Chapter 10: Grain and Gruel

(Sir William Archer narrates)

“Sire, the Priest from Oaklea is at the South Gate, he asks for thee,” a guard reports.

Just the person I would pray to see, if ever I pray. Though I respect his faith, I have no faith of my own but do what good I can by my own hand, not for any notion of improving my after life. I rise stiffly, to meet him at the gate. He too, wears over his mouth and nose his spotted red and white kerchief, the only colours to relieve his usual black garb. I notice he has dipped his kerchief in water, perhaps the better to filter his breath, I think; some of the cleaners I recall, dipped theirs in lavender water, a distillation sealed well before the plague was upon us and therefore safe from spreading the affliction.

Father Andrew is a blessing in more ways than one, he has brought not one but three carts ladened with barrels of ale brought from Oaklea, no doubt from my thoughtful, blessed wife. I see also piled up crates of leeks and onions.

“Fresh food,” he explains, as soon as I come within his view, “the acid from the onions and leeks will help with the breathing of the afflicted, I would have brought apples but our stores are empty this late in the spring.”

“So, Father,” I smile, so used to being in command and being the one who is expected to know all, I find that the weight is partly lifted from my shoulders, “you have heard of this strange array of symptoms afore?”

“Aye, Will, I believe you are suffering from the Eastern Ague, said to come from the fabled China itself!” he says, breathing heavy as he climbs down alone from the cart, waving away a guard who steps towards him, lest he infect the priest. “It is much like the normal ague but has the constituents of the dreaded flux too. I see you have covered your nose and mouth and those of your men. Wise precaution, the Devils that spread the sickness live and thrive in the lungs, often filling them with water that drowns poor souls on dry land, while their breathing sprays their evil offspring to kill, often through strain on the heart. They burrow into muscles,” he crosses himself and pauses to kiss his wood cross, which is always on a thread about his neck, “to make them weak. I saw it first in the Palestine, the natives there catch it every few months and suffer but a little then shake it off as if it were nowt. But black slaves brought by the Moors, die by eight in ten and White men six in ten; I lost half the men I landed with, to trade in dried fruits. The drinking of the juice of acid fruits like oranges and lemons are also some way towards a cure, as well as relieve the breathing.”