A Necklace of Souls Page 2

Will nodded. The oven was the heart of the bakery. It squatted like an open-mouthed monster and needed feeding at regular intervals. It was Will’s job to check that the temperature was right for the bake.

  ‘So, Will. Have you put your fist in?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Will.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s the right heat, Da. Could hold my fist in it and count to twenty, as you said.’

  The apprentices carefully scraped out the ashes from the oven, leaving blackened bricks aglow with heat. The loaves of dough were placed on a wooden board and slid into place in the oven. Will loved watching as, like magic, the loaves rose and their crusts darkened and split.

  ‘An everyday miracle,’ Ma smiled.

  Will’s favourite part of the baking came next, when Ma cut a still warm loaf open to check the bake. Will was always offered the first piece. Only after the boy nodded was approval given; the day’s baking was successful.

  The plague entered Gwynedd in the winter of Will’s twelfth year.

  Goodie Davies was the first to die, but no-one was surprised. ‘She’s been in a dying frame of mind for years,’ said Mrs Jones.

  It was only when the priest, Father McCormack, imported forty years ago from the wastes of Scotland, developed buboes under his arms, turned blue, and expired in a messy and pus-strewn heap in front of his own altar that the village folk realized the hell they were about to enter.

  ‘Best prepare for the worst,’ Da said grimly. ‘Things will change for a bit, Will-lad.’

  Da was right. Wearing pomanders and thick shawls, customers now entered the shop singly, speaking only briefly before retreating to their homes. Will’s family went to the Midnight Christ Mass, but there was little cheer to be had, with no priest to say the service and few parishioners devout enough to risk catching the plague.

  A Gwynedd winter is always drear, with rain-slicked, slate-grey roofs and chilling wind whining through smoking chimney pots. But this season was exceptionally bleak. People huddled by the fire and said charms to keep themselves well. Even the village school was closed, which was pleasing for a few short weeks only. Then Davey and Glynn, the apprentices, became ill.

  In the week after the New Year the bakery was cold for the first time in Will’s memory as the oven cooled completely. Davey and Glynn, soaked in sweat, lay on their mattresses on the bakery floor and Ma and Da were too weak to load the faggots.

  ‘It’s just as well,’ said Da, coughing. Spots of blood speckled his lips as he tried to smile. ‘I’m in no shape to knead the dough.’

  ‘Maaa. I don’t feel too good.’

  Ma turned quickly and saw him, slumped in the corner of the bake house like a discarded puppet. She felt his forehead. ‘Off to bed with you, young man.’

  Da carried him up the stairs, but had to stop twice to cough. His coughs were big belly-shaking grunts that made Will cry, because it hurt so to move. Ma tucked Will into bed and gave him a glass of milk to drink. Her forehead was furrowed in concern and her normally tidy blonde hair was in disarray, falling from under the edges of her cap.

  ‘Will I die, Ma?’

  His mother looked at him sternly. ‘You’d better not, young man.’

  It was fear of his mother’s temper that kept Will alive. Tossing on his straw-filled mattress, he listened to it rustle as his head and body ached. The light was too bright and hurt his head, but he moaned when Ma pulled the curtain because he was afraid of the dark. The pain was so bad he wanted to die, but he remembered what Ma had said and clutched the bright spark of life within him, even though the effort hurt. When its flame flickered he blew on it, as Davey blew on the faggots of wood.

  Finally he woke, his throat aching with thirst. Pebbles of rain dashed against the small window. His head throbbed. The house, the village — all were silent. So tired he could not even feel sorrow, he realized an awful truth. He was alone. Drifting back to sleep, he knew this even in his dreams.

  3

  The Most Fortunate of Lands

  The village, once a thriving community of one thousand souls, now numbered ten. The survivors were Will, the Schoolmaster and the Davies, a family of eight from the hills who had stocked up their pantry and shut themselves off from the world. It was Mr Davies, riding into the village after ten days of smokeless chimneys, who had heard Will’s faint cries. Will remembered nothing of his rescue from the village of the dead or the ride to the Schoolmaster’s house.

  ‘Why didn’t more hill folk do that?’ said the Schoolmaster. His face was skull-like, his arms stick thin. Like the Davies, he had survived by shutting himself from the world.

  ‘What?’ said Will, soaking stale bread in milk. He knew he should eat, but without Ma nagging at him to do so or Da to tell him stories he found it hard to swallow. It was as though he had rocks in his throat. And the Schoolmaster seemed determined to educate him.

  ‘Do what the Davies did. Quarantine themselves. After all, plague is well known. There is a saying, my boy, that people who forget their history are doomed to repeat it.’ He tried to make a jest. ‘Which is why we will try to make sure you know as much history as possible. Eh? Eh? What do you say, my lad?’

  ‘May I be excused, sir?’

  ‘Do you think you’ve had enough, boy? You’ve got to keep your strength up.’

  ‘I really think I’m full, sir.’

  The man peered at him over his spectacles and his face softened. ‘Very well, go on then. Sit out in the garden, get some sun into you.’

  Will sat stiffly on the wooden seat, looking at the garden. Herbs grew thick against the wall and the wildflowers were spots of colour against the path. The sun touched his skin and made it warm, but Will’s soul was cold. There was nothing left. Even the village was gone.

  Lying in the upstairs bedroom, Will had heard the men talking.

  ‘Burn it,’ Farmer Davies had said. ‘I’m not a-going in there to bury the dead and risk me and mine. There’s plenty of coal hereabouts.’

  The Schoolmaster murmured.

  ‘Ah, be practical,’ said Mr Davies. ‘How would you pull out the bodies? There’ll be hundreds of folk, all dead. And, no offence meant, but you or the boy aren’t up to digging burial pits. Besides,’ added Mr Davies, ‘there’re the rats, master.’

  ‘Rats?’ quavered the Schoolmaster. It was well known that he hated rats. The school children had laughed at him because every Monday he’d spend good coin to bring in a ratter; his pupils would have done it for much less. Every boy knew how to catch rats.

  ‘Aye. Thousands of rats now. Bold as brass, some as big as cats. Burn the village, and we’ll burn the rats too.’

  ‘The houses. They’re built of stone. Will they burn?’

  ‘The insides will. We need to set a good fire on the inside of each cottage row. A good strong breeze and they should all catch ablaze.’

  ‘The roofs are slate,’ said the Schoolmaster. ‘The fire might not spread.’

  ‘Then we’ll light more fires.’

  So yesterday, in one crematory rush, the village disappeared. The survivors gathered in a small sad group on the hillside and kept vigil as the blaze spread through cottages and shops, systematically destroying the buildings. The church and schoolhouse alone were left standing; the former out of respect for the Lord and the schoolhouse for the master, who needed some where to live. Even the boats at their moorings were torched. To Will, who stood up on the hill through the long day and night, it seemed as though the flames were leaping to the stars.

  Will felt numb. He didn’t mind this. It kept him from feeling sick, or sad. Listlessly, he wondered what would happen to him. He could stay here with the Schoolmaster, but he’d never been one for the schooling and didn’t think he’d take to it now. Besides, what need for a village schoolmaster if there were no village to school?

  The Schoolmaster sat beside him. Will said nothing, but the master sighed as if he’d spoken, and thrust a piece of paper into the boy’s hand.

  ‘We’ve had a ma
il delivery,’ the man said.

  The paper was thick, scratchy and felt important. A ribbon with a piece of red wax hung from it. He turned it over. The writing was spidery and thin as if an ant had walked across the page. Who would send him a letter? Everyone he knew was dead.

  ‘It appears our plight was known. Your departed mother, may she rest in peace, sent a letter to her sister. The courier arrived this morning.’ The Schoolmaster’s hands trembled; he looked like an old man. ‘Smoking remains of towns. That’s all the courier’s seen, one town after another all the way down the coast. He says he hasn’t been yet to where he’s not seen smoke. Doesn’t dare to.’ The master stood up. ‘Take your time, lad. Your mother was a wise and far-sighted woman.’

  Will nodded, trying not to cry.

  The letter was strange. It was sealed on three sides of the folds. In effect, it became a small package which, when he shook it, rattled slightly. Puzzled, Will slipped his index finger under the seal, as he had seen Da do, and opened the thin sheet of paper. Into his hand tumbled two wooden beads. Each the size of a fingernail, they were intricately carved. He held them up to his eye and turned each one slowly between his fingers. The carving was of tiny and perfectly formed roses. Each rose had five petals and a thick, thorned stem. They looked like alder seeds.

  Maybe the clue to these strange objects was in the letter. Will spread out the thin crackling sheet and, with some difficulty, deciphered the spider-like writing of his aunt.

  My dear Martha,

  What an Age has gone since last I heard from you.

  Our dear Father, God rest his Soul, passed away not Two Months hence. How Pleased he would have been to hear from you at Last. As you were always his Favourite, it is Unfortunate that you did not see fit to write to him before his Passing. But well do I recall the words spoken at your Leaving, so mayhap ’tis all for the Best.

  Charlotte has married Seth, the Tanner’s Son. They have three young Sons and I am sure that now she is Wedded and a Mother, Charlotte has more suitable uses for her Boundless Energy.

  How strange to think that of us three girls, none of us has had a Daughter.

  Wavern and I have two Sons, Aled and Whithern. They are growing Tall and Strong and I must say it takes a Small Fortune to keep them shod and fed. Aled and Whithern have been taken on as Yeomen at the Castle, which we view as a very Good Thing, as they are provided with all their Meals and Board while at the Castle, and receive two full Changes of Raiment per Year. Later, Aled will take the Farm from us, when we are Gone.

  Dearest Sister, how my heart Trembles to think of the dreadful Threat you are facing. I will pray for you every day that you will be Strong and will be able to Fight this most Awful Malaise. Rumours of the Plague have gotten even to The Rose, and you must know this is most unusual, as generally the Kingdom is untouched by the Woes of the World.

  It is said that no Evil Thing has ever entered the Kingdom. I do Thank and Praise God that He allowed me to live in this Most Fortunate of Lands.

  Of course you may request Anything of me, as I am your Sister and, while conscious of the Hurt you inflicted on our revered Father and saintly Mother (God rest her Soul), I must bow to the demands of Blood.

  I therefore enclose two Tokens, for yourself and your dear Son. Look after them with great care, Sister, they are most rare and precious objects.

  Come to the Ferryman at the Crossing — you will know where that is, it is where I kissed you all before leaving with Wavern when first we wedded — and give him the Tokens. They will grant you safe Passage into the Kingdom.

  Come with all Speed, dear Sister. I pray for your safety.

  Your loving Sister

  Agnes

  Post-scriptum: Dear Sister, I could not grant a third Token sufficient for the remainder of your Family. I am sure, in the silence of your Heart, you will understand my Reluctance when you consider the most Awful Disservice your Husband’s Family rendered us. However, rest assured that You and your dear Son will of course be Right Welcome.

  ‘What does the letter say, Will?’

  Will handed the Schoolmaster the note and watched the man’s eyes dart quickly from side to side as he read it through, quite unconsciously sucking in his cheeks with a slurping sound. The children at school had laughed when he’d done that. There had been twelve children at the village school, and now eleven of them were dead.

  ‘May I see the tokens, Will?’

  Will held them out on a flat palm. Without speaking the master took one then the other, holding them to the light, just as Will had done earlier.

  ‘Your aunt speaks truth, Will. Indeed, these are most rare and precious objects.’ The man squinted at them and spoke almost to himself. ‘I had thought them only a fable, something from a fairy tale.’

  ‘What are they, sir?’

  ‘Entry tokens, Will. As your aunt says.’ The man tapped his finger against his cheek. ‘She sounds a most masterful woman, Will. What do you know of her?’

  ‘Ma had two sisters. They were called Charlotte and Agnes. Ma was the middle one. She told me lots of stories about Charlotte.’ Ma had loved her sister. Her voice had lifted in a smile when she retold her adventures. ‘Once, Charlotte ran away. She told her parents she was sick of them and hid in the back of a collier’s cart and rode it out of town and when she came back she was all black.’ Will smiled, for a moment forgetting his numbness. ‘She told them to call her Charley and said she wished she was a boy. Once she rode a pig backwards down the street.’

  Ma would never tell these stories now. And he could never again hear her voice. What had it sounded like? He’d forgotten so quickly.

  The Schoolmaster was talking. ‘What of Agnes, the writer of this letter?’

  Will blinked water from his eyes. Not tears, for he had no tears. It must be the wind. ‘She was the eldest. She was bossy, Ma said. She moved some where foreign to get married. It was a long time ago; Ma said Agnes had been very unhappy when she went. Ma said it was the only time she’d seen Agnes cry.’ Strangely, it felt good to talk about his family. It made them feel alive again. ‘Da had two brothers; I don’t know their names. He didn’t talk about them much. Ma said that her family and Da’s family didn’t like each other and didn’t want them to get married. That’s why they didn’t have much to do with them. She sounded sad when she talked about them, so I didn’t ask her much, except to ask for stories about Charlotte. She sounded fun.’ He wished the letter had been from Charlotte.

  ‘Have you heard of the Kingdom of the Rose, Will?’

  Will shook his head.

  ‘It is a land where, it is said, illness and poverty are unknown, where everyone has enough to eat. Some say it is ruled by a powerful enchantress. Others say the ruler is a king who lives high on a hill. Still others say that the ruler is a wicked crone who eats the hearts of newborn babes. There’s no doubt, though, that the Kingdom is magical. People have searched for it their entire lives, seduced by rumour that first it is here, now it is there, but they never find it. Stories are told of adventure seekers, who have entered the Rose and never returned.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘These small beads you have in your hand, young Will, are entry tokens. To the Kingdom of the Rose. If rumour is correct, it lies not far to the north, across the Straits of Terenu.’

  Will gazed at the brown wooden beads in the palm of his hand. They didn’t look magical. They were scratchy and looked like seeds. How could a kingdom be magical? Everyone knew that magic wasn’t real. If there was magic, why hadn’t it saved Ma or Da?

  ‘You are indeed most fortunate, Will. You are able to enter the Rose.’ The man scratched his head. Will wondered how he could be called ‘fortunate’. ‘This is very good timing. The courier leaves tomorrow. He can take you as far as the ferry crossing.’

  ‘Can’t I stay here, sir?’ Everything Will knew was contained in this small patch of land. Even though the village was no more, his heart remembered this as home.

  ‘What is here
for you now, boy? There is no village remaining. I will be recalled to another school. And the Davies do not need an extra mouth to feed.’ With an air of decision about him, the master stood up. ‘Don’t look so downcast, lad. It is best to be with family at a time like this. Your aunt may not sound so sympathetic in her letter, but I am certain she will improve upon acquaintance.’

  ‘Aye. I know the ferry crossing.’ The courier was a brown-haired Yorkshire man with few words. ‘I can take t’boy there. We leave tomorrow, lad. Take nowt but what you can carry on your back.’

  And so Will was slung aboard a placid chestnut mare named, improbably, Thunderbolt.

  ‘Because thunder’s t’only thing to make her faster than a trot, lad.’

  The courier had the saddle, Thunderbolt being his mare, while Will bounced on her haunches, trying to keep his legs clear of the saddlebags. It was a fine spring morning and the sun was drying the dew off the hedgerows. As the mare climbed the hill, the low light touched wreaths of smoke and rising mist, tinting them gold. The Schoolmaster waved from his doorway.

  Will turned, gazing at the bonfire that had once been a village, until the mare reached the brow of the hill and trotted down the other side. Then all Will could see were the high moors and the sea in the distance. All he had ever known was gone.

  4

  Beware the Governess

  Many years ago, when I was very small, I used to play racing games with my father, along the battlements of the outer keep where the parapets were wide enough for us to run together. Daddy would chase me and I would hide behind the stonework, but my hair or my dress, or my laughter, would give me away and he would find me and catch me.

  One morning, I was running, giggling madly because Daddy was following me. Then I turned — he wasn’t there, he’d stopped. At first, I thought it was because I was too fast for him and felt most proud of myself. Until I saw he wasn’t watching me at all. He was staring at the tower. I looked up, following his gaze. The tower was falling! I clutched at his hand, until I realized — it wasn’t the tower that was moving; it was the clouds, racing across the sky.