“What about Tim Wilcox? Is he ill?” Alys asked.
“Not yet. But it’ll be the Herns next. Moll Hern bought ribbons for her girls and a hankie for herself. If it’s the peddler that’s to blame,” Bess added, still doubtful about the source of the contagion.
Bess was right. The Herns were next, as well as their closest neighbors. Come Sunday, half the pews in St. Botolph’s were empty. Those who weren’t ill attended the service but sat huddled together for comfort, praying to God to spare them from the pox. He didn’t. The illness spread, infecting young and old alike and leaving death and grief in its wake.
Funerals were held every day, the church bell tolling mournfully as shrouded corpses were lowered into the ground. Matthew and his father, who were the only carpenters in the village, couldn’t keep up with the demand for coffins, nor did the families of the deceased wish to wait. The sooner they buried their dead, the safer they were, praying that the sickness would abate and life would return to normal.
Marjorie Ashcombe’s wedding would take place at the manor chapel in a fortnight, while Matthew’s and Alys’s weddings were indefinitely postponed. Alys would have felt relieved had Will not come down with smallpox. He awoke on what would have been her wedding day burning with fever. Within two days, his mouth was full of sores, which spread to his face and arms by the following day. He could barely eat and vomited several times a day, his fevered gaze glazed with misery.
“I’m frightened, Alys,” Bess whispered as they sat side by side, watching Will sleep. “He’s young and strong, but what if he dies? We’ve only just been wed.”
She didn’t say anything about herself or Alys falling sick, and Alys didn’t bring up the possibility. They both understood the odds, but the only way to survive was to pretend that they could somehow outrun the illness.
“We’ll take good care of him, Bess,” Alys assured her. “We’ll take turns. Why don’t ye get some rest? Ye can sleep in my bed.”
“Thank ye. I’m so tired, Alys.”
Bess climbed up to the loft, leaving Alys to sit with Will. She used a cool cloth to sponge his brow and tried to get him to drink some ale, which he vomited. The red spots on his face were now raised and filled with pus.
“Am I going to die, Alys?” Will asked sometime during the night, the malaise he’d experienced during the day replaced with anxiety.
“Not if I can help it. There are many that recover.”
“I’ve been praying for forgiveness,” Will whispered.
“What have ye done that needs forgiving?” Alys chided him.
“I knew ye didn’t wish to marry John Selby. I shouldn’t have agreed.”
“Ye were doing what ye thought was best,” Alys said, if only to soothe him.
“Ye don’t have to marry him if ye don’t want to.”
“John Selby is ill, Will,” Alys said. “He’s in a bad way.”
“And his children?” Will asked.
Alys shook her head. “They haven’t been afflicted. They’re with John’s sister.”
“I’d like to have children, Alys,” Will said. “Now I might never get the chance.”
“Stop talking nonsense. Ye’ll get better in no time.”
By the following afternoon, Bess was taken with a fever. She lay next to Will, her face flushed, her eyes glazed, and her breathing ragged. Alys did her best to look after them, but she was exhausted from lack of sleep. Pus from Will’s scabs got under her fingernails, but she was too tired to go out to the well to get fresh water to wash. She fell asleep with her head on the table, her cheek pressed against the worn wood. She’d probably be ill herself come morning.
Chapter 15
Kyle
Kyle scrubbed his fingers over his morning stubble as he faced himself in the mirror. He was tired and annoyed, mostly with himself. Len had obviously had company last night, and the moans and squeaking of mattress springs from next door had kept Kyle awake for several hours before Len finally exhausted himself and went to sleep. Kyle briefly wondered if Yvonne had stayed or slunk off to her own room in the early hours of the morning, not that it mattered. They were consenting adults, even if both adults in question happened to be married.
Len coming to the writer’s retreat had never been the plan. He’d sprung the news on Kyle at the last minute, asking that they drive up together. Kyle had had no idea Len had booked himself a spot on the retreat, much less that he was going up the same week. Kyle had mentioned it in passing and now he had only himself to blame. Years ago, at uni, Kyle and Len had been good mates. Len had been outgoing, fun, and utterly without inhibitions, the complete opposite of Kyle, a shy, sensitive youth who worried overmuch about everything, from exams to talking to girls. Len had made it his mission to make sure Kyle enjoyed his university experience, and Kyle had, until the night before graduation, when it had all gone so horribly wrong. Neither man spoke of what had happened that night, or its aftermath, but it was always there between them, an invisible thread that bound Kyle to Len more securely than an iron chain.
Kyle wished Len would set him free, but Len wasn’t the type of person to let anyone get away, not while they still had their uses. And Kyle had been useful. But the time had come. He had to find a way to free himself from Len’s unholy hold on him once and for all. Offering to drive Nicole to Bamford Green hadn’t been all chivalry on his part. He’d needed some breathing room, and Len could hardly invite himself along, not if he thought Kyle was interested
