The Plague Charmer

  Copyright © 2016 Karen Maitland

  The right of Karen Maitland to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  This Ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2016

  All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 3584 8

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Karen Maitland

  Praise for Karen Maitland

  About the Book

  Also by Karen Maitland

  Map

  Epigraph

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  May 1361

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  June 1361

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

  Glossary

  About Karen Maitland

  © John C. Gibson

  Karen Maitland travelled and worked in many parts of the United Kingdom before settling for several years in the beautiful medieval city of Lincoln, an inspiration for her writing. She is the author of The White Room, Company of Liars, The Owl Killers, The Gallows Curse, The Falcons of Fire and Ice, The Vanishing Witch and The Raven’s Head. She now leads a life of rural bliss in Devon.

  Praise

  Step back in time with Maitland’s dark tales

  ‘A brilliant writer, with a real sense of history’ Susanna Gregory

  ‘Karen Maitland neatly captures the spirit of primitive superstition’ Daily Express

  ‘An atmospheric and dark story’ The Times on The Raven’s Head

  ‘Rich and believable . . . with extraordinary attention to detail and finely wrought prose’ Sunday Express on The Vanishing Witch

  ‘Teeming, invigorating’ Guardian on The Falcons of Fire and Ice

  ‘A ripping tale . . . full of colour and detail’ Daily Telegraph on The Gallows Curse

  ‘Scarily good. Imagine The Wicker Man crossed with The Birds’ Marie Claire on The Owl Killers

  ‘Combines the storytelling traditions of The Canterbury Tales with the supernatural suspense of Mosse’s Sepulchre in this atmospheric tale of treachery and magic’ Marie Claire on Company of Liars

  About the Book

  Riddle me this: I have a price, but it cannot be paid in gold or silver.

  1361. Porlock Weir, Exmoor. Thirteen years after the Great Pestilence, plague strikes England for the second time. Sara, a packhorse man’s wife, remembers the horror all too well and fears for the safety of her children. Only a dark-haired stranger offers help, but at a price that no one will pay.

  Fear gives way to hysteria in the village and, when the sickness spreads to her family, Sara finds herself locked away by neighbours she has trusted for years. And, as her husband – and then others – begin to die, the cost no longer seems so unthinkable.

  The price that I ask, from one willing to pay . . . A human life.

  Also by Karen Maitland

  The White Room

  Company of Liars

  The Owl Killers

  The Gallows Curse

  The Falcons of Fire and Ice

  The Vanishing Witch

  The Raven’s Head

  Digital E-Shorts

  Liars and Thieves

  The Dangerous Art of Alchemy

  Wicked Children: Murderous Tales from History

  The cruellest month in all the year

  is the month of Janiveer.

  Weather lore saying

  Are those her ribs through which the Sun

  Did peer, as through a grate?

  And is that Woman all her crew?

  Is that a DEATH? and are there two?

  Is DEATH that Woman’s mate? . . .

  The naked hulk alongside came,

  And the twain were casting dice;

  “The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!”

  Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

  From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner written 1797–8 by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In 1797, the poet lived for a time on a farm near Porlock, Somerset, where this novel is set.

  Cast of Characters

  Porlock Weir

  Will – dwarf, former court jester to Sir Nigel Loring

  Janiveer – the woman from the sea

  Sara – wife of Elis, a packhorse man, mother to sons Hob and Luke

  Aldith – sister-in-law to Sara, wife of Daveth, a fisherman, mother to Col, Ibb and Kitto

  Goda – Aldith’s sister and seaman Jory’s lover

  Matilda – devout woman, wife of George, a ship’s carpenter, and owner of Gatty, the cat

  Sybil – owner of the village bake-house and brew-house

  Cador – village bailiff, husband to Isobel

  Katharine – married to the drunkard, Skiener

  Father Cuthbert – parish priest of Porlock and Porlock Weir

  Harold – youth in Minor Orders, acolyte to Father Cuthbert

  Bald John – blacksmith and husband to Cecily

  Abel – elderly fisherman

  Meryn – man with a withered leg

  Crabfish – lad regarded as simple

  Porlock Manor

  Sir N
igel Loring – absentee lord of the manor

  Christina – niece of Sir Nigel, daughter of Lady Aliena, and new bride of Sir Randel

  Baby Oswin – Christina’s secret son

  Lady Pavia – cousin to Sir Nigel and Christina’s mother and widow of Hubert

  Sir Harry Gilmore – guest at Porlock Manor

  Helen, Mary and Anne – three young wards of Sir Nigel, chaperoned by Lady Margery

  Master Wallace – steward of Porlock Manor

  Eda – elderly tiring maid to Christina’s mother, now Christina’s maid

  Rosa – stillroom maid

  In the Burial Cave

  Brother Praeco – Prophet and leader of the Chosen Ones

  Uriel – spiteful first wife of the Prophet

  Phanuel – timid second wife of the Prophet

  Raguel – third and youngest wife of the Prophet

  Friar Tom – an elderly member of the Chosen Ones

  David and Noll – henchmen and trusted disciples of Brother Praeco

  Alfred – an apostate who left the Chosen Ones

  Note: Exmoor ponies were known locally as horsebeasts or widgebeasts. The word ‘pony’ was not used on the moor until the 1700s.

  Prologue

  The storytellers say that . . .

  Once, long ago, in the land of the Celts, a boy was born who was possessed of great power and strength. From a small child, Cadeyrn could transform himself into a bear and in that form he would pass through the Gate of Mist to journey into the realms of darkness and light. The druids recognised special gifts in the boy and were determined that he should become one of them, perhaps even the greatest among them. But Cadeyrn was also skilled with the axe and the sword, and others foretold he would become a mighty warrior and leader.

  Cadeyrn grew in stature and his skills grew with him, but even when he had become a man, the two paths lay stretched out before him and none in his tribe could tell which he would follow.

  Then one day when he was out hunting, he saw a youth set his dogs upon a she-bear that was protecting her cubs. Filled with rage, Cadeyrn pursued her attacker into a grove of oak trees. Mistletoe grew upon the branches and the law decreed that, even in the midst of battle, upon seeing the sacred herb a man must lay down his weapon and depart in peace, without shedding blood. But Cadeyrn’s wrath was so great that he did not notice the mistletoe. He raised his axe and chopped off the youth’s head with a single blow. Blood spurted from the severed neck, splashing the branches of the tree beneath which the youth had taken refuge. Only when Cadeyrn saw the drops of scarlet staining the white berries did he realise he had strayed into a sacred grove. When the druids saw that blood had been shed in that holy place, they cursed him.

  That night when Cadeyrn tried to pass through the Gate of Mist, it closed against him and he could no longer enter the other realms. He knew then that his destiny had been sealed: he would become a warrior. And when Cadeyrn went into battle, his path to glory seemed assured, for he slaughtered dozens with his axe and his enemies fled in terror before him. But just as victory seemed within his grasp, the druid priests appeared. At once, the battle turned against Cadeyrn and, with his men, he was forced to flee for his life across the sea to England. There he fought again and this time he conquered the people of those lands, vanquished their leader and was proclaimed king.

  Now, the people who lived in those parts were Christians and they were afraid that this bloody warrior would slaughter them and sack their church, so they drew lots and sent to him a young boy, who offered himself as sacrifice. He said he would willingly die any death Cadeyrn chose for him, however agonising and terrible, if only the king would spare the people and their church. Cadeyrn was so moved by his courage that he asked the boy the name of the god he worshipped and vowed that he, too, would pray to this god, as well as to the gods of his own ancestors. Cadeyrn swore a solemn oath that anyone who called upon the name of Christ would be granted the king’s protection, and he would defend them even to his own death.

  But though he had spared the daughter of the Christian ruler he had vanquished and had treated her with honour, she and her maids were filled with hatred against Cadeyrn and sought vengeance. She collected the poison of the viper and the venom of the toad and coated the holy chalice in the church with them, knowing that when the king came to Mass he would be offered the cup first.

  As Cadeyrn raised the chalice to his lips, a raven flew down and dashed it from his hand. The wine spilled in a pool across the floor of the church and the raven dipped its beak in it to drink. The bird had taken only a sip before it dropped dead. When the king saw how the raven had saved him, he took up the carcass with his right hand, intending to give the bird an honoured burial, but as he touched it, the bird revived and flew up on to the roof of the church.

  At that, the Christian princess and her maids became even more vengeful. They plotted with Cadeyrn’s enemies, revealing to them the means by which they could invade his lands while he was absent. They attacked without warning, burning his villages and carrying off his women and his cattle.

  When Cadeyrn returned and discovered what his enemies had done, he marched on their stronghold that very night and camped before their gates ready to give battle at dawn. But the princess had hidden her maids among the servants who travelled with the warriors and she had given instructions that they should add dwale to the food they prepared for the king.

  The herb made the king drowsy, and when dawn came, he could not fully rouse himself. He fought with the heart of a bear, but the dwale had fuddled his senses and made him clumsy. He was overpowered and taken prisoner. Cadeyrn begged to be allowed to die in combat, but his enemies tied him to a tree in the middle of the forest. They chopped off the hand with which he’d given battle. But instead of blood, a stream of pure water flowed from the wound and became a mighty river. In fear, they shot him with arrows, but still he lived, and finally they cut off his head.

  His enemies left his corpse for the ravens to peck and the beasts in the forest to devour, but the ravens covered his severed head with their wings and beasts guarded his body. That night, the priest of the church saw a wondrous sight. A great bear came out of the forest bearing the body of the king and laid the corpse gently on a stone slab on the hillside. All that night, a golden light hung over the place where Cadeyrn’s body lay, vanishing only when that greater light, the sun itself, rose.

  The body of Cadeyrn was buried under a great cairn of earth and stones at the place where the bear had laid him, with much gold and many precious objects. But Cadeyrn’s hand and head were borne away by the Christian priests as holy relics.

  And they say that each evening at sunset a raven brings a stone to add to the cairn that stands over the resting place of the warrior king, and when that mound is high enough to reach the sky, Cadeyrn will awaken and ride once more to battle.

  Chapter 1

  Will

  Riddle me this: How many calves’ tails would it take to reach from the earth to the sky?

  She appears without warning, standing in the mouth of the cave staring in at me. Tattered skirts and long strands of hair flap wildly in the sea wind, like the feathers of the dead gull washed up on the shore. Her face is in darkness. Her eyes glitter like a wild beast’s in the firelight. She stands there so long, so silently, that I think she may be the ghost of a drowned soul come to drag me down into the green waves below. I am not afraid. I would almost go willingly with her now. Almost, but not quite.

  She crouches and from the depths of her cloak she pulls out a bundle, which she lays reverently on the rocky floor in front of my fire, an offering, as if I am a pagan god or Christian saint.

  ‘You will look after him? Keep him safe from them?’

  The bundle stirs. A tiny fist clenches the air. The thing gives a faint mewing sound, like a cat demanding to be let in. I shuffle closer. The baby is naked, wrapped only in a goatskin. But not a cured skin: the inside is black with dried blood as if it has only just been r
ipped from the carcass, or perhaps it is stained with the woman’s birth blood. The infant looks to have been no longer in the world than the goat has been out of it.

  ‘Is the child sick?’ I ask her.

  ‘No . . . but he will be. They’ll make him sick . . . dead, like the others. I heard the owl. Owls know when death is coming.’ Her fingers pluck repeatedly at the rags of her skirt. She is crazed, poor creature, and little wonder.

  ‘Take it away. How do you expect me to care for it? What am I to feed it – mackerel?’ I drag myself backwards, deeper into the cave, making it plain I want nothing to do with the infant. ‘Even a grown man could freeze to death at night in this place – that’s if the sea doesn’t drown him first.’

  ‘But you’ll protect my baby. Creatures like you can keep us from evil spirits and make the sick well. I know it. I heard the stories. You’re a—’ She breaks off, as if even the name for creatures like me can conjure a power she dare not summon.

  She’s wrong, though. A fraud is what I am, an imposter. They expect miracles of me, but they might as well stick bluebells up their arses and dance naked on the seashore for all the good it will do them. I am fool’s gold, though even now I do not admit it aloud.

  The owls knew it was coming. The villagers knew it was coming. Even I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time. But, you see, that’s exactly why it caught us unawares. It crept up on us and pulled our breeches down, cackling with laughter. Time is the tricksiest of all tricksters, and I should know. I was a jester by profession, but I never had the skills of Mistress Time. She can stretch herself into a shadow that reaches so far you think it’ll never come to an end or she can shrink to the shortest of mouse-tails.

  You ask any man under sentence of execution, and I’ve seen a good many of those. I’ve mocked and pranced in front of them as they were hauled to the gallows. My lords and ladies have to be entertained while they wait for the main spectacle. Heaven forbid that time should drag for them. But for those piteous felons, desperately praying for more time, she races away from them. Yet the moment they fall to pleading for the pain and agony to be quickly over, Mistress Time wantonly slows to the pace of a hobbled horse. That is her way, the naughty harlot, to do exactly the opposite of whatever a man begs her to do.