“Dear God,” Alys prayed. “Please, make John change his mind. Surely he can see I don’t love him. Why would any man want such an unwilling wife?”
But John wouldn’t change his mind. The banns were nearly as binding as the marriage itself, the breaking of them an offense against the Church. Alys was as good as married, even if she still got to sleep in her own bed and have dominion over her own body.
It was the Wednesday after the banns were called that Annie Maine came running to the house, just as Alys was about to fill the pail with yesterday’s stew and bring it to Will at the forge. Bess was outside, hanging the laundry they’d finished earlier.
Annie pushed open the door and looked around for Bess before addressing Alys. “Alys, come quick. There’s a peddler as set up on the green,” she gushed. “He has all sorts. Trinkets, ribbons, and even toys for the littlies.”
Alys shook her head. “Ye go on, Annie. I’ve no coin to spare for trinkets.”
“Aw, come on, Alys. ’Tis more fun to look when ye’re there,” Annie pleaded. “Besides, ye’ve no need of coin. Ye can barter something. The man looks half starved, he does. A couple of eggs or a loaf of bread would do him just fine.” Annie was the sort of girl that needed someone’s approval before she committed to anything, even a length of ribbon, so she wasn’t about to give up. “I know ye’re sore on account of Matthew, but it’ll do ye good to get out of the house for a bit.”
“I have much to be getting on with,” Alys lied. “And I can’t barter anything without Bess’s say-so.” She could easily spare a half hour to examine the peddler’s wares, but she had no desire to go. She’d rather take a solitary walk in the woods, where she could be alone with her thoughts.
“Well, suit yerself,” Annie said, pouting petulantly. “I bet he has something pretty.”
“Then I hope ye get it for yerself,” Alys replied.
Bess came in a few minutes later. “There’s a peddler on the green,” she announced. “I saw his wagon pass. Shall we take a peek?”
“Ye go on,” Alys replied. “I’ll just take Will his dinner.”
“All right,” Bess said, and left.
Bess was already back in the house by the time Alys returned from the forge. “Did ye find anything?” she asked.
Bess wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
“Did he have anything pretty?” Alys asked, curious why Bess had got back so quickly.
“His wares looked odd,” Bess said.
“How so?”
Bess considered the question. “All the ribbons and clothes were soiled, like he’d taken them off the dead,” Bess said, clearly disgusted. “And they had a foul smell.”
Alys and Bess looked at each other in understanding. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that the peddler got his merchandise by less than honorable means. Annie had said the man looked starved, so he had to be poor. Perhaps he couldn’t afford to buy his stock, so he either stole it outright or found ways to fleece the dead. There were plenty of corpses in the bigger towns that lay unclaimed for days or even weeks before being relegated to a pauper’s grave. It was easy enough to ask to see them under the pretense of looking for a loved one, or just bribe the deadhouse man and help oneself to anything of value. The dead wouldn’t be needing their doublets or ribbons or any cheap trinkets they might have on their person. Anything truly valuable would already have been taken by whoever got there first.
“In that case, I hope he moves on soon,” Alys said, glad she hadn’t touched any of his wares.
Bess nodded and settled in the corner to card wool, humming softly under her breath as she worked.
It was a sennight later that the first person became ill. It was Bernie Dent, whose wife Joan had bought a leather doublet from the peddler for “a song,” as she’d proudly told everyone. By the time Joan herself went down with a fever, her husband had developed a rash on his tongue and inside his mouth, and it had begun to spread to the rest of his body. Their children were sick as well, burning up with fever and taking turns vomiting.
“’Tis the smallpox,” Bess said, her blue eyes round with terror. “They say it was Tim Wilcox as brought it from Chesterfield. He went to the market to sell a few of his piglets.”
Will shook his head. “Can’t be. He only just went two days ago. It had to be that peddler that came through last week.”
“And how would ye know?” Bess questioned him.
“Smallpox takes its time getting a foothold,” Will said. “Just ask Old Maude.”
Old Maude was the wisewoman who lived on the other side of the village. She wasn’t all that old, only called that to distinguish her from Young Maude, daughter of the Dents, nor was she particularly wise, in Alys’s opinion, but she was the closest thing Ashcombe had to a healer. Maude made herbal remedies but shied away from selling charms or ill-wishes for fear of being accused of consorting with the Devil. Even her cat was a ginger tabby, too old and lazy to ever be mistaken for a witch’s familiar.
“Are you sure it’s the smallpox?” Alys asked, her stomach twisting with fear.
“Oh, aye,” Bess cried. “No mistaking it. All the Dents are ill, and they’ve got
