by Ken Follett
She went to the clothespress and lifted its lid. She had left most of her clothes here when she went to Kingsbridge: it was not considered seemly to dress richly when living in a nunnery, even for noble guests. She found another nightdress. Ralph raked her with his eyes as she lifted it out. He stared at her uplifted breasts, and the mound of her sex with its dark hair, and his mouth went dry.
She caught his look. "Don't you touch me," she said.
If she had not said that, he would probably have lain down and gone to sleep. But her swift rejection stung him. "I'm the earl of Shiring and you're my wife," he said. "I'll touch you anytime I like."
"You wouldn't dare," she said, and she turned away to put on the gown.
That angered him. As she lifted the garment to put it on over her head, he slapped her bottom. It was a hard slap on bare skin, and he could tell that it hurt her. She jumped and cried out. "So much for not daring," he said. She turned to him, a protest on her lips, and on impulse he punched her in the mouth. She was knocked back and fell to the floor. Her hands flew to her mouth, and blood seeped through her fingers. But she was on her back, naked, with her legs spread, and he could see the triangle of hair at the fork of her thighs, with its cleft slightly parted in what looked like an invitation.
He fell on her.
She wriggled furiously, but he was bigger than she, and strong. He overcame her resistance effortlessly. A moment later he was inside her. She was dry, but somehow that excited him.
It was all over quite quickly. He rolled off her, panting. After a few moments he looked at her. There was blood on her mouth. She did not look back at him: her eyes were closed. Yet it seemed to him that there was a curious expression on her face. He thought about it for a while until he worked it out; then he was even more puzzled than before.
She looked triumphant.
Merthin knew that Philippa had returned to Kingsbridge, because he saw her maid in the Bell. He expected his lover to come to his house that night, and was disappointed when she did not. No doubt she felt awkward, he thought. No lady would be comfortable with what she had done, even though the reasons were compelling, even though the man she loved knew and understood.
Another night went by without her appearing, then it was Sunday and he felt sure he would see her in church. But she did not come to the service. It was almost unheard of for the nobility to miss Sunday mass. What had kept her away?
After the service he sent Lolla home with Arn and Em, then went across the green to the old hospital. On the upper floor were three rooms for important guests. He took the outside staircase.
In the corridor he came face-to-face with Caris.
She did not bother to ask what he was doing here. "The countess doesn't want you to see her, but you probably should," she said.
Merthin noted the odd turn of phrase: Not "The countess doesn't want to see you," but "The countess doesn't want you to see her." He looked at the bowl Caris was carrying. It contained a bloodstained rag. Fear struck his heart. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing too serious," Caris said. "The baby is unharmed."
"Thank God."
"You're the father, of course?"
"Please don't ever let anyone hear you say that."
She looked sad. "All the years you and I were together, and I only conceived that one time."
He looked away. "Which room is she in?"
"Sorry to talk about myself. I'm the last thing you're interested in. Lady Philippa is in the middle room."
He caught the poorly suppressed grief in her voice and paused, despite his anxiety for Philippa. He touched Caris's arm. "Please don't believe I'm not interested in you," he said. "I'll always care what happens to you, and whether you're happy."
She nodded, and tears came to her eyes. "I know," she said. "I'm being selfish. Go and see Philippa."
He left Caris and entered the middle room. Philippa was kneeling on the prie-dieu with her back to him. He interrupted her prayers. "Are you all right?"
She stood up and turned to him. Her face was a mess. Her lips were swollen to three times their normal size and badly scabbed.
He guessed that Caris had been bathing the wound--hence the bloody rag. "What happened?" he said. "Can you speak?"
She nodded. "I sound queer, but I can talk." Her voice was a mumble, but comprehensible.
"How badly are you hurt?"
"My face looks awful, but it's not serious. Other than that, I'm fine."
He put his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder. He waited, holding her. After a while, she began to cry. He stroked her hair and her back while she shook with sobs. He said: "There, there," and kissed her forehead, but he did not try to silence her.
Slowly, her weeping subsided.
He said: "Can I kiss your lips?"
She nodded. "Gently."
He brushed them with his own. He tasted almonds: Caris had smeared the cuts with oil. "Tell me what happened," he said.
"It worked. He was fooled. He will be sure it's his baby."
He touched her mouth with his fingertip. "And he did this?"
"Don't be angry. I tried to provoke him, and I succeeded. Be glad he hit me."
"Glad! Why?"
"Because he thinks he had to force me. He believes I would not have submitted without violence. He has no inkling that I intended to seduce him. He will never suspect the truth. Which means I'm safe--and so is our baby."
He put his hand on her belly. "But why didn't you come and see me?"
"Looking like this?"
"I want to be with you even more when you're hurt." He moved his hand to her breast. "Besides, I've missed you."
She took his hand away. "I can't go from one to the other like a whore."
"Oh." He had not thought of it that way.
"Do you understand?"
"I think so." He could see that a woman would feel cheap--although a man might be proud of doing exactly the same thing. "But how long...?"
She sighed, and moved away. "It's not how long."
"What do you mean?"
"We've agreed to tell the world that this is Ralph's baby, and I've made sure he'll believe that. Now he's going to want to raise it."
Merthin was dismayed. "I hadn't thought about the details, but I imagined you would continue to live in the priory."
"Ralph won't allow his child to be raised in a nunnery, especially if it's a boy."
"So what will you do, go back to Earlscastle?"
"Yes."
The child was nothing yet, of course; not a person, not even a baby, just a swelling in Philippa's belly. But all the same Merthin felt a stab of grief. Lolla had become the great joy of his life, and he had been looking forward eagerly to another child.
But at least he had Philippa for a little while longer. "When will you go?" he asked.
"Immediately," she said. She saw the look on his face, and tears came to her eyes. "I can't tell you how sorry I am--but I would just feel wrong, making love to you and planning to return to Ralph. It would be the same with any two men. The fact that you're brothers just makes it uglier."
His eyes blurred with tears. "So it's over with us already? Now?"
She nodded. "And there's another thing I have to tell you, one more reason why we can never be lovers again. I've confessed my adultery."
Merthin knew that Philippa had her own personal confessor, as was appropriate for a high-ranking noblewoman. Since she came to Kingsbridge, he had been living with the monks, a welcome addition to their thinned ranks. So now she had told him of her affair. Merthin hoped he could keep the secrets of the confessional.
Philippa said: "I have received absolution, but I must not continue the sin."
Merthin nodded. She was right. They had both sinned. She had betrayed her husband, and he had betrayed his brother. She had an excuse: she had been forced into the marriage. He had none. A beautiful woman had fallen in love with him and he had loved her back, even though he had no right. The yearning ache of grie
f and loss he was feeling now was the natural consequence of such behavior.
He looked at her--the cool gray-green eyes, the smashed mouth, the ripe body--and realized that he had lost her. Perhaps he had never really had her. In any case it had always been wrong, and now it was over. He tried to speak, to say good-bye, but his throat seemed to seize up, and nothing came out. He could hardly see for crying. He turned away, fumbled for the door, and somehow got out of the room.
A nun was coming along the corridor carrying a jug. He could not see who it was, but he recognized Caris's voice when she said: "Merthin? Are you all right?"
He made no reply. He went in the opposite direction and passed through the door and down the outside staircase. Weeping openly, not caring who saw, he walked across the cathedral green, down the main street, and across the bridge to his island.
80
September 1350 was cold and wet, but all the same there was a sense of euphoria. As damp sheaves of wheat were gathered in the surrounding countryside, only one person died of the plague in Kingsbridge: Marge Taylor, a dressmaker of sixty years old. No one caught the disease in October, November, or December. It seemed to have vanished, Merthin thought gratefully--at least for the time being.
The age-old migration of enterprising, restless people from countryside to town had been reversed during the plague, but now it recommenced. They came to Kingsbridge, moved into empty houses, fixed them up, and paid rent to the priory. Some started new businesses--bakeries, breweries, candle manufactories--to replace the old ones that had disappeared when the owners and all their heirs died off. Merthin, as alderman, had made it easier to open a shop or a market stall, sweeping away the lengthy process of obtaining permission that had been imposed by the priory. The weekly market grew busier.
One by one Merthin rented out the shops, houses, and taverns he had built on Leper Island, his tenants either enterprising newcomers or existing tradesmen who wanted a better location. The road across the island, between the two bridges, had become an extension of the main street, and therefore prime commercial property--as Merthin had foreseen, twelve years ago, when people had thought he was mad to take the barren rock as payment for his work on the bridge.
Winter drew in, and once again the smoke from thousands of fires hung over the town in a low, brown cloud; but the people still worked and shopped, ate and drank, played dice in taverns and went to church on Sundays. The guildhall saw the first Christmas Eve banquet since the parish guild had become a borough guild.
Merthin invited the prior and prioress. They no longer had the power to overrule the merchants, but they were still among the most important people in town. Philemon came, but Caris declined the invitation: she had become worryingly withdrawn.
Merthin sat next to Madge Webber. She was now the richest merchant and the largest employer in Kingsbridge, perhaps in the whole county. She was deputy alderman, and probably should have been alderman but for the fact that it was unusual to have a woman in that position.
Among Merthin's many enterprises was a workshop turning out the treadle looms that had improved the quality of Kingsbridge Scarlet. Madge bought more than half his production, but enterprising merchants came from as far away as London to place orders for the rest. The looms were complex pieces of machinery that had to be made accurately and assembled with precision, so Merthin had to employ the best carpenters available; but he priced the finished product at more than double what it cost him to make, and still people could hardly wait to give him the money.
Several people had hinted that he should marry Madge, but the idea did not tempt him or her. She had never been able to find a man to match Mark, who had had the physique of a giant and the disposition of a saint. She had always been chunky, but these days she was quite fat. Now in her forties, she was growing into one of those women who looked like barrels, almost the same width all the way from shoulders to bottom. Eating and drinking well were now her chief pleasures, Merthin thought as he watched her tuck into gingered ham with a sauce made of apples and cloves. That and making money.
At the end of the meal they had a mulled wine called hippocras. Madge took a long draft, belched, and moved closer to Merthin on the bench. "We have to do something about the hospital," she said.
"Oh?" He was not aware of a problem. "Now that the plague has ended, I would have thought people didn't have much need of a hospital."
"Of course they do," she said briskly. "They still get fevers and bellyaches and cancer. Women want to get pregnant and can't, or they suffer complications giving birth. Children burn themselves and fall out of trees. Men are thrown by their horses or knifed by their enemies or have their heads broken by angry wives--"
"Yes, I get the picture," Merthin said, amused by her garrulousness. "What's the problem?"
"Nobody will go to the hospital anymore. They don't like Brother Sime and, more importantly, they don't trust his learning. While we were all coping with the plague, he was at Oxford reading ancient textbooks, and he still prescribes remedies such as bleeding and cupping that no one believes in anymore. They want Caris--but she never appears."
"What do people do when they're sick, if they don't go to the hospital?"
"They see Matthew Barber, or Silas Pothecary, or a newcomer called Marla Wisdom who specializes in women's problems."
"So what's worrying you?"
"They're starting to mutter about the priory. If they don't get help from the monks and nuns, they say, why should they pay toward building the tower?"
"Oh." The tower was a huge project. No individual could possibly finance it. A combination of monastery, nunnery, and city funds was the only way to pay for it. If the town defaulted, the project could be threatened. "Yes, I see," said Merthin worriedly. "That is a problem."
It had been a good year for most people, Caris thought as she sat through the Christmas Day service. People were adjusting to the devastation of the plague with astonishing speed. As well as bringing terrible suffering and a near-breakdown of civilized life, the disease had provided the opportunity for a shake-up. Almost half the population had died, by her calculations; but one effect was that her remaining peasants were farming only the most fertile soils, so each man produced more. Despite the Ordinance of Laborers, and the efforts of noblemen such as Earl Ralph to enforce it, she was gratified to see that people continued to move to where the pay was highest, which was usually where the land was most productive. Grain was plentiful and herds of cattle and sheep were growing again. The nunnery was thriving and, because Caris had reorganized the monks' affairs as well as the nuns' after the flight of Godwyn, the monastery was now more prosperous than it had been for a hundred years. Wealth created wealth, and good times in the countryside brought more business to the towns, so Kingsbridge craftsmen and shopkeepers were beginning to return to their former affluence.
As the nuns left the church at the end of the service, Prior Philemon spoke to her. "I need to talk to you, Mother Prioress. Would you come to my house?"
There had been a time when she would have politely acceded to such a request without hesitation, but those days were over. "No," she said. "I don't think so."
He reddened immediately. "You can't refuse to speak to me!"
"I didn't. I refused to go to your palace. I decline to be summoned before you like a subordinate. What do you want to talk about?"
"The hospital. There have been complaints."
"Speak to Brother Sime--he's in charge of it, as you well know."
"Is there no reasoning with you?" he said exasperatedly. "If Sime could solve the problem I would be talking to him, not you."
By now they were in the monks' cloisters. Caris sat on the low wall around the quadrangle. The stone was cold. "We can talk here. What do you have to say to me?"
Philemon was annoyed, but he gave in. He stood in front of her, and now he was the one who seemed like a subordinate. He said. "The townspeople are unhappy about the hospital."
"I'm not surprised."
"Merthin complained to me at the guild's Christmas dinner. They don't come here anymore, but see charlatans like Silas Pothecary."
"He's no more of a charlatan than Sime."
Philemon realized that several novices were standing nearby, listening to the argument. "Go away, all of you," he said. "Get to your studies."
They scurried off.
Philemon said to Caris: "The townspeople think you ought to be at the hospital."
"So do I. But I won't follow Sime's methods. At best, his cures have no effect. Much of the time they make patients worse. That's why people no longer come here when they're ill."
"Your new hospital has so few patients that we're using it as a guest house. Doesn't that bother you?"
That jibe went home. Caris swallowed and looked away. "It breaks my heart," she said quietly.
"Then come back. Figure out a compromise with Sime. You worked under monk-physicians in the early days, when you first came here. Brother Joseph was the senior doctor then. He had the same training as Sime."
"You're right. In those days, we felt that the monks sometimes did more harm than good, but we could work with them. Most of the time we didn't call them in at all, we just did what we thought best. When they did attend, we didn't always follow their instructions exactly."
"You can't believe they were always wrong."
"No. Sometimes they cured people. I remember Joseph opening a man's skull and draining accumulated fluid that had been causing unbearable headaches--it was very impressive."
"So do the same now."
"It's no longer possible. Sime put an end to that, didn't he? He moved his books and equipment into the pharmacy and took charge of the hospital. And I'm sure he did so with your encouragement. In fact it was probably your idea." She could tell from Philemon's expression that she was right. "You and he plotted to push me out. You succeeded--and now you're suffering the consequences."
"We could go back to the old system. I'll make Sime move out."
She shook her head. "There have been other changes. I've learned a lot from the plague. I'm surer than ever that the physicians' methods can be fatal. I won't kill people for the sake of a compromise with you."
"You don't realize how much is at stake." He had a faintly smug look.
So, there was something else. She had been wondering why he had brought this up. It was not like him to fret about the hospital: he had never cared much for the work of healing. He was interested only in what would raise his status and defend his fragile pride. "All right," she said. "What have you got up your sleeve?"