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  Chapter Three

  September 22, 1517

  Claude brought the soiled, sweat-stained clothes outside and dumped them on top of the bloodied sheets. There were his father’s shirts, his mother’s horsehair brushes, the boys’ shoes and toys. He’d emptied the house of all their things, just as the townspeople had ordered. He went inside and grabbed one of the candles, then set the whole pile ablaze.

  There was some relief as he stood there watching it burn. Jacques’s favorite pair of red pants. His mother’s apron. The scarves she used to tie her hair back when she cooked. The rope dolls Enzo liked to pretend were soldiers, even though Claude was certain they were meant for a girl. And his father’s clothes—among them the executioner’s hood. No, he was not sad when the fire consumed it all.

  The cottage was one great reminder of what he had lost. Living alone the past weeks, he saw them everywhere. Here is where Jacques had said his first words. There, at that corner of the table, was where his mother had given Claude the clay statues he’d played with as a child. That corner of the bedroom was where Claude had slept beside Enzo, who always talked in his sleep.

  Then there were the other memories… the terrible ones that appeared when Claude least expected them. He’d be cooking rice over the fire and he’d hear his father’s voice mocking him. He’d kneel down on the floor, stooping to get something, and he’d wince, thinking of his father beating him with his belt. Even though Arthur had been dead for weeks, Claude could still feel his dark presence lingering. He seemed to possess Claude in moments, and more than once Claude had turned to his father’s bottles of rum, drinking to forget.

  As the fire dwindled, Claude listened to the bleating of another horse being slaughtered. They had continued sacrificing more animals. Two horses, three goats, a cow. Some weeks there were more. They had tried everything, but the pagan gods would not be appeased. The plague had spread to other towns, and any chance Claude had of escaping had long passed.

  He started into the house, again noticing the ropes that hung in the corner of the kitchen. His mother had dried clothes on them after a wash. They were thick enough… long enough. Just one would do, tied to the rafters in the back bedroom or maybe a tree in the woods. He could end it today, tomorrow, whenever the pain and isolation grew too much. What was the point, anyway? What purpose did he have in this place now? Who was he without his family?

  He heard footsteps outside. It was a few men, possibly Gerard—he could just make out their voices. They knocked only once before entering.

  Claude backed up against the wall, watching Gerard enter with Louis, a man a few years older. They, like him, had already lost their families to the plague.

  “I told you,” Claude said. “I’ve given you all the surplus I have. You can check the pantry.” He pointed to the cupboards in the corner, where he kept the last of his rice and flour. He’d hidden an extra supply in the woods, burying it in a chest in case he ran out of food. They had been stopping by more frequently in the past weeks. They wanted everything he had.

  Gerard walked around the tiny cottage. He seemed to notice that many of the possessions had been cleared out. He stared down at the bare table, the five wood chairs, a mat where Enzo and Jacques had played. “We don’t want your supplies,” Gerard said, not looking at him. “We’re looking for your father. We need him for something.…”

  “My father passed already,” Claude said. “I buried him myself. What do you need him for?” It was strange how quickly Gerard’s presence could make him feel like a child—scared, helpless, begging not to get hit.

  Louis, a fat redheaded man, smiled his three-tooth smile. “The pagan gods won’t be appeased by animal blood. We need to sacrifice a human to them to stop the plague.”

  “You were going to sacrifice him?”

  Gerard laughed. “No, boy. He’s the executioner—we wanted him to take the life. It wouldn’t be his first. But I suppose you can do it—you’re the executioner’s son.”

  “I—I’m nothing like my father,” Claude stammered. “I can’t do it—I won’t.”

  “You’ll be paid handsomely,” Louis said. “We’ve collected money from the dying’s families. We need this to end.”

  “It won’t end this way,” Claude said, his voice breaking. “And I don’t need money. Or supplies. I need peace, and I won’t get it slicing the throat of some innocent.”

  Gerard shook his head. “We will all get peace this way—it’s the only way.”

  Before Claude could argue any further, Louis came up beside him and tied his hands. He was a burly guy—three times Claude’s size. Claude had no chance against him.

  “We’ll take you to the house,” Louis said. “Three inside are already dying of the plague. You must kill one of them and hang them upside down until the last of their blood has spilled out.”

  Claude fought the rope around his wrists. “I won’t do it—you cannot make me.”

  “You can and you will do it,” Gerard barked. “Nothing can save them now. You would be showing them mercy.”

  “It would be murder!” Claude said as Gerard grabbed his arm. They dragged him out of the cottage. “Why me? Why can’t you do it? You’ve been leading the sacrifices so far.”

  “There’s no way to tell how our gods will interpret this,” Gerard said. “Is it a sin, or the ultimate sign of our devotion?”

  “We’ll let you out when you’re done,” Louis growled.

  Claude was shaking now. They dragged him toward a house on the other side of the square. He recognized it immediately as Lily’s house. He’d passed by it so many times, in the months before the plague, walking slowly, hoping she would head out on some errand or maybe peek out the door. But now the windows had all been boarded up. Someone was banging on one, trying to get out.

  “Please, Gerard, I beg you,” Claude said, practically in tears. “Don’t do this. It will not stop it. It won’t.”

  “We will see!” Gerard flung the door open, and in one quick motion Louis cut Claude’s hands free. They pushed him inside and locked the door behind him. They threw boards up over the front of it and nailed them in place.

  It was dark in there, the air stinking of urine and blood. A woman was sobbing somewhere behind him, but Claude couldn’t bear to turn around. “Please don’t do this!” he yelled. He pounded on the door. “Let me out, please! Let me out!”

  But Gerard did not respond. He kept nailing the boards in place, until the last sliver of light was gone.

  Chapter Four

  September 25, 1517

  Claude had to cover his ears. He couldn’t listen anymore to the moans escaping Lily’s lips—they sounded too much like his own mother’s in the day before she passed. She was heaving. Each breath was a struggle. Make it end, Claude thought, clasping his hands over his head. Please, God, make it end.

  Her parents’ bodies were in the back room. He’d brought them there after they passed from the plague. He’d wrapped them in sheets and tried to fix their hair, as he’d done for his own parents. But now the stench filled the sealed house. Claude kept his nose covered, choking every now and then on the smell. Outside, the chanting grew louder. The surviving pagans had surrounded the stone house and were urging him on. “Kill, kill, kill,” they said in their pagan tongue. “Appease our god.”

  Claude looked at the three marks he’d carved into the wall. One slash for every sunrise he saw through the thin break in the back window. Three sunrises, four days. He couldn’t sleep here, couldn’t eat. They’d given him no water. By noon the air was so hot and putrid inside the house, he was gagging. He’d told them he wouldn’t do it, that he couldn’t, but this had to end. Why wouldn’t it end?

  Claude wiped the sweat from his eyes. Lily was watching him from the corner. She was unrecognizable. He wished she’d stop looking at him with that uneasy stare. She was curled up, her head resting on a bag of flour. Her neck was now swollen and red. Her fingernails were turning black. Every now and then she twisted in pain,
the sickness taking control of her muscles.

  “Please, Lily,” he begged. “I told you I’d never hurt you. I’m not going to do it. Stop looking at me like I would.”

  Why wouldn’t she stop staring? Why had they chosen him, so unlike his father? What had he done to deserve this hell? He wanted it to end—why wouldn’t it end?

  She twisted, turned, and the chanting grew louder. It mixed with the dying girl’s moans. I will not kill her, he thought to himself. I cannot, I will not. But with each sunrise he grew more uncertain. What would happen now that her parents were dead? What would happen when Lily passed too? Would they let him out then? Or would it be on to another house, another trap where they’d chant and cry while he watched others succumb to the plague.

  I will not kill her, Claude repeated to himself. But outside, the chanting grew louder. Lily looked at him, and her mouth moved ever so slightly. Was she praying? What did she want to say to him now, alone here?

  He pulled his hands from his ears and moved closer to her. She’d been in and out of consciousness all four days, sometimes talking to herself, saying things he didn’t understand. But now she seemed more lucid. She was more alert than before, and she seemed to smile as he knelt down closer to her.

  She spoke again, her words a whisper. “That day by the stream,” she said. “I still think of it.”

  Claude leaned in, trying to see the girl he once knew. The pretty, purple-eyed girl by the stream. “I think of it too. Often. It has saved me at times.”

  She took a deep breath, her lungs rattling. “It saves me still.…” She closed her eyes, a few tears slipping out. “Lily of the valley… pretty, blooming flowers…”

  It took him a moment to recognize the old song. It was from when he was a child—they would sing it as they ran through the woods. He had known Lily well when they were younger, but in the past years, as she grew into a young woman, with that beautiful heart-shaped face, he only saw her coming and going places. She was the girl behind him in church. The girl he stole glances at on the way to the baker. He conjured her in moments when there was nothing else good in his life.

  “You remember it?” she asked, her words uneven. “That was the song my father sang to me growing up. It helped me sleep.”

  “Yes, I remember that song from when we were young,” Claude said. But just beyond the house’s walls, the voices of the pagans rose up around him. It was impossible to ignore them. If she was afraid of him, she didn’t show it. She never once cowered when he came close.

  She shook her head. When she looked back at him, her eyes were full of tears. “Just do it,” she said. “They’ll kill you if you don’t. I’m as good as dead.”

  “What do you mean?” Claude asked. He knew what she meant, but he needed to hear her say it. He didn’t want to understand.

  Just then her whole body tensed, her head twisting to the side. “I can’t take the pain anymore,” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “It will be mercy. You will be giving me peace.”

  Claude backed away from her, not wanting to believe what she’d asked. But he kept hearing that insistent chant in his ear. Kill, kill, kill. The sour stench of death was all around him. The girl was rattling her last breaths as he went to the kitchen and found the sharpest knife he could.

  “Kill, kill, kill,” the pagans chanted.

  He brought the knife to her wrist, but he could not cut into it. Everything about it made him sick. “I won’t,” he said. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Give me mercy,” she said. “Please.”

  The chant grew louder. His hand was shaking as he held the knife over her wrist, barely grazing the skin. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. But then in one quick motion he stabbed into her flesh, cutting it down to the bone.

  He worked as fast as he could. The girl didn’t scream. She barely made a sound as he slashed into her other wrist. The pagan chanting was so loud now, he could barely hear his own voice singing the song as he went. “Lily of the valley… pretty blooming flowers…”

  When it was done he held her, cradling her head in his hands as she passed. Then he got the rope from the back room and tied her as the pagans had told him to. By the time he was done, she was already dead. Claude pounded on the front door, his cheeks stained with tears.

  “Please let me out,” he said. “Please, I’ve done it. I’ve sacrificed her. She’s dead.”

  Gerard pried the wooden slats off the door. Then he kicked it open, light streaming into the small cottage. Claude walked out and collapsed on the dirt outside. The sun felt so good on his skin. The fresh air felt so good as he breathed it into his lungs.

  He shouldn’t have done it—he shouldn’t have looked back, but he did.

  The walls were spattered with blood and vomit. The table was overturned. Lily hung upside down, her eyes still open, watching him. Her feet were tied to the rafters. Blood spilled from her wrists. It formed a shallow pool below her, turning the floor red.

  “You made me do this,” he yelled, grabbing Gerard by the collar of his shirt. “You have made me a monster.”

  Claude punched Gerard in the face, then lunged at him again. He punched and kicked as the pagans swarmed him. Louis pushed him down on the ground, trying to tie his wrists. But no matter how many of them tried to calm him, he could not be subdued.

  “You made me kill her!” he yelled again. “You made me kill her!”

  Chapter Five

  October 29, 1517

  Claude knelt down over the stream and dipped the edge of the bucket in to draw water. He stared at his reflection. He had dark circles under his eyes. Though he should have been relieved the plague had been over for the past weeks, he couldn’t eat or sleep. He’d lost weight, his face now thin and pale. He didn’t dare look at the spot on the bank where he’d seen her.

  Below him, the stream was clear. The waters had risen, covering the last of the bones. The current had washed the dead’s belongings away. He brought the bucket to his lips and took a long, cool sip.

  He didn’t see the man at first. He approached from the other side of the stream. He had gray hair and carried a walking stick, a bucket clutched in his other hand. As soon as Claude looked up at him, the man dropped to his knees. “I bow down before my god,” he said in his pagan tongue. “I praise him and give thanks for him, the Great One.”

  Claude stood up. “This is not necessary, this is not…”

  But the man kept his head down. He continued praying for another minute before responding. “You saved us from the plague. It was your sacrifice of human blood that brought us out of this hell. You have a divine hand—you alone had the power to stop it.”

  “Please,” Claude begged. “Stop this…”

  “You are a God to your people now. What you did was a miracle and you must be celebrated,” the man said.

  “What I did was kill a fourteen-year-old girl,” Claude said, his voice rising in anger. “That is what I did.”

  He turned away from the man and stormed up the bank. His whole face was hot. He could barely breathe, the heaviness in his chest was so great. Ever since the day he’d come out of that house—that hell—the plague survivors had treated him differently. He’d kept to himself, but they would find him walking in the woods or gathering water from the stream. They would find him, like this man had, and they would insist he was responsible for stopping the plague. That horrible, brutal act… they said he was a god.

  At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d see her face in the light. Those empty, dead eyes staring at him. Her face and neck were bright red from all the blood that rushed to them. He’d remember the feel of the knife as it cut into her arms. What had he done? Had his mother still been alive, she would have been disgusted with him. Would she even recognize the boy she’d raised in that house? The quiet, gentle son who’d helped her with dinner? Who’d tended to his little brothers?

  Lately, he didn’t recognize himself.

  He doubled his pace through the woods. He couldn’t
say what had stopped the plague. No more people became infected after that day. It hadn’t spread beyond the surrounding villages, and it was dying out there too. It was possible the human sacrifice had worked… but then what did that mean for him? Was his truly the only hand that could work miracles? How could Lily’s death be that?

  He kept his head down as he approached the back of the house, trying to stay hidden behind the trees. He took the back way to and from the stream now to avoid the square altogether. As he got closer he could hear people beyond his front door. In the passing days they’d left bread and rice there. There were goats and cheese and butter, all made for the village’s supposed savior. Even Gerard had softened toward him. He always bowed his head when Claude walked past, a new fear in his eyes.

  Claude disappeared through the back of the house, hoping whoever was out front would go away. He stored the water, then cut into a piece of stale bread. They were still knocking, though. It was persistent. A few raps here and there, then silence. Then it would start again.

  He didn’t have any friends in the town anymore. It was likely Gerard, or one of the villagers, coming to bear more news about the end of the plague. Maybe they’d offer him stew or a leg of venison. He opened the door a crack and peered outside.

  As soon as they saw him, they dropped to their knees. There were hundreds of them. Horses were tied up in the square. There were carts and carriages, tents scattered in front of the cottages. They all said a quiet pagan prayer in unison before they dared raise their heads.

  “They’ve come from the nearby villages,” Gerard said, stepping forward. “The plague has lifted there as well. They come with gifts for you, their savior.”

  Two children came forward, passing Claude a crown made of white flowers, and two clay pots. Their mother was right behind them. “You saved us all. The human blood has spared my children.”

  Tears were streaming down her face. Before Claude could respond, she moved away and two young men came forward, bowing down at his feet. They left him copper pots and pans.