by Ken Follett
"It's because you showed favor to my family in Long Ham," she said; and she got up and went out.
Godwyn hurried after her. What luck that Elizabeth felt indebted to him! Philemon's instinct for intrigue was invaluable. As that thought crossed his mind, he saw Philemon in the cloisters. "Get those tools and meet me in the treasury!" he whispered. Then he left the priory.
He hurried across the green and into the main street. Elfric's wife, Alice, had inherited the house of Edmund Wooler, one of the largest homes in town, along with all the money Caris had made dyeing cloth. Elfric now lived in great luxury.
Godwyn knocked on the door and entered the hall. Alice was sitting at the table amid the remains of dinner. With her was her stepdaughter Griselda, and Griselda's son, Little Merthin. No one now believed that Merthin Fitzgerald was the little boy's father--he looked just like Griselda's runaway boyfriend Thurstan. Griselda had married one of her father's employees, Harold Mason. Polite people called the eight-year-old Merthin Haroldson, and the others called him Merthin Bastard.
Alice leaped up from her seat when she saw Godwyn. "Well, Cousin Prior, what a pleasure to have you in our house! Will you take a little wine?"
Godwyn ignored her polite hospitality. "Where's Elfric?"
"He's upstairs, taking a short nap before he goes back to work. Sit in the parlor, and I'll fetch him."
"Right away, if you please." Godwyn stepped into the next room. There were two comfortable-looking chairs, but he paced up and down.
Elfric came in rubbing his eyes. "Sorry about this," he said. "I was just--"
"Those fifty ducats I gave you three days ago," Godwyn said. "I need them back."
Elfric was startled. "But the money was for stone."
"I know what it was for! I have to have it right now."
"I've spent some of it, paying carters to bring the stones from the quarry."
"How much?"
"About half."
"Well, you can make that up out of your own funds, can't you?"
"Don't you want a palace anymore?"
"Of course I do, but I must have that money. Don't ask why, just give it to me."
"What am I to do with the stones I've bought?"
"Just keep them. You'll get the money again, I just need it for a few days. Hurry!"
"All right. Wait here. If you will."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Elfric went out. Godwyn wondered where he kept his money. In the hearth, under the firestone was the usual place. Being a builder, Elfric might have a more cunning hidey-hole. Wherever it was, he was back in a few moments.
He counted fifty gold coins into Godwyn's hand.
Godwyn said: "I gave you ducats--some of these are florins." The florin was the same size, but stamped with different images: John the Baptist on one side and a flower on the other.
"I don't have the same coins! I told you I've spent some of them. They're all worth the same, aren't they?"
They were. Would the nuns notice the difference?
Godwyn thrust the money into the wallet at his belt and left without another word.
He hurried back to the cathedral and found Philemon in the treasury. "The nuns are going to carry out an audit," he explained breathlessly. "I've got the money back from Elfric. Open that chest, quickly."
Philemon opened the vault in the floor, took out the chest, and removed the nails. He lifted the lid.
Godwyn sifted through the coins. They were all ducats.
It could not be helped. He dug down into the money and pushed his florins to the bottom. "Close it up and put it back," he said.
Philemon did so.
Godwyn felt a moment of relief. His crime was partly concealed. At least now it would not be glaringly obvious.
"I want to be here when she counts it," he said to Philemon. "I'm worried about whether she'll notice that she's now got some florins mixed in with her ducats."
"Do you know when they intend to come?"
"No."
"I'll put a novice to sweeping the choir. When Beth shows up, he can come and fetch us." Philemon had a little coterie of admiring novice monks eager to do his bidding.
However, the novice was not needed. As they were about to leave the treasury, Sister Beth and Sister Caris arrived.
Godwyn pretended to be in the middle of a conversation about accounts. "We'll have to look in an earlier account roll, Brother," he said to Philemon. "Oh, good day, sisters."
Caris opened both nuns' vaults and took out the two chests.
"Something I can help you with?" Godwyn said.
Caris ignored him.
Beth said: "We're just checking something, thank you, Father Prior. We won't be long."
"Go ahead, go ahead," he said benevolently, though his heart was hammering in his chest.
Caris said irritably: "There's no need to apologize for our being here, Sister Beth. It's our treasury and our money."
Godwyn opened an account roll at random, and he and Philemon pretended to study it. Beth and Caris counted the silver in the first chest: farthings, halfpennies, pennies, and a few Luxembourgs, forged pennies crudely made of adulterated silver and used as small change. There were a few assorted gold coins, too: florins, ducats, and similar coins--the genovino from Genoa and the reale from Naples--plus some larger French moutons and new English nobles. Beth checked the totals against a small notebook. When they had finished she said: "Exactly right."
They replaced all the coins in the chest, locked it, and put it back in its underfloor vault.
They began counting the gold coins in the other chest, putting them in piles of ten. When they got toward the bottom of the chest, Beth frowned and made a puzzled sound.
"What is it?" Caris said.
Godwyn felt a guilty dread.
Beth said: "This chest contains only the bequest from the pious woman of Thornbury. I kept it separate."
"And...?"
"Her husband traded with Venice. I was sure the entire amount was in ducats. But there are some florins here, too."
Godwyn and Philemon froze, listening.
"That's odd," Caris said.
"Perhaps I made a mistake."
"It's a bit suspicious."
"Not really," Beth said. "Thieves don't put money into your treasury, do they?"
"You're right, they don't," Caris said reluctantly.
They finished counting. They had one hundred stacks of ten coins, worth a hundred and fifty pounds. "That's the exact figure in my book," Beth said.
"So every pound and penny is correct," Caris said.
Beth said: "I told you so."
45
Caris spent many hours thinking about Sister Mair.
She had been startled by the kiss, but more surprised at her own reaction to it. She had found it exciting. Until now, she had not felt attracted to Mair or any other woman. In fact there was only one person who had ever made her yearn to be touched and kissed and penetrated, and that was Merthin. In the nunnery she had learned to live without physical contact. The only hand that touched her sexually was her own, in the darkness of the dormitory, when she remembered the days of her courtship, and buried her face in the pillow so that the other nuns would not hear her panting.
She did not feel for Mair the same happy lust that Merthin inspired in her. But Merthin was a thousand miles away and seven years in the past. And she was fond of Mair. It was something to do with her angelic face, something about her blue eyes, some response to her gentleness in the hospital and the school.
Mair always spoke sweetly to Caris and, when no one was looking, touched her arm, or her shoulder, and once her cheek. Caris did not rebuff her, but she held back from responding. It was not that she thought it would be a sin. She felt sure God was much too wise to make a rule against women harmlessly pleasuring themselves or each other. But she was afraid of disappointing Mair. Instinct told her that Mair's feelings were strong and definite, whereas her own were uncertain. She's in love with me,
Caris thought, but I'm not in love with her. If I kiss her again, she may hope that the two of us will be soul mates for life, and I can't promise her that.
So she did nothing, until Fleece Fair week.
The Kingsbridge fair had recovered from the slump of 1338. The trade in raw wool was still suffering from interference by the king, and the Italians came only every second year, but the new business of weaving and dyeing compensated. The town was still not as prosperous as it might have been, for Prior Godwyn's prohibition of private mills had driven the industry out of the city and into the surrounding villages; but most of the cloth was sold in the market, indeed it had become known as Kingsbridge Scarlet. Merthin's bridge had been finished by Elfric, and people poured across the wide double span with their packhorses and wagons.
So, on the Saturday night before the official opening of the fair, the hospital was full to bursting with visitors.
And one of them was ill.
His name was Maldwyn Cook, and his trade was to make salty little savories with flour and scraps of meat or fish, cook them quickly in butter over a fire, and sell them six for a farthing. Soon after he arrived, he was afflicted with a sudden, savage bellyache, followed by vomiting and diarrhea. There was nothing Caris could do for him other than give him a bed near the door.
She had long wanted to give the hospital its own latrine, so that she could supervise its cleanliness. But that was only one of the improvements she hoped for. She needed a new pharmacy, adjacent to the hospital, a spacious, well-lit room where she could prepare medicines and make her notes. And she was trying to figure out a way to give patients more privacy. At present everyone in the room could see a woman giving birth, a man having a fit, a child vomiting. People in distress should have small rooms of their own, she felt, like the side chapels in a large church. But she was not sure how to achieve this: the hospital was not big enough. She had had several discussions with Jeremiah Builder--who had been Merthin's apprentice Jimmie, many years ago--but he had not come up with a satisfactory solution.
Next morning, three more people had the same symptoms as Maldwyn Cook.
Caris fed the visitors breakfast and tipped them out into the market. Only the sick were allowed to stay behind. The floor of the hospital was filthier than usual, and she had it swept and swabbed. Then she went to the service in the cathedral.
Bishop Richard was not present. He was with the king, preparing to invade France again--he had always regarded his bishopric mainly as a means of supporting his aristocratic lifestyle. In his absence the diocese was run by Archdeacon Lloyd, who collected the bishop's tithes and rents, baptized children, and conducted services with dogged but unimaginative efficiency--a trait he illustrated by giving a tedious sermon on why God was more important than money, an odd note on which to open one of England's great commercial fairs.
Nevertheless, everyone was in high spirits, as was usual on the first day. The Fleece Fair was the high point of the year for the townspeople and the peasants of the surrounding villages. People made money at the fair and lost it gambling in the inns. Strapping village girls allowed themselves to be seduced by slick city boys. Prosperous peasants paid the town's prostitutes for services they dared not ask their wives to perform. There was usually a murder, often several.
Caris spotted the heavyset, richly dressed figure of Buonaventura Caroli in the congregation, and her heart faltered. He might have news of Merthin. She went through the service distractedly, mumbling the psalms. On the way out she managed to catch Buonaventura's eye. He smiled at her. She tried to indicate, with an inclination of her head, that she wanted him to meet her afterward. She was not sure whether he got the message.
However, she went to the hospital--the only place in the priory where a nun could meet a man from outside--and Buonaventura came in not long afterward. He wore a costly blue coat and pointed shoes. He said: "Last time I saw you, you had just been consecrated a nun by Bishop Richard."
"I'm guest master now," she said.
"Congratulations! I never expected you to take so well to convent life." Buonaventura had known her since she was a little girl.
"Nor did I," she laughed.
"The priory seems to be doing well."
"What makes you say that?"
"I see that Godwyn is building a new palace."
"Yes."
"He must be prospering."
"I suppose he is. How about you? Is trade good?"
"We have some problems. The war between England and France has disrupted transport, and your King Edward's taxes make English wool more expensive than the Spanish. But it's also better quality."
They always complained about taxes. Caris came to the subject that really interested her. "Any news of Merthin?"
"As a matter of fact, there is," Buonaventura said; and although his manner was as urbane as ever, she detected a hesitation. "Merthin is married."
Caris felt as if she had been punched. She had never expected this, never even thought of it. How could Merthin do this? He was...They were...
There was no reason at all why he should not get married, of course. She had rejected him more than once, and on the last occasion she had made her rejection final by entering the nunnery. It was only remarkable that he had waited so long. She had no right to feel hurt.
She forced a smile. "How splendid!" she said. "Please send him my congratulations. Who is the girl?"
Buonaventura pretended not to notice her distress. "Her name is Silvia," he said, as casually as if he were passing on harmless gossip. "She's the younger daughter of one of the city's most prominent citizens, Alessandro Christi, a trader in oriental spices who owns several ships."
"How old?"
He grinned. "Alessandro? He must be about my age..."
"Don't tease me!" She was grateful to Buonaventura for lightening the tone. "How old is Silvia?"
"Twenty-three."
"Six years younger than me."
"A beautiful girl..."
She sensed the unspoken qualification. "But...?"
He tilted his head to one side apologetically. "She has the reputation of being sharp-tongued. Of course, people say all sorts of things...but perhaps that is why she remained single so long--girls in Florence generally marry before the age of eighteen."
"I'm sure it's true," Caris said. "The only girls Merthin liked in Kingsbridge were me and Elizabeth Clerk, and we're both shrews."
Buonaventura laughed. "Not so, not so."
"When was the wedding?"
"Two years ago. Not long after I last saw you."
Caris realized that Merthin had remained single until she had been consecrated as a nun. He would have heard, via Buonaventura, that she had taken the final step. She thought of him waiting and hoping, for more than four years, in a foreign country; and her brittle facade of good cheer began to crack.
Buonaventura said: "And they have a child, a little baby girl called Lolla."
That was too much. All the grief Caris had felt seven years ago--the pain she thought had gone forever--came back in a rush. She had not truly lost him back then in 1339, she realized. He had remained loyal to her memory for years. But she had lost him now, finally, eternally.
She was shaken as if by a fit, and she knew she could not hold out much longer. Trembling, she said: "It's such a pleasure to see you, and catch up with the news, but I must get back to my work."
His face showed concern. "I hope I haven't upset you too much. I thought you would prefer to know."
"Don't be kind to me--I can't stand it." She turned from him and hurried away.
She bent her head to hide her face as she walked from the hospital into the cloisters. Searching for somewhere to be alone, she ran up the stairs to the dormitory. There was no one there in the daytime. She began to sob as she walked the length of the bare room. At the far end was Mother Cecilia's bedroom. No one was allowed in there without an invitation, but Caris went in anyway, slamming the door behind her. She fell on Cecilia's bed, not car
ing that her nun's cap had fallen off. She buried her face in the straw mattress and wept.
After a while she felt a hand on her head, stroking her short-cropped hair. She had not heard the person enter the room. She did not care who it was. All the same she was slowly, gradually soothed. Her sobs became less wrenching, her tears dried, and the storm of her emotions began to die down. She rolled over and looked up at her comforter. It was Mair.
Caris said: "Merthin is married--he has a baby girl." She began to cry again.
Mair lay down on the bed and cradled Caris's head in her arms. Caris pressed her face into Mair's soft breasts, letting the woolen robe soak up the tears. "There, there," said Mair.
After a while, Caris calmed down. She was too drained to feel any more sorrow. She thought of Merthin holding a dark-haired little Italian baby, and saw how happy he would be. She was glad that he was happy, and she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
The illness that had started with Maldwyn Cook spread like a summer fire through the crowds at the Fleece Fair. On Monday it leaped from the hospital to the taverns, then on Tuesday from the visitors to the townspeople. Caris noted its characteristics in her book: it began with stomach pains, led quickly to vomiting and diarrhea, and lasted between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. It left adults not much the worse, but killed old people and small babies.
On Wednesday, it struck the nuns and the children in the girls' school. Both Mair and Tilly were affected. Caris sought out Buonaventura, at the Bell, and worriedly asked him whether Italian doctors had any treatment for such diseases. "There's no cure," he said. "None that works, anyway, though doctors nearly always prescribe something just to get more money out of people. But some Arab physicians believe you can retard the spread of such illnesses."
"Oh, really?" Caris was interested. Traders said that Muslim doctors were superior to their Christian counterparts, although the priest-physicians denied this hotly. "How?"
"They believe the disease is acquired when a sick person looks at you. Sight functions by beams that issue from the eyes and touch the things we see--rather like extending a finger to feel whether something is warm, or dry, or hard. But the beams may also project sickness. Therefore you can avoid the disease by never being in the same room as a sufferer."
Caris did not think illness could be transmitted by looks. If that were true then, after an important service in the cathedral, everyone in the congregation would acquire any illness the bishop had. Whenever the king was ill, he would infect all the hundreds of people who saw him. And surely someone would have noticed that.