Mistress Henshaw lowered Alice's sleeve and stepped away from the bed.

She did not speak for several moments.

At last she turned to Stewart.

"You must forgive me."

"For what?"

"I must tell the parish."

Stewart stared at her.

"No."

"If I do not, others may die."

She looked towards Alice.

"The law leaves me no choice."

She pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and walked slowly to the door.

Before leaving she paused.

"I shall pray for you all."

When the door closed behind her, Stewart knew the whole street would soon know.

The days merged into one endless struggle.

Stewart boiled water.

He changed soaked blankets.

He spooned broth between cracked lips.

He prayed until he could think of no more words to offer God.

Outside, life in York carried on.

Church bells rang.

Merchants shouted in the market.

Carts rattled over the cobbles.

Inside the little house, time had stopped.

Alice drifted in and out of sleep.

Sometimes she knew him.

Sometimes she called for her mother.

One evening she reached for his hand.

"Look after our little girl."

"You'll tell her yourself."

Alice smiled weakly.

"We both know I won't."

Before dawn she was gone.

Stewart remained beside the bed as daylight crept through the shutters. Margaret still slept beneath the blanket at the foot of the bed.

When she awoke, she climbed beside her mother and gently touched her hand.

"Mam's cold."

Stewart swallowed.

"Aye."

"When will she wake?"

He could not answer.

For two days he refused to open the door.

The knocking came morning and evening.

Each time he called back the same words.

"Go away."

Alice would not leave her home on a stranger's cart.

He would bury her himself.

On the third morning the knocking came again.

Three slow knocks echoed through the house.

Stewart rose and lifted the bar.

Outside stood the parish constable.

Beside him were two bearers.

Their faces were wrapped in linen cloths soaked in vinegar, tied tightly across their mouths and noses. Leather gloves covered their hands. Each carried a bundle of clean winding cloths beneath one arm.

Behind them waited a low handcart.

The older bearer removed his cap.

"We've come for your wife."

"No."

"You leave us little choice."

"My daughter is still here."

"I know."

"Then leave us in peace."

The constable stepped forward.

"Master Stewart... the order comes from the Mayor."

Stewart looked at him but said nothing.

The constable lowered his voice.

"We've delayed as long as we could."

For a long moment no one moved.

Then Stewart stepped aside.

The bearers entered quietly.

Margaret watched from beside the bed.

"What are they doing?"

Stewart knelt beside her.

"They've come for your mother."

The men wrapped Alice in a plain linen sheet.

Neither spoke.

When they lifted her from the bed, Margaret began to cry.

"No."

She ran after them.

"Don't take Mam."

Stewart caught her before she reached the doorway.

She struggled in his arms.

"Please, Father."

"Please don't let them take her."

He held her tightly as the bearers laid Alice upon the cart with the others.

The wheels creaked as they pulled away.

Margaret stretched both hands towards her mother until the cart disappeared beyond the corner of the lane.

Only then did she bury her face against Stewart's shoulder.

"My neck hurts."

He carried her back inside.

"What did you say?"

"My neck."

She pointed beneath her ear.

"It hurts."

Stewart brushed her hair aside.

Stewart carried Margaret back to the bed.

She laid her head against the pillow without a word.

He placed a damp cloth upon her forehead.

By evening her fever had worsened.

A knock came at the door.

Stewart opened it a little.

Mistress Henshaw stood outside carrying a small basket.

"I've brought broth."

"I've little appetite."

"It isn't for you."

She glanced towards the bed.

"May I?"

Stewart stepped aside.

The old woman crossed the room slowly and sat beside Margaret.

"How are you today, my little bird?"

Margaret managed a faint smile.

"My neck still hurts."

Mistress Henshaw gently brushed the child's hair aside.

The swelling beneath her ear had grown.

She closed her eyes for a moment before taking Margaret's hand.

"I've made you some willow tea."

"Will it make me better?"

The old woman hesitated.

"It may make you more comfortable."

Margaret nodded.

She was old enough to understand the answer.

Mistress Henshaw looked across at Stewart.

He needed no words.

He saw them in her face.

After a long silence she stood.

"I'm sorry."

Stewart followed her to the door.

"Will she suffer?"

The old woman drew a slow breath.

"I'll come again tomorrow."

She squeezed his hand.

​

​

Mistress Henshaw returned before first light.

The broth she carried was still warm.

She found Stewart sitting where she had left him.

Margaret lay across his lap, the little wooden doll still clutched in one hand.

Mistress Henshaw did not ask.

She already knew.

She knelt beside the child and gently closed her eyes.

Then she placed a blanket over her.

After a long silence she rose.

"I'll tell the parish."

Stewart nodded.

He had no words left.​​​​

​

​                                                        - XXIV -