The apothecaries daughter

A Story by Awdures

Whilst the black death rages, one young girl tries to make sense of her life and all that's in it

Prologue

1664-The English Channel

And lo a pale horse; and he that sat on him was called Death

Rev 6:8

We are headed for London.

This much I know.

I have sat here as silently as I possibly can be, feeling the sensation of the waves move me. Sometimes as gentle as a whisper, sometimes fierce and uncontrollable. I keep my breathing steady, trying not to fall ill, praying I do not. I am almost afraid to move. Huddled in this cramped little corner surrounded by the overpowering reek of death. I sit here in the wooden hold, listening to the groaning and screaming of the dying crescendo all around me. Lord knows how many will survive to shore. And father, poor Papa tending to the needy. As usual the stoic apothecary reaching for the leeches to bleed the patient, tending to their humours. My father is a hero to them; even though there is little he can do for them in the dark hold. They are gone when the bulbous appear, lost to their God or whatever redemption they pray for.

We have had to flee from our homeland; gentle, gentile Marseilles is overrun. Father could not cope with the new patients on his daily rounds. They took us hurriedly to Paris, and it followed us there. Papa was to help the gentry, but he soon became anxious and overrun: and then Mama got ill. This bulbous sickness is the worst thing Papa has ever had to deal with. It stole her from us.

So here I sit, motherless, fatherless, completely on my own with my pomander securely fastened to my face. Even still, I can smell the decay, the sweet smell of putrid flesh.

We go to London.

It is clean there thus far, and Papa has hopes of making a new life for us. I am fourteen, barely marrying age and my raven hair betrays us for the Jews we are. Whether we will be welcome in the City of the Saxon we do not know, for our kind is being laid to blame for this pestilence. My fair skin is a grace, perhaps we will be able to hide, to blend in with the other commoners, although we are not of their kind. My father was a reputable medic; his ethic will not allow him to rest where there is suffering. My name is changed from Ruth, my given Hebrew name, to Mary. A good solid English name.

I have made myself as small as I can in my corner but these numerous dying hands keep clawing out for me. I wish I could go back to a time before. When I had more than just the dying for company.

When I was much more than just the apothecaries’ daughter.

Stands and lift your head redemption is drawing near

Luc 21:22

Marseilles 1661

'Hannah! Hannah!'

I am aware as I lay on my back in the corn, the magnificent golden sun beating down on my flushed skin that far away, someone is calling my name. It reverberates around my head for a second as I question if it was reality or my imagination. I have been daydreaming again, watching the perfect white clouds in the azure sky forming their patterns. Creating animals, people I've known and those I am yet to meet: humming softly to myself the songs of Provence, the day lazily passing in reverie. I sit up urgently and frown, shaking my head out of the dream which keeps pulling me back to her safety. I look down at myself, my linen dress is covered in corn dust which I hurriedly sigh over and brush away from its creases. I stand, rather unsteadily as I have been lying down for hours. The sight of Marseilles always takes my breath away. From here in the golden field of corn I can see the grape and olive vines growing further up the rolling hill. Standing tall on the top is the Castille de Vaux le Vicante, the virgin protectors, built to guard us from attack from the North. An attack which has not yet come. Down from here is the port town and the magnificent Sapphire sea housing tiny wooden boats, some visiting to port: some making their way for the vast expanse before them.

'Hannah, Hannah, Ou est Vous?'

The call comes again, snapping me away from another dream I was too ready to fall into. And then, I see her. Or rather I see her hair wrappings as she climbs the hill. It's only Sylvie our servant. She moves slowly through the corn, her hair wrapped in material of pure blood crimson, pulling up her heavy skirts almost to her ankles; obviously puffing and panting in her concern. I move towards her deftly, poor Sylvie, probably summoned by my mother to locate her wayward daughter - yet again.

'Sylvie, Comme ca?!'

I skip towards her, smiling as she comes into full view, sweat is dripping from her forehead - her cheeks flame red.

'Hannah, what on earth are you doing all the way up here on a day like today? What if THEY had decided that today was the day to invade Marseilles?'

She looks at me genuinely distraught, taking stock of my light summer dress and fussing lightly over me like an old mother goose. The fact that she is only a few years older than me is irrelevant, I am her ward. She knows full well that I have been up here amusing myself with my stories and impossible dreams. She catches her breath and sighs an impossibly long winded sigh.

'One of these days Hannah, I'm going to be unable to climb up this old hill and if they do decide to invade they will surely steal you away from us and; Sacre Bleu, Lord knows what will become of you'

I find this highly amusing and take her by the arm as we make our way home down the hill to the Jewish quarter of the old port town

'What exactly do you dream of in that head of yours? Where do you go?'

'That would be telling'

I giggle. In truth most of my dreams are very menial. Escaping France, escaping the war. I have few friends of my own age. Young men of my age are sent to lessons to learn the Torah. Girls are taught to look pretty and prepared for marriage. I laugh at myself internally for thinking this, the dreams that I dare to dream are of independence, of carrying on my father's work.

'Bonne Hannah, ma petite Ceur: your Papa has returned home this day'

'Papa? He is home from Provence?' I quicken my pace slightly to almost a skip. My father, my hero has returned.

'Mon petit Fleur, he's only been gone a week!'

Yes, a short time I know but I am my father’s shadow. There is only me. A rarity for a Jewish family. One girl. I am aware that they all whisper of the poor apothecary, his barren wife and the simple child. But we are happy. Mama is content and Papa is the most dedicated physician in the South of France. What he reads is mine to read. I devour his journals on medicine and his writing on physic, humours and new illnesses. In a fairer world than this I would be free to follow in his footsteps. Instead I am shackled to a dress, made to look pretty and learn the newest dances until I become old enough to marry and bear children.

The Jewish quarter is alive today, stalls of the finest clothes and gold, silks, traded goods, all easily accessible now from the new worlds by boat. The smells of leaven bread cooking the traditional way, on heated stones. Life is good. Papa is home.

As soon as I walk in through the front door I loose all sense of decorum and run straight for the small but perfectly adequate sitting room. I know that my father will be there having a medicinal cup of Burgundy. As I opened the traditional French shuttered door, I see my mother has pushed her embroidery stand fully back against the wall; unusual for a mid morning for her not to be sewing even if my father is home. Then, the sight makes me stop in my tracks, I look at her face. She is pale, biting her lower lip and has red circles around her eyes. Both her hands fiddle anxiously in the creases of her dress, knitted fingers, knuckles taught and whitened. Her manner and demeanour is quite changed from the cool, easy mother I left and kissed goodbye to this morning. I open the door further. My father is sitting clutching an opened piece of parchment, on it a red seal. He is also gripping his knee tightly looking strained. They are not alone. As they turn to see the opening door, I see in the usually unoccupied wooden guest chair a huge man. Possibly the largest man I have ever seen before in my life. It is not only his size that takes me aback and makes me raise my hand to my chest to stop myself from rudely gasping: but his ferocious face. The anger and almost disgust in his eyes, the uneasiness in his stance. He obviously does not want to be here.

'Hannah!' Papa exclaims joyfully and gets up from his chair to greet me putting a large, warm hand on the small of my back, no doubt to comfort me. He looks at me intently with his caring brown eyes, urging me further into the room. All the traces of earlier stress and concern have all but disappeared.

'Monsieur Laraux, this is my daughter Hannah'

Papa pushes me gently towards the horrified stranger who for a second actually seems more frightened of me than I of him. The giant snorts loudly and gives me a look, staring at me from my head to my toes. I - being well versed in the etiquette and manners this buffoon is lacking - raise my hand towards him and give the smallest and shortest of courtesies. What he does next is horrific in my eyes, he reaches into his jerkin and produces the hugest kerchief I have ever seen, and places it over his hand, takes my hand and abruptly drops it. Very undignified indeed.

'Mademoiselle'

He greets in a gruff voice. He steps back as if afraid to catch some disease from me. I dislike him intensely, and cannot help but emote this through my eyes. The heat of my stare on him makes him bow his head and stare at the floorboards, highly amusing. He stutters:

'Professor, I will take my leave, Adieu'

He uses the same uncouth technique to take my father’s hands. He does not even bother to bow at him as he forces his way out of the sitting room out into the golden sun and the heat of Midday.

Papa, obviously seeing a mix of intense horror and confusion in my eyes, guides me to sit in the guest chair. . I panic slightly as he takes his seat in the high-backed wooden chair next to mine, and gives my mother a meaningful but quick glance. She responds by nodding slowly, smiling sadly. I turn to look at pap's face, his eyes almost black, lines of dedication etched around them; the result of many nights without proper sleep. He does not possess any of the prominent Jewish traits in his face; he is fair, with dark eyes, like any other man of southern France. He places an understanding hand on my knee.

'Hannah you must listen to all that I now tell you and understand it fully. You are old enough not to be deceived, and sharp enough not to believe the lie.'

I nod at him in agreeance. I know of his work and the danger that he faces in doing it.

“That: gentleman: if that's the word you want to use was a messenger of the Royal court. It seems like the end of days has come again to La France. You know what I mean, don't you daughter?’

I had read enough of my father’s work to know the turn of phrase was reserved for a disease everyone feared. A disease called the ‘black death’. I nod again taking in every single word that he tells me.

‘The messenger bought me a commission, on this parchment Hannah, the virulence has reached Provence; I had to treat it there. It will soon be on our doorstep. They are so desperate for the best apothecaries they have summoned a Jew'

He bursts into a fit of laughter. Personally I cannot find what makes this so funny. It makes perfect sense to me; he is the finest apothecary in the South of France. All people in Marseilles know this. I am more concerned about the return of the death.

'We are to stay here for the time being Hannah, my sweet child. If and when the Court succumbs, and I am alive and well: we will be summoned to Paris to give aid there. You have read all my writings on the illness of bulbous have you not?'

Again all I can do is nod. I remember this illness most of all, because I remember thinking it was such a horrific way to die.

'Hannah, three quarters of Marseilles will die before this is through: I need you, my little aid, in these times. Please come down to my laboratory when you have had time to recover from the news. I would very much like to start on work'

He gets up and kisses both Mama and I on the top of the head and retires from the room. I sit in awe. Feeling like the young girl I truly am, unable to comprehend how serious the situation really is.

I will give you peace and quietness

Genesis 21:22

I feel as though I have not seen daylight in months. So standing here in the humble grounds of my family home my eyes scream at me and burn in the unforgiving sun. It is late summer. I still see the same bright blue sky, the same patterns in the clouds, but it also seems to me that the days of all my childish dreaming are well and truly over. I sit quietly in the kissing chair in front of the parlour window and extend my hands so that they are level with my eyes. I stare at my hands. So much change in so little time. My small, childlike hands are both red raw, chapped and covered in calluses of hard skin produced, of course, by hard endeavour. I haven't even had the courage to look at myself in a mirror. I know that I will have dark circles and pits underneath my eyes and that I will look years older than my few years. I close my eyes a second and the heat of the day makes me drift a little. It is two months now since Francoise joined us here. Since he was adopted by my father as his ward.

I must admit I was more than taken with him, on that day of his arrival. I drift further back, thinking of that day...

It was early morning at the beginning of July, warm with a light breeze rolling in off the sea. I remember smelling the saline in the air that morning whilst collecting lavender from the garden. The dew was still on the ground and I had just rejoined my father in the laboratory. A small, plain black cab had rolled up onto our drive and stopped outside the door. Sylvie burst into Papa's laboratory like a woman possessed and announced the arrival of the cab to my father, who seemed to know automatically who it was. Papa and I had been hard at work since the break of dawn; we were still making the magic sanitising powder. I looked to Papa, his face is virtually aglow with excitement, and it is all that he can do to politely push Sylvie to one side and dash up the old stairs. I still have a cold marble pestle and mortar in my hands. I lay these down on the workbench before me, tying the golden headscarf that I have holding my hair out of my eyes tightly against my forehead and tiding any loose strands of hair I have hanging over my shoulders. I brush myself down hurriedly with my raw hands and try to make myself look more like a young lady than a servant. I wash my hands hurriedly and dip them in the rosewater bowl, inhaling sharply as the sting burns through my skin. I follow my father up the stairs, followed hotly on the heels by Sylvie who is dying to see who the 'visitor' is. I remember at the very top step that my work apron is still tied around my waste, so I fumble with the knot around the back and hand it to Sylvie who makes a small ball of it and places it in her huge apron pocket.

It must have been very daunting for him to see us all there lined up in the doorway waiting to greet him. If he was nervous then he did not show it at all. He walked silently towards my father who kissed him on each cheek as was the custom and gave him the warmest of hugs.

I studied his features - perhaps a little too hard - as he came closer. He gave me a shy smile from underneath his long, dark eyelashes. He was built very slim, but muscular; slightly taller than I. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His eyes are what caught me, deep brown, drawing a person into them, hypnotising you. It was obvious to anyone at that point that he had been quite seriously ill as his skin had the pale, slightly translucent edge to it. My breath caught somewhere in between my lungs and my throat, I was taken from the first moment that I saw him. I felt the familiar faint blush rising upwards from my chest up my neck and creeping into my cheeks. I tried to maintain dignity by thinking that it was preparation time for us all, inclusive of Francoise. He was here to be studied, anatomically and physically.

Papa extended his arm around Francoise, guiding him masterfully down the line introducing him to Mama, and then the house staff, finally reaching me at the very end. I felt the blush deepen as he once again gave me the same awkward smile. I noticed sincerity about him, a serenity and kindness. I curtsied appropriately and laid my hand out before him, suddenly jerking my arm to a stop remembering the state of my nails and rough appearance of my fingers and hands. He read my reactions perfectly, taking my hand gently but firmly in his and bringing it up to his soft, full lips. My heart beating wildly in my chest, trying to escape, beating so loud I'm sure all in line could hear it. I was getting more and more crimson.

'Hannah, meet Francoise, who has kindly offered to be an aid in these dark times. Francoise this is my daughter, Hannah.' We stared at each other a little too long. Eyes locked together, reading each other. Father turned on his heel, almost dragging Francoise away with him forcing him to let go of my hand. Papa, of course excited to get his work underway and study his newest subject, noticing nothing of what had passed in unspoken words underneath his nose.

That was our first meeting. Francoise and I have only had a few stolen moments since that first meeting. The last outbreak of the death was only but five miles away. We expect Marseilles to be inflicted any day now.

I am brought back to reality by my father calling my name; I stand up rubbing the slumber from my eyes. I shake off the warmth of the day and run down to the cool laboratory, flushed. I resume position by the worktable. We have done as much as we can in the past months in the way of preparation. Hundreds of pomanders; we even handed small favours, or packets of the lilac powder for sanitation, to the local people so that they can wash their floors and their linen. I have never been more exhausted. I stifle a yawn as I prepare yet more of the linen squares. Francoise stands at the other side of the worktable from me. We now have to use twine instead of ribbon and muslin. On the heavy workbench before me everything is laid out. I reach out lazily for a square of material, and feel the warmth of a hand there. I stop in my tracks. I feel some strange energy emanating from his fingers as I look down and skirt the outline of his fingers and ruffled shirt hungrily with my eyes. Following the line of his arm up to his neck, his jawbone and finally lingering on his eyes. I do not blush, but give him a small knowing smile, which his lips reciprocate; neither of us pulling our hands away until Papa walks towards the bench, startling us back into action.

I'm stuck in the daydream again and I think back to the day I spent looking and watching the clouds go by. It seems so far away. In the last few weeks I have mostly felt apprehensive. Dark times lay ahead for us, like a dark wave creeping its way along the outskirts of my home. I am scared out of my wits. I know that we all may die. I will certainly loose people that I love. But those eyes, those eyes with that light within them drive me on.

Foolish perhaps, that he gives me some hope.

Against Babylon the sea Rises, she is overwhelmed by roaring waves

Jeremiah 51:24

May 1662

I have had no sleep in almost three days. My arms ache heavy and numb; my fingers are cold and calloused. I look at the poor sweet lady in front of me, Marguerite; she is a friend of my mothers. It pains me to see her in this delirium. I am beginning to grow accustomed to the workings of this dreaded disease. It so infuriating watching it work its way into each life, into their souls. Yesterday, when Papa, Francoise and I arrived she was sitting in her chair in the ladies parlour, her hands over her ears, mortified. She was otherwise fine, in good health, no symptoms whatsoever. Her husband on the other hand lay writhing in pain on the small chaise, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt drenched in sweat. I have learnt that it always begins thus. Fever to start; a ferocious burning that causes great agitation and, dare I say it, great pain to the poorly. No amount of cold compress, bleeding or physic can abate it. I look in pity upon the ravaged face of my mothers’ closest friend as she moans in discomfort - a lavender compress on her forehead. She is opaque; dense, dark circles between her eyes and cheekbones. Her skin is porcelain, with high crimson coloured spots on her cheeks. Her undergarments stuck to her through sweat. I place a sheet gently under her arms, to cover her modesty more than anything. I feel so helpless.

Her husband, the poor man, is upstairs with Papa and Francoise. He is now much further along, nearer to the icy hands of death. To see such an illness first hand is like truly seeing the Hand of God in action, and watching it as it plays at gambling. I have been afraid, so scared that this hand may pick upon one of those whom I love.

It took Sylvie last week. And I cried, hot tears of remorse for the only friend I had throughout my short life. I am too scared to aid upstairs. I know from the noises I attempt to drown out with singing that he is very ill indeed: that he is vomiting his humours. I also know that by now he will have very little of his life force left to continue, so he will be vomiting blood and innards.

I shake my head and notice that my Lady is in a semi-restful state of slumber. Her eyes move under her bruised eyelids. I pray that she dreams sweetly and that both her and her husband are there together in good health, not suffering here on the mortal plane as their bodies wither and die. I place the back of my hand on her cheek, she still burns ferociously. In a few hours perhaps, the fever will break and she will feel well enough to talk with me, maybe make some polite conversation. She will think that she has taken some steps towards recovery. Ah, how cruel I think. To feel like oneself again before facing certain death. I steady myself on the back of the old wooden chair and will my heavy legs to work.

I walk slowly and unsure how to put one foot in front of another. The sun is setting on Marseilles. It burns deep crimson, low in the sky. It colours the sea a blood red burgundy creeping in the shade of death onto each hut and house. The port itself is closed indefinitely. Down the hills by the quayside burn two huge pyres. Thick black smoke billow from them joining with the ominous darkness swirling like beautiful white clouds of the daytime. I laugh bitterly. This foul, pungent smoke is the burning of the wretched and grateful dead. A smell that will haunt me until the day I die. The plague only hit Marseilles two months ago. For a while we thought our prayers had been answered and our little town of zealots had been spared. Or so we though. In the middle of February: a storm hit us from the sea. A ship - an enormous galleon - came drifting silently to port. It was a ghost ship if there is such a thing. No man was alive on that ship: only her rats scurried to land to tell their tale. And so it begun, sweeping in waves. Taking the rich merchants, and the poor fishermen. Always the same pattern, family after family. Always with the same hour of reprieve before facing their final hours. And Papa, Francoise and I have tended to them all; all writhing and screaming, some even clutching their crucifixes for divine intervention, some shouting profanities at some unseen ghosts. We continue onwards, unharmed and untouched. Papa swears it is the sanitation pomanders that we wear. Francoise believes it is because we have developed some barrier against the pestilence. He calls it ‘Resistance’. In his brief time with us he has become very wise in the physic. Papa is very taken with his natural gift and ability for it. For my sins I am taken with other things.... I light the oil lamp and the candles on the mantelpiece as the last chink of sunlight disappears from view and the long night draws in.

I hear a sudden ghastly scream, a deathly howl and a final, struggled gasp. It falls eerily silent but for the soft laboured breathing of my lady behind me. I turn to take a look at her. Two black bruise like blisters have raised either side of her throat. Bulbous my father calls them. He usually lances them as they appear, placing a draining bowl underneath them. They seem to be full of foul smelling thick, bloody puss. Lancing them does not cure the patient, but it seemingly makes them more comfortable, easing their delirium for a short while. I hear two sets of laboured footsteps on the wooden floor and some soft, gentle talking. They are cleaning. I know the routine. The bedchamber will have to be sanitised. The body will be covered. It will be up to me to stitch the corpse in his blood spattered bed sheets. Lord knows what will happen to him then. The body collector died in the street yesterday. Down the winding streets to the port there are dozens of corpses waiting to be burned on the pyres. They almost lay on top of one another. I am startled by a loud thumping on the door and brought back to my dismal reality with a jolt. I run to answer

'Oui?'

I need no more formalities as this is certainly a call to another house, another dying person.

'Your father, child? Is he here?'

I immediately recognise the man. He is the less-than-gentle man we met a few months ago in our own home. This time he is much changed. There is a wild panic in his eyes. The blue eyes dart from left to right in his swollen face. He has ridden all the way here from Paris; I am sure of it. In one moment I go from distrust to almost admiration.

'Entre Monsieur'

I run upstairs for Papa, knocking softly on the bedchamber door. He nods quickly, motioning for me to stay here with Francoise. This is the first moment we have had together, solely alone, for almost three weeks.
I survey the room quickly. There are bowls of bile, blood and leaches scattered around the wooden floor. The gentleman has already been stripped and lay in his bloody sheet.

'This is no place for you Hannah, I'm so sorry you have to see this'

Francoise speaks softly shaking his head. The passion in his deep voice makes my heart melt.

He hesitated slightly as he said my name...I'm sure of it. I nod at him but continue to clean and sanitise. It's routine; it must be done quickly and efficiently as Papa has taught us.

'Hannah?'

I look at him and there are tears in his eyes. He sits on the edge of the straw mattress with his head in his hands and he sobs. And my heart breaks. So far he has been the strong one, solid as any rock. I walk over to him sitting next to him. Almost afraid to touch him, but I sigh, and take both his tear soaked hands in mine. I tell him how petrified I am, how brave he has been, how this is hell on earth and no one should have to see it lest endure it. All that we can do is attempt to aid the suffering and the passing of the inflicted. He looks at me with those eyes, seeing deep into my soul, understanding that I am as lost as he is. He takes my face in his hands, never looking away from my eyes. He leans in closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips, smell his familiarity enveloping me. I almost want to pout my lips a little to search for his. I need nothing more than their reassurance at the moment. I realise that I am instinctively holding my breath. He is moving closer, I feel the heat radiating off his skin on mine. I close my eyes.

'Francoise? Hannah? Come here at once'

Papa shouts walking up the stairs. We jump apart on the bed once more, he standing on his feet, hands in his pockets; I sat on the end of the bed playing with my skirt, blushing deeply. The time has come. Marseilles is condemned. We must go to Paris to treat the court....

That you will spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them, and that you will save us from death. "

Joshua 2:13

Paris December 1663

Today is my birthday. I am finally 14. Old enough to run my own home, to take a husband if I so wish, to do everything expected of a middle class lady. I am finally beginning to understand and fully realise the drawbacks of my father's life. The responsibility that comes with being an ‘adult’.

Paris with all it's finery and grandiose is all but taken. Houses are being looted, burning to the ground, empty, dead and dying. It's eerie sitting here in the small, dingy rented apartment listening to the black rats shuffle their way along the shadows. In the darkness of the city there are stray dogs howling to the now full moon. Their owners gone; either fortunate enough to have escaped to the countryside of inner France, or laying dead in their blood-soaked bedclothes in the street. There is no one left to burn them, even though the numerous pyres still burn. It is a shell of a city. Common people, well, they have flocked together in the churches, only to fall before Him, their God, on their knees and die.

I am so cold. Oblivious to all that is going on around me. I have work to do. I listen a moment to the sound of the whistling in the ash filled grate and a chill runs down my spine. I may be old enough to take my own husband and home, but am I mature enough to say goodbye?

I turn to look at the small bed and the smaller broken body upon it. My heart feels like a block of marble. I am so angry I want to scream; so utterly exhausted I could sleep for a week; and so disgusted at my faith and my pitiful God that I could swear allegiance with any stray demon. Above all I am...empty.

I sit on the small wicker stool by the cot bed. I reach down for the bottle of lavender water by my feet and pour it into a delicate glass bowl full of warmed water. I begin to wash the body before me, asking myself why I bothered to warm the water. I look at the hands first, barely larger than mine, nails cleanly cut and manicured. No hard work ever done by them. The hand is stiff in mine, the rigor has set in. I take a small piece of cloth torn from the bed sheet and wash gently between each slim finger. Moving slowly from the palm and up the arm I stop to take a look at the bulbous. It looks like a black bruise, slightly raised. I trace around it with my finger. It looks so out of place on this slim white arm. The arm resists my movements all the while, but I continue washing around, underneath. Treating her with dignity all the while.

I pull down the bed sheet slightly; it is still damp with stale sweat. I adjust her bodice, tying her laces at the top tightly and neatly. I stand up and expose the small feet; they are turning a shade of purple that is both disturbing and beautiful at the same time. I stop and stare ashamedly above the knee. Here I can see an open wound of a lanced pit. Papa said not to touch, but I care not any more. I reach out my hand to clean the open bulbous. She deserves better than to be left with a monstrosity like that.

I sit down again, my legs quivering slightly. I gently and tenderly un-braid her hair and brush it through. It feels alive and soft in my hands, almost like wound silk. I gag involuntarily as the smell of her hair fills my nostrils. It smells of olive groves and cornfields; the warm sun. The smell of home. I look down to her neck and straighten her crucifix so it falls on her collarbone where she liked to wear it. She suffered silently with her God.

I run my fingers slowly and gently along her dark silky brows, the skin there soft and delicate but cold as stone: down to the arch of her nose, to her full lips. I sigh and close her dark staring eyes. She looks at peace.

I get the instinct to place my head for one last time on her stomach. It is the child within me that needs comforting. I bend over her body and place my hand and head there.

"Hannah" she groans softly

Stifling a scream I jump up knocking the bowl, shattering it into a thousand pieces on the floor, sending the chair flying across the room. I close my eyes and sink to my knees. I feel two strong arms around me and I sob uncontrollably. I have no tears. Only anger, resentment and hatred.

He pulls me up to my feet and cradles me to his chest allowing me to vent my tumult at him. He kisses the top of my head and lays his cheek gently on my crown, all the time holding me close and stroking my hair.

We stand in the debris, Francoise and I for what seems like hours. I sob, he silently comforts.

This is my final memory of France.

This is my final memory of my mother.

Vii

Be still in the presence of the LORD, and wait patiently for him to act. Don't worry about evil people who prosper or fret about their wicked schemes.

Psalm 37:7

London 1664

It is all that I can do not to kiss the floor as we depart the ship in which we have been cooped up in for almost a week. I do not turn my head to watch the crew bringing out the numerous dead on their stretchers. It is a blessed relief to see the sunlight again, even though the sun here is weak and cold compared to that of home. The sky is a pale grey. Almost watery. Such a stark contrast to La France.

As I stand here, I feel utterly lost. The great port of London is alive and thoroughly bustling with energy. People are running to and fro, unloading and loading cargo with ropes that have seen better days, shouting in heavy accents at one another. Small market stalls litter the port itself and the adjoining alleyways leading away to the main town. Here they sell a menagerie of goods: everything from ale and French cheeses to unusually shaped purses and protection trinkets. The City itself seems to be surrounded in high stone walls. Perhaps some protection measure? There are so many people here, faces of all colours, speaking a variety of different languages. I smile internally, knowing all of a sudden that we will not have much trouble disappearing into the droves. I look over to Papa who is standing tall by my side, staring and cataloguing, almost as wide eyed as I am. He looks aged and exhausted. I try to remember if we have even eaten in the last few days. I know for a fact that I was almost confined to my one corner of the dark hull. I offer him my hand and give him a small smile. His eyes tell me that all is well and everything will be fine.

The great river Thames flows behind us. Unlike our great rivers it is brown and littered with small punting boats and livestock carriers heading to market. There is even a barge in the distance flying the Royal flag. It smells very different here. I think I have become accustomed to the smell of the funeral pyre laced with the strong scent of burning incense. Here, although I can smell the slops and animals and people, the air is almost fresh. At this I shiver slightly. Even though it is mid March, there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground which is crisp, white and clean. My Marseilles fashion winter dress and my thin shawl is far from adequate for this uncharted territory. Taking another quick look around I notice a gaggle of vocal prostitutes by the unloaded cargo, heckling some sailors. They are drinking some beverage directly from the bottles and I notice that even they have furs and have not bared their shoulders. The prostitutes in London must be rich indeed.

Francoise returns to my father. He also looks tired and older, also pale and contemplative. He has found an inn a few streets down for us to stay tonight. We can look for lodgings from there, somewhere more suitable. I feel the need to remove myself as quickly as possible from this bustling port. Too many people always make me uncomfortable and nervous. I urge my father to grab his travelling pouch and to hide his purse. Francoise grabs my arms and directs me to move.

He leads us quickly up one alleyway then another one. This City is like a rabbits warren of tiny cobbled alleyways. His hand holds onto mine as if he is afraid to loose me, he directs Papa with his swift French and expressive eyes. We pass countless taverns with their rowdy drunks rolling in the snow in front of their open doors. And finally we come to the one we are looking for. The buildings here are also very different to the ones back home. They are mostly towering, grey structures. Bland, and unwelcoming. Even the alleyways are different to the large open straw-strewed roads of Marseilles. Here is all bland, cold looking. This building looks more like a goal. The stone outside is neither welcoming nor hospitable. As if sensing my hesitance, Francoise puts his arm around my waist urging me forwards. I look up to my father doubtfully. He is watching the both of us silently: his eyes almost approving. I look to the other eyes I crave for; they are cool, deep and brown. Calm, but reassuring. We enter the inn together. Inside is dark, but warm and lit slightly by a huge fire roaring in the hearth. It is a heart-warming welcome from the cold. The interior is hardly decorated but strewn with wood, benches, tables, and floorboards and all strewn with coarse straw matting. But it is at least clean. Papa takes the seats by the fire, orders cheese, broth, bread and warm mead. He talks about his great plans to find lodgings, to Francoise mostly, ignoring me.

I watch the people in the gloomy room. There are a few w****s here too, clucking about some men in the corner. Plying their trade, spending their earned pennies on ale. There are three or four solemn looking men in the opposite corner tutting and laughing at them, and then becoming engrossed in their backgammon. Occasionally a spatter of laughter comes from them.

My eyes drift lazily to a corner of the inn which is much darker than the others. I squint into the gloom, sure that I can see something there shifting in the shadows. My eyes adjust to the darkness and fix on his eyes. They are almost as dark as his surroundings, although the whites of his eyes make him noticeable. Suddenly before I get to grips with this connection we have in the eyes, he is stalking across the floor, heavily across the floorboards. He grabs me roughly by the throat with his dirty hands, stifling my scream as it rises from my lungs. My heart beats like a caged animal beneath my ribs. I am stunned, my hands grab for assistance while my legs involuntarily flail in the air. My eyes stare pleadingly at Francoise and Papa who are dumbstruck half standing watching the man's every move. I can smell his dirty fingers on me, and his foul, obnoxious breath against my cheek. He sneers into my ear

"I know what you are, little French w***e. I know..." and he squeezes a little harder to emphasise his point. I let out an involuntary gag.

"Let her go...NOW" Francoise grabs the cheese knife and brandishes it at him like a weapon. But this only makes his hold on my tighten making me see small white stars.

"She your w***e, boy?”

He laughs and chokes as he throws me to the floor by Francoise’s feet. Within seconds Francoise is also on his knees by my side, still pointing the weapon at the man. I take stock and look at my assailant. He is filthy, stocky and pointing at the three of us. He decides to take the floor, growling:

"You scum bring in the dark with you…you b******s of France. You will be the death of this country I swear to you all this day! Get rid of the lot of 'em!!

They and their whoring ways will send us all to HELL"

He hocks up from the back of his throat and spits in my face; quickly retreating as Papa chases him from the inn. Unable to control the disgust and horror I feel I begin to weep silently into my own hands. I feel Francoise raising me back to the bench wiping my face and pressing a warm cup of mead to my lips. I open my eyes. The inn is silent. All eyes are on me.

I burn with shame.

viii

Blessed are those pure of heart, for they will be loved

1665

I wrap my woollen shawl around me, hugging my freezing fingers as close as I can under my arms for more warmth. I sit on the window sill in the small tenement in St Giles The Field. We have now been here for ten months. It took us quite a while to get this tenure, but the small house is ideal for us. Small but comfortable and we have made it home. It is a very poor part of London, just outside the City gates. The parish is rather overcrowded, but it has a good Christian Community. We have been accepted into their flock as a part of ‘them’, even attending their Christian worshiping on a Sunday. Ah, he is the same God after all. Papa has established himself as a healer with Francoise at his side, quite the dashing apprentice. I am more than satisfied to stay and watch after the duties of the home. I'm hardly a spinstress at fifteen after all! Father and Francoise have been called out this day to attend to a fever victim. Nothing untoward. All in a day's work. Having finished my duties for the time being I can afford a little time to dream.

I watch the children through the bottle glass windows, playing in the streets without a care in the world. I sit and daydream watching the small white flakes fall from the grey clouds as if they are shedding their own skins! The children, poor things they must be cold; are throwing balls of the powdered stuff at each other. They slip and slide and laugh, their faces pinched and reddened by the cold. It was not so long ago that I was like they are now. Playing my day away under an altogether warmer sky. It seems so far away now, another world entirely. I giggle to myself feeling quite the grown up, getting up to stoke the fire and put the pewter kettle on to boil. I survey my handy work. Bread baked, broth boiled. The rooms are swept and matted with straw liners. All I have to do now is await the arrival of my father and his apprentice.

As if summoned from the thoughts in my head the latch of the front door clicks steadily; it is Francoise. I smile happily, but then as I take a step towards him I stop dead in my tracks. He is flushed from walking in the freezing temperatures but his face is the epitome of worry. His dark brows are knitted together, his eyes look as me seriously. I have seen this look before and I sit on the bench by the huge hearth to await the news I know is coming.

"It's back Mon petite Fleur"

He rushes to my side and takes me in his arms. I know what he's talking about. It's followed us here. I shake my head uncontrollably.

"Non, Non! We left it behind in France, it has been ten months! How can it be here too? All these people? Good God fearing people"

He does not let me finish.

"It will take them as it took La France, you know this" He takes both my hands in his.

"Papa?"

I look up at him trying to read his face. This morning that started so normally breaking into a million pieces.

"He is with the patient. A man of very little wealth. He will surely be dead by morning."

I try with all my heart and soul take this new information in. The petulance has followed us to London. The pale rider and his white horse are upon us. We all face death once again with a heavy heart.

"Anything in the whisperings of the people? Are there any more dying?"

He looks at me trying to gauge his answer

"Non, nothing yet. Hannah? I wanted to talk to you this day. We have lived through this in France, both of us. We can do it again"

Unable to see where this conversation is headed I sit on the bench, pleating the starched white of my apron and listening to the crackle of the fire.

He hesitates and this is more worrying to me than his concern.

"Little Hannah, you know that I love you and my life would not be the same without you in it"

I frown. This was most unexpected. A declaration of an unspoken love, broken, after the news of the return of the death? He takes a seat next to me again taking my hands in his.

"Your Papa has consented for you to be my wife. I want you to be my wife. Will you have me? I know I am not good enough for you, you deserve much more after all that you have seen. How hard you have worked"

My breath catches in my throat and I am completely unable to give him an answer. I swallow hard and answer him honestly but quietly.

"I love you, from the first moment I saw you. I am so scared" He grips my hands tighter, one of his hands gently travelling up my own to my face.

"You have no need to fear my angel" And with that I move towards him and place both my arms around him. Dying a little in the depth of his eyes I close mine and kiss him. I kiss him for the first time, and what feels like the last time. Our lips, firm but soft, move together in harmony and my heart sings for him, and him only. Lost in his embrace, I know that I never want to be without him. I break for a moment.

"Please, listen to me for one moment" I regain my composure and think about how I'm going to approach this delicate of subjects, but this is no time to be scared when something far larger is beating at the door.

"Francoise, I will marry you tomorrow if you will have me and if I am alive and well" He now looks confused, as if I am about to change my mind and refuse him.

"What if I die?" He still looks bemused; I sigh, sometimes we need to be blunt with men. Those were Mama's words.

"I do not want to die un..untouched" I try and read his reactions. He will not die, as he is remarkably immune to this disease.

Silently he presses his finger to my lips, and I close my eyes. His hands lower gently to my neck. We do not need words. Our lips brush gently against one another and a chill runs down my spine as he opens the lacing on the front of my smock dress. Responding to his touch I slip off his long coat and begin unbuttoning his shirt. His hands move swiftly, causing goose flesh on my skin. The heat of the fire on our bare skin. I study his tanned chest, muscular but slim, running my fingers slowly along his shoulders. He is learning the curves of mine and touching with the lightest of fingers. I sigh at his caress.

We look at each other.

Not one word is uttered.

We give ourselves over exchanging our bodies and souls, for fear of death.

'I will sweep away everything in your land' Said the Lord

Zephaniah 1:2

Despair has come quickly upon London. There is nothing more than we can do but watch, helplessly. I sit at what has become my resting place, by the window. A very different scene plays before me now. It is as if the gloomy grey of the watery sky has fallen on the desolate streets before me. The small stone built dwellings look deserted; doors are closed; small un-paned windows draped in black material. Their small doors have been marked with white chalk crosses. These are the houses of ghosts now, or the soon to pass over. No stray dogs or cats wander the streets any more searching for their rare scraps. They were mostly culled a few weeks ago killed as carriers of this plague. It only seems that the hand of God has redeemed their deaths by taking that of their murderers. He has exalted his wrath in a fiery vengeance. The King himself has fled to the countryside taking his folly court with him. The City gates are all closed, no one leaves, and no one enters. All doomed to the same fate. Waiting for their deaths to greet them.

I hear the bells a daily toll being chimed to the shout of 'bring out yer dead!'. I hear his echoing shouts before the macabre body collector comes into view. His booming voice and bell reverberates around the empty streets his words carried upon the wind, echoing from the stone. He appears; veiled from head to toe in a black robe. Hooded, the heavy cloak covers his feet. Upon his face he wears a farcical white clay mask. It covers all his features reminding me somewhat of the marionettes of my homeland. His nose is elongated and curled over, almost to his chin. Some of the womenfolk were discussing that he may cover his face because he is a leper. The lepers, who never entered the city before, are who I now spot scavenging in the houses of the dead for wares or even new dwellings. Isn't it funny how the tables turn.

I observe as he shuffles his way slowly and painfully towards the small well in the centre of the square, the wind blowing his robed figure, never quite whipping it up and exposing his feet. The large bell he rings in one hand. His booming voice is thick with a London accent. He lays the bell down on the cart. The cart is wooden and ancient almost full to the brim with bloated bodies. Arms, legs, some parts indescribable; hanging stiffly from the sides. Where he takes them Lord only knows. They are not burning bodies on pyres here. I can only imagine that they must be laid to rest together in a large lime lined hole in the ground. An unmarked mass grave for the uncared for.

I look away feeling suddenly sick and disorientated. A wave of nausea hits me and I have to place my head in my hands for a second. I stand and try to compose myself, placing both my hands on my waist and inhaling deeply, blowing through my lips. I say a little prayer in my head. Could this be the beginning of my end? Feeling the blood rushing and pounding in my head I decide to try a tonic of some sort just to give me some strength for the next few hours. I walk slowly over to the herbs and preserve shelf. I grab a pewter mug, pouring a goodish amount of honey into it, I add ginger, and some lemon rind from Marseilles and pour warm water over everything from the small hearth kettle. I then sit on the bench by the kitchen table and sit to stir the mixture. I let my mind drift a little.

I have been a married woman for all of three days. Our wedding was rushed, small but well meant and to me it was beautiful. Even through the noise of the dead collector in the background, our vows were meant and heartfelt. I cannot imagine my life with anyone else but him. Francoise looked like he had gone to heaven, although my dress was ill fitting and simple. In the eyes of our Lord we promised ourselves to one another for life, although feeling this nauseous I am unsure for how long my life will now be. It seems like the death has come calling for me. I shake myself away from the thought as I hear the floorboards creak upstairs.

I listen intently to the tone of the talking upstairs. It sounds very sombre. Papa took himself to his chamber yesterday. I know he has been unwell for a few days. I know he has not got 'the death'. I don't know what is wrong but he seems to be breaking his heart. Being unable to remedy this plague, and then the affront of London has broken him. Francoise says that his heart has broken, that he is a broken man. Looking into Papa's old tired eyes I see a shift in him but I am selfish and do not want him to give up on life. I weep silently into my drink and say another prayer-that this hell will soon be over. And that we will all live in peace.

The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.

Corinthians 5:17

I close my eyes and dream. Dream of a time when I was free to do as I pleased. To run around bare foot in the warm sunshine of my home, my skirts flying behind me the golden sun beating down on my skin; warm soft earth beneath my bare feet. Although I know it was only a false freedom. A glimmer. I hear a soft voice calling me but it seems so very far away. Distant but familiar, the girl in my dream recognises it and stops. I decide to ignore it and bask in the glorious scenario in my head. Somewhere on the outside, a cold soft cloth is pressed to my face. This pulls me a little further into reality, clouds cover the sun and it becomes darker, cold and grey.

I shiver uncontrollably as the sun seems to have lost it's friendly warmth. And then as I look down towards the port town of Marseilles, I see then and feel the vibration of their marching beneath my feet. Walking up the hill towards me is an army. Not an army of men, but an army of the dead. I can't help myself but to look at them and study. Some of them are merely walking skeletons, the others; the newly dead, hands and fingers bloated, reaching out for me. They moan my name. Some of the women hold their dead children to their breasts. All their eyes are vacant and grey. I scream, although what I hear myself doing it moan loudly, and turn to run away. But I am stuck. I look down at my feet and I am shackled, I cannot move. So I observe the hideous hoard coming for me, arms outstretched begging for me to join their number. In the dream I struggle against my shackles as the crowd approach me. I swear that I can smell their decomposing. Their fingers are all over my face, I scream and beat my arms wildly against them. Again I hear the voice call my name, and then two strong arms are around me. Thinking it is one of the zombies I struggle against them and scream once more, until they softly rock me. I am pulled quickly from the dream. My eyes flicker open.

I am in the upstairs room, Francoise sits next to me on the bed, rocking me gently in his arms. I look at him, his big brown eyes full of concern. I throw my arms around him fully aware that I am soaked in sweat feeling no need to hide away any shame from him. He kisses me gently on the cheek. We both know that there is something wrong. In some unspoken communications between us, we convey both our worries and I inspect my inner arms, and my calves. Breathing a large sigh of relief, when I find nothing there to indicate that I am infected. He takes my face in his hand and kisses me gently. Still holding me as if I am about to disappear he speaks.

'I don't know if it's exhaustion that's causing you to dream so vividly, or feel so unwell. I'm relieved every morning when you wake up. But I really don't know what's causing you to be so sick Hannah, my heart'

I see that in his eyes he thinks that he has failed. Just as stoic an apothecary as my father ever was.

Suddenly I feel another wave of nausea roll over me and I run over to to the small chamber bucket under the window and release my stomach into it. I really have no idea why I am clear of the plague. I do not vomit blood, only the contents of my now hungry stomach. Looking out of the window the sun is trying to fight with some watery grey cloud very low in the sky. There is no warmth in this sun, no consolation to be taken from it. I guess the time as being very early in the morning.

I turn to look at Francoise, who has already brought me a chamomile infusion.

'How is Papa' I ask hesitantly knowing the answer already in my mind, praying to myself silently that it will be different to what I anticipate. He shakes his head slowly.

'Weak Hannah, he has called for you. That is why I came to wake you, and for once I am glad I did. You look so peaceful when you sleep deeply. This morning though it looked like you were facing demons in your dreams'

I rejoin him on the small pallet bed, he looks warn tired and old. This man I call my husband, all of eighteen years and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He hands me the infusion which I drink readily, and a small oat biscuit which he has prepared himself during my illness. Poor Francoise. Always trying to do his utmost for others, so unselfish. I finish my meagre meal placing my cold hand on his warm skin. I will some strength into myself for him. He smiles at me and I grab my clothes from the small stool by the bed, tidying myself up to farewell with my father.

Before I enter the small room, Francoise places his hands on my shoulders to steady me and I draw a big breath from this comfort. I turn to look at him and he kisses me softly on the lips. It is time. I open the door and see him there. The scene is perfectly still and serene. The grey light of the morning seeps in through the open window casting long shadows from the bed down to my feet. There he lays, perfectly still. My saviour, my idol, my father. I run to the bedside and fall to my knees taking his hand cold and colourless in mine, kissing his fingers and gently running it on my cheek. Willing it to warm up and become strong as it once was. It is in vain. As I look up at his gentle face I see the shadow of death around his lips and nose. He has given up. His warm brown eyes have lost their dance and now look dull. He studies my face smiles weakly. We both know we are here to say goodbye.

'My beautiful daughter' he whispers softly. The effort required for this soft breath evident in his eyes. He inhales deeply.

'Life will change for you now, for the better. Know this before I face my Lord and God. You have always been more than a daughter to me. You have also been my pupil, my friend Hannah. Forget not who you are and where you came from. Who your people are. And know that your father loved you dearly, you and your choice of husband. Goodbye by heart, my Hannah. I am ready.' He smiles quietly and resting his head on the pillow. He motions to Francoise and whispers into his ear, before taking a final long breath and exhaling it deeply.

Francoise lays his arm gently on my shoulder. The other around my waist to support me as I stand on weary legs.

Papa is gone.

The morning is then a blur. I have no time to grieve. I sew him into fine linen sheets and talk softly to him as I used to, telling him my symptoms. Trying to control my nausea whilst Francoise prepares a small hole in the back of the tenure. We will bury him here, I do not wish for my father to become one of the faceless, nameless hoard in a mass grave pit. He will rest behind this small house. I am both sad and relieved. It is me and my Francoise now only. The two of us to face life together, and whatever it may throw at us.

As Francoise buries my father I sing a Piyyt a poem I remember from my scant Hebrew learnings. I sing quietly although all our neighbours have either left or are dead. Francoise pats the remainder of the cold, hard earth with a makeshift shovel and holds my hands as I finish. The plague has taken from me, but it has also given back. He looks down at me gauging my reaction. As I look into his eyes, he looks more at ease than he has in months. Turning to me he kisses my head, and places his hand on my stomach. As he does this I feel a fluttering there. I frown and think back, piecing the puzzle together. Nausea, vivid dreams....

Everything now falls into place. Papa had whispered to Francoise with his last breath. Life will now change for us. It is no longer me and Francoise, but our family. I am with child. How did I miss this?

Francoise takes my face in both his hands and kisses my lips tenderly and warmly. He smiles at me holding me close to him. We turn our backs on the grave site. Ready for a new life.

A new beginning.