Plague

With the official publication date for Destiny of Souls coming later this month, I really had to feature a chapter from my second novel as our Chapter of the Month. Plague takes us back to the Middle Ages, as the Black Death ravages Scotland. But we soon discover this was no natural disaster, as the mysterious Manchurian reveals his true identity!

Destiny of Souls is available NOW at https://troubador.co.uk/bookshop/fantasy-and-horror/destiny-of-souls

Ebook at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Destiny-Souls-Book-2-ebook/dp/B0DVCBR4N3/

Sionag tried to ease their pain however she could. She bathed their bodies to cool them when the fever made their temperature soar, she cleaned up their blood, their sick, and their diarrhoea, she changed their bedclothes, she gave them water to slake their agonising thirst. But still they kept dying, one after another, and more victims were brought to the abbey every day.

The Black Death had come to Inverness in the spring of 1350. It had swept through the town in a matter of days. She was thankful her sweet Fearghas had died peacefully in his bed the previous year, and not lived to see the devastating woe that had befallen the townsfolk. She hoped her children and grandchildren were safe in the country, but she didn’t dare send a message for fear the messenger might take the dreadful pestilence with them.

Most of the monks were dead now, as well as the other women who’d been tending the sick. She kept expecting to fall sick herself, but it never seemed to happen. She had lost so many friends and colleagues, she’d learned not to get close to anyone but, in the last week of June, she found herself fascinated by two new arrivals.

The first was Sir James Baillie, a knight who had squired for Robert the Bruce in his youth and, more latterly, fought alongside the Bruce’s son at Neville’s Cross, where he had almost succeeded in preventing the young king’s capture.

Baillie was brought to the abbey sick with a fever, and soon the tell-tale buboes had swollen to the size of apples in his groin and armpits. He lingered on the edge of death for days but, just yesterday, his fever had broken. She felt certain he was going to be one of the lucky few to survive, he had an inner strength she was sure would pull him through.

The Manchurian arrived a few days later. A mysterious figure from a distant land at the east of the Silk Road, he brought medicines from the orient, which he swore could stem the spread of the terrible pestilence. With more than half his monks having succumbed to the disease, the abbot was willing to try anything, so he gave the stranger open access to the monastery, and all the sick and dying within it.

The days were long at this time of year, there was still a glimmer of light in the sky as Brother Paul rang the bell to signal midnight. She felt uneasy as the Manchurian entered the converted refractory where she was working alone. There was something strange about him, something more than his oriental origins, already quite alien in fourteenth century Scotland. Still, she could not doubt his devotion. He had worked ceaselessly since arriving at the abbey, although she could not begin to understand his methods, and he often seemed more intent on studying the victims than helping them.

Baillie moaned softly and she mopped his brow. He was still weak, but beginning to regain his strength. His temperature had almost returned to normal and his sleep, though fitful, was more natural. His eyes flickered open and he stared up at her. “Thank yae,” he sighed, and closed his eyes again.

“He will live now, this man,” the Manchurian spoke next to her. His voice startled her, she had not heard him approach.

“Er… aye, he is a strang wan; he is gonnae pull through, I think.”

“Yes, it is so.” The stranger thought for a moment, then spoke again, “You help me, please. I must bring more medicine.”

“Er, aye, of course,” she was nervous about going anywhere alone with him but, in the face of all the misery around her, she felt unable to refuse.

“You follow, please,” he led her out of the refractory, down the steps, towards the abbey’s cellars.

“This damn plague go bad wrong,” he complained.

“Waell, A’m sure the guid Lord has a plan, sir.”

“Ha, no Lord, was my plan. Should be long time pain, not many dead. Experiment show. But I rush, too much hurry. Now disease mutate, makes short pain, quick dead. Too many dead.”

“Er, aye, er, yes, too many dead,” she was finding his comments rather odd, feeling distinctly uncomfortable as they reached the bottom of the steps and proceeded down a dimly lit passageway, deep in the bowels of the abbey.

“This put me back many century, now must wait long time for end. Too many dead, still many soul, I follow plague here, but cannot stop.”

They arrived at a doorway at the end of the passage, he gestured for her to enter ahead of him. Stooping through the low entrance, she found herself in a dark storeroom, wooden crates on the floor, smaller boxes stacked on top.

Following her inside, the Manchurian knelt down and started moving some of the boxes, “You help look for medicine please.”

She knelt beside him, “Wha’ are we lookin’ fae?”

“Here, you look,” he pointed. She bent forward, leaning across one of the crates, peering in the dim light, straining to see what he meant.

In a flash he was behind her, his hands around her throat, “Bad enough plague go wrong, now must deal with you. You get too close, Bakara not dying, me have to kill you now. No-one care one more corpse here.”

She struggled in his grasp, trying to break free, but he was too strong. She tried to claw at his face, but couldn’t reach. She felt her strength ebbing away, a cold terror taking its place, he was throttling her. As he squeezed the life from her, his groin pressed against her, she could feel his arousal, his manhood pushing into her through their clothes.

“You best young, but you not bad for old woman. I take payment for you put me so much trouble,” he swung her sideways, banging her head into the wall, stunning her, almost knocking her unconscious. He took one hand off her throat, but held her down with the other still grasping her around the back of the neck. She felt him pull up her dress, rip off her undergarments, start fumbling in his robe. “No, no…” she gasped, desperately straining against him, but he had her pinned down on the crate, trapped… helpless.

“You die, me fuck you same time,” he laughed, forcing her legs apart as he readied himself.

“No-o-o-o,” she tried to scream, but managed only a hoarse murmur.

Then, suddenly, he was gone. She spluttered and gulped, drawing in precious air, panting hard as she fought to regain her breath, then, slowly, she turned around to see what had happened.

The Manchurian was staggering backwards, trying to reach the knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Baillie stood in the doorway, clad only in a sheet. He was leaning on the wall for support, wheezing from exertion.

She pulled herself to her feet, then watched as the mysterious medicine man staggered around the room, hissing threats and obscenities, until he finally collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“I would not usually countenance the idea of stabbing a man in the back, but I thought you needed help and it looked somewhat, er… er...” the knight’s legs folded under him and he slid to the floor, “... er, urgent,” he finished, before passing out.

*

She took a few minutes to recover, then went to find Brother Paul. The young monk helped her cover the Manchurian’s body, then they carried Baillie back to his bed.

In the morning, the abbot interviewed her about the night’s events. Initially, she could tell he had his doubts, but when Baillie woke, he was able to confirm every detail, and she was exonerated. Nobody would doubt the word of a knight of the realm.

They threw the Manchurian’s body into one of the mass burial pits, together with dozens of plague victims. “No-one care one more corpse here,” Sionag muttered.

A few days later, Baillie was well enough to leave the abbey. She knelt humbly before him, her head bowed, and grasped his hand, “Guid sir knight, I owe yae ma life, an’ mare besides, how can I ever repay yae?”

“Marry me.”

She looked up at him in astonishment, “But yae are a knight, an’ A’m jus’ a cammen wench. An’ mare, sir knight, A’m an auld woman, sixty-wan yars auld, but yae are still yang.”

He looked deep into her eyes and smiled, “I can see your hair was once a vibrant red, but it still grows thick and long, and the strands of grey that dominate now only serve to enhance its beauty. And I would wager my soul those emerald green eyes sparkle as brightly as ever they have. But it would matter not if you were bald and sightless, for you have captured my heart, Sionag. Marry me,” he repeated.

She was about to protest again, but she saw something in his eyes that silenced her, suddenly she knew they belonged together. “Aye, aye… yes, I will,” she nodded.

They married a week later, and spent their wedding night in the finest room the town’s largest inn could provide. Sadly, they discovered that, while the plague had spared Baillie’s life, it had left him impotent. Even so, they found many other ways to love each other… that night, and for the thousands of nights that followed.