A/N and it's Friday again - where does the week go? Even a short one thanks to my weekend in London; but there you go.
In the face of last week's cliffhanger, I can but stress that, when you trap a group of people in a confined space with a deadly disease, they're not all going to come out of it alive. For the sake of realism, there will be a considerable outbreak of mortality - but, who shall live, and who shall die? All I can say is: read on to find out...
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Into the Light
Sussex is pale, but composed, as he and Cromwell watch over the barring of the doors that shall enclose them in the west wing of Fenton's manor house, "God help us, Mr Cromwell - but I give thanks that her Majesty is to remove and be safe."
The page is confined to a small chamber at the top of the house, while the rest have been moved to the other end of the attics, all of them horribly afraid, for they were in the dormitory with the youth who took sick. What if there are bad humours within that room that have infected them?
Gage has taken it upon himself to tend to the youth, on the grounds that the boy is the son of a faithful retainer to whom he promised good care, while Lady Fenton has - with great courage - insisted upon remaining with her guests to see to their comfort while her husband and children remove to the Dower House with the Regent. As the kitchens are entirely separate from the house, to avoid the risk of fire, the provision of victuals can continue - though the dishes shall be set in the porch, and collected by one of the senior stewards of Sussex's household. Just as those poor wretches of the slums are obliged to be shut up in their houses when the plague enters, so shall they be.
Petre crosses to join them, "I have set aside a chamber for us to use as a meeting place while we are able." He advises, "As long as we are free of this sickness, there is no reason why we should not continue to operate as a Council. My chief steward shall receive dispatches from London, which shall be dropped at the gatehouse and passed through by those who are there. The upper chambers are being prepared for those who take sick, in hopes that we can confine the humours that are exuded and thus keep ourselves away from them."
Cromwell nods. He is not surprised at their behaviour. Both Gage and Petre have shown for a long time that their remedy for a fearful situation is to keep themselves occupied. It is his own preferred method, and Sussex appears to be of the same mind. It is also the means by which he tends to keep Rich from becoming overwrought in stressful situations - though his colleague is rather conspicuous by his absence.
"Where is the Rat?" Sussex asks, as though he has heard Cromwell's thoughts.
"I have asked him to set aside a small chamber to use as an office in order to keep her Majesty informed of matters in the House, there he shall compile reports which shall be passed in exchange for those which come from London." Cromwell advises, though he did so over two hours ago, and such duties do not take that long. Rich is not a brave man - they all know it, even he knows it. Their collective mettle is to be tested sorely in the coming days, and some shall face it with more fortitude than others. Were he to claim to be unafraid, then he would be a liar; for all his encroaching age, he remains wedded to the joy of life, and is not ready to relinquish his place in the world just yet.
The kitchens have served a mutton stew with bread, all delivered to the porch, and the servants who have not been fortunate to have been outside the wing prior to its closure busy themselves with serving it to the gathered Councillors. Their own portion awaits, and shall be consumed later. Gage has still not come down from the upper attic, and Lady Fenton remains absent for the same reason, while Rich has finally emerged, and sits before his dish, staring at the stew and apparently unable to contemplate consuming it.
"I am told that a dispatch has come from London." Petre advises, dipping a small morsel of bread into his gravy, "Her Majesty has viewed it, and sent it on to us."
Cromwell nods, "Good, we shall consider it this afternoon, though if there is a chamber free to do so, I think I shall set it aside for devotions. There is little else available to us now other than prayer, so it seems appropriate to secure a space for the purpose even in the absence of a chaplain."
"Perhaps it shall offer better news." Sussex muses with a faint smile, "There is always that hope - even if it be a singularly desperate one."
They are all startled by a sudden clatter and look at Rich, who is fumbling for something that he appears to have dropped upon the table; a medallion of some sort. Noticing their scrutiny, he reddens with embarrassment, but offers no explanation, instead resuming his nervous contemplation of his untouched dish.
Before they can equally resume, there is a light knock upon the door, followed by the sound of paper being pushed beneath it. Concerned, Cromwell rises from his seat to retrieve it, and reads the contents, sagging slightly as he does so.
"The boy is dying, and it seems that Sir John has also begun to take sick. There are buboes upon the youth - it is assuredly plague."
Sussex crosses himself, while Petre reaches for the note and reads it obsessively, as though doing so shall make the tidings untrue.
"I think I shall see to preparing that chapel." Cromwell sighs, "I suspect it is likely that we shall need it rather more rapidly than I thought."
There is no cross of suitable size within the west wing of the house, and with the rest of the building largely empty, no one to fetch one from the chapel for them. Instead, Cromwell has set up a small plain cross that he carries in his baggage to set upon whatever table is available in the various chambers he occupies. God does not demand ostentation in place of faith, after all.
There are no cushions to hand, so instead he carefully arranges the folds of his simarre so that he can kneel upon the floorboards without too much pain. For all his loathing of the bloated ceremony and decoration of the Roman faith, he has always been intent upon a dialogue with God, even when things are settled and calm. Now, however, England is suffering, and his only means of aiding the realm he has dedicated himself to serve is to go down upon his knees and plead for aid.
Behind him, the door opens, and he senses, rather than sees, Sussex kneel alongside him, the Lord Chancellor's distinctive orris-root scent identifying him without the need for Cromwell to open his eyes, "Amend your prayers to include the youth - he gave up his soul not ten minutes ago. Sir John is worsening."
Rather than answering, Cromwell nods. One dead already, and another sick. That shall indeed grieve the Regent; he shall ask Rich to compile a report to send to her. Rising, he nods his head respectfully, and departs.
The Lord Privy Seal's chambers are upon the second floor, with a fine view across the wide parkland beyond the kitchen gardens, and Cromwell knocks politely. Then frowns at the lack of a summons to enter.
"Mr Rich?"
Silence.
Concerned, Cromwell ignores propriety and opens the door to find his colleague leaning out of the window, his arm reaching for something to the side with such effort that he is almost halfway between the room and the outside. For a moment, he is bemused, wondering what Rich is trying to do; until he realises that the object being sought is one of the leaden down-spouts that stretches from the roof to the ground. He is attempting to climb out.
Without hesitation, Cromwell rushes forth, grasping at Rich's doublet and forcibly pulling him back inside, "What are you doing? It is two floors to the ground, are you mad? That down-spout could never take your weight!" As he does so, he can see briefly that there is a crumpled cloak upon the flags below, presumably dropped from the window in order to be donned once its owner had also reached the ground.
Rich is not pleased to have been so rudely grasped, and pushes back with such force that the pair fall backwards and land awkwardly upon the carpeted floorboards with a heavy thud, "Get back from me! I cannot stay - I will not stay and die like a penned cow! I cannot! The boy is dead! I heard them say so, and Gage is sick - are we all to die with them?"
"If we must. I will not be responsible for the spread of plague - if we can hold it here then perhaps that shall…"
"You know it shall not save them!" Rich interrupts, his eyes frantic, "It shall not save us! You might be brave enough to stay and die, but I am not! I saw what the plague does to those it kills - I cannot face that death, I cannot! Oh dear God - have you no pity?"
"Have you no courage?" Cromwell demands in return, "You would risk carrying plague-ridden humours to any whom you meet - even though it could kill them and their children? What kind of craven coward are you?"
"Whatever coward you wish to name!" Rich snaps back, "I am not you! I have no bravery - only the horrors of seeing a woman's fingers turn black, vomiting black bile and screaming curses upon God for not protecting her! If you think I shall stay to endure such a fate, then you are a greater fool than any in Christendom! If we stay, we shall die - all of us, and in horrors as bad as hers!"
"That cannot be said with any certainty - we have done what we can to protect ourselves, and so we can continue to serve England."
"Damn serving England! What use are we if we are dead? There is still time - we are not sick, we can still escape this place…"
Furious, Cromwell grasps Rich's shoulders and shakes him, "Stop this! Stop! You are a Privy Councillor, act like one!"
"If we do not leave, then we shall die - you know it, I know it - please, please let me go…" his voice is faltering, and he sags, "I cannot face that fate…I saw it…I saw what she endured…I cannot do the same…"
"Who?" bemused, Cromwell's tone is less angry, and he is surprised as Rich sets in his hand the medallion that he dropped at the dinner table.
"My nurse." He says eventually, "I was but a child - not yet old enough for a tutor. She was the centre of my world, for - to my mind - my mother favoured my elder brother. She wore this as a protective against sickness - it is St Juliana of Nicomedia - but it could not save her from the plague. None noticed that I was present and saw her as she sickened and died - I saw it all…her agony, the blackening of her limbs, her curses against God in the midst of delirium…and then she choked upon her own bile and was dead."
Cromwell examines the medallion, a crudely chased depiction of a woman hanging by her hair, "And you keep it."
"Even though it did nothing to protect her, I keep it." Rich admits, painfully, "She was as a mother to me as I thought mine was not - I have never forgotten her miseries - and now it is here…in this house…" his voice falters away entirely, and is replaced by stricken tears. Of fear, or grief - Cromwell cannot say with any certainty.
Rather than turn away from his weeping colleague, instead, Cromwell sets his hands upon Rich's shoulders, "I am sorry. I thought your act to be naught but rank cowardice - but now I see there is a motivation behind it. There is no shame in fear, you know that as I do. The shame is in a refusal to face that fear. You are not alone in being afraid - we are all afraid: I am no more willing to throw my life away than any man. I do not demand that you stay; but instead I ask you not to go. We have proved to be a great bastion against which the tides have battered but not prevailed - and I fear I cannot meet this challenge alone. Unlike most men, I have learned to trust you, and thus I ask again: please do not go. I need you here - I cannot do this without you at my side."
Slowly, Rich looks up, then clambers back to his feet. Turning, he approaches the oriel and again reaches out, but grasps the handle of the window and draws it closed, "No one has ever said such to me." He says, turning back again, "If you are brave enough to stay, then I shall try to be the same. I cannot promise bravery - but I shall try."
Cromwell joins him at the window, "I do not ask for perfection, Richard. For all your faults, England needs you. Equally, for all my faults, England needs me. Let us serve her as we promised, and - God willing - we shall still have an England to give back to her Majesty when all is done."
He lapses into silence, and they stand together, watching a flock of starlings as they cross the sky in an undulating cloud of a thousand feathered bodies. God alone knows what is to come - but at least he shall not face it alone.
"Another letter from Mr Rich, Majesty." Margery's voice is quiet, nervous. She grasps the paper between finger and thumb, as though convinced that it might hold some foul contamination that might bring her to her grave as it has so many others outside the boundaries of Sir James's estate.
Her eyes tired, Anne sets aside another report from Lord Southampton and reaches for it. She has been trapped in this house for a week and a half, endlessly waiting for news from London, or from the House where her councillors are trapped as she is - only they are trapped with a deadly sickness that stalks them one by one.
So far she has been advised that Sir John is dead, and that both Sir William and Lord Sussex have been stricken. Six of the servants in the wing are also dead, while only three remain unaffected to assist Lady Fenton in aiding those who have been taken ill. Of her Councillors, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich are still working as best they can, while Lord Sandys assists her in person - but they are all that remain to govern and advise her.
Busying herself with some pewter plates, Margery turns as Anne utters a small moan, "Majesty?"
"My Lord of Sussex has been called to God." She sits back in her chair sadly, "I should have sent him north with Elizabeth and Jane. She has lost her father - and we can only advise her by letter."
"Send it to Lady Rochford, Majesty." Margery advises, "Ask her to assist Elizabeth in giving these grievous tidings to Jane - she shall have the Rochfords and her dearest friend to comfort her."
"I shall do so." Anne agrees, rising from her chair to seat herself at her writing desk, "Other than that, matters remain as they are - they are no worse, but they are no better."
She hates being here. Hates being trapped in this damned house while her Realm suffers - and her own Councillors endure a similar trial. She would confide in Mr Cromwell, always her confidant of choice thanks to his level head and calm manner; but he is confined in that damned house with those who are sick and dying. Her brother has gone north with Elizabeth, taking Lady Rochford with her - were it not for Madge, she would almost certainly have struck out at her serving staff by now in her frustration at her helplessness. She was meant to be governing England and protecting the realm; but instead she is a helpless prisoner - as confined as a damsel in one of those awful romances they used to read and laugh over when she resided in France.
"God's blood, will you cease your faddling, Madge!" her temper is tightly wound, and Margery's rather helpless tidying of that which is already tidy is stirring it rather more than she would like. Looking up, she sees the brimming tears, and sighs, "Forgive me - I did not mean to speak so. I feel as though I am a caged cat; but it is not right that I should unleash claws upon you."
Margery cuffs at her eye with her sleeves, "Forgive me, too, Majesty. I think that I should be braver than this, for we are far from the sickness, but nonetheless, I am fearful."
"It is no sin to be afraid, Madge." Anne rises from her writing desk and crosses to hug her trembling friend, "We are both afraid - and thus we must meet this together. I think I should be far more fearful if I did not have you at my side."
She returns to her desk, but does not re-charge her quill. Sussex is dead - her Lord Chancellor taken from her. While he was not a close member of her inner circle, she relied greatly upon his knowledge and experience. He was at her side from the beginning of her Regency, and now he is gone. Please God, spare her Lord Treasurer. Should he emerge from this, then he shall most assuredly be worthy to step into the late Lord's place. Perhaps with a peerage to wipe the smirks from the faces of the rest of the nobility. Yes - that is what shall be done. In spite of herself, she smiles at the thought of the scandalised expressions that shall accompany the act - as there were when Henry raised her to the peerage prior to their marriage.
The two ladies dine in silence, their meal a simple offering of meat and bread, and then return to the endless cycle of pointless attempts to pass the time. Waiting for news from London. Waiting for news from the House. Waiting, waiting waiting…
Anne has set down her lute for the third time, having previously attempted to play it, only to set it aside twice as the evening candles are lit. Soothing though it can be to play the instrument, she cannot find the will to do so. Not while she is helpless against this endless waiting. Supper shall be naught but broth and bread, for her appetite is still weak, and Margery has failed - again - to persuade her to eat something more sustaining.
Another messenger has arrived from Windsor, and this time with better news, as it seems that the sickness is subsiding in London - but it remains present in the shires, and there are no suggestions of a similar abatement there, though it seems that at least in some quarters, those who are struck down seem to be surviving in larger numbers than have done previously, as though they are strong enough to do so. They have been fortunate in that harvests have been a little better recently, and thus prices are lower, so people are better fed. It seems remarkable that something so simple should be so helpful, but nonetheless, it appears to be so.
But that, in itself, does not halt the march of the plague through the realm. Much as she would wish it, this outbreak of pestilence is far from over.
Sighing to herself, she sits back in the chair and attempts to think of other things - any other thing - only to be disturbed again by the sound of another knock upon the door. Margery opens it, accepts something and crosses to her.
"Another note from the House, Majesty."
Now what? She thinks to herself as she takes it and scans the words.
Then Margery stares at her in shock as her face drains of colour, "No - God, no…"
"What? What is it, Majesty?"
Anne is upon her feet, "Fetch me a cloak. I must go - I must go to the house at once."
"What - why?" Margery turns in surprise as the Regent hastens from the chamber calling for a maid, "A cloak! Where is the wretched girl? Alice! A cloak! Now!"
Bemused, the Queen's Lady reaches for the discarded note, and scans it.
Majesty, I have further news. While Sir William has turned the corner and appears to be recovering, I regret to advise that Mr Cromwell has been taken ill with a fever. I shall work with Lady Fenton to see to his welfare, and shall keep you advised of his progress.
R
Lady Fenton is exhausted, and she looks across the the only remaining Councillor still able to stand to see that he is little better. With so few servants still able to assist her, he has found himself pressed into service as a nurse. In spite of his absolute terror of becoming sick, he has - to the surprise of those who have seen it - accepted the task, and has worked diligently under her direction, though that medallion of St Juliana has been singularly prominent about his neck in the process.
Petre has, to everyone's relief, emerged from the sickness, and the horrible buboes are subsiding; though he remains very weak, and has little appetite for the bone broth that Rich is attempting to spoon to him. Of the pages that came into the House, and those who were quartered in the Wing, only three remain. Four are dead, while one remains likely to follow them. One is recovering, and thus is unable to serve as he remains abed, but two did not become sick, and they have proven a Godsend in their diligence and bravery, being obliged to remove the dead from their beds to be laid in graves hastily dug out in the park by a small crew of gardeners who will do no more than open the graves, leaving the pages to close them again. The stewards have been less fortunate, for all became sick, and only one looks likely to survive.
Should they come through this hell intact, then a priest shall be summoned to oversee more appropriate rites for those who have been so rudely consigned to God. Until then, however, it is a great relief to those who remain in the house that the pages who carry the bodies out always come back afterwards.
It is clear that Petre cannot accept any more broth, and Rich sets it aside, wondering what is happening a few doors down, where Lady Fenton is now seeing to Cromwell. God help England if that man dies, he thinks to himself, as he makes his way - giddy with tiredness - to the door to hand the dish to an equally exhausted page, and then stumbles to their makeshift chapel.
How it is that he remains well when all others around him have taken sick, he cannot imagine, for he has never held much stock in the medallion that he has worn so obsessively since the plague arrived at their door. But all around him have fallen ill, while he has not; so he counts his blessings as best he can and sinks down upon his knees before Cromwell's small wooden cross, crosses himself and retrieves his rosary, which he has also been carrying rather obsessively.
Rather than think of nothing, he meditates upon the sorrowful mysteries, concentrating upon the suffering and death of Christ, for they, too suffer and die. Gradually, as his tension fades, he sinks down to sit upon his heels, then sits, leaning against the wall as his tiredness overtakes him, gradually sliding downwards further still until he is fast asleep upon the floor.
A hand upon his shoulder rouses him with a sharp grunt, and he lifts his head to see one of the pages, "Forgive me, my Lord - but her Majesty is without, demanding that she be permitted entry - what am I to do?"
Slowly, awkwardly, Rich sits up again, "Do not open the door. We must keep her out at all costs. Give me a moment, I shall be with you anon."
Groaning at the stiffness of his neck, he clambers back to his feet and emerges from the temporary chapel to the sound of a singular argument.
"Please, Majesty - I cannot allow you to enter. I beg that you remain without. The Lord Privy Seal…"
"The Lord Privy Seal shall allow me entry, if he wishes to remain the Lord Privy Seal. Open this door!"
In spite of his tiredness, Rich cannot suppress a mild smile at the Regent's determined demand, and quickly steps forth to the viewing port, "Forgive him, Majesty - he is but following orders. He is also right - we cannot permit you entry."
"Let me in, Mr Rich. I cannot remain shut away any longer - I must come in."
"No, Majesty. You must remain without."
She glares at him, "'Must' is not a word to be used to Princes, Mr Rich." She snaps.
He shakes his head, "I shall not permit you to enter, Majesty. Even at the cost of my rank if you demand it. I feared for my life, until he bade me find my courage. For that, I shall do all that I can for him - and I shall not open this door, for to do so shall place you at risk. Of all the errors I could make, that would be the one that he could not forgive."
She leans forward, "I cannot lose him, Mr Rich. I would be lost without his guidance and support. It is for me to restore him to health."
"No, Majesty. It is not."
"Let me in, damn you!" her frustration finally erupts in a fit of rage that startles even the man on the other side of the door, "If you do not, then I shall see to it that you are banished henceforth from Court and shall never return again! He is a father to me as my own was not! I will not lose him! Do you hear me? I will not!"
His eyes are pained, "He is a friend to me, and I value that friendship, for he has seen my greatest weakness, and does not scorn me for it. I am no more willing to lose his counsel than you, Majesty. I swear to you that I shall do all that I can to aid him - but I cannot grant you entry to this house."
At last, she sags and gives way, "Then ensure that he lives, Mr Rich. For you, for me and for England."
"I give you my word that I shall try."
She nods, and turns to go, allowing him to shut the viewing port.
The other page approaches, "Forgive me, my Lord, but Lady Fenton has become unwell. It seems that she, too, has now been struck with plague."
Slowly, Rich turns to face the youth, then closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the door with a faint groan. If Lady Fenton is now sick, then there is no one left to offer succour to those who are stricken.
No one left but him.
Rich stares helplessly at the bed, where Lady Fenton has just breathed her last. In the course of two days, she has shown no capacity to fight the sickness, her tiredness weakening her to the point that she succumbed more quickly than any of the others who were stricken. She had not even set aside time to eat unless it was essential to do so in order not to faint. Such courage - and this is her reward.
No. It is not this that is the reward - it is eternal rest and bliss at God's side. He has called her home to enjoy perpetual peace and warmth, and if that is not a reward, then what is?
Slowly, he turns to the two pages, who look even tireder than he feels, "There is no more that can be done - send word to the gardeners to prepare a grave for their mistress. I shall assist you in carrying her to it once it is ready."
His exhaustion seems to verge almost upon a mildly crazed ecstasy, as he stumbles along the corridor toward the room where Petre is resting. While the sickness has left him, he is weakened and seems unlikely to regain his full strength. The surviving steward is at his side, offering him warmed milk brewed with herbs, and there is no need for Rich to stay, so instead he turns and totters his way to the only other remaining sickroom.
He has not been away from it for long - as there is now no one other than he to care for the man who lies in the bed, silent and burning with a fever that confuses Rich, for no others fell ill in such fashion. Perhaps it is not plague after all - but something else…
God, please let it be something else…
Now and again, Cromwell mumbles something, though it is too indistinct for Rich to decipher, so he wets a cloth and drapes it across his colleague's forehead - as though that might help. Perhaps it might. He is no physician.
The door opens, "Forgive me, my Lord; the grave is prepared."
Sighing, he nods, and rises. He has helped to carry several of the dead to their last rest, as the two pages were hardly strong enough to do so with the rather corpulent Sussex. Since then, he has formed an integral part of the burial party.
Shrouded in the sheets from the bed in which she died, Lady Fenton is small and light. It would be no hardship for the two youths to carry her, but they have been through such misery that he can no longer bring himself to make them carry out the task alone.
With infinite care, the three set her remains into the grave that the gardeners have left for her. Crossing himself, Rich mumbles a few words of prayer for her soul, before handing out the shovels to cover the corpse. By the time they are done, he is dusty with the dry earth, and so tired he wonders how it is that he can still stand upright.
He changes his garments, not wishing to befoul Cromwell's sickroom, and eyes the bed in his own chambers with painful longing, for he has not slept in it for nearly three days. That shall not keep his promise, however, and he forces himself to emerge from the chamber to return to his colleague's side.
There appears to be no change, and he seats himself beside the bed again, checking the damp cloth upon Cromwell's forehead. Too exhausted to think any longer, he sinks back into the solace of prayer, extracting the rosary again and working through the decades as he has not done in many years. Cromwell would not approve; but Cromwell cannot see what he does, lost in the depths of a fever.
I am not a good man, Holy Father…I am naught but a coward and a traitor who looked to flee a dreaded fate. Yet You have chosen to spare my life and keep me living when all about me have died. I am not worthy of such consideration, but I give thanks for it.
There is no help for it. He cannot keep his head up any longer, and rests it upon his arms, leaning over the side of the bed. Just a rest. A short rest…
A hand is resting upon his head, and he smiles, "I am awake, Nana Martha."
"Of course you are, Dickon." Her voice reflects her reciprocal smile, "Come now. Your mother has asked to see you."
He is surprised; his mother never asks to see him. She prefers to see Robert. She always has.
"Come now, Dickon. It is time to rise - she wishes to see you. It would not do for you to be late."
"Yes Nana Martha."
He shifts slightly, and something scratches against his cheek, a sharp coldness that jerks him out of that peaceful reverie. God…he has fallen asleep…what is he thinking?
Aching with tiredness from so little sleep, he raises his head and realises that there is indeed a hand set upon it, but it is not the hand of his long-dead nurse.
"So you stayed." Cromwell's voice is weak, and he is clearly far from well, but whatever sickness struck him, it was indeed not the plague. Instead, there appears to be a mottling of red across the backs of his hands - though not the redness of the pox.
"I did." Rich mumbles, "And there are few of us left."
"My fever is broken, Richard. There is no need for you to stay here - go: sleep. I shall also rest, and, I hope, we shall advise her Majesty that our trial is past."
"She tried to come to you, when I told her you were sick."
"She did? How foolish of her. I shall remonstrate with her most strongly when I see her next."
"There are two pages left, and one steward. Otherwise it is you and I, and Petre. The others are all dead."
"We shall discuss this once all are rested. I shall rest, as shall you. Advise the pages that they should do likewise. We shall regroup upon the morrow."
Rich shakes his head, "I promised her."
"Then consider your promise kept."
Unable to answer, Rich nods, and rises to make his way back to his chambers.
Anne's face falls as she stands at the doorway and looks into the entrance hall, "So few?"
Even now, she remains without, at the insistence of the men within, for they cannot be certain that the house has been fully expunged of foul humours, and it is not worth the risk to her Majesty's health to invite her inside.
Seated in a chair, Cromwell nods, "Forgive me if I do not rise, I am still rather weaker than I hoped, as is Sir William." He indicates Petre, who is also seated. Of her surviving councillors, only Rich is capable of standing, though that is perhaps thanks to nearly a full day's unbroken sleep, and two days of rest while Cromwell continued his recovery.
Southampton and Russell are still alive, thank God, sending reports to her of how things are in the shires. To her relief, the plague has spread no further north than Oxford, and even the towns that have endured it are emerging now. It seems that the worst is over, God willing, and she can travel north to reunite with her daughter.
She turns to Rich, "I fear that I owe you an apology, Mr Rich; I was unforgivably rude to you when you kept me from entering the house."
"It is of no moment, Majesty. You were concerned for us."
"We shall rest here awhile, I think. Until you are well enough to undertake the journey north, Gentlemen." She turns to Fenton, who stands beside her, "I am so sorry, Sir James. Even though it was upon her insistence, I am nonetheless saddened that her bravery was rewarded so poorly."
His eyes sad, Fenton shakes his head, "No, not poorly, Majesty. I have no doubt that even now she is experiencing her heavenly reward for her courage and faith. She was willing to make such a sacrifice, and I am proud of her, even as I grieve for her."
"I shall send for a Priest. Before we depart, we shall ensure that the souls of those who died here are properly consigned to God. I have no doubt that He has already welcomed them into His loving embrace - but it seems right that we should do so."
"Thank you, Majesty." Fenton bows.
The losses have been dreadful, but they have come through. Tomorrow they shall regroup, and start anew.
A/N 2 And thus the ordeal is at an end. Sadly, I couldn't bring them through it entirely unscathed - that would've been rather unrealistic. Rich's survival is akin to that of Elizabeth Hancock of Eyam - who nursed her entire family as they perished one by one, but did not sicken herself. Whether she had a genetic immunity, or had perhaps been exposed to the bacillus in her youth, we don't know. I chose to use a childhood exposure to create his immunity, albeit something of a traumatic experience in the process. Ironically, the one most afraid of the sickness was the one least likely to be infected by it - but it's something that finally forces him to step up and be properly brave, and he rises to the challenge.
Being a bit of an evil cow, I wanted to freak people out with Cromwell becoming sick, but I decided that it should be a childhood illness that passed him by when he was young, and so he caught rubella from one of sir James's children. Not that he knows that.
PS: sorry for nicking the 'must is not a word to be used to Princes' comment. I couldn't resist!