London - Edward Rutherfurd [410]
The huge leather outfit which the clerk at the Guildhall had given Meredith was terribly hot. The great beak was stuffed with aromatic herbs which he had just bought at an apothecary’s. For many believed that the contagion was spread through foul air.
“Poor Ned!” He was laughing. “Did I give you a fright?” He patted the dog affectionately. “Let’s go in.” He had just opened the door when Sir Julius reached him.
“My dear Meredith.” As Sir Julius looked at the remarkable uniform he realized how much he liked the young man. “What news of the plague?” he asked.
Meredith told him about the Bill of Mortality.
“As I feared,” Sir Julius said. “Meredith, I beg you, come with us now. We are going to Bocton. Plague seldom comes into the country. Stay with us till it’s over.”
“I thank you,” Meredith replied warmly. “But I feel my duty’s here.”
With a sigh Julius left him; and for half an hour he made his family wait before once more returning to have a last try at persuading the young man. But he discovered that Meredith had already gone out again, leaving only Ned guarding the door.
Sadly and thoughtfully he went back to his house, took his pistols, as he always did when they were travelling over the empty roads down to Kent, and having loaded them, ordered his family to get into the carriages. A few minutes later they were moving down Watling Street towards London Bridge. It was only then that he ordered his carriage to stop for a moment. For there was at least one small service he could perform for his young friend.
Ned wagged his tail as he saw Sir Julius approaching the house again. He knew he was a friend. He started to get up. He liked to greet friends even if his master was not there. Sir Julius was quite near now. He had paused for some reason. He was holding out his hand. No, he was pointing at him. Why was he doing that?
The great bang, the puff of smoke, and the huge blow that slammed him back against the doorstep were a single, flashing, unreal moment to Ned. There was a huge pain in his chest. Something warm in his mouth. That was the end of what Ned knew.
When Sir Julius had shot Ned, he tied the dog by a length of rope to the back of the cart and dragged him behind them. At the river, Ned was thrown in. Sir Julius had no doubt about the rightness of this action, sorry though he was to do it. After all, didn’t most sensible people know that dogs and cats carried contagion? But knowing Meredith’s affection for the dog, Julius knew he’d never have the heart to do what was necessary himself. At least Ned wouldn’t infect his master now. “It was,” he said, “the least I could do to save that brave young man.”
“The dog was a good ratter,” his son remarked. “Meredith hadn’t a rat in his house.”
“True,” Julius replied. “But hardly relevant.”
By mid-August the Mortality Bill was at four thousand a week; by the end of August, six thousand. Each day, Richard Meredith put on his great leather uniform and went out.
At times he almost thought he must be in some other city – like London, yet different. The streets were almost empty, the stalls in Cheapside all gone, and the houses shut up as though they meant to stop their mouths and noses against the contagion. The court had gone clean away to the West Country city of Salisbury. Since late July a stream of carriages and wagons had been rumbling out to the bridge or the gates: gentlemen, merchants, the richer artisans even, all bound for safety. With only a few exceptions, it was the poor who remained.
How eerie it was. As he wandered from parish to parish, Meredith could see that the mayor’s regulations were being enforced. The moment the plague was confirmed by the city examiners, the house was closed, a watchman with a pike set on guard to stop anyone entering or leaving, and a terrible red cross painted on the door with, usually, the sad words: “Lord Have Mercy”. Only a doctor dressed like himself could visit the patient then. When a household signalled