Pillars of the Earth, book 2 55 страница

Merthin was too surprised to reply. Jeremiah had always been fearfully superstitious, but Merthin would never have imagined it would lead him to betray his mentor.

It was left to Bessie to defend Caris. “That charge was always ludicrous,” she said.

“It was never disproved, though,” said Jeremiah.

Merthin stared at him, but Jeremiah would not meet his eye. “What’s got into you, Jimmie?” Merthin said.

“I don’t want to die of the plague,” Jeremiah said. “You heard the sermon. Anyone practising heathen remedies should be shunned. We’re talking about asking the bishop to make her prioress – that’s not shunning her!”

There was a murmur of assent, and Merthin realized that the tide of opinion had turned. The others were not as credulous as Jeremiah, but they shared his fear. The plague had spooked them all, undermining their rationality. Godwyn’s sermon had been more effective than Merthin had imagined.

He was ready to give up – then he thought of Caris, and how weary and demoralized she had looked, and he gave it one more try. “I’ve lived through this once, in Florence,” he said. “I warn you now, priests and monks won’t save anyone from the plague. You’ll have handed the town to Godwyn on a plate, and all for nothing.”

Jeremiah said: “That sounds awfully close to blasphemy.”

Merthin looked around. The others agreed with Jeremiah. They were too scared to think straight. There was nothing more he could do.

They decided to take no action on the election for prioress, and soon afterwards the meeting broke up in somewhat bad humour, the members taking burning sticks from the fire to light their way home.

Merthin decided it was too late to report to Caris – the nuns, like the monks, went to bed at nightfall and got up in the early hours of the morning. However, there was a figure wrapped in a big wool cloak waiting outside the guild hall, and to his surprise his torch revealed the troubled face of Caris. “What happened?” she said anxiously.

“I failed,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

In the torchlight she looked wounded. “What did they say?”

“They won’t intervene. They believed the sermon.”

“Fools.”

Together they walked down the main street. At the priory gates, Merthin said: “Leave the nunnery, Caris. Not for my sake, but for your own. You can’t work under Elizabeth. She hates you, and she’ll block everything you want to do.”

“She hasn’t won yet.”

“She will, though – you said so yourself. Renounce your vows, and marry me.”

“Marriage is a vow. If I break my vow to God, why would you trust me to keep my promise to you?”

He smiled. “I’ll risk it.”

“Let me think about it.”

“You’ve been thinking about it for months,” Merthin said with resentment. “If you don’t leave now, you never will.”

“I can’t leave now. People need me more than ever.”

He began to feel angry. “I won’t keep asking for ever.”

“I know.”

“In fact, I won’t ask you again, after tonight.”

She began to cry. “I’m sorry, but I can’t abandon the hospital in the midst of a plague.”

“The hospital.”

“And the people of the town.”

“But what about yourself?”

The flame of his torch made her tears glisten. “They need me so badly.”

“They’re ungrateful, all of them – nuns, monks, townspeople. I should know, by God.”

“It makes no difference.”

He nodded, accepting her decision, suppressing his selfish anger. “It that’s how you feel, you must do your duty.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“I wish this had turned out differently.”

“So do I.”

“You’d better take this torch.”

“Thank you.”

She took the burning branch from his hand and turned away. He watched her, thinking: Is this how it ends? Is this all? She walked away with her characteristic stride, determined and confident, but her head was bowed. She passed through the gateway and disappeared.

The lights of the Bell shone cheerfully through the gaps around the shutters and the door. He went inside.

The last few customers were saying drunken farewells, and Sairy was collecting tankards and wiping tables. Merthin checked on Lolla, who was fast asleep, and paid the girl who had been watching her. He thought of going to bed, but he knew he would not sleep. He was too upset. Why had he run out of patience tonight, as opposed to any other time? He had got angry. But his anger came from fear, he realized as he calmed down. Underneath it all, he was terrified that Caris would catch the plague and die.

He sat on a bench in the parlour of the inn and took off his boots. He stayed there, staring into the fire, wondering why he could not have the one thing in life that he wanted most.

Bessie came in and hung up her cloak. Sairy left, and Bessie locked up. She sat opposite Merthin, taking the big chair that her father had always used. “I’m sorry about what happened at the guild,” she said. “I’m not sure who’s right, but I know you’re disappointed.”

“Thank you for supporting me, anyway.”

“I’ll always support you.”

“Perhaps it’s time for me to stop fighting Caris’s battles.”

“I agree with that. But I can see that it makes you sad.”

“Sad and angry. I seem to have wasted half my life waiting for Caris.”

“Love is never wasted.”

He looked up at her, surprised. After a pause, he said: “You’re a wise person.”

“There’s no one else in the house, except for Lolla,” she said. “All the Christmas guests have left.” She got up from her chair and knelt in front of him. “I’d like to comfort you,” she said. “Any way I can.”

He looked at her round, friendly face and felt his body stir in response. It was such a long time since he had held the soft body of a woman in his arms. But he shook his head. “I don’t want to use you.”

She smiled. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not even asking you to love me. I’ve just buried my father, and you’ve been disappointed by Caris, and we’re both in need of someone warm to hold on to.”

“To dull the pain, like a jug of wine.”

She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Better than wine,” she said. She pressed his hand to her breast. It was big and soft, and he sighed as he caressed it. She turned her face up, and he leaned down and kissed her lips. She gave a little moan of pleasure. The kiss was delicious, like a cold drink on a hot day, and he did not want to stop.

Eventually she broke away from him, panting. She stood upright and pulled her woollen dress over her head. Her naked body looked rosy in the firelight. She was all curves: round hips, round belly, round breasts. Still seated, he put his hands on her waist and drew her to him. He kissed the warm skin of her belly, then the pink tips of her breasts. He looked up at her flushed face. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he murmured.

“No,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t wait that long.”

The election for prioress was held on the day after Christmas. That morning, Caris felt so depressed she could hardly get out of bed. When the bell rang for Matins in the early hours, she was strongly tempted to put her head under the blankets and say that she did not feel well. But she could not pretend when so many were dying, so in the end she forced herself.

She shuffled around the ice-cold flagstones of the cloisters side by side with Elizabeth, the two of them at the head of the procession to the church. This protocol had been agreed because neither would yield precedence to the other while they were competing in the election. But Caris no longer cared. The result was a foregone conclusion. She stood yawning and shivering in the choir through the psalms and readings. She was angry. Later today, Elizabeth would be elected prioress. Caris resented the nuns for rejecting her, she hated Godwyn for his enmity, and she despised the town’s merchants for refusing to intervene.

She felt as if her life had been a failure. She had not built the new hospital she had dreamed of, and now she never would.

She also resented Merthin, for making her an offer she could not accept. He did not understand. For him, their marriage would be an adjunct to his life as an architect. For her, marriage would have to replace the work to which she had dedicated herself. That was why she had vacillated for so many years. It was not that she did not want him. She longed for him with a hunger that she could hardly bear.

She mumbled the last of the responses and then, mechanically, walked out of the church at the front of the line. As they walked around the cloisters again, someone behind her sneezed. She was too dispirited even to look and see who it was.

The nuns climbed the stairs to their dormitory. When Caris entered the room she heard heavy breathing, and realized that someone had stayed behind. Her candle revealed the novice mistress, Sister Simone – a dour middle-aged woman, normally a conscientious nun, not one to malinger. Caris bound a strip of linen around her own face then knelt by Simone’s mattress. Simone was perspiring and looking scared.

Caris said: “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Simone said. “I’ve had strange dreams.”

Caris touched her forehead. She was burning hot.

Simone said: “Can I have something to drink?”

“In a moment.”

“It’s just a cold, I expect.”

“You’re certainly running a fever.”

“I haven’t got the plague, though, have I? It’s not that bad.”

“We’ll take you to the hospital anyway,” Caris said evasively. “Can you walk?”

Simone struggled to her feet. Caris took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around Simone’s shoulders.

As they were heading for the door, Caris heard a sneeze. This time she could see that it came from Sister Rosie, the plump matricularius. Caris looked hard at Rosie, who appeared scared.

Caris picked another nun at random. “Sister Cressie, take Simone to the hospital while I look at Rosie.”

Cressie took Simone’s arm and led her down the stairs.

Caris held her candle up to Rosie’s face. She, too, was perspiring. Caris pulled down the neck of her robe. There was a rash of small purple spots over her shoulders and breasts.

“No,” Rosie said. “No, please.”

“It may be nothing at all,” Caris lied.

“I don’t want to die of the plague!” Rosie said, her voice cracking.

Caris said quietly: “Just keep calm and come with me.” She took Rosie’s arm firmly.

Rosie resisted. “No, I’ll be all right!”

“Try saying a prayer,” Caris said. “Ave Maria, come on.”

Rosie began to pray, and a moment later Caris was able to lead her away.

The hospital was crammed with dying people and their families, most of them awake despite the hour. There was a strong odour of sweaty bodies, vomit and blood. The place was dimly lit by tallow lamps and the candles on the altar. A handful of nuns attended to the patients, bringing water and cleaning up. Some wore the mask, others did not.

Brother Joseph was there, the oldest of the monk-physicians and the most well liked. He was giving the last rites to Rick Silvers, the head of the jewellers’ guild, bending to hear the man’s whispered confession, surrounded by the children and grandchildren.

Caris made a space for Rosie and persuaded her to lie down. One of the nuns brought her a cup of clear fountain water. Rosie lay still, but her eyes shifted restlessly this way and that. She knew her fate, and she was frightened. “Brother Joseph will come and see you shortly,” Caris told her.

“You were right, Sister Caris,” said Rosie.

“What do you mean?”

“Simone and I were among the original friends of Sister Elizabeth who refused to wear the mask – and look what has happened to us.”

Caris had not thought of this. Would she be proved horribly right by the deaths of those who disagreed with her? She would rather be wrong.

She went to look at Simone. She was lying down and holding the hand of Cressie. Simone was older and calmer than Rosie, but there was fear in her eyes, and she was gripping Cressie’s hand hard.

Caris glanced at Cressie. There was a dark stain above her lip. Caris reached out and wiped it with her sleeve.

Cressie, too, was among the original group who had abandoned the mask.

She looked at the mark on Caris’s sleeve. “What is it?” she said.

“Blood,” said Caris.

*

The election took place in the refectory an hour before dinner time. Caris and Elizabeth were side by side behind a table at one end of the room, and the nuns sat on benches in rows.

Everything had changed. Simone, Rosie and Cressie lay in the hospital, stricken by the plague. Here in the refectory the other two who had originally refused the mask, Elaine and Jeannie, were both showing early symptoms, Elaine sneezing and Jeannie sweating. Brother Joseph, who had been treating plague victims without a mask since the beginning, had at last succumbed. All the remaining nuns had resumed wearing the masks in the hospital. If the mask was still a sign of support for Caris, she had won.

They were tense and restless. Sister Beth, the former treasurer and now the oldest nun, read a prayer to open the meeting. Almost before she had finished, several nuns spoke at once. The voice that prevailed was that of Sister Margaret, the former cellarer. “Caris was right, and Elizabeth was wrong!” she cried. “Those who refused the mask are now dying.”

There was a collective rumble of agreement.

Caris said: “I wish it were otherwise. I’d rather have Rosie and Simone and Cressie sitting here voting against me.” She meant it. She was sick of seeing people die. It made her think how trivial everything else was.

Elizabeth stood up. “I propose we postpone the election,” she said. “Three nuns are dead and three more are in the hospital. We should wait until the plague is over.”

That took Caris by surprise. She had thought there was nothing Elizabeth could do to avoid defeat – but she had been wrong. No one would now vote for Elizabeth, but her supporters might prefer to avoid making any choice at all.

Caris’s apathy vanished. Suddenly she remembered all the reasons why she wanted to be prioress: to improve the hospital, to teach more girls to read and write, to help the town prosper. It would be a catastrophe if Elizabeth were elected instead.

Elizabeth was immediately supported by old Sister Beth. “We shouldn’t hold the election in a panic, and make a choice we might regret later when things have calmed down.” Her statement sounded rehearsed: Elizabeth had obviously planned this. But the argument was not unreasonable, Caris thought with some trepidation.

Margaret said indignantly: “Beth, you only say that because you know Elizabeth is going to lose.”

Caris held back from speaking, for fear of prompting the same argument against herself.

Sister Naomi, who was not committed to either side, said: “The trouble is, we have no leader. Mother Cecilia, rest her soul, never appointed a sub-prioress after Natalie died.”

“Is that so bad?” Elizabeth said.

“Yes!” Margaret said. “We can’t even make up our minds who is to go first in the procession!”

Caris decided to risk making a practical point. “There is a long list of decisions that need to be taken, especially about inheritance of nunnery properties whose tenants have died of the plague. It would be difficult to go much longer with no prioress.”

Sister Elaine, one of the original five friends of Elizabeth, now argued against postponement. “I hate elections,” she said. She sneezed, then went on: “They set sister against sister and cause acrimony. I want to get this over with so that we can be united in the face of this dreadful plague.”

That raised a cheer of support.

Elizabeth glared angrily at Elaine. Elaine caught her eye and said: “You see, I can’t even make a pacific remark like that without Elizabeth looking at me as if I’ve betrayed her!”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze.

Margaret said: “Come on, let’s vote. Whoever is for Elizabeth, say: ‘Aye.’ ”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Beth said quietly: “Aye.”

Caris waited for someone else to speak, but Beth was the only one.

Caris’s heart beat faster. Was she about to achieve her ambition?

Margaret said: “Who is for Caris?”

The response was instant. There was a shout of “Aye!” It seemed to Caris that almost all the nuns voted for her.

I’ve done it, she thought. I’m prioress. Now we can really begin.

Margaret said: “In that case-”

A male voice suddenly said: “Wait!”

Several nuns gasped, and one screamed. They all looked at the door. Philemon stood there. He must have been listening outside, Caris thought.

He said: “Before you go any farther-”

Caris was not having this. She stood up and interrupted him. “How dare you enter the nunnery?” she said. “You do not have permission and you are not welcome. Leave now!”

“I’m sent by the lord prior-”

“He has no right-”

“He is the senior religious in Kingsbridge, and in the absence of a prioress or a sub-prioress he has authority over the nuns.”

“We are no longer without a prioress, Brother Philemon.” Caris advanced towards him. “I have just been elected.”

The nuns hated Philemon, and they all cheered.

He said: “Father Godwyn refuses to permit this election.”

“Too late. Tell him Mother Caris is now in charge of the nunnery – and she threw you out.”

Philemon backed away. “You are not prioress until your election has been ratified by the bishop!”

“Out!” said Caris.

The nuns took up the chant. “Out! Out! Out!”

Philemon was intimidated. He was not used to being defied. She took another step towards him, and he took another back. He looked amazed by what was happening, but also scared. The chanting got louder. Suddenly he turned around and scurried out.

The nuns laughed and cheered.

But Caris realized that his parting remark had been true. Her election would have to be ratified by Bishop Henri.

And Godwyn would do everything in his power to prevent that.

*

A team of volunteers from the town had cleared an acre of rough woodland on the far side of the river, and Godwyn was in the process of consecrating the new land as a cemetery. Every churchyard within the town walls was full, and the available space in the cathedral graveyard was shrinking fast.

Godwyn paced the borders of the plot in a biting cold wind, sprinkling holy water that froze when it hit the ground, while monks and nuns marched behind him, singing a psalm. Although the service was not yet over, the gravediggers were already at work. Humps of raw earth stood in neat lines beside straight-sided pits, placed as close together as possible to save space. But an acre would not last long, and men were already at work clearing the next patch of woodland.

At moments such as this, Godwyn had to struggle to keep his composure. The plague was like an incoming tide, submerging everyone in its path, unstoppable. The monks had buried a hundred people during the week before Christmas and the numbers were still rising. Brother Joseph had died yesterday, and two more monks were now ill. Where would it end? Would everyone in the world die? Would Godwyn himself die?

He was so scared that he stopped, staring at the gold aspergillum with which he was sprinkling the holy water as if he had no idea how it had got into his hand. For a moment he was so panicked that he could not move. Then Philemon, at the head of the procession, pushed him gently from behind. Godwyn stumbled forward and resumed his march. He had to thrust these frightening thoughts from his mind.

He turned his brain to the problem of the nuns’ election. Reaction to his sermon had been so favourable that he had thought Elizabeth’s victory secure. The tide had turned with shocking rapidity, and the infuriating revival in Caris’s popularity had taken him by surprise. Philemon’s last-ditch intervention had been a desperate measure taken just too late. When he thought of it, Godwyn wanted to scream.

But it was not yet over. Caris had mocked Philemon, but the truth was that she could not consider her position safe until she had Bishop Henri’s approval.

Unfortunately, Godwyn had not yet had a chance to ingratiate himself with Henri. The new bishop, who spoke no English, had visited Kingsbridge only once. Because he was so new, Philemon had not yet learned whether he had any fatal weaknesses. But he was a man, and a priest, so he ought to side with Godwyn against Caris.

Godwyn had written to Henri saying that Caris had bewitched the nuns into thinking she could save them from the plague. He had detailed Caris’s history: the accusation of heresy, the trial and sentence eight years ago, the rescue by Cecilia. He hoped Henri would arrive in Kingsbridge with his mind firmly prejudiced against Caris.

But when would Henri come? It was extraordinary for the bishop to miss the Christmas service in the cathedral. A letter from the efficient, unimaginative Archdeacon Lloyd had explained that Henri was busy appointing clergy to replace those who had died of the plague. Lloyd might be against Godwyn: he was Earl William’s man, owing his position to William’s late brother Richard; and the father of William and Richard, Earl Roland, had hated Godwyn. But Lloyd would not make the decision, Henri would. It was hard to know what might happen. Godwyn felt he had lost control. His career was threatened by Caris and his life was threatened by a remorseless plague.

A light snowfall began as the ceremony of consecration came to an end. Just beyond the cleared plot, seven funeral processions were at a standstill, waiting for the cemetery to be ready. At Godwyn’s signal, they moved forward. The first body was in a coffin, but the rest were in shrouds on biers. In the best of times coffins were a luxury for the prosperous, but now that timber had become expensive and coffin-makers were overworked it was only the very rich who could afford to be buried in a wooden casket.

At the head of the first procession was Merthin, with snowflakes caught in his copper-red hair and beard. He was carrying his little girl. The wealthy deceased in the coffin must be Bessie Bell, Godwyn deduced. Bessie had died without relatives and left the tavern to Merthin. Money sticks to that man like wet leaves, Godwyn thought sourly. Merthin already had Leper Island and the fortune he had made in Florence. Now he owned the busiest tavern in Kingsbridge.

Godwyn knew about Bessie’s will because the priory was entitled to an inheritance tax and had taken a fat percentage of the value of the place. Merthin had paid the money in gold florins without hesitation.

The one good consequence of the plague was that the priory suddenly had plenty of cash.

Godwyn conducted one burial service for all seven bodies. This was now the norm: one funeral in the morning and one in the afternoon, regardless of the number of dead. There were not enough priests in Kingsbridge to bury each person individually.

That thought renewed Godwyn’s feeling of dread. He stumbled over the words of the service, seeing himself in one of the graves; then he managed to take hold of himself and continue.

At last the service was over, and he led the procession of monks and nuns back to the cathedral. They entered the church and fell out of formation in the nave. The monks returned to their normal duties. A novice nun approached Godwyn nervously and said: “Father Prior, would you kindly come to the hospital?”

Godwyn did not like to receive bossy messages via novices. “What for?” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, father, I don’t know – I was just told to ask you.”

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” he said irritably. He did not have anything urgent to do, but just to make the point he delayed in the cathedral, speaking to Brother Eli about the monks’ robes.

A few minutes later he crossed the cloisters and entered the hospital.

Nuns were crowded around a bedstead that had been set up in front of the altar. They must have an important patient, he thought. He wondered who it was. One ol the attendant nuns turned to him. She wore a linen mask over her nose and mouth, but he recognized the gold-flecked green eyes that he and all his family shared: it was Caris. Although he could see so little of her face, he read an odd expression in her look. He expected dislike and contempt, but instead he saw compassion.

He moved closer to the bed with a feeling of trepidation. When the other nuns saw him they moved aside deferentially. A moment later, he saw the patient.

It was his mother.

Petranilla’s large head lay on a white pillow. She was sweating, and there was a steady trickle of blood from her nose. A nun was in the act of wiping it away, but it reappeared. Another nun offered the patient a cup of water. There was a rash of purple spots on the wrinkled skin of Petranilla’s throat.

Godwyn cried out as if he had been struck. He stared in horror. His mother gazed at him with suffering eyes. There was no room for doubt: she had fallen victim to the plague. “No!” he shouted. “No! No!” He felt an unbearable pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed.

He heard Philemon, beside him, say in a frightened voice: “Try to stay calm, Father Prior,” but he could not. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. He suddenly felt detached from his body, with no control over his movements. Then a black mist arose from the floor and engulfed him, gradually rising up his body until it covered his nose and mouth, so that he could not breathe, and then his eyes, so that he was blind; and at last he lost consciousness.

*

Godwyn was in bed for five days. He ate nothing and drank only when Philemon put a cup to his lips. He could not think straight. He could not move, for it seemed he had no way of deciding what to do. He sobbed, and slept, then woke up and sobbed again. He was vaguely aware of a monk feeling his forehead, taking a urine sample, diagnosing brain fever and bleeding him.

Then, on the last day of December, a scared-looking Philemon brought him the news that his mother was dead.

Godwyn got up. He had himself shaved, put on a new robe and went to the hospital.

The nuns had washed and dressed the body. Petranilla’s hair was brushed and she wore a dress of costly Italian wool. Seeing her like that, with the pallor of death on her face and her eyes forever closed, Godwyn felt a resurgence of the panic that had overwhelmed him; but this time he was able to fight it down. “Take her body to the cathedral,” he ordered. Normally the honour of lying in state in the cathedral was reserved for monks, nuns, senior clergymen and the aristocracy; but Godwyn knew that no one would dare to contradict him.

When she had been moved into the church and placed in front of the altar, he knelt beside her and prayed. Prayer helped him calm his terror, and gradually he figured out what to do. When at last he stood up, he ordered Philemon to call a meeting in the chapter house immediately.

He felt shaky, but he knew he had to pull himself together. He had always been blessed with the power of persuasion. Now he had to use it to the utmost.

When the monks had gathered, he read to them from the Book of Genesis. “And it came to pass after these things that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am. And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of. And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.”

Godwyn looked up from the book. The monks were watching him intently. They all knew the story of Abraham and Isaac. They were more interested in him, Godwyn. They were alert, wary, wondering what would come next.

“What does the story of Abraham and Isaac teach us?” he asked rhetorically. “God tells Abraham to kill his son – not just his eldest son, but his only son, born when he was a hundred years old. Did Abraham protest? Did he plead for mercy? Did he argue with God? Did he point out that to kill Isaac would be murder, infanticide, a terrible sin?” Godwyn let the question hang for a moment, then looked down at the book and read: “And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass…”

He looked up again. “God may tempt us, too. He may order us to perform acts which seem wrong. Perhaps he will tell us to do something that appears to be a sin. When that happens, we must remember Abraham.”

Godwyn was speaking in what he knew was his most persuasive preaching style, rhythmic yet conversational. He could tell that he had their rapt attention by the quiet in the octagonal chapter house: no one fidgeted, whispered or shuffled.

“We must not question,” he said. “We must not argue. When God leads us, we must follow – no matter how foolish, sinful or cruel his wishes may seem to our feeble human minds. We are weak and humble. Our understanding is fallible. It is not given to us to make decisions or choices. Our duty is simple. It is to obey.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04