“I think it was a warning about this disease,” I guess.
“More than a warning, Edyth. A harbinger. Not every bout of fever gets a comet showing up. You were good to tell me. ”
Alice returns with the loose folios and looks for the passage.
Joan paces, biting her thumbnail. “Have you found it yet?”
“Just a moment,” says Alice. She finds the entry and brings it to the physician. “Here it is: juniper tar.”
“Right, let’s prepare it and hope for the best.” She crosses herself. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
* * *
—
Joan delivers the blow at chapter.
“Brother Timothy has gone to his rest,” she says. “I watched him all night. I am sorry to say, it was not a peaceful death. But our priest was there and administered last rites, and our dear brother suffers no more.”
The older nuns take it the worst. They had known Brother Timothy since they were all young novices in the double monastery. Bridgit sits stoic, but her face is red, and she can’t wipe the tears away fast enough with her drenched handkerchief.
“I must also tell you,” Joan continues, even more soberly, “that this illness is like nothing I have seen. The planets are in a very bad alignment; thus a foul air is settling over the whole earth. We must combat it as best we can. I am seeking a remedy in all the books of physic I possess. Since we cannot control the air, we can at least bring ourselves into better balance. We must prepare for the worst, and commend ourselves to God’s mercy.”
“What of the pilgrims?” someone calls out. Murmuring spreads among the assembly.
“Of course they will be welcome here,” says the prioress. “We have plenty of room, stores of food, and all is prepared.”
“No, I mean, where are they?” the sister clarifies. “It’s August. We should have had hundreds by now.”
We don’t have to wait long for an answer to that question.
* * *
—
The clamor wakes everyone up before morning. Agnes goes down to the gatehouse still tucking in her wimple, and we all run out to join her. Dozens of wailing women and shouting men beg to be let in, to be seen by the physician, to set their eyes on Eustace’s relics for some little comfort.
“Right, yes, yes, everyone, peace to you all. Each person will be seen,” says the sub-prioress.
But when I look out over the crowd, I’m utterly unprepared for the sight. I’ve never seen such panic, such total suffering. Men, women and children, rich and poor—dropping to the ground even as they wait to enter the gates.
The healthy are shown to the guesthouse. The sick are triaged in the churchyard before being sent to the infirmary. Now that Joan’s seen several people through the stages of the disease, she knows what to expect, even if she doesn’t know exactly how to treat them.
“First stage?” she quizzes Alice, while preparing a quantity of plantain ointment.
“Fever, confusion, staggering.”
“And then?”
“The swellings, the bloody cough.”
“And what comes after the lumps and the cough?”
“Speech is lost, the skin turns black, the heart races and fails. Death within three days—or less.”
“Fine,” says Joan. “So we can base our treatment on where the patient is on the time line. Get ready. I hear them coming.”
The funeral bell tolls in town. Every church down in Thornchester is tolling them several times a day now.
* * *
—
Compline is tense that night. Right in the middle of singing the psalm, the Dragon Nun runs to the altar with a shriek, falls on her knees, then rolls to her back. The prioress stays in her choir seat, observing with narrowed eyes, but Agnes scoops her up and holds her.
“Felisia! God’s mercy—what is it?” Agnes pleads.
“I have seen it,” the Dragon Nun howls, wild-eyed and sweating. “I have seen the afflicting devil! He is here!” She convulses in Agnes’s arms.
“What does he look like, this demon?”
She sits up and pulls Agnes close. “His body is a skeleton, covered in taut skin, green-gray like river mud. He has wings like a bat, and his mouth is hell itself, as huge as a city, flaming and devouring!”
“Devouring whom, sister?” Agnes presses. “Who is the demon consuming?”
She looks at Agnes, and her visage changes to a twisted smile. “Whoever he damn well wants,” she says. “But he’s starting with sinners like her.”
She thrusts out her hand and points at me.
Suddenly Dragon’s weakness returns and she melts in defeated tears. Compline devolves into a cacophony of gossip and accusation.
“Brother Timothy was shut up in the scriptorium day in, day out with all those women,” says Agnes. She looks at me in disdain and turns to the rest of the nuns. “Why else would Timothy die the same way as a peasant traveler and his son, a laborer and a conversa medic? For Timothy to suffer directly from the hand of God like this? It must have been secret sin.”
“It is time for judgment to begin in the house of God,” wails the Dragon Nun.
Murmurs of assent go through the crowd of sisters.
“Sub-Prioress,” says the Pri, her strong voice slicing through the chaos, “kindly tend to your ward and help her to bed. We must finish compline. Edyth le Sherman, since you have served the sub-prioress in the past, please assist them.”
Agnes helps the Dragon to stand, and we leave through the transept. I hang back, not enthused to help, really hoping I won’t be needed.
Agnes coddles the frightened seer, her arm around her shoulder as we head toward the dormitory. “Tell me, Sister Felisia, what else do you see?”
“You are going to lead this priory through the storm, Mother,” says the Dragon.
“You mistake me, dear.” She feigns humble amazement. “Prioress Margaret will see us through. I am only her servant.”
“Saint Christopher’s is about to go through a pruning, Mother,” Felisia continues with inexplicable calm. “Stay the course, and steer the ship.” And then she lowers her head to the side and refuses to say more.
Agnes pats the girl’s shoulder as they peel off toward Felisia’s cell. “A prophet,” I hear the sub-prioress say. “God has sent us the comfort of a prophet.”