Page 45 of My Hero
“What are her complaints?”
The man ran a shaky hand through his grimy hair, as if the memory were almost too much to bear. “Her stomach pains her. At first, she screamed with the pain, then later…when she could keep no food inside…she only moaned. She grew fevered, trembling most horribly…” He began to weep anew. “She’s seen visions…terrible visions…demons and…and…”
Cynthia swung down from her horse and hastened inside the cottage.
The girl on the bed raved, thrashing about, and kicked off her coverlet. Cynthia pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and looked sternly at the young man.
“How long has she been ill?”
“Since we came,” he sobbed, gazing helplessly at his bride. “Four days. Ah, God, what is to become of her? What will—”
“Listen to me,” Cynthia told him stoutly, bringing his head around with a firm hand. “Are you going to mewl like a babe all day, or are you going to help your wife?”
Taken aback by her words, he slowly recovered his dignity, wiped his nose across his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll help you.”
“Hold her, then.”
For hours, Cynthia worked with the sick young woman, laying hands on her thrashing head, applying poultices, sponging her hot skin, slipping sips of boiled water between her lips.
At last, the worst of it passed.
Cynthia was weary to the bone. But the girl would live. And the lad had kept his word, staying by his wife’s side the entire time. As Cynthia rose on wobbling legs to leave, he threw himself gratefully on his knees before her, blessing her and pressing a small silver coin into her palm. She wouldn’t take it, of course. To put a price on her gift was to curse it.
In time, the sun finished its watch, and the sky blushed crimson. Cynthia was exhausted. Her eyes felt as sandy as oysters. She’d slept little last night, and she hadn’t eaten all day, not wishing to partake of the peasants’ meager stores. So with trembling arms she pulled herself up atop her mount and lit out for home.
Arriving at Wendeville long past supper, she let Elspeth bring her meal to the solar—pickled herring, a crust of pandemayne, a cup of ale, almond cream. All the while, Elspeth fussed over her like a cat washing its kitten. But Cynthia was too tired to eat much. The moon had not yet risen when she collapsed on her bed in a heap of stained and crumpled velvet.
Restful slumber eluded Cynthia. Visions of moaning, retching peasants filled her dreams, row upon row of them, like plants in a ghastly garden, a vast field of bodies stretching into the distance as far as her eye could see. They gasped for breath and groaned her name, and no matter how much lady’s mantle she sprinkled upon them, there wasn’t enough. They were going to die if she didn’t help them. Their need suffocated her. But there was nothing she could do…nothing…
She awoke at dawn with a jolt. Her heart pummeled her ribs, and she drew in a ragged breath. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, then looked down with distaste at her rumpled gown. She’d hardly had a decent night’s sleep, but a strange sense of urgency beckoned her to the village.
Dressing quickly in a gray kirtle, she scrubbed her face and tucked her hair beneath a white veil. As the sun rose, she left Wendeville with her guard, her satchel bulging with herbs, and nibbled on the sticky honey bun Elspeth had pressed into her hand to serve as breakfast.
She sensed bad tidings long before she arrived. Sickness permeated the village. She could feel it on her skin, in her soul. The pall hanging in the air was as palpable as a smothering cloak as Cynthia rode, shivering, into the noxious haze.
The village was silent except for the random cackling of hens or the occasional bark of a dog. Wraiths of smoke escaped through the roofs of the cottages. But the sounds of the village—children playing, men hammering, mothers scolding—the sounds of life, were conspicuously absent.
Recalling her nightmare, Cynthia shuddered and wondered which household to visit first. As her horse indecisively tamped the dirt with its hooves, the shutters of a nearby hovel sprang open.
“My lady! Are ye here to heal?” cried out the pale young Scotswoman who lived inside.
“Caitlin. Aye,” she said, dismounting and clasping the woman’s hand. “Do you have the sickness?”
“’Tis my sister. She canna eat. She canna sleep.”
Cynthia went inside and laid hands on Caitlin’s sister. Fortunately, the illness hadn’t progressed far.
“She’ll live,” Cynthia told her. But she wouldn’t reveal what she’d felt when she’d brushed the back of Caitlin’s own hand. The sallow lass’s spirit was so frail, she wouldn’t survive the sickness if it took hold in her.
The first death came at midday. It was Edward Simon. His widow’s wailing could be heard all along the lane. The fool had been ill for days, but was too proud to ask for help.
Such men’s misplaced dignity enraged Cynthia when its price was so high. She did what she could to comfort the woman and made her promise to seek out aid should the sickness come upon her.
After that, it was as if a reaper came through the village harvesting souls. The town leatherworker was cut down, followed shortly by his wife. Within an hour, Robert the weaver succumbed.
As the nauseating stench of death washed over Cynthia, her horrid dream came back to her. Never had she seen a disease claim so many so quickly. Doubt pressed in all around her, and suddenly her satchel full of herbs seemed powerless against the encroaching foe, like a child’s wooden sword against a charging boar.
A tiny part of her wanted to run away, to flee all the way back to Wendeville and drop the portcullis against the grasping, needy souls. She wouldn’t do it, of course. She’d never turned away from the ailing, be it man, beast, or bloom. She had a gift. It was both her responsibility and her honor to use it.
