Chapter 39
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 39
Chapter Title: Saintess
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Her Majesty's edict had fallen.
As per Sir Walter Raleigh's proposal, gatherings of five or more people were now banned within London.
But only within London.
Fortunately, the upper crust who had boltholes outside the city could simply enjoy banquets and teas in nearby towns, carrying on their conversations just fine.
And there too, the talk inevitably turned to that.
"Sir John Hawkins is dead."
"What? How?"
"There's no other reason folks are dropping these days. Black Death."
"...Wasn't it the Earl of Pembroke just the other time?"
"Spot on. Obituaries rolling in every other day."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Everyone... didn't they all flee to the outskirts of London at just the right moment?"
"They did. But we need some clue how it happened."
"This gathering might not be safe either."
"Not safe?"
"Didn't you read Her Majesty's edict? Bad vapors seep into the body, and you're fine for days?
Some among these hale-looking folks here might carry the Black Death for all we know."
At those grim words, the assorted earls and barons pulled back from one another, coughing awkwardly. Silence blanketed the room in an instant.
"No, I see it differently."
"Differently? What are you getting at?"
"You lot still haven't figured it? There's a common thread among the dead."
"Com...mon thread?"
"No idea."
"Word's spreading like wildfire in London already. It's the Lord's will."
"Life and death are always the Lord's will. We shouldn't let ignorant chatter sway us..."
"Weren't they all after that medicine?"
"...Pardon?"
"They demanded it, and a week later they wasted away—plenty died. Only those who raced to the treatment center in time scraped by."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"...Right. Could be the Lord's will after all."
The elderly noblewoman crossed herself, and the others, taking the cue, hurriedly followed suit.
Doubt began to take root in everyone's heart.
Really... the Lord's will?
Did they die by the Lord's design?
In any case, the rumor that had erupted in London spread to Richmond, Kingston, Oxford, Reading, and beyond.
"...'Nobles who died chasing the Lord's medicine.'"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Quite irreverent, but it's catching fire among the London commoners."
"Wouldn't expect less. Pretty tale, isn't it?"
"...Even with Sir John Hawkins, the Lord High Admiral, and the Earl of Pembroke, Speaker of the Welsh Assembly, both gone. They weren't unpopular... Shouldn't we quash it?"
"Quash it? Nonsense."
And it reached even Queen Elizabeth, who had retreated to Windsor Castle to escape London's turmoil.
"Spread it far and wide—make it aggressive."
"...Pardon?"
"I've got plans. Sir Walsingham."
Thus, the renown of the "Treatment Center touched by the Lord" skyrocketed day by day.
The eyes of all London turned to the slums of Southwark.
October had arrived before they knew it.
In London, every public facility stood shuttered—even church gatherings were banned, assemblies of any kind forbidden.
With the Queen's accession anniversary next month canceled too, the streets lay utterly deserted, the city hushed as it awaited autumn's close and winter's dawn.
And.
"...Numbers are definitely dropping."
Harriet, now practically Sir Raleigh's right hand, slid documents across to Eleanor and Margaret as she spoke.
"What?"
"Deaths. Aside from those odd nobles and gentlemen dropping out of nowhere, London's Black Death is easing up. Been the trend for days now."
Deaths were grinding to a halt.
The affluent districts had naturally seen fatalities all but cease.
Aldgate and Houndsditch beyond the walls, Southwark along the Thames, and other neighborhoods too—the death march was slowing to its end.
As the weather chilled, the height of rat season ebbed away.
They'd culled the vermin with traps and poison already; come winter, the rest would freeze on their own, and the plague's fury would wane further.
Eleanor looked up, past the tent flaps. The ward entrances that had queued with long lines just last month now stood mercifully spacious.
The days of volunteers collapsing from heatstroke, sweltering in full-body protective garb all day, were over. At last, they could rotate shifts.
Not everything was finished yet... but the end was in sight.
"E-Everyone's... efforts made it possible."
Margaret Lawrence's voice cracked with emotion.
"My God, I-I never dreamed we'd pull it off... We... finally...!"
"No celebrating yet. Patients are still popping up everywhere."
"It'll vanish soon! At this rate, we'll have it contained in a month or two?"
Optimistic words, but hard to refute.
Winter was right around the corner.
Margaret bounced with glee at the prospect of finally sleeping over six hours a night, while Harriet let out a deep sigh of relief—the end of the quarantine work was finally visible.
And... Eleanor...
She felt dazed.
Once rumors spread that this place enjoyed the Lord's protection, those who'd already regarded her and Margaret askance now treated them even stranger.
Whispers of "The Saintess..." trailed her every step, or they'd pass making the sign of the cross in lieu of a greeting.
Patients reached to touch the hem of her garment; those catching her eye dropped into hasty prayer.
It felt... profoundly uncomfortable. Unsettling.
Did Nemo ever feel like this?
...No. He was a true angel. She was just an ordinary woman.
Eleanor shook off the stray thought and tuned back into Margaret and Harriet's chatter. They were discussing whether they could tighten the disinfection cycles for syringes and equipment now...
Bang.
The tent flap flew open. They whirled to see a familiar face.
"Sir Raleigh!"
Sir Raleigh, who had by now beaten the Black Death.
He was still out there directing disinfection efforts alongside his guards and servants. No wonder he'd been scarce these past weeks.
"...Ah! You're both here. Feels like ages. Hard to believe we're in the same city."
But joy at reuniting with comrades didn't light his face. He looked anxious, hurried. Darting glances this way and that, he gestured for Harriet to step aside.
As Harriet and the others filed out, Eleanor and Margaret exchanged puzzled looks. What vital talk required sending even his friend Harriet packing?
"You two free right now?"
"...Pardon?"
"Got a place to be—do you have time? Might mean leaving London."
"Leaving London? What's this about...?"
"No need to tense up. Just say yes or no. Without you, will a patient die?"
"..."
"..."
They shook their heads. A few weeks back, amid the frenzy, they couldn't have spared a moment—but now, a few days wouldn't hurt.
"Then let's go. Carriage is waiting."
"Where?"
"Right outside!"
"W-We should at least tell the others we'll be stepping away..."
"Hurry!"
Thus, with no clue what was happening, they hastily handed off duties and boarded. The carriage soon tore through London's streets at speed.
Bewildered, the pair peered out at the whirlwind of sights flashing past. The carriage itself was lavish, plated with gold trim everywhere.
"...N-Never ridden anything like this."
Margaret murmured; Eleanor echoed, "Me neither..." Raleigh, watching, pinched the bridge of his nose like the road ahead was long, then spoke.
"Both of you—once we arrive, don't walk ahead of me. Understood?"
"Y-Yes?"
"And don't speak till spoken to. Always start with 'Your Majesty.'"
"...Yes?"
"Ah, too rushed to mention? No... meant to spare you the nerves."
Walter Raleigh delivered it casually, like they were off for lunch.
"We're off to see Her Majesty the Queen. She urgently wishes an audience."
"...Yesss?"
"C-Can we... get down?"
"That shocking? You've had audience with an angel."
"Uh... uhhh?"
For the next hour, Walter Raleigh lectured on protocol and etiquette—only to realize midway that neither grasped a word, and fell silent.
The carriage halted.
The door swung open.
Frozen stiff, the two minced after Raleigh in tiny steps as a massive door groaned wide.
They passed splendid corridors, ornate doors, gorgeously attired folk—by the end, the pair had turned to stone.
Raleigh paused at the final door.
Creeeak.
"...Walter, there you are?"
"Your Majesty."
"..."
"..."
They stood before England's sovereign.
As Raleigh bowed fluidly, the other two locked up in horror, jerking like rusty automata.
"Ah, so these are the... rumored ones..."
"Indeed."
They dimly recalled cheering and waving as the Queen's carriage passed afar. A fleeting eye contact, perhaps.
But this was worlds apart.
"You two... who taught you your physick?"
The Queen approached, putting the question.
Eleanor felt faint.
"N-Never learned any, Your Majesty."
"...Your Majesty."
"Your Majesty."
Raleigh's prompt had Eleanor tacking on the honorific. Elizabeth smiled at the sight; the two awkwardly mirrored her.
Raleigh alone smacked his forehead, as if he'd foreseen it. Elizabeth leaned in to murmur to him.
"...Adorable. A pair of young maids."
"One's a widow. Daughter across the Atlantic."
"Ah, is that so?"
The Queen cocked her head.
"So, I hear you two devised a cure for the Black Death?"
Eleanor nearly blurted "Pardon?" Then remembered: they'd rehearsed this before ever reaching England.
"Y-Yes. We were gathering herbs near the colony when we gave some to the sick. Realized injecting into veins worked better, so with the natives' aid..."
"Could you make it here in England?"
"Pardon?"
"Grant you patent rights—could you produce and sell it in England?"
Eleanor gaped at the Queen in shock; for an instant, those eyes turned serpentine...
"I-It seems impossible, Your Majesty... The ingredients only grow in America..."
...then softened again.
"I see."
"...Yes. And procuring them is perilous—we needed the natives' help."
"..."
"..."
The Queen glared silently at Eleanor, Margaret, and Raleigh before continuing.
"...Two unlettered women get aid from savages, brew a potion that just happens to cure the Black Death? And bring it right when plague ravages England?"
"Your Majesty?"
"Know what folk call such things?
'Miracles.'"
"..."
"..."
"..."
The air turned icy in a heartbeat. The Queen nodded toward Eleanor.
"Show me the instrument you use to inject that wondrous potion into the veins."
Eleanor, trembling, glanced at Margaret and Raleigh before proffering the syringe. Elizabeth inspected it minutely, set it down.
"Crafting such a slender needle... nay, tube."
"Just so, Your Majesty. The Americans know not the Lord alone—hardly savages. Now they do, they're our equals... or more."
"Hmph."
"With allies like that in hand, Your Majesty could sweep Spanish hegemony from the Atlantic with ease..."
"Walter."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"I've no wish to bandy alliances with folk I've never met. Too remote, no?
I'd rather fix on this miracle at hand."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Had the Queen sensed something amiss? Surely she couldn't...
"Angel."
"...!"
Eleanor could scarcely draw breath.
"An angel brought this. To save London."
Eleanor nearly wept.
The Queen knew everything.
Now Nemo would convert her... or else...!
"...How about we proclaim it so?"
"...Pardon?"
"Hmm, too lofty for you, perhaps. Raleigh?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. ...A splendid stratagem."
"Your color's off. Sweating buckets. Fresh from Black Death, health lagging?"
"N-No, ma'am."
"Hmph. Very well."
Eleanor nearly sagged to the floor. Margaret's hands still shook.
"I've already briefed Walsingham. His network will seed the rumor across London soon. You two need only play the part. Clear?"
The Queen seemed to scent something off, yet dismissed any notion of a real angel with a chuckle.
Eleanor answered in flustered confusion (no act there).
"Th-Then... it's not a lie?"
"No lie. Just a dash of spice atop a plain truth."
The truth wasn't remotely plain.
"If you refuse, nothing for it. But swear fealty to the authority the Lord granted me, and this is your duty."
The Queen's face hardened gravely.
"We're at war with Spain. Your presence will rally the faithful English, prove the Lord's holy will aligns with our victory."
"..."
"Thus, you received revelation from the angel about London's Black Death.
What say you?"
-"Catherine de Medici dies in 1589. Plague hits London 1592 to 1593... Ah, Descartes born 1596?"
Those words from her second angel encounter still echoed.
Who Descartes was remained a mystery. Ah—hadn't been born yet.
Eleanor flicked a glance at Raleigh. He nodded: Do it.
"We'll do it. For God and country!"
"Splendid! A fine choice!"
Elizabeth beamed, favoring them with smiles.
"I've always despised that French pretender-saint witch Joanna—Joan of Arc. Now we've got our own! Two even!"
"..."
"..."
"Ah—not calling you witches. You'll be saintesses. Eh, Walter?"
"The French witch was our captive, burned justly—fake. These two got revelation to save lives, not take them. Far superior."
"Just so... We're agreed."
Clap!
Elizabeth clapped, proclaiming:
"Margaret Lawrence, Eleanor Dare."
"Yes?"
"...Yes."
"You are now London's Saintesses Margaret and Eleanor."
And so... it was done.
"W-We were gathering herbs near Croatoan Island on the New World's eastern coast. That day the yield was bountiful, so we prayed thanks to God."
1 When the saintesses ventured deep into Croatoan Island for herbs and, pleased with the day's haul, lifted prayers to the Lord,
"That's when Margaret suddenly opened her eyes mid-prayer, saying she heard a strange sound from over there."
2 Margaret opened her eyes in prayer and said, "Eleanor, hear you not the eerie voice from that deep place?"
"So we went to check."
3 The two daughters trembled in great fear and wonder, advancing to whence the voice had come.
"Then—flash!—the angel appeared...!"
4 And they beheld and heard: the angel with six wings apiece, stirring every wind as they moved, its form hovering midair in flight, its radiance purer than the sun,
5 crying without cease, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!"
6 One hand clutching radiance, the other raising a sword honed to cleave a forged iron heap.
"...Anyway, it was incredible."
7 The two knelt in awe and worshiped;
"So the angel pointed east with its sword—'Go! Save England!'—and vanished. Right after, the method to brew the medicine flooded my mind..."
8 They asked the angel, "Why reveal yourself to us?"
9 The angel raised its great sword toward the east: "Eleanor, Margaret—go save your homeland, seek the Lord's will as the parched seek water."
10 And the angel's form vanished utterly; conferring, the two said, "This is no mortal contrivance, but the Lord's miracle. Powder the herbs; I'll extract the juice. Make haste to London and banish the scourge."
...
...
...
"Uh... you're writing it exactly as I said?"
"Of course, Saintess Eleanor. Pray, continue."
"...You're really writing it word for word?"
No, he wasn't.