The Devil's Disciples

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It was almost a decade since the plague had swept across the country, snatching the lives of rich and poor, young and old, good folk and bad. Father Thomas would never forget the terror of not knowing who might be struck next, or of watching his fellow Franciscans die, one after the other. At first, the friars had believed they would be spared, because the Great Pestilence would only punish the wicked, but they could not have been more wrong. Indeed, a greater proportion of priests had died than laymen, a fact that had not been lost on the general populace. More than half of Cambridge’s clerics had perished in those awful months.

But Thomas had survived. Unlike many of his brethren, he took his priestly vows seriously, and never let himself stray from the straight and narrow. When they bought themselves warm cloaks and good boots, he embraced poverty. When they pampered themselves with fine food, wine and even women, he piously declared that he had sworn to live a life of chastity and obedience. And when the plague had descended on Cambridge, he had gone among the sick and dying, giving aid where he could. He had been spared, which he put down to the fact that he was an upright, God-fearing man, and when the disease had finally relinquished its hold on the little Fen-edge town, he made sure everyone knew it.

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