Lucy shook her head. “I cannot catch it.” She hesitated, but obviously couldn’t say anything without inviting more questions and suspicions.
As she approached the cottage, her worst fears were confirmed. The mother and two children lay wrapped in burialshrouds outside the door. Inside the cottage, Eliza and her father were both abed.
Lucy rushed to Eliza’s side, but the girl was barely coherent, sweat running down her face and neck, despite her shivers. Angry red sores had erupted across her arms.
“Eliza, can you hear me?” Lucy pleaded, but received only a soft moan in response. Helpless frustration welled up inside her.
Eliza’s father cracked one bleary eye open, grief and rage burning through him as hot as the fever that consumed him.
“You did not pray when you were here last,” he spat. “Now God has seen fit to take my entire family. We are being punished.”
Before Lucy could respond, the village priest, Father Michael, appeared inside the cottage. “’Tis true. The pox is the heavenly Father’s wrath upon you and all your household.”
Lucy bit her tongue and tried to explain calmly. “Father, please. This disease spreads not by God’s hand, but by contact between people and by infected clothing and bedding. With rest and lots of broth to drink, Eliza and her father may yet recover.”
Father Michael’s face reddened. “Silence, Lady Blackford! Do not spew your blasphemies here. This plague is a divine judgment upon this family for their transgressions. Take care lest it fall upon Blackford next.”
Blood boiling, Lucy opened her mouth to respond, but Eliza’s weak coughing fit interrupted her. Lucy bent anxiously over the shivering girl, only to have her weakly push away the soup.
It was no use. Eliza and her father were too ill and weakened to take any nourishment. All Lucy could do was makethem as comfortable as possible in their final hours as the priest prayed over them both.
By nightfall, Eliza and her father had joined the rest of their family in death.
The priest turned in the doorway of the cottage. “I may be new to Blackford Village, but I have heard what is said about you. How you bewitched Lord Blackford. How you tried to ensnare others. Witchcraft may be tolerated at the castle, but it will not be tolerated in my village.”
Talk about dramatic. Lucy barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Father Michael swept out of the cottage, head held high. Yet she saw the fear on his face, as he no doubt was afraid he’d catch the pox. And then what would he tell his flock?
Tired and angry, Lucy knew she shouldn’t think such awful thoughts. Sometimes, bridging the gap between her world and this one seemed insurmountable.
On the ride back to the castle, Lucy stopped at a small stream where she directed the men to wash their hands and faces, showing them how to scrub between their fingers with the soap she’d packed. The soup went to others in the village who were grateful to have it.
The pox spread easily and she didn’t want her children or anyone else to get sick. As she followed Thomas and the men back to the castle, Buttercup meandering along, she shuddered, recalling the hatred in Father Michael’s eyes. It was one time she was thankful her status as Lady Blackford protected her.
Upon returning, Lucy immediately found William in the lists.
“William. The pox is spreading in the village.”
He called for his captain and sent a boy to gather the servants.
Once all were present in the courtyard, Lucy gathered her thoughts. William touched her arm.
“Your lady has tidings. Listen well.”
“I bring sorrowful news,” she addressed them gravely. “The pox has taken several families in the village.”
Murmurs rippled through the servants. Wymund crossed himself solemnly.
“We must take steps to ensure it does not breach these walls,” William said.
Lucy nodded. “Every person should wash their hands regularly with soap and water.” She had been trying to get them to do it ever since she’d arrived in the past, maybe this illness would finally get them to listen.
“Wash your hands before meals, after touching anything unclean, and after contact with anyone who falls ill.”
The servants exchanged puzzled glances. The cook frowned skeptically.
“But my lady, the pox comes from God, so why should soap make a difference?”
When William touched her arm, she took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient.
