Pillars of the Earth, book 2 42 страница

Philemon slipped the sharp blade of the chisel under the edge of the iron hinge and pushed. The hinge came away from the wood slightly, and he pushed the blade in a little farther. He worked delicately and patiently, careful to make sure that the damage would not be visible to a casual glance. Gradually the flat plate of the hinge became detached, the nails coming out with it. When he had made enough room for the pliers to grip the nailheads, he pulled them out. Then he was able to detach the hinge and lift the lid.

“Here’s the money from the pious woman of Thornbury,” he said.

Godwyn looked into the chest. The money was in Venetian ducats. These gold coins showed the Doge of Venice kneeling before St Mark on one side and, on the other, the Virgin Mary, surrounded by stars to indicate that she was in heaven. Ducats were intended to be interchangeable with florins from Florence, and were the same size, weight and purity of metal. They were worth three shillings, or thirty-six English silver pennies. England had its own gold coins now, an innovation of King Edward’s – nobles, half-nobles and quarter-nobles – but these had been in circulation less than two years, and had not yet displaced foreign gold coins.

Godwyn took fifty ducats, worth seven pounds and ten shillings. Philemon closed the lid of the chest. He wrapped each of the nails in a thin strip of leather, to make them a tight fit, and reattached the hinge. He put the chest back in the vault and lowered the slab over the hole.

“Of course they will notice the loss, sooner or later,” he said.

“It may not be for years,” Godwyn said. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

They went out, and Godwyn locked the door.

Godwyn said: “Find Elfric, and meet me in the cemetery.”

Philemon left. Godwyn went to the eastern end of the graveyard, just beyond the existing prior’s house. It was a blowy May day, and the fresh wind made his robe flap around his legs. A loose goat was grazing among the tombstones. Godwyn watched it meditatively.

He was risking a terrible row with the nuns, he knew. He did not think they would discover their loss for a year or more, but he could not be sure. When they did find out, there would be hell to pay. But what, exactly, could they do? He was not like Gilbert Hereford, stealing money for himself. He had taken the bequest of a pious woman to use for holy purposes.

He thrust his worries aside. His mother was right: he needed to glorify his role as prior of Kingsbridge if he was going to make further progress.

When Philemon returned with Elfric, Godwyn said: “I want to build the prior’s palace here, well to the east of the present building.”

Elfric nodded. “A very good location, if I may say so, lord prior – close to the chapter house and the east end of the cathedral, but separated from the market place by the graveyard, so you’ll have privacy and quiet.”

“I want a big dining hall downstairs for banquets,” Godwyn went on. “About a hundred feet long. It must be a really prestigious, impressive room, for entertaining the nobility, perhaps even royalty.”

“Very good.”

“And a chapel at the east end of the ground floor.”

“But you’ll be just a few steps from the cathedral.”

“Noble guests don’t always want to expose themselves to the people. They must be able to worship in private if they wish.”

“And upstairs?”

“The prior’s own chamber, of course, with room for an altar and a writing desk. And three large chambers for guests.”

“Splendid.”

“How much will it cost?”

“More than a hundred pounds – perhaps two hundred. I’ll make a drawing then give you a more accurate estimate.”

“Don’t let it go above a hundred and fifty pounds. That’s all I can afford.”

If Elfric wondered where Godwyn had suddenly acquired a hundred and fifty pounds, he did not ask. “I’d better start stockpiling the stone as soon as possible,” he said. “Can you give me some money to begin with?”

“How much would you like – five pounds?”

“Ten would be better.”

“I’ll give you seven pounds ten shillings, in ducats,” Godwyn said, and handed over the fifty gold coins he had taken from the nuns’ reserves.

Three days later, as the monks and nuns were filing out of the cathedral after the dinnertime service of Nones, Sister Elizabeth spoke to Godwyn.

Nuns and monks were not supposed to talk to one another casually, so she had to contrive a pretext. As it happened, there was a dog in the nave, and it had barked during the service. Dogs were always getting into the church and making a minor nuisance of themselves, but they were generally ignored. However, on this occasion Elizabeth left the procession to shoo the dog out. She was obliged to cross the line of monks, and timed her move so that she walked in front of Godwyn. She smiled apologetically at him and said: “I beg your pardon, Father Prior.” Then she lowered her voice and said: “Meet me in the library, as if by accident.” She chased the dog out of the west door.

Intrigued, Godwyn made his way to the library and sat down to read the Rule of St Benedict. Shortly afterwards, Elizabeth appeared and took out the Gospel of St Matthew. The nuns had built their own library, after Godwyn took over as prior, in order to improve the separation between males and females; but when they removed all their books from the monks’ library, the place had been denuded, and Godwyn had reversed his decision. The nuns’ library building was now used as a schoolroom in cold weather.

Elizabeth sat with her back to Godwyn, so that anyone coming in would not get the impression that they were conspiring, but she was close enough for him to hear her clearly. “Something I felt I should tell you,” she said. “Sister Caris doesn’t like the nuns’ money being kept in the new treasury.”

“I knew that already,” Godwyn said.

“She has persuaded Sister Beth to count the money, to make sure its all still there. I thought you might like to know that, just in case you have… borrowed from them.”

Godwyn’s heart missed a beat. An audit would find the reserves short by fifty ducats. And he was going to need the rest to build his palace. He had not been expecting this so soon. He cursed Caris. How had she guessed what he had done so secretly?

“When?” he said, and there was a catch in his voice.

“Today. I don’t know at what hour – it could be any time. But Caris was most emphatic that you should have no advance warning.”

He was going to have to put the ducats back, and fast. “Thank you very much,” he said. “I appreciate your telling me this.”

“It’s because you showed favour 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 parlour, 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 any more?”

“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 towards 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.”

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 savouries 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 belly ache, followed by vomiting and diarrhoea. 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 heavy-set, 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 afterwards. 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 afterwards. 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 fa

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 for ever – 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 caring 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 woollen 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 diarrhoea, 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.

However, the notion that you should not share a room with someone who was ill did seem convincing. Here in the hospital, Maldwyn’s illness seemed to spread from a sufferer to those nearby: the sick man’s wife and family were the first to catch it, followed by people in neighbouring beds.

She had also observed that certain kinds of illness – stomach upsets, coughs and colds, and poxes of all sorts – seemed to flare up during fairs and markets; so it seemed obvious that they were passed from one person to another by some means.

On Wednesday night at supper, half the guests in the hospital were suffering from the illness; then by Thursday morning every one of them had it. Several priory servants also succumbed, so Caris was short of people to clean up.

Surveying the chaos at breakfast time, Mother Cecilia suggested closing the hospital.

Caris was ready to consider anything. She felt dismayed at her own powerlessness to combat the disease, and devastated by the filth of her hospital. “But where would the people sleep?” she said.

“Send them to the taverns.”

“The taverns have the same problem. We could put them in the cathedral.”

Cecilia shook her head. “Godwyn won’t have peasants puking in the nave while services go on in the choir.”

“Wherever they sleep, we ought to separate the sick from the well. That’s the way to retard the spread of the illness, according to Buonaventura.”

“It makes sense.”

Caris was struck by a new idea, something that suddenly seemed very obvious, though she had not thought of it before. “Perhaps we shouldn’t just improve the hospital,” she said. “Maybe we should build a new one, just for sick people, and keep the old one for pilgrims and other healthy visitors.”

Cecilia looked thoughtful. “It would be costly.”

“We’ve got a hundred and fifty pounds.” Caris’s imagination began to work. “It could incorporate a new pharmacy. We could have private rooms for people who are chronically ill.”

“Find out what it would cost. You could ask Elfric.”

Caris hated Elfric. She had disliked him even before he had given evidence against her. She did not want him to build her new hospital. “Elfric is busy building Godwyn’s new palace,” she said. “I’d rather consult Jeremiah.”

“By all means.”

Caris felt a rush of affection for Cecilia. Although she was a martinet, tough on discipline, she gave her deputies room to make their own decisions. She had always understood the conflicting passions that drove Caris. Instead of trying to suppress those passions, Cecilia had found ways to make use of them. She had given Caris work that engaged her, and provided outlets for her rebellious energy. Here I am, Caris thought, plainly incapable of dealing with the crisis in front of me, and my superior is calmly telling me to forge ahead with a new long-term Project. “Thank you, Mother Cecilia,” she said.

Later that day she walked around the priory grounds with Jeremiah and explained her aspirations. He was as superstitious as ever, seeing the work of saints and devils in the most trivial of everyday incidents. Nevertheless, he was an imaginative builder, open to new ideas: he had learned from Merthin. They quickly settled on the best location for the new hospital, immediately to the south of the existing kitchen block. It would be apart from the rest of the buildings, so that sick people would have less contact with the healthy, but food would not have to be carried far, and the new building could still be accessed conveniently from the nuns’ cloisters. With the pharmacy, the new latrines and an upper floor with private rooms, Jeremiah thought it would cost about a hundred pounds – most of the legacy.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04