It was quickly apparent that soldiers were not hungover, because in a day or so, they were shaking, delirious, aching all over, and lymph nodes appearing on the necks and armpits as big as chicken eggs. Their sudden suffering wasn't the worst part of it.

It was how quickly the bodies piled up.

Even with such a short time, mere days, everyone scrambled to figure out how to help the sick or where to bury everyone. Andrew Ulford created a list of the dead to notify their families, but he worried no one would survive to pass the list on. Once the bad air was in their presence, it was unclear if it was possible to outrun it, as nothing seemed to cure those stricken with the plague.

There wasn't time to give the dead proper burial, and so many were lumped together in one makeshift grave on the castle grounds. Their chaplain went from room to room to give final blessings as quickly as he could to save souls.

Joan was told to stay in her room.

Joan heard moaning in agony throughout the castle and then more and more silence. She chewed her nails, waiting for someone to send word to her of what was to be done, but nothing ever came. When she could no longer stand the silence, she flung open her bedchamber door and ran down the steps to Lord Bourchier's room. She needed his leadership, his strength. She needed to know what was happening and what they were to do.

His door was shut, so she tapped against it. No answer, so she quietly opened it. She found him in his bed, muttering nonsense to himself with his eyes closed. He did not respond to her entrance.

"My Lord?" Joan asked hesitantly.

"Father?" John said.

Joan looked behind her. She hadn't heard him follow her inside.

"What's going on?" Joan asked.

"I don't know. I was waiting outside your door for further instruction." John turned from her and knelt down beside his father's bed. "Father, please speak to me."

Robert touched his neck. It was then Joan saw the distinguished lumps as well as the black tips of his fingers. She stepped back and covered her mouth.

"Oh, no! This cannot be real!" she cried.

A doctor wearing a pointed face covering, a wide-brimmed hat, and long sleeves with gloves appeared at the door. No skin was visible. He looked like a raven from the Tower of London, a messenger of doom. "You two should leave. It's not safe near a victim." He followed them outside the bedroom door.

"Doctor, will he recover?" John demanded.

The doctor waited for a moment. "I cannot tell. Most do not. There's little I can do but ease the pain and pray for best outcomes. Sometimes bloodletting and leeches can rebalance the humours, but it doesn't heal as much as it should with this sickness."

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"You must help him!" John said, grabbing the man by the shoulder.

"Sir, I am doing what I can. This pestilence came from nowhere. No one knows what to do about it. I've written to every university and every cathedral in Christendom. I've reached out to King Philip. No one knows beyond what I've said. I will help do what I can, but brace yourselves for tragedy. Pray and prepare."

He returned inside without another word.

John started to scream out, "what are we going to do? What are we going to do?"

"Let us have hope," Joan pleaded. It was a good question, and she wished to find someone who could answer it. No one knew what to do, Englishmen nor Frenchmen, learned man nor peasant. Darkness was consuming the village, and there was no escape.

"I shall stay outside his door in case he calls for me," John said.

"I will wait with you," Joan said, holding his hand.

John looked straight ahead for a long time. When the doctor left, he said there was nothing more he could do, and they would have to wait and see. John wanted him to stay, but the man had so many other patients. He had covered the buboes in a salve made of lily root and excrement to draw out the bad blood, but there was nothing more he could do to ensure the treatment's success.

Flowers were brought throughout the chateau in an attempt to purify the air and cover the smell of bodies being buried outside. John brought his father a cut onion to help absorb any of the toxins. His father could do nothing but mutter in tongues with his eyes fluttering open and shut, his forehead drenched in sweat and seemingly unaware of who was around him. Several shallow slices in each arm bled, but no amount of bad blood that drained out of him helped him recover his senses.

John insisted they wait outside the room with the door slightly ajar, so he would hear if his father said something intelligible and to circulate the air into the room. He couldn't wait inside as no one was sure if the bad air would spread, but he couldn't leave his father completely locked up and alone.

They sat outside the door all night. No news came. Periodically John looked inside to see his father writhing under the sheet, but no signs of improvement.

They kept a single candle lit in Robert's room, and the light from that was all that streamed outside his slightly opened door as night set in.

Joan could barely see her companion. The dim light made the social barriers between them impossible to perceive.

"He taught me everything I know," John said quietly after a while. "He taught me how to wield a bow. He taught me how to help settle other people's disputes with law and reason. Even though he was gone many times throughout my life, he wrote to me often with advice on how to improve the world. I want to be just like him."

"He is a good man," Joan said.

John sat down beside her and sighed. "He taught me to read. He read to me from our Bible every night as I was a child. He inspired me to fight for the greater good and fight for the crown. My mother lit a candle for his safe return every night. I was the one who had to be strong for her and my younger brother when he was away in battle."

"That must have been hard for you," she whispered.

He looked over at her. "It was, but it was so joyous when he came home. You must be tired. I will escort you to your room. It is late, your highness."

"Let me stay. I must stay. We can pray."

They did pray, and then they were quiet. Her heart worried, but her eyes were heavy. She rested her head on John's shoulder, but little by little their posture slacked and exhaustion overwhelmed them.

Somehow despite sleeping her whole life on silk sheets, feather-filled mattresses, and wood-carved beds with canopies, she fell asleep against the hard wooden floor in the late night hours. She awoke lying next to John in the early dawn hours after the candle in Robert's room had long since burned out.

Robert Bourchier had been in several battles for the king of England. He had become a valiant soldier and an expert bowman. The King himself entrusted him to escort his beloved daughter safely across the continent. He was married twenty years and had two sons.

And their leader was dead the next day.