Pillars of the Earth, book 2 59 страница

“It’s hard to imagine monks desecrating a tomb,” she said. “On the other hand, the ornaments wouldn’t have had to leave the church.”

Thomas said: “Saul died a week before you arrived. Philemon disappeared two days later.”

“So Philemon could have helped Godwyn dig up the grave.”

“Yes.”

The three of them looked at one another, trying to ignore the mad mumblings of Godwyn.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Merthin said.

Merthin and Thomas got their wooden shovels. They lifted the memorial slab and the paving stones around it, and started digging.

Thomas had developed a one-handed technique. He pushed the shovel into the earth with his good arm, tilted it, then ran his hand all the way down the shaft to the blade and lifted it. His right arm had become very muscular as a result of this kind of adaptation.

Nevertheless, it took a long time. Many graves were shallow, nowadays, but for Prior Saul they had dug down the full six feet. Night was falling outside, and Caris fetched candles. The devils in the wall painting seemed to move in the flickering light.

Both Thomas and Merthin were standing in the hole, with only their heads visible above floor level, when Merthin said: “Wait. Something’s here.”

Caris saw some muddy white material that looked like the oiled linen sometimes used for shrouds. “You’ve found the body,” she said.

Thomas said: “But where’s the coffin?”

“Was he buried in a box?” Coffins were only for the elite: poor people were interred in a shroud.

Thomas said: “Saul was buried in a coffin – I saw it. There’s plenty of wood here in the middle of the forest. All the monks were put in coffins, right up until Brother Silas fell ill – he was the carpenter.”

“Wait,” said Merthin. He pushed his shovel through the earth at the feet of the shroud and lifted a shovelful. Then he tapped with the blade, and Caris heard the dull thud of wood on wood. “Here’s the coffin, underneath,” he said.

Thomas said: “How did the body get out?”

Caris felt a shiver of fear.

Over in the corner, Godwyn raised his voice. “And he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and the smoke of his torment will rise up for ever and ever.”

Thomas said to Caris: “Can’t you shut him up?”

“I’ve got no drugs with me.”

Merthin said: “There’s nothing supernatural here. My guess is that Godwyn and Philemon took the body out – and filled the coffin with their stolen treasures.”

Thomas pulled himself together. “We’d better look in the coffin, then.”

First they had to move the shrouded corpse. Merthin and Thomas bent down, grabbed it by the shoulders and knees, and lifted it. When they had raised it to the level of their shoulders, the only way they could get it farther was to toss it out on to the floor. It landed with a thump. They both looked fearful. Even Caris, who did not believe much of what she was told about the spirit world, felt frightened by what they were doing, and found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the shadowed corners of the church.

Merthin cleared the earth from the top of the coffin while Thomas went to fetch an iron bar. Then they lifted the lid of the casket.

Caris held two candles over the grave so that they could see better.

Inside the coffin was another shrouded body.

Thomas said: “This is very strange!” His voice was distinctly shaky.

“Let’s just think sensibly about this,” Merthin said. He was sounding calm and collected, but Caris – who knew him extraordinarily well – could tell that his composure was taking a big effort. “Who is in the coffin?” he said. “Let’s look.”

He bent down, grabbed the shroud in two hands, and ripped it open along the stitched seam at the head. The corpse was a week dead, and there was a bad smell, but it had not deteriorated much in the cold ground under the unheated church. Even in the unsteady light from Caris’s candles, there was no doubt about the identity of the dead man: the head was fringed with distinctively ash-blond hair.

Thomas said: “That’s Saul Whitehead.”

“In his rightful coffin,” said Merthin.

Caris said: “So who is the other corpse?”

Merthin closed the shroud around Saul’s blond head and replaced the coffin lid.

Caris knelt by the other corpse. She had dealt with many dead bodies, but she had never brought one up from its grave, and her hands were shaky. Nevertheless she opened the shroud and exposed the face. To her horror, the eyes were open and seemed to be staring. She forced herself to close the cold eyelids.

It was a big young monk she did not recognize. Thomas stood on tiptoe to look out of the grave and said: “That’s Brother Jonquil. He died the day after Prior Saul.”

Caris said: “And he was buried…?”

“In the cemetery… we all thought.”

“In a coffin?”

“Yes.”

“Except that he’s here.”

“His coffin weighed enough,” Thomas said. “I helped carry it…”

Merthin said: “I see what happened. Jonquil lay here in the church, in his coffin, prior to burial. While the other monks were at dinner, Godwyn and Philemon opened the coffin and took the body out. They dug up Saul’s tomb and tumbled Jonquil in on top of Saul’s coffin. They closed the grave. Then they put the cathedral treasures in Jonquil’s coffin and closed it again.”

Thomas said: “So we have to dig up Jonquil’s grave.”

Caris glanced up at the windows of the church. They were dark. Night had fallen while they were opening the tomb of Saul. “We could leave it until morning,” she said.

Both men were silent for a long moment, then Thomas said: “Let’s get it over with.”

Caris went to the kitchen, picked two branches from the firewood pile, lit them at the fire, then returned to the church.

As the three of them went outside they heard Godwyn cry: “And the winepress of the wrath of God was trodden outside the city, and the grapes gave forth blood, and the land was flooded to the height of the horses’ bridles.”

Caris shuddered. It was a vile image from the Revelation of St John the Divine, and it disgusted her. She tried to put it out of her mind.

They walked quickly to the cemetery in the red light of the torches. Caris was relieved to be away from that wall painting and out of earshot of Godwyn’s mad ravings. They found Jonquil’s headstone and began to excavate.

The two men had already dug two graves for the novices and re-dug Saul’s. This was their fourth since dinner time. Merthin looked tired and Thomas was sweating heavily. But they worked on doggedly. Slowly the hole got deeper and the pile of earth beside it rose higher. At last a shovel struck wood.

Caris passed Merthin the crowbar, then she knelt on the edge of the pit, holding both torches. Merthin prised open the coffin lid and threw it out of the grave.

There was no corpse in the box.

Instead it was packed tightly with bags and boxes. Merthin opened a leather bag and pulled out a jewelled crucifix. “Hallelujah,” he said wearily.

Thomas opened a box to reveal a row of parchment rolls, packed tightly together like fish in a crate: the charters.

Caris felt a weight of worry roll off her shoulders. She had got the nunnery charters back.

Thomas put his hand into another bag. When he looked at what he had got hold of, it was a skull. He gave a fearful cry and dropped it.

“St Adolphus,” Merthin said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Pilgrims travel hundreds of miles to touch the box that holds his bones.” He picked up the skull. “Lucky us,” he said, and put it back into the bag.

“If I may make a suggestion?” said Caris. “We have to carry this stuff all the way back to Kingsbridge in a cart. Why don’t we leave it in the coffin? It’s packed already, and the casket may serve to deter thieves.”

“Good idea,” Merthin said. “We’ll just lift the coffin out of the grave.”

Thomas returned to the priory and brought ropes, and they lifted the coffin out of the hole. They re-fixed the lid, then tied the ropes around the box in order to drag it across the ground and into the church.

As they were about to start, they heard a scream.

Caris let out a cry of fear.

They all looked towards the church. A figure was running towards them, eyes staring, blood coming from its mouth. Caris suffered a moment of utter terror when she suddenly believed every foolish superstition she had ever heard about spirits. Then she realized she was looking at Godwyn. Somehow he had found the strength to rise from his death bed. He had staggered out of the church and seen their torches, and now in his madness he was running towards them.

They watched him, transfixed.

He stopped and looked at the coffin, then at the empty grave, and in the restless torchlight Caris thought she saw a glimmer of understanding on his grimacing face. Then he seemed to lose his strength, and he collapsed. He fell on the mound of earth beside Jonquil’s empty grave, then he rolled down the mound and into the pit.

They all stepped forward and looked into the grave.

Godwyn lay there on his back, looking up at them with open, sightless eyes.

As soon as Caris got back to Kingsbridge, she decided to leave again.

The image of St-John-in-the-Forest that stayed with her was not the graveyard, nor the corpses Merthin and Thomas had dug up, but the neat fields with no one tilling them. As she rode home, with Merthin beside her and Thomas driving the cart, she saw a lot of land in the same state, and she foresaw a crisis.

The monks and nuns got most of their income from rents. Serfs grew crops and raised livestock on land belonging to the priory and, instead of paying a knight or an earl for the privilege, they paid the prior or prioress. Traditionally they brought a portion of their harvest to the cathedral – a dozen sacks of flour, three sheep, a calf, a cartload of onions – but nowadays most people paid cash.

If no one was cultivating the land, there would be no rent paid, obviously. And then what would the nuns eat?

The cathedral ornaments, the money and the charters she had retrieved from St-John-in-the-Forest were stashed safely in the new, secret treasury that Mother Cecilia had commissioned Jeremiah to build in a place where no one could easily find it. All the ornaments had been found except one, a gold candlestick given by the chandlers’ guild, the group that represented the wax-candle makers of Kingsbridge. That had disappeared.

Caris held a triumphant Sunday service featuring the rescued bones of the saint. She put Thomas in charge of the boys in the orphanage – some of them were old enough to require a strong male presence. She herself moved into the prior’s palace, thinking with pleasure how appalled the late Godwyn would be that it was occupied by a woman. Then, as soon as she had dealt with these details, she went to Outhenby.

The vale of Outhen was a fertile valley of heavy clay soil a day’s journey from Kingsbridge. It had been given to the nuns a hundred years ago by a wicked old knight making a last-gasp attempt to win forgiveness for a lifetime of sins. Five villages stood at intervals along the banks of the river Outhen. On either side the great fields covered the land and the lower slopes of the hills.

The fields were divided into strips allocated to different families. As she had feared, many strips were not being cultivated. The plague had changed everything, but no one had had the brains – or perhaps the courage – to reorganize farming in the light of the new circumstances. Caris herself would have to do that. She had a rough idea of what was required, and she would work out the details as she went along.

With her was Sister Joan, a young nun recently out of her novitiate. Joan was a bright girl who reminded Caris of herself ten years ago – not in appearance, for she was black-haired and blue-eyed, but in her questioning mind and brisk scepticism.

They rode to the largest of the villages, Outhenby. The bailiff for the whole valley, Will, lived there in a large timber house next to the church. He was not at home, but they found him in the farthest field, sowing oats; a big, slow-moving man. The next strip had been left fallow, and wild grass and weeds were poking up, grazed by a few sheep.

Will Bailiff visited the priory several times a year, usually to bring the rents from the villages, so he knew Caris; but he was disconcerted to meet her on his home ground. “Sister Caris!” he exclaimed when he recognized her. “What brings you here?”

“I’m Mother Caris now, Will, and I’ve come to make sure the nuns’ lands are being properly husbanded.”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “We’re doing our best, as you see, but we’ve lost so many men that it’s very, very difficult.”

Bailiffs always said that times were difficult – but in this case it was true.

Caris dismounted. “Walk with me and tell me about it.” A few hundred yards away, on the gentle slope of a hillside, she saw a peasant ploughing with a team of eight oxen. He halted the team and looked at her curiously, so she headed that way.

Will began to recover his composure. Walking alongside her, he said: “A woman of God, such as yourself, can’t be expected to know much about tilling the soil, of course; but I’ll do my best to explain the finer points.”

“That would be kind.” She was used to being condescended to by men of Will’s type. She had found that it was best not to challenge them, but rather to lull them into a false sense of security. That way, she learned more. “How many men have you lost to the plague?”

“Oh, many men.”

“How many?”

“Well, now, let me see, there was William Jones, and his two sons; then Richard Carpenter, and his wife-”

“I don’t need to know their names,” she said, controlling her exasperation. “How many, roughly speaking?”

“I’d have to think about that.”

They had reached the plough. Managing the eight-ox team was a skilled job, and ploughmen were often among the more intelligent villagers. Caris addressed the young man. “How many people in Outhenby have died of the plague?”

“About two hundred, I’d say.”

Caris studied him. He was short but muscular, with a bushy blond beard. He had a cocksure look, as young men often did. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Harry, and my father was Richard, holy sister.”

“I am Mother Caris. How do you work out that figure of two hundred?”

“There’s forty-two dead here in Outhenby, by my reckoning. It’s just as bad in Ham and Shortacre, making about a hundred and twenty. Longwater escaped completely, but every soul in Oldchurch is dead but old Roger Breton, which is about eighty people, making two hundred.”

She turned to Will. “Out of about how many in the whole valley?”

“Ah, now, let me see…”

Harry Ploughman said: “A thousand, near enough, before the plague.”

Will said: “That’s why you see me sowing my own strip, which should be done by labourers – but I have no labourers. They’ve all died.”

Harry said: “Or they’ve gone to work elsewhere for higher wages.”

Caris perked up. “Oh? Who offers higher wages?”

“Some of the wealthier peasants in the next valley,” Will said indignantly. “The nobility pay a penny a day, which is what labourers have always got and always should; but there are some people who think they can do as they please.”

“But they get their crops sowed, I suppose,” Caris said.

“But there’s right and wrong, Mother Caris,” said Will.

Caris pointed to the fallow strip where the sheep were. “And what about that land? Why has it not been ploughed?”

Will said: “That belonged to William Jones. He and his sons died, and his wife went to live with her sister in Shiring.”

“Have you looked for a new tenant?”

“Can’t get them, mother.”

Harry interjected again. “Not on the old terms, anyhow.”

Will glared at him, but Caris said: “What do you mean?”

“Prices have fallen, you see, even though it’s spring when corn is usually dear.”

Caris nodded. That was how markets worked, everyone knew: if there were fewer buyers, the price fell. “But people must live somehow.”

“They don’t want to grow wheat and barley and oats – but they have to grow what they’re told, at least in this valley. So a man looking for a tenancy would rather go elsewhere.”

“And what will he get elsewhere?”

Will interrupted angrily: “They want to do as they please.”

Harry answered Caris’s question. “They want to be free tenants, paying cash rent, rather than serfs working one day a week on the lord’s land; and they want to be able to grow different crops.”

“What crops?”

“Hemp, or flax, or apples and pears – things they know they can sell at the market. Maybe something different every year. But that’s never been allowed in Outhenby.” Harry seemed to recollect himself, and added: “No offence to your holy order, Mother Prioress, nor to Will Bailiff, an honest man as everyone knows.”

Caris saw how it was. Bailiffs were always conservative. In good times, it hardly mattered: the old ways sufficed. But this was a crisis.

She assumed her most authoritative manner. “All right, listen carefully, now, Will, and I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” Will looked startled: he had thought he was being consulted, not commanded. “First, you are to stop ploughing the hillsides. It’s foolish when we’ve got good land uncultivated.”

“But-”

“Be quiet and listen. Offer every tenant an exchange, acre for acre, good valley bottom instead of hillside.”

“Then what will we do with the hillside?”

“Convert it to grazing, cattle on the lower slopes and sheep on the higher. You don’t need many men for that, just a few boys to herd them.”

“Oh,” said Will. It was plain that he wanted to argue, but he could not immediately think of an objection.

Caris went on: “Next, any valley-bottom land that is still untenanted should be offered as a free tenancy with cash rent to anyone who will take it on.” A free tenancy meant that the tenant was not a serf, and did not have to work on the lord’s land, or get his permission to marry or build a house. All he had to do was pay his rent.

“You’re doing away with all the old customs.”

She pointed at the fallow strip. “The old customs are letting my land go to waste. Can you think of another way to stop this happening?”

“Well,” said Will, and there was a long pause; then he shook his head silently.

“Thirdly, offer wages of two pence a day to anyone who will work the land.”

“Two pence a day!”

Caris felt she could not rely on Will to implement these changes vigorously. He would drag his feet and invent excuses. She turned to the cocksure ploughman. She would make him the champion of her reforms. “Harry, I want you to go to every market in the county over the next few weeks. Spread the word that anyone who is on the move can do well in Outhenby. If there are labourers looking for wages I want them to come here.”

Harry grinned and nodded, though Will still looked a bit dazed.

“I want to see all this good land growing crops this summer,” she said. “Is that clear?”

“Yes.” said Will. “Thank you, Mother Prioress.”

*

Caris went through all the charters with Sister Joan, making a note of the date and subject of each. She decided to have them copied, one by one – the idea Godwyn had proposed, though he had only pretended to be copying them as a pretext for taking them away from the nuns. But it was a sound notion. The more copies there were, the harder it was for a valuable document to disappear.

She was intrigued by a deed dated 1327 which assigned to the monks the large farm near Lynn, in Norfolk, that they called Lynn Grange. The gift was made on condition the priory took on, as a novice monk, a knight called Sir Thomas Langley.

Caris was taken back to her childhood, and the day she had ventured into the wood with Merthin, Ralph and Gwenda, and they had seen Thomas receive the wound that had caused him to lose his arm.

She showed the charter to Joan, who shrugged and said: “It’s usual for such a gift to be made when someone from a wealthy family becomes a monk.”

“But look who the donor is.”

Joan looked again. “Queen Isabella!” Isabella was the widow of Edward II and the mother of Edward III. “What’s her interest in Kingsbridge?”

“Or in Thomas?” said Caris.

A few days later she had a chance to find out. The bailiff of Lynn Grange, Andrew, came to Kingsbridge on his biannual visit. A Norfolk-born man of over fifty, he had been in charge of the grange ever since it was gifted to the priory. He was now white-haired and plump, which led Caris to believe that the grange continued to prosper despite the plague. Because Norfolk was several days’ journey away, the grange paid its dues to the priory in coins, rather than drive cattle or cart produce all that way, and Andrew brought the money in gold nobles, the new coin worth a third of a pound, with an image of King Edward standing on the deck of a ship. When Caris had counted the money and given it to Joan to stash in the new treasury, she said to Andrew: “Why did Queen Isabella give us this grange twenty-two years ago, do you know?”

To her surprise, Andrew’s pink face turned pale. He made several false starts at answering, then said: “It’s not for me to question her majesty’s decisions.”

“No, indeed,” Caris said in a reassuring tone. “I’m just curious about her motive.”

“She is a holy woman who has performed many pious acts.”

Like murdering her husband, Caris thought; but she said: “However, there must be a reason she named Thomas.”

“He petitioned the queen for a favour, like hundreds of others, and she graciously granted it, as great ladies sometimes do.”

“Usually when they have some connection with the petitioner.”

“No, no, I’m sure there’s no connection.”

His anxiety made Caris sure he was lying, and just as sure that he would not tell her the truth, so she dropped the subject, and sent Andrew off to have supper in the hospital.

Next morning she was accosted in the cloisters by Brother Thomas, the only monk left in the monastery. Looking angry, he said: “Why did you interrogate Andrew Lynn?”

“Because I was curious,” she said, taken aback.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m not trying to do anything.” She was offended by his aggressive manner, but she did not want to quarrel with him. To ease the tension, she sat on the low wall around the edge of the arcade. A spring sun was shining bravely into the quadrangle. She spoke in a conversational tone. “What’s this all about?”

Thomas said stiffly: “Why are you investigating me?”

“I’m not,” she said. “Calm down. I’m going through all the charters, listing them and having them copied. I came across one that puzzled me.”

“You’re delving into matters that are none of your business.”

She bridled. “I’m the prioress of Kingsbridge, and the acting prior – nothing here is secret from me.”

“Well, if you start digging up all that old stuff, you’ll regret it, I promise you.”

It sounded like a threat, but she decided not to challenge him. She tried a different tack. “Thomas, I thought we were friends. You have no right to forbid me to do anything, and I’m disappointed that you should even try. Don’t you trust me?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then enlighten me. What does Queen Isabella have to do with you, me and Kingsbridge?”

“Nothing. She’s an old woman now, living in retirement.”

“She’s fifty-three. She’s deposed one king, and she could probably depose another if she had a mind to. And she has some long-hidden connection with my priory which you are determined to keep from me.”

“For your own good.”

She ignored that. “Twenty-two years ago someone was trying to kill you. Was it the same person who, having failed to do away with you, paid you off by getting you admitted to the monastery?”

“Andrew is going to go back to Lynn and tell Isabella that you’ve been asking these questions – do you realize that?”

“Why would she care? Why are people so afraid of you, Thomas?”

“Everything will be answered when I’m dead. None of it will matter then.” He turned round and walked away.

The bell rang for dinner. Caris went to the prior’s palace, deep in thought. Godwyn’s cat, Archbishop, was sitting on the doorstep. It glared at her and she shooed it away. She would not have it in the house.

She had got into the habit of dining every day with Merthin. Traditionally the prior regularly dined with the alderman, though to do so every day was unusual – but these were unusual times. That, at any rate, would have been her excuse, had anyone challenged her; but nobody did. Meanwhile they both looked out eagerly for another excuse to go on a trip so that they could again be alone together.

He came in muddy from his building site on Leper Island. He had stopped asking her to renounce her vows and leave the priory. He seemed content, at least for the moment, to see her every day and hope for future chances to be more intimate.

A priory employee brought them ham stewed with winter greens. When the servant had gone, Caris told Merthin about the charter and Thomas’s reaction. “He knows a secret that could damage the old queen if it got out.”

“I think that must be right,” Merthin said thoughtfully.

“On All Hallows’ Day in 1327, after I ran away, he caught you, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He made me help him bury a letter. I had to swear to keep it secret – until he dies, then I am to dig it up and give it to a priest.”

“He told me all my questions would be answered when he died.”

“I think the letter is the threat he holds over his enemies. They must know that its contents will be revealed when he dies. So they fear to kill him – in fact they have made sure he remains alive and well by helping him become a monk of Kingsbridge.”

“Can it matter, still?”

“Ten years after we buried the letter, I told him I hadn’t ever let the secret out, and he said: ‘If you had, you’d be dead.’ That scared me more than the vow.”

“Mother Cecilia told me that Edward II did not die naturally.”

“How would she know a thing like that?”

“My uncle Anthony told her. So I presume the secret is that Queen Isabella had her husband murdered.”

“Half the country believes that anyway. But if there were proof… Did Cecilia say how he was killed?”

Caris thought hard. “No. Now that I think of it, what she said was: ‘The old king did not die of a fall.’ I asked her if he had been murdered – but she died without answering.”

“Still, why put out a false story about his death if not to cover up foul play?”

“And Thomas’s letter must somehow prove that there was foul play, and that the queen was in on it.”

They finished their dinner in thoughtful silence. In the monastery day, the hour after dinner was for rest or reading. Caris and Merthin usually lingered for a while. Today, however, Merthin was anxious about the angles of the roof timbers being erected in the new tavern, the Bridge, that he was building on Leper Island. They kissed hungrily, but he tore himself away and hurried back to the site. Disappointed, Caris opened a book called Ars Medica, a Latin translation of a work by the ancient Greek physician Galen. It was the cornerstone of university medicine, and she was reading it to find out what priests learned at Oxford and Paris; though she had so far found little that would help her.

The maid came back and cleared the table. “Ask Brother Thomas to come and see me, please,” Caris said. She wanted to make sure they were still friends despite their abrasive conversation.

Before Thomas arrived there was a commotion outside. She heard several horses, and the kind of shouting that indicated a nobleman wanting attention. A few moments later the door was flung open and in walked Sir Ralph Fitzgerald, lord of Tench.

He looked angry, but Caris pretended not to notice that. “Hello, Ralph,” she said as amiably as she could. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Welcome to Kingsbridge.”

“Never mind all that,” he said rudely. He walked up to where she sat and stood aggressively close. “Do you realize you’re ruining the peasantry of the entire county?”

Another figure followed him in and stood by the door, a big man with a small head, and Caris recognized his long-time sidekick, Alan Fernhill. Both were armed with swords and daggers. Caris was acutely aware that she was alone in the palace. She tried to defuse the scene. “Would you like some ham, Ralph? I’ve just finished dinner.”

Ralph was not to be diverted. “You’ve been stealing my peasants!”

“Peasants, or pheasants?”

Alan Fernhill burst out laughing.

Ralph reddened and looked more dangerous, and Caris wished she had not made that joke. “If you poke fun at me you’ll be sorry,” he said.

Caris poured ale into a cup. “I’m not laughing at you,” she said. “Tell me exactly what’s on your mind.” She offered him the ale.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04