Pillars of the Earth, book 2 56 страница

Then he told them what they had to do.

*

The bishop arrived after dark. It was almost midnight when the entourage entered the precinct: they had ridden by torchlight. Most of the priory had been in bed for hours, but there was a group of nuns at work in the hospital, and one of them came to wake Caris. “The bishop is here,” she said.

“Why does he want me?” Caris asked sleepily.

“I don’t know, Mother Prior.”

Of course she didn’t. Caris pulled herself out of bed and put on a cloak.

She paused in the cloisters. She took a long drink of water, and for a few moments she breathed deeply of the cold night air, clearing her head of sleep. She wanted to make a good impression on the bishop, so that there would be no trouble about his ratifying her election as prioress.

Archdeacon Lloyd was in the hospital, looking tired, the pointed tip of his long nose red with cold. “Come and greet your bishop,” he said crossly, as if she ought to have been up and waiting.

She followed him out. A servant stood outside the door with a burning torch. They walked across the green to where the bishop sat on his horse.

He was a small man in a big hat, and he looked thoroughly fed up.

Caris said in Norman French: “Welcome to Kingsbridge Priory, my lord bishop.”

Henri said peevishly: “Who are you?”

Caris had seen him before but had never spoken to him. “I am Sister Caris, prioress-elect.”

“The witch.”

Her heart sank. Godwyn must have already tried to poison Henri’s mind against her. She felt indignant. “No, my lord bishop, there are no witches here,” she said with more acerbity than was prudent. “Just a group of ordinary nuns doing their best for a town that has been stricken by the plague.”

He ignored that. “Where is Prior Godwyn?”

“In his palace.”

“No, he’s not!”

Archdeacon Lloyd explained: “We’ve been there. The building is empty.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” the archdeacon said irritably. “Really.”

At that moment, Caris spotted Godwyn’s cat, with the distinctive white tip to its tail. The novices called it Archbishop. It walked across the west front of the cathedral and looked into the spaces between the pillars, as if searching for its master.

Caris was taken aback. “How strange… perhaps Godwyn decided to sleep in the dormitory with the other monks.”

“And why would he do that? I hope there’s no impropriety going on.”

Caris shook her head dismissively. The bishop suspected unchastity, but Godwyn was not prone to that particular sin. “He reacted badly when his mother caught the plague. He had some kind of fit and collapsed. She died today.”

“If he’s been unwell I should have thought he was all the more likely to sleep in his own bed.”

Anything might have happened. Godwyn was slightly unhinged by Petranilla’s illness. Caris said: “Would the lord bishop like to speak to one of his deputies?”

Henri answered crossly: “If I could find one, yes!”

“Perhaps if I take Archdeacon Lloyd to the dormitory…”

“As soon as you like!”

Lloyd got a torch from a servant, and Caris led him quickly through the cathedral into the cloisters. The place was silent, as monasteries generally were at this time of night. They reached the foot of the staircase that led up to the dormitory, and Caris stopped. “You’d better go up alone,” she said. “A nun should not see monks in bed.”

“Of course.” Lloyd went up the stairs with his torch, leaving her in darkness. She waited, curious. She heard him shout: “Hello?” There was a strange silence. Then, after a few moments, he called down to her in an odd voice: “Sister?”

“Yes?”

“You can come up.”

Mystified, she climbed the stairs and entered the dormitory. She stood beside Lloyd and peered into the room by the unsteady light or the burning torch. The monks’ straw mattresses lay neatly in their places along either side of the room – but not one of them was occupied. “There’s no one here,” Caris said.

“Not a soul,” Lloyd agreed. “What on earth has happened?”

“I don’t know, but I can guess,” said Caris.

“Then enlighten me, please.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “They’ve run away.”

Part Six. January 1349 to January 1351

When Godwyn left, he took with him all the valuables from the monks’ treasury and all the charters. This included the nuns’ charters, which they had never succeeded in retrieving from his locked chest. He also took the sacred relics, including the bones of St Adolphus in their priceless reliquary.

Caris discovered this on the morning afterwards, the first day of January, the Feast of the Circumcision of Christ. She went with Bishop Henri and Sister Elizabeth to the treasury off the south transept. Henri’s attitude to her was stiffly formal, which was worrying; but he was a peevish character, so perhaps he was like that with everyone.

The flayed skin of Gilbert Hereford was still nailed to the door, slowly turning hard and yellow, and giving off a faint but distinct whiff of rottenness.

But the door was not locked.

They went in. Caris had not been inside this room since Prior Godwyn stole the nuns’ one hundred and fifty pounds to build his palace. After that they had built their own treasury.

It was immediately obvious what had happened. The flagstones that disguised the vaults in the floor had been lifted and not put back, and the lid of the ironbound chest stood open. Vaults and chest were empty.

Caris felt that her contempt for Godwyn was vindicated. A trained physician, a priest and the leader of the monks, he had fled just at the moment when the people needed him most. Now, surely, everyone would realize his true nature.

Archdeacon Lloyd was outraged. “He took everything!”

Caris said to Henri: “And this is the man who wanted you to annul my election.”

Bishop Henri grunted noncommittally.

Elizabeth was desperate to find an excuse for Godwyn’s behaviour. “I’m sure the lord prior took the valuables with him for safekeeping.”

That stung the bishop into a response. “Rubbish,” he said crisply. “If your servant empties your purse and disappears without warning, he’s not keeping your money safe, he’s stealing it.”

Elizabeth tried a different tack. “I believe this was Philemon’s idea.”

“The sub-prior?” Henri looked scornful. “Godwyn is in charge, not Philemon. Godwyn is responsible.”

Elizabeth shut up.

Godwyn must have recovered from the death of his mother, Caris thought, at least temporarily. It was quite an achievement to persuade every single one of the monks to follow him. She wondered where they had gone.

Bishop Henri was thinking the same thing. “Where did the wretched cowards go?”

Caris remembered Merthin trying to persuade her to leave. “To Wales, or Ireland”, he had said. “A remote village where they don’t see a stranger from one year to the next.” She said to the bishop: “They will be hiding out in some isolated place where no one ever goes.”

“Find out exactly where,” he said.

Caris realized that all opposition to her election had vanished with Godwyn. She felt triumphant, and made an effort not to look too pleased. “I’ll make some inquiries in the town,” she said. “Somebody must have seen them leave.”

“Good,” said the bishop. “However, I don’t think they’re coming back soon, so in the meantime you’re going to have to manage as best you can with no men. Continue the services as normally as possible with the nuns. Get a parish priest to come into the cathedral for mass, if you can find one still alive. You cannot perform the mass, but you can hear confessions – there has been a special dispensation from the archbishop, because so many clergymen have died.”

Caris was not going to let him slide past the question of her election. “Are you confirming me as prioress?” she said.

“Of course,” he said irritably.

“In that case, before I accept the honour-”

“You have no decision to make, Mother Prioress,” he said indignantly. “It is your duty to obey me.”

She wanted the post desperately, but she resolved to pretend otherwise. She was going to drive a hard bargain. “We live in strange times, don’t we?” she said. “You’ve given nuns authority to hear confessions. You’ve shortened the training for priests, but you still can’t ordain them fast enough to keep up with deaths from the plague, I hear.”

“Is it your intention to exploit the difficulties the church is facing for some purpose of your own?”

“No, but there is something you need to do to make it possible for me to carry out your instructions.”

Henri sighed. Clearly he did not like being spoken to in this way. But, as Caris had suspected, he needed her more than she needed him. “Very well, what is it?”

“I want you to convene an ecclesiastical court and reopen my trial for witchcraft.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?”

“To declare me innocent, of course. Until that happens, it could be difficult for me to exercise authority. Anyone who disagrees with my decisions can all too easily undermine me by pointing out that I stand condemned.”

The tidy secretarial mind of Archdeacon Lloyd liked that idea. “It would be good to have the issue disposed of once and for all, my lord bishop.”

“Very well, then,” said Henri.

“Thank you.” She felt a surge of delight and relief, and bowed her head for fear that her triumph would show in her face. “I will do my best to bring honour to the position of prioress of Kingsbridge.”

“Lose no time in inquiring after Godwyn. I’d like some kind of answer before I leave town.”

“The alderman of the parish guild is a crony of Godwyn’s. He’ll know where they’ve gone if anyone does. I’ll go and see him.”

“Right away, please.”

Caris left. Bishop Henri was charmless, but he seemed competent, and she thought she could work with him. Perhaps he would be the kind of leader who made decisions based on the merits of the case, instead of siding with whomever he perceived as an ally. That would be a pleasant change.

Passing the Bell, she was tempted to go in and tell Merthin her good news. However, she thought she had better find Elfric first.

In the street in front of the Holly Bush she saw Duncan Dyer lying on the ground. His wife, Winnie, was sitting on the bench outside the tavern, crying. Caris thought the man must have been hurt, but Winnie said: “He’s drunk.”

Caris was shocked. “It isn’t even dinner time yet!”

“His uncle, Peter Dyer, caught the plague and passed away. His wife and children died too, so Duncan inherited all his money, and he just spends it on wine. I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s get him home,” Caris said. “I’ll help you lift him.” They each took an arm and got Duncan to his feet. Holding him upright, they half dragged him down the street to his house. They put him on the floor and covered him with a blanket. Winnie said: “He’s like this every day. He’s says it’s not worth working, because we’re all going to die of the plague. What shall I do?”

Caris thought for a moment. “Bury the money in the garden, now, while he’s sleeping. When he wakes up, tell him he lost it all gambling with a chapman who left town.”

“I might do that,” Winnie said.

Caris crossed the street to Elfric’s house and went inside. Her sister, Alice, was sitting in the kitchen sewing stockings. They had not been close since Alice married Elfric, and what little was left of their relationship had been destroyed by Elfric’s testifying against Caris in the heresy trial. Forced to choose between sister and husband, Alice had been loyal to Elfric. Caris understood that, but it meant her sister had become like a stranger to her.

When Alice saw her she stood up and dropped her sewing. “What are you doing here?” she said.

“The monks have all disappeared,” Caris told her. “They must have left in the night.”

“So that was what it was!” Alice said.

“Did you see them?”

“No, but I heard a whole crowd of men and horses. They weren’t loud – in fact, now that I think of it, they must have been making an effort to be quiet – but you can’t keep horses silent, and men make a noise just walking along the street. They woke me, but I didn’t get up to see – it was too cold. Is that why you’ve entered my house for the first time in ten years?”

“You didn’t know they were going to run off?”

“Is that what they’ve done, run off? Because of the plague?”

“I assume so.”

“Surely not. What’s the use of physicians who flee from sickness?” Alice was troubled by this behaviour on the part of her husband’s patron. “I can’t understand it.”

“I was wondering if Elfric knew anything about it.”

“If he does, he hasn’t told me.”

“Where will I find him?”

“St Peter’s. Rick Silvers left some money to the church, and the priest decided to pave the floor of the nave.”

“I’ll go and ask him.” Caris wondered if she should make an attempt to be courteous. Alice had no children of her own, but she had a stepdaughter. “How is Griselda?” Caris said.

“Very well and happy,” Alice said with a touch of defiance, as if she thought Caris might prefer to hear otherwise.

“And your grandson?” Caris could not bring herself to use the child’s name, which was Merthin.

“Lovely. And another grandchild on the way.”

“I’m pleased for her.”

“Yes. It’s just as well she didn’t marry your Merthin, the way things have turned out.”

Caris refused to be drawn. “I’ll go and find Elfric.”

St Peter’s church was at the western end of the town. As Caris was threading her way through the winding streets, she came upon two men fighting. They were shouting curses at one another and punching wildly. Two women, presumably their wives, were screeching abuse, while a small crowd of neighbours looked on. The door of the nearest house had been broken down. On the ground nearby was a cage made of twigs and rushes containing three live chickens.

Caris went up to the men and stepped between them. “Stop it this instant,” she said. “I command you in the name of God.”

They did not take much persuading. They had probably expended their wrath with the first few blows and might even be grateful for an excuse to stop. They stepped back and dropped their arms.

“What’s this about?” Caris demanded.

They both started speaking at once, and so did their wives.

“One at a time!” Caris said. She pointed at the larger of the two men, a dark-haired fellow whose good looks were spoiled by a swelling around his eye. “You’re Joe Blacksmith, aren’t you? Explain.”

“I caught Toby Peterson stealing Jack Marrow’s chickens. He broke down the door.”

Toby was a smaller man with a gamecock bravado. He spoke through bleeding lips. “Jack Marrow owed me five shillings – I’m entitled to those chickens!”

Joe said: “Jack and all his family died of the plague two weeks ago. I’ve been feeding his chickens ever since. They’d be dead but for me. If anyone should take them, it ought to be me.”

Caris said: “Well, you’re both entitled to them, aren’t you? Toby because of the debt, and Joe because he kept them alive at his own expense.”

They looked taken aback at the thought that they might both be right.

Caris said: “Joseph, take one of the chickens out of the cage.”

Toby said: “Wait a moment-”

“Trust me, Toby,” Caris said. “You know I wouldn’t treat you unjustly, don’t you?”

“Well, I can’t deny that…”

Joe opened the cage and picked up a scrawny brown-feathered chicken by its feet. The bird’s head turned jerkily from side to side, as if it was bewildered to see the world upside down.

Caris said: “Now give it to Toby’s wife.”

“What?”

“Would I cheat you, Joseph?”

Joe reluctantly handed the chicken to Toby’s wife, a pretty, sulky type. “There you are, then, Jane.”

Jane took it with alacrity.

Caris said to her: “Now thank Joe.”

Jane looked petulant, but she said: “I thank you, Joseph Blacksmith.”

Caris said: “Now, Toby, give a chicken to Ellie Blacksmith.”

Toby obeyed, with a sheepish grin. Joe’s wife, Ellie, who was heavily pregnant, smiled and said: “Thank you, Toby Peterson.”

They were returning to normal, and beginning to realize the foolishness of what they had been doing.

Jane said: “What about the third chicken?”

“I’m coming to that,” Caris said. She looked at the watching crowd and pointed at a sensible-looking girl of eleven or twelve. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jesca, Mother Prior – the daughter of John Constable.”

“Take the other chicken to St Peter’s church and give it to Father Michael. Say that Toby and Joe will be coming to ask forgiveness for the sin of covetousness.”

“Yes, sister.” Jesca picked up the third chicken and went off.

Joe’s wife, Ellie, said: “You may remember, Mother Caris, that you helped my husband’s baby sister, Minnie, when she burned her arm in the forge.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Caris said. It had been a nasty burn, she remembered. “She must be ten now.”

“That’s right.”

“Is she well?”

“Right as rain, thanks to you, and God’s grace.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Would you care to step into my house for a cup of ale, Mother Prioress?”

“I’d love to, but I’m in a hurry.” She turned to the men. “God bless you, and no more fighting.”

Joe said: “Thank you.”

Caris walked away.

Toby called after her: “Thank you, mother.”

She waved without looking back.

She noticed several more houses that appeared to have been broken into, presumably to be looted after the occupants died. Someone ought to do something about it, she thought. But with Elfric as alderman, and a disappearing prior, there was no one to take the initiative.

She reached St Peter’s and found Elfric with a team of paviours and their apprentices in the nave. Stone slabs were stacked all around, and the men were preparing the ground, pouring sand and smoothing it with sticks. Elfric was checking that the surface was level, using a complicated piece of apparatus with a wooden frame and a dangling cord with a lead point at its end. The apparatus looked like a miniature gallows, and it reminded Caris that Elfric had tried to get her hanged for witchcraft ten years ago. She was surprised to find that she felt no hatred for him. He was too mean-spirited and small-minded for that. When she looked at him, she felt nothing but contempt.

She waited for him to finish, then said abruptly: “Did you know that Godwyn and all the monks have run away?”

She intended to surprise him, and she knew by his look of astonishment that he had no foreknowledge. “Why would they…? When…? Oh, last night?”

“You didn’t see them.”

“I heard something.”

“I saw them,” said a paviour. He leaned on his spade to talk. “I was coming out of the Holly Bush. It was dark, but they had torches. The prior was riding, and the rest walking, but they had a sight of baggage: wine casks and wheels of cheese and I don’t know what.”

Caris already knew that Godwyn had emptied the monks’ food stores. He had not tried to take any of the nuns’ supplies, which were kept separately. “What time was that?”

“Not late – nine or ten o’clock.”

“Did you speak to them?”

“Just to say goodnight.”

“Any clue as to where they might have been headed?”

The paviour shook his head. “They went over the bridge, but I didn’t see which road they took at Gallows Cross.”

Caris turned to Elfric. “Think back over the past few days. Did Godwyn say anything to you that, with hindsight, might relate to this? Mention any place names – Monmouth, York, Antwerp, Bremen?”

“No. I had no clue.” Elfric looked grumpy about not having been forewarned, which made Caris think he was telling the truth.

If Elfric was surprised, it was unlikely that anyone else had known what Godwyn planned. Godwyn was fleeing from the plague, and clearly he did not want anyone to follow him, bringing the disease with them. “Leave early, go far and stay long,” Merthin had said. Godwyn could be anywhere.

“If you hear from him, or any of the monks, please tell me,” Caris said.

Elfric said nothing.

Caris raised her voice to make sure the workmen heard. “Godwyn has stolen all the precious ornaments,” she said. There was a rumble of indignation. The men felt proprietorial about the cathedral ornaments – indeed, the wealthier craftsmen had probably helped pay for some of them. “The bishop wants them back. Anyone who helps Godwyn, even just by concealing his whereabouts, is guilty of sacrilege.”

Elfric looked bewildered. He had based his life on ingratiating himself with Godwyn. Now his patron had gone. He said: “There may be some perfectly innocent explanation…”

“If there is, why did Godwyn tell no one? Or even leave behind a letter?”

Elfric could not think of anything to say.

Caris realized she was going to have to speak to all the leading merchants, and the sooner the better. “I’d like you to call a meeting,” she said to Elfric. Then she thought of a more persuasive way of putting it. “The bishop wants the parish guild to meet today, after dinner. Please inform the members.”

“Very well,” said Elfric.

They would all be there, Caris knew, agog with curiosity.

She left St Peter’s and headed back towards the priory. As she passed the White Horse tavern, she saw something that made her pause. A young girl was talking to an older man, and there was something about the interaction that raised Caris’s hackles. She always felt the vulnerability of girls very sharply – perhaps because she remembered herself as an adolescent, perhaps because of the daughter she had never had. She drew back into a doorway and studied them.

The man was poorly dressed except for a costly fur hat. Caris did not know him, but she guessed he was a labourer and had inherited the hat. So many people had died that there was a glut of finery, and you saw odd sights like this all the time. The girl was about fourteen years old, and pretty, with an adolescent figure. She was trying to be coquettish, Caris saw with disapproval; though she was not very convincing. The man took money from his purse, and they seemed to be arguing. Then the man fondled the girl’s small breast.

Caris had seen enough. She marched up to the pair. The man took one look at her nun’s habit and walked quickly away. The girl looked both guilty and resentful. Caris said: “What are you doing – trying to sell your body?”

“No, mother.”

“Tell the truth! Why did you let him feel your breast?”

“I don’t know what to do! I haven’t got anything to eat, and now you’ve chased him away.” She burst into tears.

Caris could believe the girl was hungry. She looked thin and pale. “Come with me,” Caris said. “I’ll give you something to eat.”

She took the girl’s arm and steered her towards the priory. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ismay.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

They reached the priory and Caris took Ismay to the kitchen, where the nuns’ dinner was being prepared under the supervision of a novice called Oonagh. The kitchener, Josephine, had fallen to the plague. “Give this child some bread and butter,” Caris said to Oonagh.

She sat and watched the girl eat. Ismay obviously had not had food for days. She ate half of a four-pound loaf before slowing down.

Caris poured her a cup of cider. “Why were you starving?” she asked.

“All my family died of the plague.”

“What was your father?”

“A tailor, and I can sew very neatly, but no one is buying clothes – they can get anything they want from the homes of dead people.”

“So that’s why you were trying to prostitute yourself.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry, Mother Prioress. I was so hungry.”

“Was that the first time that you tried?”

She shook her head and would not look at Caris.

Tears of rage welled up in Caris’s eyes. What kind of man would have sexual congress with a starving thirteen-year-old? What kind of God would drive a girl to such desperation? “Would you like to live here, with the nuns, and work in the kitchen?” she said. “You would have plenty to eat.”

Ismay looked up with eagerness. “Oh, yes, mother, I’d like that.”

“Then you shall. You can begin by helping to prepare the nuns’ dinner. Oonagh, here’s a new kitchen hand.”

“Thank you, Mother Caris, I need all the help I can get.”

Caris left the kitchen and went thoughtfully into the cathedral for the service of Sext. The plague was not just a physical sickness, she was beginning to realize. Ismay had escaped the disease, but her soul had been in peril.

Bishop Henri took the service, leaving Caris free to think. At the parish guild meeting she needed to talk about more than just the flight of the monks, she decided. It was time to get the town organized to deal with the effects of the plague. But how?

She mulled over the problems through dinner. For all sorts of reasons, this was a good time to make big decisions. With the bishop here to back up her authority, she might be able to push through measures that could otherwise meet with opposition.

This was also a good moment to get what she wanted from the bishop. That was a fertile thought…

After dinner she went to see the bishop in the prior’s house, where he was staying. He was at table with Archdeacon Lloyd. They had been fed by the nuns’ kitchen and were drinking wine while a priory servant cleared the table. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner, my lord bishop,” she said formally.

He was a little less peevish than usual. “It was fine, thank you, Mother Caris – a very tasty pike. Any news of the runaway prior?”

“He seems to have been careful to leave no clue as to his destination.”

“Disappointing.”

“As I walked through the town, making inquiries, I saw several incidents that disturbed me: a thirteen-year-old girl prostituting herself; two normally law-abiding citizens fighting over a dead man’s property; a man dead drunk at midday.”

“These are the effects of the plague. It’s the same everywhere.”

“I believe we must act to counter those effects.”

He raised his eyebrows. It seemed he had not thought of taking such action. “How?”

“The prior is overlord of Kingsbridge. He is the one to take the initiative.”

“But he has vanished.”

“As bishop, you are technically our abbot. I believe you must stay here in Kingsbridge permanently, and take charge of the town.”

This was in fact the last thing she wanted. Fortunately, there was little chance of the bishop agreeing: he had far too much to do elsewhere. She was just trying to back him into a corner.

He hesitated, and for a moment she worried that she might have misjudged him, and he might accept her suggestion. Then he said: “Out of the question. Every town in the diocese has the same problems. Shiring is worse. I have to try to hold together the fabric of Christianity here while my priests are dying. I have no time to worry about drunks and prostitutes.”

“Well, somebody must act as prior of Kingsbridge. The town needs a moral leader.”

Archdeacon Lloyd put in: “My lord bishop, there is also the question of who is to receive monies owed to the priory, maintain the cathedral and other buildings, manage the lands and the serfs…”

Henri said: “Well, you will have to do all that, Mother Caris.”

She pretended to consider the suggestion as if she had not already thought of it. “I could handle all the less important tasks – managing the monks’ money and their lands – but I could not do what you can do, my lord bishop. I could not perform the holy sacraments.”

“We’ve already discussed that,” he said impatiently. “I’m creating new priests as fast as I can. But you can do everything else.”

“It almost seems as if you’re asking me to be acting prior of Kingsbridge.”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

Caris was careful not to show her elation. It seemed too good to be true. She was prior for all purposes except those she did not care about. Were there any hidden snags she had not thought of?

Archdeacon Lloyd said: “You’d better let me write her a letter to that effect, in case she needs to enforce her authority.”

Caris said: “If you want the town to abide by your wishes, you may need to impress upon them that this is your personal decision. A meeting of the parish guild is about to begin. If you’re willing, bishop, I’d like you to attend it and make an announcement.”

“All right, let us go.”

They left Godwyn’s palace and walked up the main street to the guild hall. The members were all waiting to hear what had happened to the monks. Caris began by telling them what she knew. Several people had seen or heard the exodus yesterday after dark, although no one had realized or even suspected that every single one of the monks was leaving.

She asked them to be alert for talk among travellers about a large group of monks on the road with a lot of baggage.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04