“Alice,” I whisper, my face right against the wall opening, “I brought food, and a clean dress, and a sheepskin to lie on—it’s getting cold. But you already know that in here, my God!”
Alice crawls toward the window on all fours. “You don’t know what it means to me that you came, Edyth. When these new people started with their frenzies, I thought, That’s it, I’m dead. I commended my soul and waited to die.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen, my friend. We’re working on a plan to get you out. We need more time, but we will.”
Thwop. The sound of whipping begins again.
“I have to go, Alice. But I’m not leaving you,” I promise, reaching my hand through the window.
“Thank you, Edyth. Thank you for everything.” She presses my hand to her lips and can barely bring herself to let go.
“Wait for me, Alice. I won’t fail you.”
I close the back door just in time to hear the voices starting to shout.
— 42 —
All night, Mason and I have been kept up by the tumult coming from the church. The men’s shouting, the singsong voice of a preacher, the wail of the Dragon. We try in vain to ignore it. Eventually we fall asleep, with the door barred, of course.
But then there’s the steady thwop. Thwop. I keep biting my cheek in my half sleep, tasting blood. And all night, rigid yellow bars roll in time to the rhythm, from left to right across the inside of my eyelids.
Before dawn I startle awake, disoriented, to a sound that has become unfamiliar.
“Is that the bell for prime?” I ask. We get up and say our prayers but can’t concentrate for the mournful singing and another bout of loud preaching. The rhythm starts again—
Thwop. Thwop.
I think of the prioress. If she were well, what would she want me to do?
“Mason.”
“Yes.”
“I want to go into the church. I want to take them the water.”
“Edyth, you heard what Agnes said about you! And you saw what those men are capable of, with Anne and Muriel, the diggers—they won’t even want what you have to offer. You want to walk right into the belly of that beast?”
I’m resolute. “It’s one thing to help our neighbors. We did that. But what about our enemies? They’re running out of water in the fountain, anyway. We can’t let them die of thirst.”
Mason shakes his head. “I don’t like it. It’s not safe!”
“Well, I’d rather be fearless than safe. We can’t let people die without a chance, even if we’re on opposite sides.”
He sighs in frustration. “Tonight, then? After the infirmary?”
“We’ll do it.”
* * *
—
We fill the buckets to the brim with the steaming water. I hitch mine to the yoke, and Mason wraps burlap around each handle of his. We hoist them and walk back toward the priory gate. The bright moon’s got just a sliver shaved off its side. We drink in the quiet as we walk, knowing what tumult awaits us inside the priory walls. When we get to the gate, I put down my yoke.
“Mason, I have to be honest. I know this was what I was supposed to do. I don’t doubt that for a minute. But even with all those people who’ve been healed from this pestilence, I ask myself every night, What if this time it doesn’t work?”
“Edyth,” he says gently. “You were as good as dead, and now look at you.”
“I know, but what if it only works for a time? Do you have to keep drinking it? We drink it every night, so we’re all right. What if all those people leave healed, only to get sick again and die on the road home?”
“You’re right,” says Mason. “There’s no denying that possibility. But we’ll all die someday.”
“You sound like my da,” I say. “I think he believed there were things worse than dying.”
“Do you think that’s true? What’s worse?”
“To die with regret. To know you could’ve done something good, and instead chose to say no.” We don’t speak for a minute. “How about you? What’s the worst you can think of, Mason?”
“To die alone,” he answers immediately. “Without you.”
“You won’t.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “We won’t miss our chance again.”
“When we’re done with this task, I think we’ll know it, Edie. We’re going to get this water into the church, and we’re going to get Alice out. And then I want to leave. I want to get the hell out of this place.”
“I do, too.” I step closer until there is only a breath between us. “I only wish it hadn’t taken us so long to figure it out.”
Mason kisses me urgently. I shoulder the yoke again, and he follows me through the gate.
* * *
—
Joan is sitting at the long infirmary table, writing furiously on a tablet. She’s not well. As I look closer, I see her neck is covered in lumps, like quail eggs under the skin. I slowly sit beside her—I don’t want to cause panic.
“Not you!” I whisper to Joan. “Hasn’t the water helped?”
“Edyth, I haven’t drunk the water, and I won’t. I need to see if there’s a medicinal cure. My specialty is medicine, not miracles. So far, it’s been eight days since I noticed the signs on me, and I’m still here. Remember what I always say? It probably won’t kill you—”
“—but holler if you see Saint Peter.”
“Well, I’m close to understanding this,” she insists. “Let the pilgrims have the water. Go on. Tend to them. Let me write.”
Mason and I continue to the last cell. Cook is seated at the prioress’s bedside with her back to us, dabbing a cold, wet cloth on the sick woman’s forehead, but Cook yields her place to me. Prioress Margaret’s black habit hangs on a peg on the wall, and her bony feet hang over the edge of the bed. They look abnormally large compared to her thin frame. She clutches a small wooden cross to her breast. She looks so little, like an elderly child, like I could pick her up and lift her above my head.
“Oh no, Venerable Mother!” I say. “I have fresh water—it will heal you!”
“Sometimes we are beyond healing of the body, Edyth. But I do not need that water.” She puts a thin hand on my cheek. “I have been given the drink I need.