The Bell
England, 1349
Martin was eating on the church step when the bell sounded. He had brought bread and an onion from home, but his hands were so tired that he had given up trying to peel the onion and was working at the bread instead. At first he thought a sheep had strayed into the churchyard again. Then he remembered what Stephen had fixed above his wife’s grave that morning, and he put his food down.
The little brass bell hung from a bent hazel rod near the eastern wall. Martin watched it move, though there was scarcely enough wind to stir the grass. Stephen had run a cord from its clapper through a hollow elder stem and tied the other end around Agnes’s wrist. Beneath the earth, a wooden cover kept the weight from her body. He had made the whole arrangement himself and carried the boards to the churchyard before bringing his wife.
“She sometimes sleeps so deeply I cannot wake her,” he had explained. Martin had seen the swelling beneath her jaw and held a scrap of wool before her mouth, but Stephen would not be satisfied. In the end, allowing him his contrivance had been easier than arguing.
Now Martin crossed the churchyard, stepping between graves whose edges he could still distinguish. Near the wall, the new burials ran together. He had already used most of the path and would soon have to ask Father Hugh about the strip beside the well, although neither man liked to consider it. That morning he had uncovered part of an older burial while digging for Agnes. He had moved the bones to the foot of the hole and continued.
The bell stopped before he reached her. He crouched beside the hazel rod and examined the cord, which hung loosely through the elder stem. Perhaps the earth had settled beneath the wooden cover, drawing her arm down with it. He had not packed the soil as firmly as he should have.
“Agnes, can you hear me?” he asked. He waited, embarrassed by the sound of his voice in the empty churchyard, then leaned closer to the stem. “If you can hear me, pull again.”
The cord tightened enough to lift the clapper. Martin remained crouched beside it for a moment, watching the brass settle, before going to fetch his spade.
He had removed most of the upper soil when Father Hugh came out of the church. The priest stood across the grave from him, holding up the hem of his cassock to keep it clear of the mound.
“I heard the bell,” Hugh said. “Are you certain it was her?”
“She pulled when I asked her to.” Martin pushed his spade beneath another clod. “Fetch Stephen. I’ll need help getting her out.”
The priest looked towards the lane. “He showed me a swelling after the burial. He could barely walk home, and he has the children with him.”
Martin paused with his foot on the blade. Stephen had helped lower Agnes into the grave. Afterwards they had stood together while he explained how the cord worked, their heads close above the little bell. Martin remembered being impatient with him.
“Then you’ll have to help me,” he said.
Hugh laid his folded cloak on the grass and fetched the other spade. They worked from opposite sides until the boards appeared, then knelt to clear the remaining earth with their hands. Martin was afraid of breaking through the cover and driving his blade into her. Every few moments he spoke her name, although he heard nothing in reply.
By the time they had cleared enough space to lift the boards, several people had gathered at the gate. Martin asked one of them to bring water and climbed down beside Agnes. Her head had turned towards a crack in the wood, and loose soil lay against her cheek. When he wiped her mouth with his sleeve, her eyes followed his hand.
He had known her for nearly twenty years, but he found himself studying her face as though he needed to establish who she was. The swelling had distorted her jaw. Her lips moved without producing a sound, and he bent close enough to feel her breath against his cheek.
“We’ll have you out shortly,” he told her. He loosened the cord from her wrist, where it had worn a raw line in the skin, then worked his arm beneath her shoulders.
She cried out when he lifted her. Hugh reached down to help, and between them they brought her onto the grass. Martin stayed kneeling beside her while the boy from the gate returned with water. Most of what they gave her ran down her chin, but she swallowed a little and tried to speak.
“Stephen is at home,” Martin said, guessing what she wanted. “We’ve sent word that you’re living.”
He had sent nobody, but the boy understood and hurried off again. Martin looked towards the church, where they could at least lay her out of the wind. Before he could ask Hugh to open the door, Alice Carter came through the gate.
“You cannot bring her in there,” she said. “My girls are sleeping in the vestry.”
Martin knew the girls were there. Their grandmother had died the previous afternoon, and Alice had refused to take them back to her own house while her husband lay sick. Hugh had given them blankets and let them stay.
“We can put her near the porch,” he said.
Alice shook her head. “You know what she has. My mother had the same swelling.”
Hugh looked away, and Martin understood that the priest would not make her move the children. He could scarcely blame either of them, but Agnes was lying on wet grass with grave soil in her hair. He looked across the wall towards his own house, where Ellen stood in the doorway watching them.
“Open the door wide,” he called to her. “We’ll need the bed.”
His daughter went inside without answering. Martin and Hugh lifted Agnes between them and carried her along the path, stopping once because Martin’s hands had begun to fail.
Inside, Ellen pulled back the blanket and helped them settle Agnes. She was twelve and had learned more about tending sickness in the past month than Martin would have wished her to know. While she brought a basin, he stood beside the bed and tried to decide where he could send her. His brother’s house was empty, but it was six miles away, and he had no means of knowing who had taken possession of it. Alice might accept her in the vestry, although he doubted it now.
“You should go with Father Hugh,” he said as she set down the basin.
Ellen looked at the priest, then at Agnes. “Will I be coming back tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
She took the cloth from his hand and dipped it into the water. “Then I’ll stay until you do.”
He ought to have insisted, but Hugh was already being called from the lane. Martin watched him leave before turning back to help his daughter. They cleaned Agnes as well as they could and gave her more water. Once, while Ellen was at the hearth, Agnes caught his wrist.
“There was dirt in my mouth,” she whispered.
“I’ve washed it away.”
She shook her head slightly, keeping hold of him. “I called for Stephen.”
Martin sat on the edge of the bed. He could remember the sound of the earth falling onto the boards, and Stephen asking him to be careful of the elder stem. He had been thinking about the other bodies waiting beneath the cart cloth.
“I’m sorry, Agnes,” he said. She held his wrist a little longer, then allowed him to lay her hand beneath the blanket.
Stephen arrived towards evening, walking with one shoulder raised and his arm held close to his side. He stopped at the open window and asked whether she knew where she was. Martin told him she had spoken, then went to the door to let him in. Stephen remained against the wall.
“I thought I heard her before we brought her,” he said. “I couldn’t wake her, but once I thought she made a sound.”
Martin kept his hand on the door. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you how deeply she slept.”
“You told me after you brought her for burial.”
Stephen rubbed his face with his free hand. His shirt was badly fastened, and there was dried food on one sleeve. “She’d been lying there since the night before. I had the children to see to, and she wouldn’t stir. I thought the bell would make certain.”
Martin wanted to ask how a bell could make certain of anything when a woman was already under the earth. Instead he remembered how briefly he had held the wool before her lips, and how relieved he had been when Stephen finally agreed to let them proceed.
He stepped aside. “Come and sit with her. Ellen will find you something to drink.”
Agnes lived through most of the night. Stephen held her hand while Martin dozed in the chair, waking whenever she shifted or tried to swallow. Once she asked who was looking after the children, and Stephen told her his sister had come. After that she seemed easier, although her breathing grew rough enough that Martin could hear it from the hearth.
When it stopped, he was awake. He brought the lamp close and watched her mouth while Stephen continued rubbing her fingers. Neither man spoke of burial. They stayed beside her until Ellen rose, and then until Hugh came to see them after sunrise.
They waited through the morning. Martin examined her again before he fetched the carrying board, and Stephen helped wrap her in a clean sheet. There was no argument about the cord this time, though Martin left it attached to the bell when he returned to the churchyard.
He was clearing the loose earth from the open grave when another cart arrived. The driver began unfastening the ropes, explaining that he had two more to collect before noon. Martin climbed onto the wheel and folded back the cloth covering an old man’s face.
“Help me carry them into the porch,” he said.
The driver glanced at the grave. “I thought you’d have room ready.”
“They’ll have to wait awhile.” Martin drew the cloth down far enough to uncover the old man’s chest, then asked the driver to come round and take his feet. Ellen had followed him from the house with his uneaten bread. When she saw where they were carrying the body, she went ahead to open the church door.