The acrid smoke was infused
with the smell of burnt flesh and scorched wool. She understood why Hugh had
described it as a little bit of hell. It reminded her of one of the walls in
the church at Leigh. The painting showed the day of judgement with the
unrighteous going down to the fires of hell. The condemned had the same fearful
expression as the people she was seeing in the streets now. The fires of hell
could not burn more fiercely than the fires that had burned here. And hell must
smell like this. The air was heavy with the smoke from the many quenched fires.
Alais began to cough and Hugh silently handed her his leather bottle. She took
a long swallow. As she returned it to him, she found herself caught by his
expressive eyes.
“My lord?” she enquired, not understanding the question
he seemed to be asking.
“I would have spared you this, Lady Alais, if I could.”
“I know, Sir Hugh. I am grateful for everything you have
done and for the chance to see my mother one last time.”
He nodded, as if satisfied, but still he held her gaze for
a while and she was spared the worst sights, because she was unable to tear her
eyes away from his.
When she was able to take in her surroundings again, she
saw the remains of houses that had been destroyed by fire and became aware of
the awful keening made by those with unbearable grief. She bit her lip,
suddenly aware that she would soon be joining them. After so many of her
siblings had died, she was only too familiar with grief, but she had always
managed to maintain some dignity in her grief. She had seen it as her duty to
support her mother, so that she could grieve. Now that her own turn had come,
Alais thought she would not know what to do. She had cried for her older
brothers dead in Edward’s first, wasted campaign in Scotland and she had cried
for her father, but for her five siblings who had died since then, she had been
silent. How could she grieve for her mother in a strange place, among
strangers? They would not understand what her mother meant to her. They would
not know the kind of woman she had been, or the kind of wife and mother. She
had been the example that Alais had followed all her life – the kind of woman
she wanted to be herself.
When they arrived at the house at Cuckoo Lane, Hugh led
Alais and Father Roland to the back of the house. The townspeople who had taken
shelter at Hill and walked back with them had returned to their own homes, or
what remained of them, as they passed through the town. The carter had turned
off to God’s House Hospital to leave the injured in the care of the lay
brothers and sisters there. He had instructions to join them in Cuckoo Lane as
soon as he had completed his task.
Alais’ mother lay on a truckle bed, in the merchant’s
business room, attended by a servant. Her face was lined with pain and she
shifted uneasily in the bed as she tried to find a more comfortable position.
Alais knelt beside her and took her hand as the priest began to intone the last
rites. It was impossible to see the nature or extent of her injuries and Alais
found herself agreeing with Hugh’s assessment of the care Lady Eleanor had
received. From their fragrances, she recognised the herbs that had been used to
treat her mother. Their harmony inclined her to believe that they were the
correct ones. The usual stench of sickness was absent and Alais was grateful
that Hugh had brought Lady Eleanor to people who were concerned to ease her
passage to heaven and had taken care to ensure that her last hours were as
comfortable and pleasant as possible.
Lady Eleanor’s eyes flickered open and she smiled at the
sound of the words she had heard said over so many of her children. She had few
sins to confess and eventually the priest left them alone, going, with Hugh’s
permission, to other similarly afflicted households. Lady Eleanor recognised
her daughter and had enough strength to squeeze her hand and Alais smiled down
at her. Having received the
with the smell of burnt flesh and scorched wool. She understood why Hugh had
described it as a little bit of hell. It reminded her of one of the walls in
the church at Leigh. The painting showed the day of judgement with the
unrighteous going down to the fires of hell. The condemned had the same fearful
expression as the people she was seeing in the streets now. The fires of hell
could not burn more fiercely than the fires that had burned here. And hell must
smell like this. The air was heavy with the smoke from the many quenched fires.
Alais began to cough and Hugh silently handed her his leather bottle. She took
a long swallow. As she returned it to him, she found herself caught by his
expressive eyes.
“My lord?” she enquired, not understanding the question
he seemed to be asking.
“I would have spared you this, Lady Alais, if I could.”
“I know, Sir Hugh. I am grateful for everything you have
done and for the chance to see my mother one last time.”
He nodded, as if satisfied, but still he held her gaze for
a while and she was spared the worst sights, because she was unable to tear her
eyes away from his.
When she was able to take in her surroundings again, she
saw the remains of houses that had been destroyed by fire and became aware of
the awful keening made by those with unbearable grief. She bit her lip,
suddenly aware that she would soon be joining them. After so many of her
siblings had died, she was only too familiar with grief, but she had always
managed to maintain some dignity in her grief. She had seen it as her duty to
support her mother, so that she could grieve. Now that her own turn had come,
Alais thought she would not know what to do. She had cried for her older
brothers dead in Edward’s first, wasted campaign in Scotland and she had cried
for her father, but for her five siblings who had died since then, she had been
silent. How could she grieve for her mother in a strange place, among
strangers? They would not understand what her mother meant to her. They would
not know the kind of woman she had been, or the kind of wife and mother. She
had been the example that Alais had followed all her life – the kind of woman
she wanted to be herself.
When they arrived at the house at Cuckoo Lane, Hugh led
Alais and Father Roland to the back of the house. The townspeople who had taken
shelter at Hill and walked back with them had returned to their own homes, or
what remained of them, as they passed through the town. The carter had turned
off to God’s House Hospital to leave the injured in the care of the lay
brothers and sisters there. He had instructions to join them in Cuckoo Lane as
soon as he had completed his task.
Alais’ mother lay on a truckle bed, in the merchant’s
business room, attended by a servant. Her face was lined with pain and she
shifted uneasily in the bed as she tried to find a more comfortable position.
Alais knelt beside her and took her hand as the priest began to intone the last
rites. It was impossible to see the nature or extent of her injuries and Alais
found herself agreeing with Hugh’s assessment of the care Lady Eleanor had
received. From their fragrances, she recognised the herbs that had been used to
treat her mother. Their harmony inclined her to believe that they were the
correct ones. The usual stench of sickness was absent and Alais was grateful
that Hugh had brought Lady Eleanor to people who were concerned to ease her
passage to heaven and had taken care to ensure that her last hours were as
comfortable and pleasant as possible.
Lady Eleanor’s eyes flickered open and she smiled at the
sound of the words she had heard said over so many of her children. She had few
sins to confess and eventually the priest left them alone, going, with Hugh’s
permission, to other similarly afflicted households. Lady Eleanor recognised
her daughter and had enough strength to squeeze her hand and Alais smiled down
at her. Having received the
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