World Without End

by Ken Follett

  "Bloody fools," Lolla repeated. She was learning English.

  He rode on to the bridge. The roadbed had been finished properly, he was happy to see, and he was pleased with the design of the parapet, a sturdy barrier with a carved capstone that recalled the moldings in the cathedral.

  Leper Island was still overrun with rabbits. Merthin continued to hold a lease on the island. In his absence, Mark Webber had been collecting rents from tenants, paying the nominal rent due to the priory every year, subtracting an agreed collection fee, and sending the balance annually to Merthin in Florence via the Caroli family. After all the deductions it was a small sum, but it grew a little every year.

  Merthin's house on the island had an occupied look, the shutters open, the doorstep swept. He had arranged for Jimmie to live there. The boy must now be a man, he thought.

  At the near end of the second span, an old man Merthin did not recognize sat in the sun collecting the tolls. Merthin paid him a penny. The man gave him a hard stare, as if trying to recall where he had seen him before, but he said nothing.

  The town was both familiar and strange. Because it was almost the same, the changes struck Merthin as miraculous, as if they had happened overnight: a row of hovels knocked down and replaced by fine houses; a busy inn where once there had been a big gloomy house occupied by a wealthy widow; a well dried up and paved over; a gray house painted white.

  He went to the Bell Inn on the main street, next to the priory gates. It was unchanged: a tavern in such a good location would probably last hundreds of years. He left his horses and baggage with a hostler and went inside, holding hands with Lolla.

  The Bell was like taverns everywhere: a big front room furnished with rough tables and benches, and a back area where the barrels of beer and wine were racked and food was cooked. Because it was popular and profitable, the straw on the floor was changed frequently and the walls were freshly whitewashed, and in winter a huge fire blazed. Now, in the heat of summer, all the windows were open, and a mild breeze blew through the front room.

  After a moment, Bessie Bell came out from the back. Nine years ago she had been a curvy girl; now she was a voluptuous woman. She looked at him without recognition, but he saw her appraise his clothes and judge him an affluent customer. "Good day to you, traveler," she said. "What can we do to make you and your child comfortable?"

  Merthin grinned. "I'd like to take your private room, please, Bessie."

  She knew him as soon as he spoke. "My soul!" she cried. "It's Merthin Bridger!" He put out his hand to shake, but she threw her arms around him and hugged him. She had always had a soft spot for him. She released him and studied his face. "Such a beard you've grown! I would have recognized you sooner otherwise. Is this your little girl?"

  "Her name is Lolla."

  "Well, aren't you a pretty thing! Your mother must be beautiful."

  Merthin said: "My wife died."

  "How sad. But Lolla is young enough to forget. My husband died, too."

  "I didn't know you were married."

  "I met him after you left. Richard Brown, from Gloucester. I lost him a year ago."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "My father's gone to Canterbury, on a pilgrimage, so I'm running this tavern all on my own at the moment."

  "I always liked your father."

  "He was fond of you, too. He always takes to men with a bit of spirit. He was never very keen on my Richard."

  "Ah." Merthin felt the conversation had become too intimate, too fast. "What news of my parents?"

  "They're not here in Kingsbridge. They're staying at your brother's new home in Tench."

  Merthin had heard, through Buonaventura, that Ralph had become lord of Tench. "My father must be very pleased."

  "Proud as a peacock." She smiled, then looked concerned. "You must be hungry and tired. I'll tell the boys to take your bags upstairs, then I'll bring you a tankard of ale and some pottage." She turned to go into the back room.

  "That's kind, but..."

  Bessie paused at the door.

  "If you would give Lolla some soup, I'd be grateful. There's something I have to do."

  Bessie nodded. "Of course." She bent down to Lolla. "Do you want to come with Auntie Bessie? I expect you could eat a piece of bread. Do you like new bread?"

  Merthin translated the question into Italian, and Lolla nodded happily.

  Bessie looked at Merthin. "Going to see Sister Caris, are you?"

  Absurdly, he felt guilty. "Yes," he said. "She's still here, then?"

  "Oh, yes. She's guest master at the nunnery now. I'll be surprised if she isn't prioress one day." She took Lolla's hand and led her into the back room. "Good luck," she called over her shoulder.

  Merthin went out. Bessie could be a little suffocating, but her affection was sincere, and it warmed his heart to be welcomed back with such enthusiasm. He entered the priory grounds. He paused to look at the soaring west front of the cathedral, almost two hundred years old now and as awe-inspiring as ever.

  He noticed a new stone building to the north of the church, beyond the graveyard. It was a medium-size palace, with an imposing entrance and an upper story. It had been built close to where the old timber prior's house used to be, so presumably it had replaced that modest building as the residence of Godwyn. He wondered where Godwyn had found the money.

  He went closer. The palace was very grand, but Merthin did not like the design. None of the levels related in any way to the cathedral that loomed over it. The details were careless. The top of the ostentatious doorcase blocked part of an upper-story window. Worst of all, the palace was built on a different axis from that of the church, so that it stood at an awkward angle.

  It was Elfric's work, no doubt of that.

  A plump cat sat on the doorstep in the sun. It was black with a white tip to its tail. It glared malevolently at Merthin.

  He turned away and walked slowly to the hospital. The cathedral green was quiet and deserted: there was no market today. The excitement and apprehension rose again in his stomach. He might see Caris at any moment. He reached the entrance and went in. The long room looked brighter and smelled fresher than he remembered: everything had a scrubbed look. There were a few people lying on mattresses on the floor, most of them elderly. At the altar a young novice was saying prayers aloud. He waited for her to finish. He was so anxious that he was sure he felt more ill than the patients on the beds. He had come a thousand miles for this moment. Was it a wasted journey?

  At last the nun said "Amen" for the last time and turned around. He did not know her. She approached him and said politely: "May God bless you, stranger."

  Merthin took a deep breath. "I've come to see Sister Caris," he said.

  The nuns' chapter meetings now took place in the refectory. In the past they had shared with the monks the elegant octagonal chapter house at the northeast corner of the cathedral. Sadly, mistrust between monks and nuns was now so great that the nuns did not want to risk the monks' eavesdropping on their deliberations. So they met in the long bare room where they took their meals.

  The nunnery officials sat behind a table, Mother Cecilia in the middle. There was no subprioress: Natalie had died a few weeks ago, at the age of fifty-seven, and Cecilia had not yet replaced her. On Cecilia's right was the treasurer, Beth, and her matricularius, Elizabeth, formerly Elizabeth Clerk. On Cecilia's left were the cellarer, Margaret, in charge of all supplies, and her subordinate Caris, the guest master. Thirty nuns sat on rows of benches facing the senior officials.

  After the prayer and the reading, Mother Cecilia made her announcements. "We have received a letter from our lord bishop in response to our complaint about Prior Godwyn stealing our money," she said. There was a murmur of anticipation from the nuns.

  The reply had been a long time coming. King Edward had taken almost a year to replace Bishop Richard. Earl William had lobbied hard for Jerome, his father's able administrator, but in the end Edward had chosen Henri of Mons, a relative of h
is wife's from Hainault in northern France. Bishop Henri had come to England for the ceremony, then traveled to Rome to be confirmed by the pope, then returned and settled into his palace at Shiring, before replying to Cecilia's formal letter of complaint.

  Cecilia went on: "The bishop declines to take any action over the theft, saying that the events took place during the time of Bishop Richard, and the past is past."

  The nuns gasped. They had accepted the delay patiently, feeling confident they would get justice in the end. This was a shocking rejection.

  Caris had seen the letter earlier. She was not as astonished as the rest of the nuns. It was not so remarkable that the new bishop did not wish to begin his period of office by quarreling with the prior of Kingsbridge. The letter told her that Henri would be a pragmatic ruler, not a man of principle. He was no different, in that respect, from the majority of men who were successful in church politics.

  However, she was no less disappointed for being unsurprised. The decision meant that she had to abandon, for the foreseeable future, her dream of building a new hospital where sick people could be isolated from healthy guests. She told herself she should not grieve: the priory had existed for hundreds of years without such a luxury, so it could wait another decade or more. On the other hand, it angered her to see the rapid spread of diseases like the vomiting sickness that Maldwyn Cook had brought to the Fleece Fair the year before last. No one understood exactly how these things were transmitted--by looking at a sick person, by touching him, or just by being in the same room--but there could be no doubt that many illnesses did hop from one victim to the next, and proximity was a factor. However, she had to forget all that for now.

  A rumble of resentful muttering came from the nuns on the benches. Mair's voice rose above the others, saying: "The monks will be cock-a-hoop."

  She was right, Caris thought. Godwyn and Philemon had got away with daylight robbery. They had always argued that it was not theft for the monks to use the nuns' money, since it was all for the glory of God in the end; and they would now consider that the bishop had vindicated them. It was a bitter defeat, especially for Caris and Mair.

  But Mother Cecilia was not going to waste time on regrets. "This is not the fault of any of us, except perhaps me," she said. "We have simply been too trusting."

  You trusted Godwyn, but I did not, Caris thought, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. She waited to hear what Cecilia would say next. She knew that the prioress was going to make changes among the nunnery officials, but no one knew what had been decided.

  "However, we must be more careful in the future. We will build a treasury of our own, to which the monks will not have access; indeed, I hope they will not even know where it is. Sister Beth will retire as treasurer, with our thanks for long and faithful service, and Sister Elizabeth will take her place. I have complete faith in Elizabeth."

  Caris tried to control her face so that her disgust would not be seen. Elizabeth had testified that Caris was a witch. It was nine years ago, and Cecilia had forgiven Elizabeth, but Caris never would. However, that was not the only reason for Caris's antipathy. Elizabeth was sour and twisted, and her resentments interfered with her judgment. Such people could never be trusted, in Caris's opinion: they were always liable to make decisions based on their prejudices.

  Cecilia went on: "Sister Margaret has asked permission to step down from her duties, and Sister Caris will take her place as cellarer."

  Caris was disappointed. She had hoped to be made subprioress, Cecilia's deputy. She tried to smile as if pleased, but she found it difficult. Cecilia was obviously not going to appoint a subprioress. She would have two rival subordinates, Caris and Elizabeth, and let them fight it out. Caris caught Elizabeth's eye, and saw barely suppressed hatred in her look.

  Cecilia went on: "Under Caris's supervision, Sister Mair will become guest master."

  Mair beamed with pleasure. She was glad to be promoted and even happier that she would be working under Caris. Caris, too, liked the decision. Mair shared her obsession with cleanliness and her mistrust of priests' remedies such as bleeding.

  Caris had not got what she wanted, but she tried to look happy as Cecilia announced a handful of lesser appointments. When the meeting closed, she went to Cecilia and thanked her.

  "Don't imagine it was an easy decision," the prioress said. "Elizabeth has brains and determination, and she's steady where you're volatile. But you're imaginative, and you get the best out of people. I need you both."

  Caris could not argue with Cecilia's analysis of her. She really knows me, Caris thought ruefully; better than anyone else in the world, now that my father is dead and Merthin has gone. She felt a surge of affection. Cecilia was like a mother bird, always moving, always busy, taking care of her fledglings. "I'll do everything I can to live up to your expectations," Caris vowed.

  She left the room. She needed to check on Old Julie. No matter what she said to the younger nuns, no one looked after Julie the way she did. It was as if they believed that a helpless old person did not need to be kept comfortable. Only Caris made sure Julie was given a blanket in cool weather, and got something to drink when she was thirsty, and was helped to the latrine at those times of day when habitually she needed to go. Caris decided to take her a hot drink, an infusion of herbs that seemed to cheer the old nun up. She went to her pharmacy and put a small pan of water on the fire to boil.

  Mair came in and closed the door. "Isn't this wonderful?" she said. "We'll still be working together!" She threw her arms around Caris and kissed her lips.

  Caris hugged her, then detached herself from the embrace. "Don't kiss me like that," she said.

  "It's because I love you."

  "And I love you, too, but not in the same way."

  It was true. Caris was very fond of Mair. They had become highly intimate in France, when they had risked their lives together. Caris had even found herself attracted by Mair's beauty. One night in a tavern in Calais, when the two of them had had a room with a door that could be locked, Caris had at last succumbed to Mair's advances. Mair had fondled and kissed Caris in all her most private places, and Caris had done the same to Mair. Mair had said it was the happiest day of her life. Unfortunately, Caris had not felt the same. For her the experience was pleasant but not thrilling, and she had not wanted to repeat it.

  "That's all right," Mair said. "As long as you love me, even just a little bit, I'm happy. You won't ever stop, will you?"

  Caris poured boiling water on the herbs. "When you're as old as Julie, I promise I'll bring you an infusion to keep you healthy."

  Tears came to Mair's eyes. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

  Caris had not meant it to be a vow of eternal love. "Don't be sentimental," she said gently. She strained the infusion into a wooden cup. "Let's go and check on Julie."

  They crossed the cloisters and entered the hospital. A man with a bushy red beard was standing near the altar. "God bless you, stranger," Caris said. The man seemed familiar. He did not reply to her greeting, but looked hard at her with intense golden brown eyes. Then she recognized him. She dropped the cup. "Oh, God!" she said. "You!"

  The few moments before she saw him were exquisite, and Merthin knew he would treasure them all his life, whatever else happened. He stared hungrily at the face he had not seen for nine years, and remembered, with a shock that was like plunging into a cold river on a hot day, how dear that face had been to him. She had hardly changed at all: his fears had been groundless. She did not even look older. She would be thirty now, he calculated, but she was as slim and perky as she had been at twenty. She walked quickly into the hospital with an air of brisk authority, carrying a wooden cup full of some medicine; then she looked at him, paused, and dropped the cup.

  He grinned at her, feeling happy.

  "You're here!" she said. "I thought you were in Florence!"

  "I'm very pleased to be back," he replied.

  She looked at the liquid on the floor. The nu
n with her said: "Don't worry about this, I'll clear up. Go and talk to him." The second nun was pretty, and had tears in her eyes, Merthin noticed, but he was too excited to pay much attention.

  Caris said: "When did you come back?"

  "I arrived an hour ago. You look well."

  "And you look...such a man."

  Merthin laughed.

  She said: "What made you decide to return?"

  "It's a long story," he replied. "But I'd love to tell it to you."

  "We'll step outside." She touched his arm lightly and led him out of the building. Nuns were not supposed to touch people, or to have private conversations with men, but for her such rules had always been optional. He was glad she had not acquired a respect for authority in the last nine years.

  Merthin pointed to the bench by the vegetable garden. "I sat on that seat with Mark and Madge Webber, the day you entered the convent, nine years ago. Madge told me you had refused to see me."

  She nodded. "It was the most unhappy day of my life--but I knew that seeing you would make it even worse."

  "I felt the same way, except that I wanted to see you, no matter how miserable it made me."

  She gave him a direct look, her gold-flecked green eyes as candid as ever. "That sounds a bit like a reproach."

  "Perhaps it is. I was very angry with you. Whatever you decided to do, I felt you owed me an explanation." He had not intended the conversation to go this way, but he found he could not help himself.

  She was unapologetic. "It's really quite simple. I could hardly bear to leave you. If I had been forced to speak to you, I think I would have killed myself."

  He was taken aback. For nine years he had thought she had been selfish on that day of parting. Now it looked as if he had been the selfish one, in making such demands on her. She had always had this ability to make him revise his attitudes, he recalled. It was an uncomfortable process, but she was often right.

  They did not sit on the bench, but turned away and walked across the cathedral green. The sky had clouded over, and the sun had gone. "There is a terrible plague in Italy," he said. "They call it la moria grande."