The Sweet Kiss of Plague

Cambridge - October 1349

Isabella hummed as she walked through the almost empty streets of the town. Seven months since the end of the world had passed through Cambridge on its journey north, yet life still felt wrong. It felt as though the worst was still to come. 

The pestilence had arrived the previous year. At first, it began slowly. A few deaths in distant towns. By the time the population were aware of its existence and its severity, it was too late. During the winter of 1348, the situation became even worse. Virtually everyone who encountered the disease perished. No family had been left untouched. It had struck Cambridge at the start of the new year and took more than half of the city’s population with it. It continued to wreak havoc in England but it appeared as though its focus was now in the northern lands. Only a deadly trace lingered down south.

The priests in their weekly sermons had proclaimed that the second coming of Christ was imminent. This disease represented one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. It was easy to believe them. The scale of the tragedy was such that it had felt like the end of time. It still did. 

The wars with France and Scotland during the past ten years suggested another horseman had already begun his ride. It became easy to identify the third horseman - famine - as everyone was now alert to the fact that the world was ending. The beginning of the century had seen successive years of famine. A strange illness had killed the livestock and the wheat just would not grow. 

Three out of four heralds that signified that the end of all things had come. The sheer number of people that had died over the past year made Isabelle wonder if the fourth was already here. She had lost her mother and three of her five siblings to the plague. She missed them dearly. But she knew everyone who still lived shared her pain. Grief was no longer a rarity. 

Even though Cambridge had been deserted for so long now, it still made Isabelle feel uncomfortable. She was used to the hustle and bustle. The noises, the smells, the colourful characters who comprised her beloved home town. The emptiness gave the impression that the very soul of the city had been torn out. 

She continued her journey, making her way out of the city centre and headed towards the meadows that followed the path of the Cam river. As it was October, the flowers that burst into appearance during the summer were beginning to fade away. Some braver ones still lingered, providing flashes of purple and yellow amongst an otherwise faded green and brown scene. Isabelle passed a cow and an emaciated sheep. One of the many animals left behind when their owners had perished. Sometimes, these poor creatures were so starved that they resembled walking corpses. 

The final sunshine of the year helped alleviate some of Isabelle’s unease. It broke through the cloud cover and warmed her skin and she smiled softly. Ahead, she saw someone walking towards her and her heart skipped a beat. His brown hair shone, his natural highlights all the more vivid in the sun. When he saw her approaching, the dimple in his left cheek made an appearance. Isabelle almost skipped to meet him.

He kissed her cheek gently and held out a bundle of wildflowers that he had attempted to arrange into a bouquet. The stems were bound together by twine and Isabelle smiled at the thought behind the gesture.

“Thank you, Owen, they’re beautiful,” she said as she inhaled the sweet fragrance. Owen’s dimple deepened and a rosy blush coloured his cheeks. She took his hand in hers as they continued to stroll through the meadow. 

She had known Owen for as long as she had been alive. He had been born the winter before her and their families owned neighbouring houses. His father was the town’s blacksmith. Hers was the town’s bookkeeper. Between lessons and their daily tasks, they had run free in the fields and caused mischief wherever they went, much to the begrudging amusement of the people of Cambridge. Their antics had become infamous. It had been expected by everyone that they would one day wed, and both families seemed happy with this arrangement. 

Isabelle remembered secret moments of stolen kisses that had made her young heart flutter. The first such moment had been on a crisp autumn morning. They had been up with the sun and had raced through their respective tasks so that they could escape to find the strongest conker for their ongoing war. They had been searching without much for much of the morning, but then they had struck gold. A large stash of the shiny horse chestnut seeds had caught the sunlight and they sprinted after them. They both lunged for the pile, desperate to find the king conker, giggling and arguing simultaneously. Both had clutched the largest, heaviest, brightest conker that either of them had ever seen at just the same moment. A tug of war broke out until Owen just stopped, his grip on the conker loosening. Isabelle snatched it in triumph and was turning back to Owen to gloat. But the words died on her lips at the look on his face. He leant in slowly, looking up to her eyes to see if she was content. She felt a pull in her heart and closed the distance. 

The kiss had been awkward, as all first kisses are. But it had also been sweet and had brought the blood rushing to her face. If they had been inseparable before, now they were effectively one person. Their betrothal was agreed and the wedding was supposed to have taken place last April. Then the apocalypse came. There was no time for a wedding and neither was it appropriate as their family died around them. Isabelle hoped that soon they could move on with their lives. She could not wait to be married.

As they approached the gate leading back to the town, Isabelle noticed that Owen was perspiring slightly. His skin was flushed and looked irritated. 

“Owen, are you well? You seem uncomfortable,” she asked as she cupped his cheek, forcing him to stop and look at her.

“It is just the warmth of the day and the vigour of the walk,” he replied, although he did not look her in the eyes when he said this. Isabelle refrained from commenting. Whilst the day was sunny, it was not overly warm. She fretted that he was ill, but then sickness was common at this time of year. She tried to put it from her mind.

They reached her door. He kissed her softly on her lips. She noticed that his felt unusually warm. "I love you. I will always love you," he murmured as he touched his clammy forehead to hers.

"My heart is yours forever," she replied, proud that she kept the tremor from her voice. She watched as he walked back to his house, and then went inside to speak to her father.

The next day, she went to knock on Owen’s door to enquire about his wellbeing, but her heart dropped out of her chest. A cross. A thick, bold cross marked his door. An omen of death. She startled as he came to the window. What she saw confirmed her worst fears; his neck and exposed chest were covered in painful pustules that marked him for the afterlife. The plague had returned to Cambridge and had claimed the final piece of her soul.