Pillars of the Earth, book 2 13 страница

*

The collapse of the bridge paralysed Gwenda with fear. Then, an instant later, the sudden immersion in cold water shocked her back to normal.

When her head came above the surface, she found herself surrounded by brawling, yelling people. Some had found a piece of wood to keep them afloat, but every other man tried to keep himself above water by leaning on someone else. Those leaned upon felt themselves being pushed under, and lashed out with their fists to get free. Many of the blows missed. Those that connected were returned. It was like being outside a Kingsbridge tavern at midnight. It would have been comical, except that people were dying.

Gwenda gasped air and went under. She could not swim.

She came up again. To her horror, Sim Chapman was immediately in front of her, blowing water out of his mouth like a fountain. He began to go under, obviously as unable to swim as she was. In desperation, he grabbed her shoulder and tried to use her for support. She immediately sank. Finding her inadequate to keep him on the surface, he let her go.

Under the water, holding her breath, fighting off panic, she thought: I can’t drown now, after all I’ve been through.

Next time she surfaced, she felt herself shoved aside by a heavy body and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the ox that had knocked her over a moment before the bridge fell apart. It was apparently unharmed and swimming strongly. She reached out, kicking her feet, and managed to get hold of one of its horns. She pulled its head sideways for a moment, then the powerful neck pulled back and its head came upright again.

Gwenda managed to hang on.

Her dog, Skip, appeared beside her, swimming effortlessly, and yelped for joy to see her face.

The ox was heading for the suburban shore. Gwenda clung to its horn, even though her arm felt as if it was about to drop off.

Someone grabbed her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Sim again. Trying to use her to keep himself afloat, he pulled her under. Without letting go of the ox, she pushed Sim off with her free hand. He dropped back, his head close to her feet. Taking careful aim, she kicked him as hard as she could in the face. He gave a cry of pain that was quickly silenced as his head went under.

The ox found its footing and lumbered out of the water, splashing and snorting. Gwenda let go as soon as she could stand on the bottom.

Skip gave a frightened bark, and Gwenda looked around warily. Sim was not on the bank. She scanned the river, looking for the flash of a yellow tunic among the bodies and the floating timbers.

She saw him, keeping himself afloat by holding on to a plank, kicking with his legs and coming straight towards her.

She could not run. She had no strength left, and her dress was waterlogged. On this side of the river, there was no place to hide. And, now that the bridge was down, there was no way to cross to the Kingsbridge side.

But she was not going to let him take her.

She saw that he was struggling, and that gave her hope. The plank would have kept him afloat if he had remained still, but he was kicking for the shore, and his thrashing destabilized him. He would push down on the plank to lift himself up, then kick to swim for shore, and his head would go under again. He might not make it to the bank.

She realized she could make certain of that.

She looked around quickly. The water was full of bits of wood, from huge load-bearing timbers to splinters. Her eye lit on a stout timber about a yard long. She stepped into the water and grabbed it. Then she waded out into the river to meet her owner.

She had the satisfaction of seeing the light of fear in his eyes.

He paused in his paddling. Ahead of him was the woman he had tried to enslave – angry, determined, and wielding a formidable club. Behind him, death by drowning.

He came forward.

Gwenda stood up to her waist in water and waited for her moment.

She saw Sim pause again, and guessed from his movements that he was trying to find the bottom with his feet.

Now or never.

Gwenda raised the wood over her head and stepped forward. Sim saw what she was about to do, and scrabbled desperately to get out of the way; but he was off balance, neither swimming nor wading, and he could not dodge. Gwenda brought the timber down on top of his head with all her might.

Sim’s eyes rolled up and he slumped unconscious.

She reached forward and grabbed him by the yellow tunic. She was not going to let him float away – he might survive. She pulled him to her, then took his head in both hands and pushed it under the water.

It was more difficult than she had imagined to keep a body under, even though he was out cold. His greasy hair was slippery. She had to grasp his head under her arm then lift her feet off the bottom, so that her weight carried them both down.

She began to feel she might have overcome him. How long did it take to drown a man? She had no idea. Sim’s lungs must be filling with water already. How would she know when she could let go?

Suddenly he twisted. She tightened her grip on his head. For a moment she struggled to hold him. She was not sure whether he had come round, or was undergoing an unconscious convulsion. His spasms were strong, but seemed random. Her feet found the bottom again and she braced herself and held on.

She looked around. No one was watching: they were all too busy saving themselves.

After a few moments, Sim’s movements became weaker. Soon he was still. Gradually she relaxed her grip. Sim sank slowly to the bottom.

He did not come up again.

Panting for breath, Gwenda waded to the shore. She sat down heavily on the muddy ground. She felt for the leather purse on her belt: it was still there. The outlaws had not got around to stealing it from her, and she had kept it through all her trials. It contained the precious love potion made by Mattie Wise. She opened the purse to check – and found nothing but shards of pottery. The little vial had been smashed.

She started to cry.

*

The first person Caris saw doing anything sensible was Merthin’s brother, Ralph. He was wearing nothing but a soaking wet pair of underdrawers. He was uninjured, apart from his red and swollen nose, which he had had before. Ralph pulled the earl of Shiring out of the water and laid him on the shore next to a body in the earl’s livery. The earl had a grisly head injury that might be fatal. Ralph appeared exhausted by his efforts and unsure what to do next. Caris considered what she should tell him.

She looked around. On this side, the river bank consisted of small muddy beaches separated by rocky outcrops. There was not much room to lay out the dead and injured here: they would have to be taken elsewhere.

A few yards away, a flight of stone steps led up from the river to a gate in the priory wall. Caris made a decision. Pointing, she said to Ralph: “Take the earl that way into the priory. Lay him down carefully in the cathedral, then run to the hospital. Tell the first nun you see to fetch Mother Cecilia immediately.”

Ralph seemed glad to have someone decisive to obey, and did as he was told right away.

Merthin started to wade into the water, but Caris stopped him. “Look at that crowd of idiots,” she said, pointing to the city end of the ruined bridge. Dozens of people were standing gawping at the scene of carnage in front of them. “Get all the strong men down here,” she went on. “They can start pulling people out of the water and carrying them to the cathedral.”

He hesitated. “They can’t get down here from there.”

Caris saw his point. They would have to clamber over the wreckage, and that would probably lead to more injuries. But the houses on this side of the main street had gardens that backed up against the priory walls; and the house on the corner, belonging to Ben Wheeler, had a small door in the wall so that he could come to the river directly from his garden.

Merthin was thinking the same. He said: “I’ll bring them through Ben’s house and across his yard.”

“Good.”

He clambered over the rocks, pushed open the door and disappeared.

Caris looked across the water. A tall figure was wading on to the bank nearby, and she recognized Philemon. Gasping, he said: “Have you seen Gwenda?”

“Yes – just before the bridge collapsed,” Caris replied. “She was running from Sim Chapman.”

“I know – but where is she now?”

“I don’t see her. The best thing you can do is start pulling people out of the water.”

“I want to find my sister.”

“If she’s alive, she’ll be among those who need to get out of the river.”

“All right.” Philemon splashed back into the water.

Caris was desperate to find out where her own family were – but there was too much to do here. She promised herself she would look for her father as soon as possible.

Ben Wheeler emerged from his gate. A squat man with big shoulders and a thick neck, he was a carter, and got through life more by the use of his muscles than his brain. He scrambled down to the beach, then looked around, not knowing what to do.

On the ground at Caris’s feet was one of Earl Roland’s men, wearing the red-and-black livery, apparently dead. She said: “Ben, carry this man into the cathedral.”

Ben’s wife, Lib, appeared, carrying a toddler. She was a little brighter than her husband, and she asked: “Shouldn’t we deal with the living first?”

“We have to get them out of the water before we can tell whether they’re dead or alive – and we can’t leave bodies here on the bank because they will get in the way of rescuers. Take him to the church.”

Lib saw the sense of that. “You’d better do as Caris says, Ben,” she said.

Ben picked up the body effortlessly and moved off.

Caris realized they could move the bodies more quickly if they carried them on the kind of stretchers the builders used. The monks could organize those. Where were the monks? She had told Ralph to alert Mother Cecilia, but so far no one had appeared. The injured would need wound dressings, ointments and cleansing fluids: every nun and monk would be needed. Matthew Barber must be summoned: there would be many broken bones to set. And Mattie Wise, to give potions to the injured to ease their pain. Caris needed to raise the alarm, but she was reluctant to leave the riverside before the rescue operation was properly organized. Where was Merthin?

A woman was crawling to the shore. Caris stepped into the water and pulled her to her feet. It was Griselda. Her wet dress clung to her, and Caris could see her full breasts and the swell of her thighs. Knowing that she was pregnant, Caris said anxiously: “Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“You’re not bleeding?”

“No.”

“Thank God.” Caris looked around and was grateful to see Merthin coming from Ben Wheeler’s garden at the head of a line of men, some of them wearing the earl’s livery. She called to him: “Take Griselda’s arm. Help her up the steps to the priory. She should sit down and rest for a while.” She added reassuringly: “She’s all right, though.”

Both Merthin and Griselda looked at her strangely, and she realized in a flash how peculiar this situation was. The three of them stood for a moment in a frozen triangle: the mother-to-be, the father of her child, and the woman who loved him.

Then Caris turned away, breaking the spell, and began to give orders to the men.

*

Gwenda cried for a few moments, then stopped. It was not really the broken vial that made her so sad: Mattie could make up another love potion, and Caris would pay for it, if either of them was still alive. Her tears were for everything she had been through in the last twenty-four hours, from her father’s treachery to her bleeding feet.

She had no regrets about the two men she had killed. Sim and Alwyn had tried to enslave her then prostitute her. They deserved to die. Killing them was not even murder, for it was no crime to do away with an outlaw. All the same, she could not stop her hands shaking. She was exultant that she had beaten her enemies and won her freedom, and at the same time she felt sickened by what she had done. She would never forget the way the dying body of Sim had twitched at the end. And she feared that the vision of Alwyn with the point of his own knife sticking out of his eye socket might appear in her dreams. She could not help trembling in the grip of such strong contradictory feelings.

She tried to put the killings out of her mind. Who else was dead? Her parents had been planning to leave Kingsbridge yesterday. But what about her brother, Philemon? Caris, her greatest friend? Wulfric, the man she loved?

She looked across the river and was immediately reassured about Caris. She was on the far side with Merthin, and they appeared to be organizing a gang of men to pull people out of the water. Gwenda felt a surge of gratitude: at least she had not been left completely alone in the world.

But what about Philemon? He was the last person she had seen before the collapse. He should have fallen near her, all other things being equal; but she could not see him now.

And where was Wulfric? She doubted whether he would have cared to watch the spectacle of a witch being flogged through the town. However, he had been planning to return home to Wigleigh with his family today, and it was possible – God forbid, she thought – that they had been crossing the bridge on their way home when the collapse happened. She scanned the surface frantically, looking for his distinctive tawny hair, praying that she would see him swimming vigorously for the shore, rather than floating face down. But she could not see him at all.

She decided to cross over. She could not swim, but she thought that if she had a sizeable piece of wood to keep her afloat she might be able to kick herself across. She found a plank, pulled it from the water, and walked fifty yards upstream, to get well clear of the mass of bodies. Then she re-entered the water. Skip followed fearlessly. It was more taxing than she had expected, and her wet dress was a drag on progress, but she reached the far shore.

She ran to Caris, and they embraced. Caris said: “What happened?”

“I escaped.”

“And Sim?”

“He was an outlaw.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead.”

Caris looked startled.

Gwenda added hastily: “Killed when the bridge collapsed.” She did not want even her best friend to know the exact circumstances. She went on: “Have you seen any of my family?”

“Your parents left town yesterday. I saw Philemon a few moments ago – he’s looking for you.”

“Thank God! What about Wulfric?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been brought out of the river. His fiancee left yesterday, but his parents and his brother were in the cathedral this morning, at the trial of Crazy Nell.”

“I have to look for him.”

“Good luck.”

Gwenda ran up the steps to the priory and across the green. A few of the stallholders were still packing up their effects, and it seemed incredible to her that they could go about their normal business when hundreds of people had just been killed in an accident – until she realized that they probably did not yet know: it had happened only minutes ago, though it felt like hours.

She passed through the priory gates into the main street. Wulfric and his family had been staying at the Bell. She ran inside.

An adolescent boy stood beside the ale barrel, looking frightened.

Gwenda said: “I’m looking for Wulfric Wigleigh.”

“There’s no one here,” the boy said. “I’m the apprentice, they left me to guard the beer.”

Someone had summoned everyone to the riverside, Gwenda guessed.

She ran out again. As she passed through the doorway, Wulfric appeared.

She was so relieved that she threw her arms around him. “You’re alive – thank God!” she cried.

“Someone said the bridge collapsed,” he said. “Is it true, then?”

“Yes – it’s dreadful. Where are the rest of your family?”

“They left a while ago. I stayed behind to collect a debt.” He held up a small leather money bag. “I hope they weren’t on the bridge when it fell.”

“I know how we can find out,” Gwenda said. “Come with me.”

She took his hand. He let her lead him into the priory precincts without withdrawing his hand. She had never touched him for so long. His hand was large, the fingers rough with work, the palm soft. It sent thrills through her, despite all that had happened.

She took him across the green and inside the cathedral. “They’re pulling people out of the river and bringing them here,” she explained.

There were already twenty or thirty bodies on the stone floor of the nave, with more arriving continually. A handful of nuns attended to the injured, dwarfed by the mighty pillars around them. The blind monk who normally led the choir seemed to be in charge. “Put the dead on the north side,” he called out as Gwenda and Wulfric entered the nave. “Wounded to the south.”

Suddenly Wulfric let out a cry of shock and dismay. Gwenda followed his gaze, and saw David, his brother, lying among the wounded. They both knelt beside him on the floor. David was a couple of years older than Wulfric, and the same large build. He was breathing, and his eyes were open, but he seemed not to see them. Wulfric spoke to him. “Dave!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Dave, it’s me, Wulfric.”

Gwenda felt something sticky, and realized David was lying in a pool of blood.

Wulfric said: “Dave – where are Ma and Pa?”

There was no response.

Gwenda looked around and saw Wulfric’s mother. She was on the far side of the nave, in the north aisle, where Blind Carlus was telling people to put the dead. “Wulfric,” Gwenda said quietly.

“What?”

“Your ma.”

He stood up and looked. “Oh, no,” he said.

They crossed the wide church. Wulfric’s mother was lying next to Sir Stephen, the lord of Wigleigh – his equal, now. She was a petite woman – it was amazing that she had given birth to two such big sons. In life she had been wiry and full of energy, but now she looked like a fragile doll, white and thin. Wulfric put his hand on her chest, feeling for a heartbeat. When he pressed down, a trickle of water came from her mouth.

“She drowned,” he whispered.

Gwenda put her arm around his wide shoulders, trying to console him with her touch. She could not tell whether he noticed.

A man-at-arms wearing Earl Roland’s red-and-black livery came up carrying the lifeless body of a big man. Wulfric gasped again: it was his father.

Gwenda said: “Lay him here, next to his wife.”

Wulfric was stunned. He said nothing, seeming unable to take it in. Gwenda herself was bewildered. What could she say to the man she loved in these circumstances? Every phrase that came to mind seemed stupid. She was desperate to give him some kind of comfort, but she did not know how.

As Wulfric stared at the bodies of his mother and father, Gwenda looked across the church at his brother. David seemed very still. She walked quickly to his side. His eyes were staring up blindly, and he was no longer breathing. She felt his chest: no heartbeat.

How could Wulfric bear it?

She wiped tears from her own eyes and returned to him. There was no point in hiding the truth. “David is dead, too,” she said.

Wulfric looked blank, as if he did not understand. The dreadful thought occurred to Gwenda that the shock might have caused him to lose his mind.

But he spoke at last. “All of them,” he said in a whisper. “All three. All dead.” He looked at Gwenda, and she saw tears come to his eyes.

She put her arms around him, and felt his big body shake with helpless sobs. She squeezed him tightly. “Poor Wulfric,” she said. “Poor, beloved Wulfric.”

“Thank God I’ve still got Annet,” he said.

*

An hour later, the bodies of the dead and wounded covered most of the floor of the nave. Blind Carlus, the sub-prior, stood in the middle of it all with thin-faced Simeon, the treasurer, beside him to be his eyes. Carlus was in charge because Prior Anthony was missing. “Brother Theodoric, is that you?” he said, apparently recognizing the tread of the fair-skinned, blue-eyed monk who had just walked in. “Find the gravedigger. Tell him to get six strong men to help him. We’re going to need at least a hundred new graves, and in this season we don’t want to delay burial.”

“Right away, brother,” said Theodoric.

Caris was impressed by how effectively Carlus could organize things despite his blindness.

Caris had left Merthin efficiently managing the rescue of bodies from the water. She had made sure the nuns and monks were alerted to the disaster, then she had found Matthew Barber and Mattie Wise. Finally she had checked on her own family.

Only Uncle Anthony and Griselda had been on the bridge at the time of the collapse. She had found her father at the guild hall with Buonaventura Caroli. Edmund had said: “They’ll have to build a new bridge now!” Then he had gone limping down to the river bank to help pull people out of the water. The others were safe: Aunt Petranilla had been at home, cooking; Caris’s sister Alice had been with Elfric at the Bell inn; her cousin Godwyn had been in the cathedral, checking on the repairs to the south side of the chancel.

Griselda had now gone home to rest. Anthony was still unaccounted for. Caris was not fond of her uncle, but she would not wish him dead, and she looked anxiously for him every time a new body was brought into the nave from the river.

Mother Cecilia and the nuns were washing wounds, applying honey as an antiseptic, affixing bandages and giving out restorative cups of hot spiced ale. Matthew Barber, the briskly efficient battlefield surgeon, was working with a panting, overweight Mattie Wise, Mattie administering a calming medicine a few minutes before Matthew set the broken arms and legs.

Caris walked to the south transept. There, away from the noise, the bustle and the blood in the nave, the senior physician-monks were clustered around the still-unconscious figure of the earl of Shiring. His wet clothes had been removed, and he had been covered with a heavy blanket. “He’s alive,” said Brother Godwyn. “But his injury is very serious.” He pointed to the back of the head. “Part of his skull has shattered.”

Caris peered over Godwyn’s shoulder. She could see the skull, like a broken pie crust, stained with blood. Through the gaps she could see grey matter underneath. Surely nothing could be done for such a dreadful injury?

Brother Joseph, the oldest of the physicians, felt the same. He rubbed his large nose and spoke through a mouth full of bad teeth. “We must bring the relics of the saint,” he said, slurring his sibilants like a drunk, as always. “They are his best hope for recovery.”

Caris had little faith in the power of the bones of a long-dead saint to heal a living man’s broken head. She said nothing, of course: she knew she was peculiar in this respect, and she kept her views to herself most of the time.

The earl’s sons, Lord William and Bishop Richard, stood looking on. William, with his tall, soldierly figure and black hair, was a younger version of the unconscious man on the table. Richard was fairer and rounder. Merthin’s brother, Ralph, was with them. “I pulled the earl out of the water,” he said. It was the second time Caris had heard him say it.

“Yes, well done,” said William.

William’s wife, Philippa, was as dissatisfied as Caris with Brother Joseph’s pronouncement. “Isn’t there something you can do to help the earl?” she said.

Godwyn replied: “Prayer is the most effective cure.”

The relics were kept in a locked compartment under the high altar. As soon as Godwyn and Joseph left to fetch them, Matthew Barber bent over the earl, peering at the head wound. “It will never heal like that,” he said. “Not even with the help of the saint.”

William said sharply: “What do you mean?” Caris thought he sounded just like his father.

“The skull is a bone like any other,” Matthew answered. “It can mend itself, but the pieces need to be in the right place. Otherwise it will grow back crooked.”

“Do you think you know better than the monks?”

“My lord, the monks know how to call upon the help of the spirit world. I only set broken bones.”

“And where did you get this knowledge?”

“I was surgeon with the king’s armies for many years. I marched alongside your father, the earl, in the Scottish wars. I have seen broken heads before.”

“What would you do for my father now?”

Matthew was nervous under William’s aggressive questioning, Caris felt; but he seemed sure of what he was saying. “I would take the pieces of broken bone out of the brain, clean them, and try to fit them together again.”

Caris gasped. She could hardly imagine such a bold operation. How did Matthew have the nerve to propose it? And what if it went wrong?

William said: “And he would recover?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew replied. “Sometimes a head wound has strange effects, impairing a man’s ability to walk, or speak. All I can do is mend his skull. If you want miracles, ask the saint.”

“So you can’t promise success.”

“Only God is all-powerful. Men must do what they can and hope for the best. But I believe your father will die of this injury if it remains untreated.”

“But Joseph and Godwyn have read the books written by the ancient medical philosophers.”

“And I have seen wounded men die or recover on the battlefield. It’s for you to decide whom to trust.”

William looked at his wife. Philippa said: “Let the barber do what he can, and ask St Adolphus to help him.”

William nodded. “All right,” he said to Matthew. “Go ahead.”

“I want the earl lying on a table,” Matthew said decisively. “Near the window, where a strong light will fall on his injury.”

William snapped his fingers at two novice monks. “Do whatever this man asks,” he ordered.

Matthew said: “All I need is a bowl of warm wine.”

The monks brought a trestle table from the hospital and set it up below the big window in the south transept. Two squires lifted Earl Roland on to the table.

“Face down, please,” said Matthew.

They turned him over.

Matthew had a leather satchel containing the sharp tools from which barbers got their name. He first took out a small pair of scissors. He bent over the earl’s head and began to cut away the hair around the wound. The earl had thick black hair that was naturally oily. Matthew snipped the locks and tossed them aside so that they landed on the floor. When he had clipped a circle around the wound, the damage was more clearly visible.

Brother Godwyn reappeared, carrying the reliquary, the carved ivory-and-gold box containing the skull of St Adolphus and the bones of one arm and a hand. When he saw Matthew operating on Earl Roland, he said indignantly: “What is going on here?”

Matthew looked up. “If you would place the holy relics on the earl’s back, as close as possible to his head, I believe the saint will steady my hands.”

Godwyn hesitated, clearly angry that a mere barber had taken charge.

Lord William said: “Do as he says, brother, or the death of my father may be laid at your door.”

Still Godwyn did not obey. Instead he spoke to Blind Carlus, standing a few yards away. “Brother Carlus, I am ordered by Lord William to-”

“I heard what Lord William said,” Carlus interrupted. “You’d better do as he wishes.”

It was not the answer Godwyn had been hoping for. His face showed angry frustration. With evident distaste, he placed the sacred container on Earl Roland’s broad back.

Matthew picked up a fine pair of forceps. With a delicate touch, he grasped the visible edge of a piece of bone and lifted it, without touching the grey matter beneath. Caris watched, entranced. The bone came right away from the head, with skin and hair attached. Matthew put it gently into the bowl of warm wine.

He did the same with two more small pieces of bone. The noise from the nave – the groans of the wounded and the sobs of the bereaved – seemed to recede into the background. The people watching Matthew stood silent and still in a circle around him and the unconscious earl.

Next, he worked on the shards that remained attached to the rest of the skull. In each case he snipped away the hair, washed the area carefully with a piece of linen dipped in wine, then used the forceps to press the bone gently into what he thought was its original position.

Caris could hardly breathe, the tension was so great. She had never admired anyone as much as she admired Matthew Barber at this moment. He had such courage, such skill, such confidence. And he was performing this inconceivably delicate operation on an earl! If it went wrong they would probably hang him. Yet his hands were as steady as the hands of the angels carved in stone over the cathedral doorway.

Finally he replaced the three detached shards that he had put in the bowl of wine, fitting them together as if he were mending a broken jar.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04