Read Online Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull - Free Book Online

a dirty hag whose breath smelled of spirits. She found no swelling in my armpits or groin, and no sign of the rash they call the tokens.
    â€œIt is a fever or ague,” she said. “Not plague.”
    The other prisoners still wanted me removed, especially when I began to vomit. I was so dizzy that I was forced to crawl on hands and knees to reach the communal pisspot and puke into it. Weasel-face shoved it closer to me. My tongue felt dry, and I craved sips of beer continually, but had hardly enough strength to hold the tankard.
    After a few hours the fever cooled, and sweat broke out all over my body. I felt well again, and next day was much recovered. I felt in my armpits and found no swelling; and there was no rash on my body. Perhaps the old woman was right, and it was not the plague. In my weakness and relief I wept.
    The next day the sickness and fever returned, more violent than before. I guessed then that my illness was indeed an ague; I had seen boys at school suffer with it and knew that it would come and go every other day until it had run its course – or the victim died.
    When Cecily Martell saw me she went home and returned soon after with a pad of linen which she laid on my burning forehead.
    â€œIt contains a spider, bruised in a cloth,” she said. “It is recommended for the ague. I have a little book of remedies I often use for the children.”
    I found her attention soothing, but the spider did nothing to prevent the next onslaught of fever. Neither did the pipe of tobacco that Weasel-face gave me and which he assured me was a protection against all ills. I grew weaker with exhaustion as the days went by.
    â€œWe must get thee out of here,” said James Martell.
    â€œNo! I will not pay – nor have others pay.”
    But the next day the fever returned again. I was wretched, sick, and could not stand without fainting. James and Nat came – and dimly, through my dizziness and nausea, I was aware of them talking about me.
    That evening, the jailer told me I was to be released. Nat came in and helped me to my feet, and I clung to my friend and felt tears running down my cheeks. But still I protested: “I won’t have anyone pay.”
    â€œIt’s that or the burial pit in the yard, I reckon,” Nat said brutally. “Thou won’t last much longer here.”
    We passed outside the gates, if not into fresh air, at least into freedom. I should have been glad, but all I could think was that Francis and John had died in that place; and guilt for their deaths weighed upon me.
    In the street a carriage waited. I was astonished when my friends led me to the door.
    â€œWho…?”
    â€œEdmund Ramsey,” said James. “He has paid thy fine, and insists that thou go to his home where thou can be properly cared for.”
    â€œI scarcely know him…”
    I brought Edmund Ramsey to mind. He had come to the Bull and Mouth meeting occasionally, and also to James’s shop: a man about my father’s age, a merchant, well-to-do and a collector of books – noticeable at our meetings where most people are craftsmen or shopkeepers.
    â€œHe is concerned for thy plight,” said Nat.
    I allowed the two of them to help me into the carriage. Nat got in with me. He’d deliver me, he said, then walk home.
    I fell back against the padded seat, exhausted. I was aware of my filthy condition, but I did not ask where Edmund Ramsey lived, or who would care for me; the weakness was sweeping over me again, and by the time we arrived I was half fainting.
    I remember little of my arrival, except an awareness of calm, comfortable surroundings; Nat and someone else helping me to bed; some soothing drink; clean sheets that smelled of lavender. After the endless racket of Newgate, Edmund Ramsey’s house was a well of silence, and I slipped gratefully into its depths, and slept.
    When I woke the fever had broken again; I was in a sweat, and felt