Plague , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Jonathan Forth

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122 pages

English

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The Pope needs war between England and France badly; peace has prevailed for far too long and a good war will put bums back on pews and money in the collection plate. Otherwise he'll need to make cutbacks and the Vatican Christmas party will have to go.Luckily his daring beautiful assassin is on the job. And what better time for the Edward King of England to die a horrible and painful death than when King Philipe of France is visiting. There's just a small problem: the plague has reached Europe and there's every chance it may get Edward first.The rats are coming and fleas are nibbling at English ankles. The King's vassal, Sir Walter, is on the case, but how can he stop the scourge with no idea of what's causing it? Could be the stinky French cheese? The Church blames fornication, or perhaps the fireball that burned through the London sky is to blame; or maybe it's the Dutch.It's a race against time with an array of colourful characters either plotting in dark corners or trying to save the day. Needless to say, pandemonium ensues and even without the plague, there an outbreak of weird stuff on the streets of London. Will any one live to see the end of the book or will the plague get them first?

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 avril 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781789019858
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Copyright © 2019 Jonathan Forth

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover illustrated by Ignacio Corva

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ISBN 9781789019858

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To Richard, who added a little spit and polish.
Contents
1. Communications Breakdown
2. To Paris
3. The Church
4. Plague
5. The Cheese
6. Sir Walter
7. Grave News
8. A Matter of Deduction
9. Mayhem on the Streets
10. The Rats
11. Plague Doctors
12. Light-Fingers Sid
13. Plague and Death
14. Fleas
15. Bad Angels
16. The Pig Farm
17. Flies. Oh, and Maggots
18. The Royal Ball
19. To Poison or Not to Poison?
20. War… Again
21. Loose Ends
Foreword
This is the second book in the series, and is around the theme ‘The Peasants are Revolting’. It celebrates every stereotype we’ve learnt about the lives, habits and beliefs of those living in medieval times. Never was this more apparent than at the time of the Black Death. People lived in squalid conditions and tried all manner of quack cures to remedy the scourge. The plague took a third of the English population. Nobility, clergy and peasant all succumbed, and no one was immune.
Today, with scientific advancements, we have a far greater understanding of the perils our forefathers faced. Unfortunately, in modern times, stupidity also seems to have been quite resistant to any remedies. Fad diets and the unforgivable decimation of endangered species for spurious medical benefits are but two examples. They demonstrate, to me at least, that the people of the twenty-first century have more in common with our medieval ancestors than we would like to admit.
I have always been fascinated by bygone eras, the Dark Ages and medieval times. Historical accounts of the period provide small clues from which to piece together a version of events, though it is a somewhat incomplete picture. It is to this that I attribute all factual inaccuracies. It does not matter. While some of the events, places or names bear some relation to historical characters, most have been stretched, massaged and manipulated for the pleasure of the reader.
Professor Lloyd-Smyth, professor of archaeology at the University of Oxford, put the book back on the shelf and step away from the fiction section. You’ll not find what you are looking for here; far from it. The history section is down the aisle, just past the cookery area and children’s picture books.
Prologue
The plague has a grip on France and now is seeking passage to England’s shores. Can Sir Walter of Bishopsgate mount a defence of the realm, or will the big, brown, French rats first infect the English ship, sink and then abandon her?
Chapter 1
Communications Breakdown
Clive, from Deal in Kent, stood alongside his mate Clifford, from Ripple, and looked across the sea. Twenty-six miles away, give or take a pebble or two, they could see the French beacon burning brightly across the English Channel. It was just after dawn; the night sky behind them was still a dark-blue hue, but was slowly brightening in the east.
Perhaps the cockerels were now crowing heartily over Sevenoaks, and their cock-a-doodle-doos were gradually making their way west with the sun. Peasants were no doubt cursing the noisy birds, stretching, pulling on their saggy britches and heading to the fields for a day’s honest toil.
The problem with cockerels is that you can’t just roll over, and turn them off or press a snooze button. Well, not unless you are particularly fond of yours and it’s tucked up next to you in bed. No, basically, if they are up, then their mission in life is to get everyone else up. And they know it.
Why the cockerel so selflessly takes it upon himself to provide this service, well, that is between him and God. His circadian rhythms cannot be ignored, no matter how many old boots are thrown at him or how many of his predecessors had their throats wrung by particularly hung-over and mightily pissed-off farmers.
With cockerels, it generally goes something like this. First, wake everybody up. Second, dig up some worms. Third, defend your territory from other cockerels. Fourth, chase a few hens. That is pretty well it, which is just as well, as it is just about all a cockerel’s peanut-sized brain can handle.
This plucky bird had woken Clive twenty minutes earlier. Clive was sure the lord of the manor, Baron Cuthbert had personally gone out of his way to find the most pedantic, ‘job’s worth’ chicken he could find. The bird never had a lie in, never crowed late, and would puff out his chest and shriek like a drill sergeant waking his ‘horrible lot’.
He always squawked from the highest point of his territory, which was the roof of the cow shed. How he clambered up there every morning Clive had no idea, though he managed it nonetheless. Clive suspected the cows were somehow in on it but, poker-faced, they never gave anything away when he questioned them about it. From that vantage point, the bird’s shrill cock-a-doodle-doo set off all the other cockerels in the borough. Everyone was up and everyone was heading to work, just how the baron liked it.
England was yawning, scratching its balls (if it had them) and rolling out of bed.
However, Clive and Clifford faced a predicament. They’d popped down to the Dover Soul Inn the previous night for a swift half and proceeded to quaff a few too many pints of Press Gang ale. It was so named as many of the local men were impressed into the service of the merchant navy after drinking the beer. The gangs loitered outside said establishment as the men staggered out into the crisp night air. They were accompanied by a belch of smoke from the tavern door as it closed behind them and they would then be coshed unceremoniously and dragged down the side alley where they were tied up. They were then thrown over a shoulder and marched down to the welcoming embrace of a merchant ship.
There was many a criminal, seaman or fisherman that bade a hearty farewell to his companions at one of the pubs down by the docks. Perhaps he shouted, “Same time tomorrow night lads!”, only to wake up to the smell of fish and the salty, fresh wind ruffling his hair. Whether his friends would still be sitting there five years later when he returned was anybody’s business, though they most probably would be.
It surprised the local townsfolk that so many men would take the risk of drinking in an establishment with such a reputation for press-ganging. The tavern had nothing to recommend it. The place smelt of vomit, the paint was peeling off the walls and the rugs were permanently soaked in ale. The barmaid looked like an angry slug with a cheap wig on.
But it was also a well-known fact that if you wanted an excuse for a break from a nagging wife, irritating kids and a mundane five-to-ten job, then the Dover Soul Inn was the answer to your prayers. It got you five years at sea, travelling the world, a small salary and full board. The marvellous thing about press-ganging was that it gave you a notable cover story. You couldn’t just wander down to the docks and sign up for the merchant navy. No wife would put up with that. For the price of a nasty lump on the old coconut, and perhaps a little rope burn on your wrists and a boot in the ribs, well, you were free and clear.
It was quite common to see a husband fighting to stay in the tavern. He’d grip onto a bar stool as his wife dragged him out the door. Not because he wanted to finish his pint but because the word was out that the press gangs were working a shift that night and perhaps he was hoping for passage to an exotic foreign land.
As for Clive and Clifford, perhaps being press-ganged may have saved them from the ordeal they would likely face today.
Clive could recollect that at some point he had performed a jig on the bar, well, until he fell off and knocked himself out on a barstool. The rest was a blur, but there was no getting away from the fact that both of them had spent the past five hours asleep. This was a problem as their job required them to be very much awake. Well, at least one of them, anyway. You see, Clifford was Clive’s backup. If Clive dozed off, Clifford was there to wake him up again, and vice versa. If Clifford fell asleep, Clive was well within his rights to jab him in his ribs with a sharp stick. But if both Clive and Clifford fell asleep then that was a big problem. A very big problem indeed.
So, when they staggered up the lane arm in arm, slumped next to the bonfire and dozed off, then they were in trouble. Clive knew this immediately when he was woken, by the cockerel, from a particularly vivid dream about the