened!” There's a burnt, smoky smell in the house, and a black hole in the bottom of the cooking pot. “How are we supposed to eat now?”

Maggie is sitting on the floor playing with baby Edward. She's fluttering her chubby fingers over Edward's face, while Edward stretches for them. Edward likes to grab at anything – flames, patterns on cloth, marbles, dice. Then he tries to eat them. Maggie runs up to us as we come in the door, calling, “Robin! Robin!”

Robin swoops her up in his arms and spins her round until she screams. Then he tips her upside down. She squeals and grabs at his legs, but when he puts her down she says, “Again! Again!”

All little children love Robin.

Alice is in a fine fury.

“Don't just stand there!” she says to Ned. “You'll have to go fetch back that pot I lent to Muriel, if you want any supper tonight.”

“No,” I say quickly, thinking of that little girl and Ned's busy tongue. “Don't send Ned. I'll go.”

 

The light is fading as I walk through the village to Radulf's house. The birds are singing in the trees over my head and the gnats are out over the pools under the trees.

The house sits quiet in its hollow. Smoke curls out of the thatch and the chickens are pecking at the grass, but otherwise it could be deserted.

I knock on the door, and after the longest time, Radulf answers.

“Isabel!” he says. “Oh – Isabel. Now's not—”

“I came for Alice's cooking pot,” I say quickly. I don't want to get Edith into trouble. “I don't want to stay.”

“Oh,” says Radulf. “Well—” He dithers a little on the doorsill, but at that moment I hear a child's cry from inside the house, a high, fretful wail.

“If—” says Radulf. “Just – wait there.”

He shuts the door in my face and goes back into the house. I hear banging about inside, and Radulf swearing, and then the child crying again, louder.

The door swings inward.

Edith is sitting upright in a low bed by the hearth. Even from the doorway I can see her little face is red. Even from here, I can smell a sweet, slightly rotten scent, like old apples. Even from here, I can see the black, swollen lump
on her neck, so large that it pushes her whole face sideways.

I don't know much, but I know what that means.

The sickness has come to us.

 

 

I
t's growing dark by the time I come back to the green. Alice's cooking pot bangs against my leg. They'll be getting hungry at home, waiting for me.

The pestilence is here. Here in Ingleforn.

Sir John's house is next to the church. I bang on his door. From inside I hear murmuring voices, getting louder as he comes closer. The door opens, and there he is, clutching his ale mug, his big belly straining against his cote. Gilbert Reeve is there too, sitting on a stool by the hearth. They've been eating supper – I can see the half-eaten pottage in their bowls.

“Isabel.” Sir John frowns. I must look a sight. My face is red and my hood has half-fallen down around my shoulders and I'm still clutching the big cooking pot. “Is anything wrong?”

I take a deep breath of air, trying to breathe, trying to breathe, trying to breathe.

“It's here, sir. It's here. They have it at Radulf's house.”

Sir John draws back so quickly it's almost funny. The ale slops out of his mug.

“The sickness?”

I nod. “His sister brought it from York. Her little girl has it.” I see her again in my mind, little Edith, her face red, her mouth open and crying, the horrible swelling on her neck. “Please, sir,” I say to Sir John. “Muriel says can you go and see her? I don't—” I trail off. Radulf didn't want me to tell anyone, but this is a bigger secret than just strangers in the village, isn't it? And what will happen to that little girl if – when – she dies? You can't keep a priest from a dying child, can you?

Sir John is backing away from me.

“Ah,” he says. “Well. I don't know. I can't – I mean, I don't know if there's anything—”

Gilbert Reeve is staring at him.

“You can't refuse to visit the sick,” he says, which is just what I'm thinking. Is he going to send us all to hell unshriven? That miserable old coward!

“Ah,” says Sir John. He looks about him as though expecting to find an escape somewhere. There isn't one. “Ah. Of course. I'll just – if you just—” But he doesn't move. Gilbert Reeve is looking at me.

“Are Radulf and Muriel sick?” he asks. I shake my head.

“No. Not yet,” I say. And then, catching his expression, “You aren't going to do anything to them, are you?”

“If he's brought the pestilence here,” says Gilbert grimly, “he'll have the safety of the village to answer for. What happens to him isn't up to me.”

 

The safety of the village. The hair prickles on the back of my arms. The safety of a little yellow-haired girl against the safety of us all. The love of a brother for his sister and her children against the safety of Alice and Ned and Father and Robin and Amabel and Mag.

The importance of caring for the sick against Geoffrey's life. The safety of the village against the promise of eternal life. Life against death. Virtue against despair.

News spreads fast here. The next morning, at mass, everyone knows. You can hear the fear passing between them, the rustles and glances and murmurs.

There's no sign of Radulf or his wife, Muriel.

“Have you heard?” says Emma Baker.

“We've heard,” says Alice. “That poor child.”

“But did you hear about Sir John?” Emma's eyes are bright with excitement. Alice looks away and draws in the air through her nostrils. She hates gossiping about holy men. She walloped Ned hard across the back of his legs once for calling Sir John an old windbag.

“It's not our place to speak ill of a priest,” she says, but she doesn't know what's coming next.

“Wait until you hear,” says Emma, and she lowers her voice. “He's gone!”

“Gone?”

“Run away and left us. He was supposed to be visiting that child, but he never came. So Muriel went up to his house, and he'd gone. Taken all his clothes, and the good plate and—” Her voice drops. “The candlesticks from the church too, they say.”

Our church has two silver candlesticks, which sit on the altar at mass. They're sitting there now.

“The candlesticks are still there,” I say. “Emma. Look.”

Emma glares at me, then carries on as though I haven't spoken.

“That little girl,” she says. “What will happen to her when she dies? Without a priest to hear her confession.” I shiver. If you die without confessing your sins, and without receiving
absolution, you carry your sins into the next life, where you have to pay for them with years and years of burning in hell. Receiving absolution is one of the most important things you can do, if you want to get to heaven. “What's going to happen to us all?” says Emma, and her voice rises. “What's going to happen to us without a priest?”

Father presses his lips tight together, the way he always does when he's angry or upset, but before he can say anything, there's a movement up at the front of the church. One of Sir John's chaplains is calling, “Hello? Hello!”

There are some nudgings and shufflings and everyone quietens right down, which almost never happens in church. Usually it's just Sir John mumbling to himself in Latin while we all carry on talking about the weather or the harvest or how ill Agnes Harelip's new kerchief suits her, and how Edward Miller shamed Emma Baker by taking his new wife up to the altar before her to take the communion wafer.

“As some of you may have heard,” the chaplain says, “Sir John is unfortunately no longer able to perform his duties as priest of this parish.” There's some grumbling at that, and a little laughter. “We'll be sending a messenger to the bishop asking for a replacement to be sent. In these difficult times, we can't know how long that will take” – the voices rise, then sink into silence again as the chaplain continues speaking – “so in the meantime, the monks from St Mary's have agreed to come and help with the services.”

The murmuring grows louder.
In these difficult times
. Priests are dying, that's what he means.

The chaplain hasn't finished speaking yet. He's only Alice's cousin from Great Riding, but he knows how to read, and he's holding a piece of vellum with writing on it.

“The Archbishop of York,” he says, “has asked us to tell you that any member of the laity – man or woman” – there's a little ruffle of sound at that – “will have the power to hear confessions and grant absolution
so long as this disaster is visited upon us
.”

Now no one is even pretending to be quiet. Women, allowed to hear confessions! Alice looks like somebody has slapped her. I'm filled with this odd mixture of shock and excitement, like the world is shifting and moving below my feet and I'm not sure where we're all going to end up when it settles. I like it and I don't at the same time. What sort of a world will it be, if people like me and Alice can do all the things that priests can?

“For
shame
,” Alice is saying.

“
Listen
.” The chaplain is shouting over the hubbub. He has to shout twice to get everyone to calm down. “
Listen
. As you know, many of the monks at St Mary's are ordained priests. After speaking to us, they have agreed to help in our time of need. Any of you needing the services of a priest should come to the abbey, where they'll do all that they can to help you.”

Quiet. If anyone needs the last sacraments, that's what he means. Like that poor little girl in Radulf's house. The fear churns at my stomach. There are a few mutterings and shuffling of feet, and then Emma Baker calls out, “So you don't support this abomination, then?”

“We hope that no one here will have need of it,” says the chaplain evasively.

“Those foreigners in York can do what they want!” Edward Miller shouts. “It's turning the world upside down, it is, and we're not having it here!”

I see Father shaking his head in frustration and I edge over to him.

“What do you think?”

Father sighs.

“I think the world is turned upside down,” he says. “And no matter what Edward Miller thinks, we are going to have it here.”

 

For the first time I can remember, there's something almost like quiet while the chaplain gives the service. Afterwards, he says we can all take communion. There's a ripple of excitement through the church at that, and Alice starts muttering the Pater Noster to herself very fast in Latin.

I know it's horrible, but some evil part of me hopes I
will
have to hear someone's confession. Not anyone in my family, but a stranger, maybe – a traveller from York, dying on the road. Geoffrey says you serve God by making the bread and bringing in the harvest, but giving absolution through God – what would that feel like? I might never get another chance again.

When it's my turn to receive the host, I shut my eyes and try to think holy thoughts, but it just tastes like dried-up paper, like always. I don't think I'm really holy inside, like Geoffrey, that's my problem. I try to be, but then I start thinking about something else, like my vegetable patch, or Robin, or whether I really like Will Thatcher or just pretend I do to annoy Robin, and suddenly prayers are over and I haven't said anything to God at all.

Afterwards, everyone stays outside the church for ages, talking. The pestilence in Ingleforn – Sir John – women to hear confession – Radulf! – Sir John – the pestilence in Ingleforn.

“They should be banished!” says Agnes. “Bringing the
sickness here! We should turn them out of the village like lepers and let them rot.” She spits a chewed-up clove on the dry earth. The spittle sits there in a wet mound, bubbled and foul.

“We should hang them,” says Dirty Nick. Dirty Nick is lank and long and ragged, and filthy around the edges. He lives by idling and drinking, paying for his bread by begging and by pieces of day and half-day work here and there. I hate him.

“Hang them!” says Alice. “Lord, where would you find men in this village willing to hang Radulf and Muriel? And what purpose would it serve?”

I hope Alice is right, but I see the dark expressions on the faces of one or two men, and I wonder.

 

“What is going to happen to Radulf and Muriel?” I ask Margaret, Robin's mother. I tried asking Father, but he told me to keep my nose out of other people's business. Margaret sighs.

“Gilbert Reeve wanted to banish them,” she says. “But I expect they'll stay. People will have more things to worry about soon anyway.”

Radulf – Edith – the church candlesticks – the monks. The pestilence in Ingleforn.

I grab Robin by the arm and drag him to the side of the church.

“I saw her,” I whisper. “It was me who found her. I went and asked Sir John to go and see her, and that must have been when he ran away!”

Robin's face is serious.

“What did she look like?” he whispers back.

I think back to Edith. All I can think of is her red face and her tears.

“She smelt,” I remember at last. “That part's true. A horrible sort of rotten smell. Robin, what are we going to do? It's here! In Ingleforn!”

“I think we should run away,” says Robin. He sees the look on my face and sighs. “I knew you'd look like that. Mother pulled exactly the same face when I told her. I don't care. If I was a man, I'd go tomorrow.”

“But how—?” I begin.

“I don't know how I'd live!” says Robin. “Maybe I wouldn't. But it would be better than staying here, wouldn't it?”

I'm silent. Alice wanted to leave, I know. But every part of me screams that if we leave our land, if we leave our fields, it wouldn't matter if we survived the pestilence. We'd have stopped being ourselves already.

I turn away from Robin and look over the churchyard. Ned and Maggie are running through the graves with the other children. They run up to us, Ned charging straight into my stomach, making me gasp.

“Ned! Behave yourself!”

Ned pulls himself away.

“Why is everyone so angry?” he says.

“Because of what that chaplain said,” I tell him. “He said that anyone could hear confession – like the priest does. You could, or Magsy.”

Ned sputters. “Not Mag!”

“I could!” Mag bounces up on to her toes. “I could, couldn't I, Isabel?”

“That's what the chaplain said,” I tell her. “And so can I, and so can Alice.”

Ned splutters again into his hands. You can see his mouth stretched wide with laughter behind his fingers.

“Alice might be able to talk to God,” he says. “But Mag – never!”