World Without End

by Ken Follett

  "Were they absent from any other meals?"

  "Several, probably. Godwyn and Philemon always acted as if the rules didn't really apply to them. Their missing meals and services wasn't unusual enough for me to remember every instance."

  Caris said: "Do you recall Juley and John being absent a second time? Godwyn and Philemon would have needed help again."

  "Not necessarily," Merthin said. "It's much easier to reexcavate ground that has already been loosened. Godwyn is forty-three and Philemon is only thirty-four. They could have done it without help, if they really wanted to."

  That night, Godwyn began to rave. Some of the time he seemed to be quoting from the Bible, sometimes preaching, and sometimes making excuses. Caris listened for a while, hoping for clues. "Great Babylon is fallen, and all the nations have drunk of the wrath of her fornication; and out of the throne proceeded fire, and thunder; and all the merchants of the earth shall weep. Repent, oh, repent, all ye who have committed fornication with the mother of harlots! It was all done for a higher purpose, all done for the glory of God, because the end justifies the means. Give me something to drink, for the love of God." The apocalyptic tone of his delirium was probably suggested by the wall painting, with its graphic depiction of the tortures of Hell.

  Caris held a cup to his mouth. "Where are the cathedral ornaments, Godwyn?"

  "I saw seven golden candlesticks, all covered with pearls, and precious stones, and wrapped in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and lying in an ark made of cedarwood, and sandalwood, and silver. I saw a woman riding upon a scarlet beast, having seven heads and ten horns, and full of the names of blasphemy." The nave rang with the echoes of his ranting.

  On the following day the two novices died. That afternoon, Thomas and Merthin buried them in the graveyard to the north of the priory. It was a cold, damp day, but they sweated with the effort of digging. Thomas performed the funeral service. Caris stood at the grave with Merthin. When everything was falling apart, the rituals helped to maintain a semblance of normality. Around them were the new graves of all the other monks except Godwyn and Saul. Saul's body lay under the little chancel of the church, an honor reserved for the most highly regarded priors.

  Afterward Caris came back into the church and stared at Saul's grave in the chancel. That part of the church was paved with flagstones. Obviously the flags had been lifted so that the grave could be dug. When they had been put back, one of the stones had been polished and carved with an inscription.

  It was hard to concentrate, with Godwyn in the corner raving about beasts with seven heads.

  Merthin noticed her thoughtful look and followed her gaze. He immediately guessed what she was thinking. In a horrified voice he said: "Surely Godwyn can't have hidden the treasure in Saul Whitehead's coffin?"

  "It's hard to imagine monks desecrating a tomb," she said. "On the other hand, the ornaments wouldn't have had to leave the church."

  Thomas said: "Saul died a week before you arrived. Philemon disappeared two days later."

  "So Philemon could have helped Godwyn dig up the grave."

  "Yes."

  The three of them looked at one another, trying to ignore the mad mumblings of Godwyn.

  "There's only one way to find out," Merthin said.

  Merthin and Thomas got their wooden shovels. They lifted the memorial slab and the paving stones around it, and started digging.

  Thomas had developed a one-handed technique. He pushed the shovel into the earth with his good arm, tilted it, then ran his hand all the way down the shaft to the blade and lifted it. His right arm had become very muscular as a result of this kind of adaptation.

  Nevertheless, it took a long time. Many graves were shallow nowadays, but for Prior Saul they had dug down the full six feet. Night was falling outside, and Caris fetched candles. The devils in the wall painting seemed to move in the flickering light.

  Both Thomas and Merthin were standing in the hole, with only their heads visible above floor level, when Merthin said: "Wait. Something's here."

  Caris saw some muddy white material that looked like the oiled linen sometimes used for shrouds. "You've found the body," she said.

  Thomas said: "But where's the coffin?"

  "Was he buried in a box?" Coffins were only for the elite: poor people were interred in a shroud.

  Thomas said: "Saul was buried in a coffin--I saw it. There's plenty of wood here in the middle of the forest. All the monks were put in coffins, right up until Brother Silas fell ill--he was the carpenter."

  "Wait," said Merthin. He pushed his shovel through the earth at the feet of the shroud and lifted a shovelful. Then he tapped with the blade, and Caris heard the dull thud of wood on wood. "Here's the coffin, underneath," he said.

  Thomas said: "How did the body get out?"

  Caris felt a shiver of fear.

  Over in the corner, Godwyn raised his voice. "And he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and the smoke of his torment will rise up forever and ever."

  Thomas said to Caris: "Can't you shut him up?"

  "I've got no drugs with me."

  Merthin said: "There's nothing supernatural here. My guess is that Godwyn and Philemon took the body out--and filled the coffin with their stolen treasures."

  Thomas pulled himself together. "We'd better look in the coffin, then."

  First they had to move the shrouded corpse. Merthin and Thomas bent down, grabbed it by the shoulders and knees, and lifted it. When they had raised it to the level of their shoulders, the only way they could get it farther was to toss it out onto the floor. It landed with a thump. They both looked fearful. Even Caris, who did not believe much of what she was told about the spirit world, felt frightened by what they were doing, and found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the shadowed corners of the church.

  Merthin cleared the earth from the top of the coffin while Thomas went to fetch an iron bar. Then they lifted the lid of the casket.

  Caris held two candles over the grave so that they could see better.

  Inside the coffin was another shrouded body.

  Thomas said: "This is very strange!" His voice was distinctly shaky.

  "Let's just think sensibly about this," Merthin said. He was sounding calm and collected, but Caris--who knew him extraordinarily well--could tell that his composure was taking a big effort. "Who is in the coffin?" he said. "Let's look."

  He bent down, grabbed the shroud in two hands, and ripped it open along the stitched seam at the head. The corpse was a week dead, and there was a bad smell, but it had not deteriorated much in the cold ground under the unheated church. Even in the unsteady light from Caris's candles, there was no doubt about the identity of the dead man: the head was fringed with distinctively ash blond hair.

  Thomas said: "That's Saul Whitehead."

  "In his rightful coffin," said Merthin.

  Caris said: "So who is the other corpse?"

  Merthin closed the shroud around Saul's blond head and replaced the coffin lid.

  Caris knelt by the other corpse. She had dealt with many dead bodies, but she had never brought one up from its grave, and her hands were shaky. Nevertheless she opened the shroud and exposed the face. To her horror, the eyes were open and seemed to be staring. She forced herself to close the cold eyelids.

  It was a big young monk she did not recognize. Thomas stood on tiptoe to look out of the grave and said: "That's Brother Jonquil. He died the day after Prior Saul."

  Caris said: "And he was buried...?"

  "In the cemetery...we all thought."

  "In a coffin?"

  "Yes."

  "Except that he's here."

  "His coffin weighed enough," Thomas said. "I helped carry it..."

  Merthin said: "I see what happened. Jonquil lay here in the church, in his coffin, prior to burial. While the other monks were at dinner, Godwyn and Philemon opened the coffin and took the body out. They dug up Saul's tomb and tumbled Jonqui
l in on top of Saul's coffin. They closed the grave. Then they put the cathedral treasures in Jonquil's coffin and closed it again."

  Thomas said: "So we have to dig up Jonquil's grave."

  Caris glanced up at the windows of the church. They were dark. Night had fallen while they were opening the tomb of Saul. "We could leave it until morning," she said.

  Both men were silent for a long moment, then Thomas said: "Let's get it over with."

  Caris went to the kitchen, picked two branches from the firewood pile, lit them at the fire, then returned to the church.

  As the three of them went outside, they heard Godwyn cry: "And the winepress of the wrath of God was trodden outside the city, and the grapes gave forth blood, and the land was flooded to the height of the horses' bridles."

  Caris shuddered. It was a vile image from the Revelation of St. John the Divine, and it disgusted her. She tried to put it out of her mind.

  They walked quickly to the cemetery in the red light of the torches. Caris was relieved to be away from that wall painting and out of earshot of Godwyn's mad ravings. They found Jonquil's headstone and began to excavate.

  The two men had already dug two graves for the novices and re-dug Saul's. This was their fourth since dinnertime. Merthin looked tired and Thomas was sweating heavily. But they worked on doggedly. Slowly the hole got deeper and the pile of earth beside it rose higher. At last a shovel struck wood.

  Caris passed Merthin the crowbar, then she knelt on the edge of the pit, holding both torches. Merthin prized open the coffin lid and threw it out of the grave.

  There was no corpse in the box.

  Instead it was packed tightly with bags and boxes. Merthin opened a leather bag and pulled out a jeweled crucifix. "Hallelujah," he said wearily.

  Thomas opened a box to reveal a row of parchment rolls, packed tightly together like fish in a crate: the charters.

  Caris felt a weight of worry roll off her shoulders. She had got the nunnery charters back.

  Thomas put his hand into another bag. When he looked at what he had got hold of, it was a skull. He gave a fearful cry and dropped it.

  "Saint Adolphus," Merthin said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Pilgrims travel hundreds of miles to touch the box that holds his bones." He picked up the skull. "Lucky us," he said, and put it back into the bag.

  "If I may make a suggestion?" said Caris. "We have to carry this stuff all the way back to Kingsbridge in a cart. Why don't we leave it in the coffin? It's packed already, and the casket may serve to deter thieves."

  "Good idea," Merthin said. "We'll just lift the coffin out of the grave."

  Thomas returned to the priory and brought ropes, and they lifted the coffin out of the hole. They refixed the lid, then tied the ropes around the box in order to drag it across the ground and into the church.

  As they were about to start, they heard a scream.

  Caris let out a cry of fear.

  They all looked toward the church. A figure was running toward them, eyes staring, blood coming from its mouth. Caris suffered a moment of utter terror when she suddenly believed every foolish superstition she had ever heard about spirits. Then she realized she was looking at Godwyn. Somehow he had found the strength to rise from his deathbed. He had staggered out of the church and seen their torches, and now in his madness he was running toward them.

  They watched him, transfixed.

  He stopped and looked at the coffin, then at the empty grave, and in the restless torchlight Caris thought she saw a glimmer of understanding on his grimacing face. Then he seemed to lose his strength, and he collapsed. He fell on the mound of earth beside Jonquil's empty grave, then he rolled down the mound and into the pit.

  They all stepped forward and looked into the grave.

  Godwyn lay there on his back, looking up at them with open, sightless eyes.

  66

  As soon as Caris got back to Kingsbridge, she decided to leave again.

  The image of St.-John-in-the-Forest that stayed with her was not the graveyard, or the corpses Merthin and Thomas had dug up, but the neat fields with no one tilling them. As she rode home, with Merthin beside her and Thomas driving the cart, she saw a lot of land in the same state, and she foresaw a crisis.

  The monks and nuns got most of their income from rents. Serfs grew crops and raised livestock on land belonging to the priory and, instead of paying a knight or an earl for the privilege, they paid the prior or prioress. Traditionally they brought a portion of their harvest to the cathedral--a dozen sacks of flour, three sheep, a calf, a cartload of onions--but nowadays most people paid cash.

  If no one was cultivating the land, there would be no rent paid, obviously. And then what would the nuns eat?

  The cathedral ornaments, the money, and the charters she had retrieved from St.-John-in-the-Forest were stashed safely in the new, secret treasury that Mother Cecilia had commissioned Jeremiah to build in a place where no one could easily find it. All the ornaments had been found except one, a gold candlestick given by the chandlers' guild, the group that represented the wax candle makers of Kingsbridge. That had disappeared.

  Caris held a triumphant Sunday service featuring the rescued bones of the saint. She put Thomas in charge of the boys in the orphanage--some of them were old enough to require a strong male presence. She herself moved into the prior's palace, thinking with pleasure how appalled the late Godwyn would be that it was occupied by a woman. Then, as soon as she had dealt with these details, she went to Outhenby.

  The Vale of Outhen was a fertile valley of heavy clay soil a day's journey from Kingsbridge. It had been given to the nuns a hundred years ago by a wicked old knight making a last-gasp attempt to win forgiveness for a lifetime of sins. Five villages stood at intervals along the banks of the River Outhen. On either side the great fields covered the land and the lower slopes of the hills.

  The fields were divided into strips allocated to different families. As she had feared, many strips were not being cultivated. The plague had changed everything, but no one had had the brains--or perhaps the courage--to reorganize farming in the light of the new circumstances. Caris herself would have to do that. She had a rough idea of what was required, and she would work out the details as she went along.

  With her was Sister Joan, a young nun recently out of her novitiate. Joan was a bright girl who reminded Caris of herself ten years ago--not in appearance, for she was black-haired and blue-eyed, but in her questioning mind and brisk skepticism.

  They rode to the largest of the villages, Outhenby. The bailiff for the whole valley, Will, lived there in a large timber house next to the church. He was not at home, but they found him in the farthest field, sowing oats; a big, slow-moving man. The next strip had been left fallow, and wild grass and weeds were poking up, grazed by a few sheep.

  Will Bailiff visited the priory several times a year, usually to bring the rents from the villages, so he knew Caris; but he was disconcerted to meet her on his home ground. "Sister Caris!" he exclaimed when he recognized her. "What brings you here?"

  "I'm Mother Caris now, Will, and I've come to make sure the nuns' lands are being properly husbanded."

  "Ah." He shook his head. "We're doing our best, as you see, but we've lost so many men that it's very, very difficult."

  Bailiffs always said that times were difficult--but in this case it was true.

  Caris dismounted. "Walk with me and tell me about it." A few hundred yards away, on the gentle slope of a hillside, she saw a peasant plowing with a team of eight oxen. He halted the team and looked at her curiously, so she headed that way.

  Will began to recover his composure. Walking alongside her, he said: "A woman of God, such as yourself, can't be expected to know much about tilling the soil, of course; but I'll do my best to explain the finer points."

  "That would be kind." She was used to being condescended to by men of Will's type. She had found that it was best not to challenge them, but rather to lull them into a false sense of security.
That way, she learned more. "How many men have you lost to the plague?"

  "Oh, many men."

  "How many?"

  "Well, now, let me see, there was William Jones, and his two sons; then Richard Carpenter, and his wife--"

  "I don't need to know their names," she said, controlling her exasperation. "How many, roughly speaking?"

  "I'd have to think about that."

  They had reached the plow. Managing the eight-ox team was a skilled job, and plowmen were often among the more intelligent villagers. Caris addressed the young man. "How many people in Outhenby have died of the plague?"

  "About two hundred, I'd say."

  Caris studied him. He was short but muscular, with a bushy blond beard. He had a cocksure look, as young men often did. "Who are you?" she asked.

  "My name is Harry, and my father was Richard, Holy Sister."

  "I am Mother Caris. How do you work out that figure of two hundred?"

  "There's forty-two dead here in Outhenby, by my reckoning. It's just as bad in Ham and Shortacre, making about a hundred and twenty. Longwater escaped completely, but every soul in Oldchurch is dead but old Roger Breton, which is about eighty people, making two hundred."

  She turned to Will. "Out of about how many in the whole valley?"

  "Ah, now, let me see..."

  Harry Plowman said: "A thousand, near enough, before the plague."

  Will said: "That's why you see me sowing my own strip, which should be done by laborers--but I have no laborers. They've all died."

  Harry said: "Or they've gone to work elsewhere for higher wages."

  Caris perked up. "Oh? Who offers higher wages?"

  "Some of the wealthier peasants in the next valley," Will said indignantly. "The nobility pay a penny a day, which is what laborers have always got and always should; but there are some people who think they can do as they please."

  "But they get their crops sowed, I suppose," Caris said.

  "But there's right and wrong, Mother Caris," said Will.

  Caris pointed to the fallow strip where the sheep were. "And what about that land? Why has it not been plowed?"

  Will said: "That belonged to William Jones. He and his sons died, and his wife went to live with her sister in Shiring."

  "Have you looked for a new tenant?"