Pillars of the Earth, book 2 38 страница

“We certainly have.”

“That’s partly due to the difficulty of shipping it to Flanders. And the price you’re paying for wine from Bordeaux is up for the same reason.”

We couldn’t afford wine at the old prices, Godwyn thought; but he did not say so.

Gregory went on: “These raids appear to be no more than preliminaries. The French are assembling an invasion fleet. Our spies say they already have more than two hundred vessels anchored in the mouth of the Zwyn river.”

Godwyn noted that Gregory talked of ‘our spies’ as if he were part of the government. In reality he was only retailing gossip. All the same, it sounded convincing. “But what does the French war have to do with whether or not Kingsbridge becomes a borough?”

“Taxes. The king needs money. The parish guild has argued that the town will be more prosperous, and therefore will pay more tax, if the merchants are freed from the control of the priory.”

“And the king believes this?”

“It has proved true before. That’s why kings create boroughs. Boroughs generate trade, and trade produces tax revenue.”

Money again, Godwyn thought with disgust. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Not in London. I advise you to concentrate on the Kingsbridge end. Can you persuade the parish guild to withdraw the application? What’s the old alderman like? Can he be bribed?”

“My uncle Edmund? He’s in poor health, and fading fast. But his daughter, my cousin Caris, is the real driving force behind this.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her at the trial. Rather arrogant, I felt.”

There was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Godwyn thought sourly. “She’s a witch,” he said.

“Is she, now? That might help.”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

Philemon said: “As a matter of fact, lord prior, there have been rumours.”

Gregory raised his eyebrows. “Interesting!”

Philemon went on: “She is a great friend of a wise woman called Mattie, who mixes potions for gullible townspeople.”

Godwyn was about to pour scorn on the witchcraft idea, then he decided to shut up. Any weapon that might shoot down the notion of a borough charter must surely have been sent by God. Perhaps Caris does use witchcraft, he thought; who knows?

Gregory said: “I see you hesitate. Of course, if you are fond of your cousin…”

“I was when we were younger,” Godwyn said, and he felt a pang of regret for the old simplicities. “But I regret to say she has not grown into a God-fearing woman.”

“In that case…”

“I must investigate this,” Godwyn said.

Gregory said: “If I might make a suggestion?”

Godwyn had had enough of Gregory’s suggestions, but he did not quite have the nerve to say so. “Of course,” he said with slightly exaggerated politeness.

“Heresy investigations can be… mucky. You shouldn’t get your own hands soiled. And people may be nervous about talking to a prior. Delegate the task to someone less intimidating. This young novice, for example.” He indicated Philemon, who glowed with pleasure. “His attitude strikes me as… sensible.”

Godwyn recalled that it was Philemon who had discovered Bishop Richard’s weakness – his affair with Margery. He was certainly the man for any dirty work. “All right,” he said. “See what you can find out, Philemon.”

“Thank you, lord prior,” said Philemon. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

*

On Sunday morning, people were still pouring into Kingsbridge. Caris stood and watched them streaming over Merthin’s two wide bridges on foot, on horseback, or driving two-wheeled and four-wheeled horse-carts and ox-carts laden with goods for the fair. The sight gladdened her heart. There had been no grand opening ceremony – the bridge was not really finished, but was usable thanks to a temporary timber roadbed – but, all the same, word had got around that it was open, and that the roads were safe from outlaws. Even Buonaventura Caroli was here.

Merthin had suggested a different way of collecting the tolls, which the parish guild had adopted eagerly. Instead of a single booth at the end of the bridge, creating a bottleneck, they had stationed ten men on Leper Island in temporary booths spread across the road between the two bridges. Most people handed over their penny without breaking stride. “There isn’t even a queue,” Caris said aloud, talking to herself.

And the weather was sunny and mild with no sign of rain. The fair was going to be a triumph.

Then, a week from today, she would marry Merthin.

She still had misgivings. The idea of losing her independence, and becoming someone’s property, had not ceased to terrify her, even though she knew Merthin was not the kind of man to take advantage by bullying his wife. On the rare occasions when she had confessed this feeling – to Gwenda, for example, or to Mattie Wise – she had been told that she thought like a man. Well, so be it, that was how she felt.

But the prospect of losing him had seemed even more bleak. What would she have left, except for a cloth-manufacturing business that did not inspire her? When he finally announced his intention of leaving town, the future had suddenly seemed empty. And she had realized that the only thing worse than being married to him might be not being married to him.

At least, that was what she told herself in her more positive moments. Then, sometimes, when she lay awake in the middle of the night, she saw herself backing out at the last minute, often in the middle of the wedding, refusing to take the vows and rushing out of the church, to the consternation of the entire congregation.

That was nonsense, she felt now in the light of day, with everything going so well. She would marry Merthin and be happy.

She left the river bank and walked through the town to the cathedral, already crowded with worshippers waiting for the morning service. She remembered Merthin feeling her up behind a pillar. She felt nostalgic for the thoughtless passion of their early relationship; the long, intense conversations and the stolen kisses.

She found him near the front of the congregation, studying the south aisle of the choir, the part of the church that had collapsed in front of their eyes two years ago. She recalled going up into the space over the vaulting with Merthin, and overhearing that dreadful interaction between Brother Thomas and his estranged wife, the conversation that had crystallized all her fears and made her turn Merthin down. She put the thought out of her mind. “The repairs seem to be holding,” she said, guessing what he was thinking about.

He looked dubious. “Two years is a short time in the life of a cathedral.”

“There’s no sign of deterioration.”

“That’s what makes it difficult. An invisible weakness can work away for years, unsuspected, until something comes tumbling down.”

“Perhaps there is no weakness.”

“There must be,” he said with a touch of impatience. “There was a reason why that collapse took place two years ago. We never found out what it was, so we haven’t put it right. If it hasn’t been put right, it’s still a weakness.”

“It might have corrected itself spontaneously.”

She was just being argumentative, but he took her seriously. “Buildings don’t usually repair themselves – but you’re right, it’s possible. There might have been some seepage of water, for example from a blocked gargoyle, which somehow became diverted to a less harmful route.”

The monks began to enter in procession, singing, and the congregation went quiet. The nuns appeared from their separate entrance. One of the novice nuns looked up, a beautiful pale face in the line of hooded heads. It was Elizabeth Clerk. She saw Merthin and Caris together, and the sudden malice in her eyes made Caris shudder. Then Elizabeth bowed her head and disappeared back into her anonymous uniform.

“She hates you,” Merthin said.

“She thinks I stopped you marrying her.”

“She’s right.”

“No, she’s not – you could have married anyone you wanted!”

“But I only wanted you.”

“You toyed with Elizabeth.”

“It must have seemed that way to her,” Merthin said regretfully. “But I just liked talking to her. Especially after you turned to ice.”

She felt uncomfortable. “I know. But Elizabeth feels cheated. The way she looks at me makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be afraid. She’s a nun, now. She can’t do you any harm.”

They were quiet for a while, standing side by side, their shoulders touching intimately, watching the ritual. Bishop Richard sat on the throne at the east end, presiding over the service. Merthin liked this sort of thing, Caris knew. He always felt better afterwards, and he said that was what going to church was supposed to do for you. Caris went because people noticed if she stayed away, but she had doubts about the whole business. She believed in God, but she was not sure He revealed His wishes exclusively to men such as her cousin Godwyn. Why would a God want praise, for example? Kings and earls required worship, and the more petty their rank the more deference they demanded. It seemed to her that an almighty God would not care one way or another whether the people of Kingsbridge sang His praises, any more than she cared whether the deer in the forest feared her. She occasionally gave voice to these ideas, but no one took her seriously.

Her thoughts drifted to the future. The signs were good that the king would grant Kingsbridge a borough charter. Her father would probably be the first mayor, if his health recovered. Her cloth business would continue to grow. Mark Webber would be rich. With increased prosperity, the parish guild could build a wool exchange, so that everyone could do business comfortably even in bad weather. Merthin could design the building. Even the priory was going to be better off, though Godwyn would not thank her.

The service came to an end, and the monks and nuns began to process out. A novice monk broke out of line and entered the congregation. It was Philemon. To Caris’s surprise, he approached her. “May I have a word?” he said.

She repressed a shudder. There was something loathsome about Gwenda’s brother. “What about?” she replied, barely politely.

“I want to ask your advice, really,” he said, with an attempt at a charming smile. “You know Mattie Wise.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her methods?”

She gave him a hard look. Where was this going? She decided she had better defend Mattie anyway. “She has never studied the texts of the ancients, of course. Despite that, her remedies work – sometimes better than those of the monks. I think it’s because she bases her treatments on what has worked previously, rather than on a theory about the humours.”

People standing nearby were listening with curiosity, and some of them now joined in uninvited.

“She gave our Nora a potion that brought her fever down,” said Madge Webber.

John Constable said: “When I broke my arm, her medicine took the pain away while Matthew Barber set the bone.”

Philemon said: “And what kind of spells does she pronounce when she’s making her mixtures?”

“No spells!” Caris said indignantly. “She tells people to pray when they take their medicines, because only God can heal – she says.”

“Could she be a witch?”

“No! It’s a ridiculous idea.”

“Only there has been a complaint to the ecclesiastical court.”

A chill gripped Caris. “From whom?”

“I can’t say. But I’ve been asked to investigate.”

Caris was mystified. Who could Mattie’s enemy be? She said to Philemon: “Well, you of all people know Mattie’s worth – she saved the life of your sister when she gave birth to Sam. Gwenda would have bled to death if not for Mattie.”

“So it seems.”

“Seems? Gwenda’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Yes, of course. So you feel sure Mattie does not call on the devil?”

Caris noticed that he asked the question in a slightly raised voice, as if he wanted to make sure the listeners around heard it. She was puzzled, but she had no doubt of her answer. “Of course I’m sure! I’ll swear an oath if you want.”

“Not necessary,” Philemon said smoothly. “Thank you for your advice.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow, and slithered away.

Caris and Merthin walked towards the exit. “What rubbish!” Caris said. “Mattie a witch!”

Merthin looked troubled. “You would expect Philemon to want evidence against her, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So why did he come to you? He could have guessed that you, of all people, would deny the charge. Why would he be keen to clear her name?”

“I don’t know.”

They passed through the great west doorway and out on to the green. The sun was shining on hundreds of stalls loaded with colourful goods. “It doesn’t make sense,” Merthin said. “And that troubles me.”

“Why?”

“It’s like the cause of weakness in the south aisle. If you can’t see it, it may be working away invisibly to undermine you – and you won’t know it until everything comes crashing down all around.”

*

The scarlet cloth on Caris’s market stall was not as good as that sold by Loro Fiorentino, although you had to have a sharp eye for wool to see the difference. The weave was not so close, because the Italian looms were somehow superior. The colour was just as bright, but it was not perfectly even over the length of the bale, no doubt because Italian dyers were more skilled. In consequence, she charged one-tenth less than Loro.

All the same, it was easily the best English scarlet that had ever been seen at Kingsbridge, and business was brisk. Mark and Madge sold it retail by the yard, measuring and cutting for individual customers, and Caris dealt with wholesale buyers, negotiating reductions for one bale or six with drapers from Winchester, Gloucester and even London. By midday on Monday she knew she would sell out before the end of the week.

When business slowed down for the dinner break she strolled around the fair. She felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had triumphed over adversity, and so had Merthin. She stopped at Perkin’s stall to talk to the Wigleigh folk. Even Gwenda had triumphed. Here she was, married to Wulfric – something that had seemed impossible – and there was her baby, Sammy, a year old, sitting on the ground, fat and happy. Annet was selling eggs from a tray, as always. And Ralph had gone to France to fight for the king, and might never come back.

Farther on she saw Joby, Gwenda’s father, selling his squirrel furs. There was a wicked man. But he seemed to have lost his power to hurt Gwenda.

Caris stopped at her own father’s stall. She had persuaded him to buy fleece in smaller quantities this year. The international wool market could not possibly thrive when the French and English were raiding one another’s ports and burning ships. “How is business?” she asked him.

“Steady,” he said. “I think I’ve judged it about right.” He forgot that it had been her judgement, not his, that had counselled caution. But that was all right.

Their cook, Tutty, appeared with Edmund’s dinner: mutton stew in a pot, a loaf of bread and a jug of ale. It was important to look prosperous, but not overly so. Edmund had explained to Caris, many years ago, that although customers needed to believe they were buying from a successful business, they would resent contributing to the wealth of someone who appeared to be rolling in money.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her.

“Starving.”

He stood up to reach for the stew pot. Then he staggered, made an odd sound half way between a grunt and a cry, and fell to the ground.

The cook screamed.

Caris cried: “Father!” But she knew he would not respond. She could tell he was unconscious by the way he hit the earth, inertly heavy, like a sack of onions. She fought down the urge to scream. She knelt beside him. He was alive, and breathing hoarsely. She grasped his wrist and felt his pulse: it was strong, but slow. His face seemed flushed. It was always reddish, but now it seemed more so than usual.

Tutty said: “What is it? What is it?”

Caris forced herself to speak calmly. “He’s had a fit,” she said. “Fetch Mark Webber. He can carry Father into the hospital.”

The cook ran off. People from the neighbouring stalls gathered around. Dick Brewer appeared and said: “Poor Edmund – what can I do?”

Dick was too old and fat to lift Edmund. Caris said: “Mark’s coming to take him to the hospital.” She began to cry. “I hope he’ll be all right,” she said.

Mark appeared. He lifted Edmund easily, cradling him gently in his strong arms, and walked towards the hospital, negotiating his way through the crowds, calling: “Mind out, there! Out of the way, please! Injured man, injured man.”

Caris followed, distraught. She could hardly see through her tears, so she stayed close to Mark’s broad back. They reached the hospital building and went inside. Caris was grateful to see the familiar knobbly face of Old Julie. “Fetch Mother Cecilia, as quick as you can!” Caris said to her. The old nun hurried away, and Mark laid Edmund on a pallet near the altar.

Edmund was still unconscious, eyes closed, breathing hoarsely. Caris felt his forehead: he was neither hot nor cold. What had caused this? It had been so sudden. One moment he had been talking normally, the next he fell down unconscious. How could such a thing happen?

Mother Cecilia came. Her bustling efficiency was reassuring. She knelt beside the pallet and felt Edmund’s heart, then his pulse. She listened to his breathing and touched his face. “Get him a pillow and a blanket,” she said to Julie. “Then fetch one of the monk-physicians.”

She stood up and looked at Caris. “He’s had a fit,” she said. “He may recover. All we can do is make him comfortable. The physician may recommend bleeding, but apart from that the only treatment is prayer.”

That was not good enough for Caris. “I’m going for Mattie,” she said.

She ran out of the building and dodged through the fair, remembering that she had done exactly the same thing a year ago, rushing to fetch Mattie when Gwenda was bleeding to death. This time it was her father, and she felt a different kind of panic. She had been desperately worried about Gwenda, but now it was as if the world was falling apart. The fear that her father might die gave her the dreadful feeling she sometimes got in dreams, when she found herself on the roof of Kingsbridge Cathedral with no way down but to jump.

The physical effort of running through the streets calmed her a little, and she was in control of her emotions by the time she came to Mattie’s house. Mattie would know what to do. She would say: I’ve seen this before, I know what will happen next, here’s the treatment that helps.

Caris banged on the door. Hearing no immediate answer, she impatiently tried the latch and found it open. She dashed inside, saying: “Mattie, you have to come to the hospital right away, it’s my father!”

The front room was empty. Caris pulled aside the curtain that screened off the kitchen. Mattie was not there, either. Caris said aloud: “Oh, why would you be out of the house at this very moment?” She looked around for some clue as to where Mattie might have gone. Then she noticed how stripped the room appeared. All the little jars and bottles had gone, leaving the shelves bare. There were none of the mortars and pestles Mattie used for grinding ingredients, none of her small pots for melting and boiling, no knives for chopping herbs. Caris returned to the front half of the house and saw that Mattie’s personal possessions had also disappeared: her sewing box, her polished wood cups for wine, the embroidered shawl she had hung on the wall for decoration, the carved bone comb she treasured.

Mattie had packed up and gone.

And Caris could guess why. Mattie must have heard about Philemon’s questions in church yesterday. Traditionally, the ecclesiastical court held a session on the Saturday of Fleece Fair week. Only two years ago the monks had used the occasion for the trial of Crazy Nell on the absurd charge of heresy.

Mattie was no heretic, of course, but it was difficult to prove that, as many old women had learned. She had calculated her chances of surviving a trial, and found the answer frightening. Without telling anyone, she had packed up her possessions and left town. Probably she had found a peasant returning home after selling his produce, and persuaded him to take her on his ox-cart. Caris imagined her leaving at first light, her box beside her on the cart, the hood of her cloak pulled forward to hide her face. No one could even guess where she had gone.

“What am I going to do?” Caris said to the empty room. Mattie knew better than anyone else in Kingsbridge how to help sick people. This was the worst possible moment for her to disappear, just when Edmund lay unconscious in the hospital. Caris felt despair.

She sat down on Mattie’s chair, still panting from the effort of running. She wanted to run back to the hospital, but there was no point. She would not be able to help her father. Nobody could.

The town must have a healer, she thought; one who does not rely on prayers and holy water, or bleeding, but uses simple treatments that have been shown to work. And as she sat in Mattie’s empty house, she realized that there was one person who could fill the role, someone who knew Mattie’s methods and believed in her practical philosophy. That person was Caris herself.

The thought burst on her with the blinding light of a revelation, and she sat dead still, bewildered by the implications. She knew the recipes for Mattie’s main potions: one for easing pain, one to cause vomiting, one for washing wounds, one to bring down a fever. She knew the uses of all the common herbs: dill for indigestion, fennel for fever, rue for flatulence, watercress for infertility. She knew the treatments Mattie never prescribed: poultices made with dung, medicines containing gold and silver, verses written on vellum and bound to the ailing part of the body.

And she had an instinct for it. Mother Cecilia had said so, had practically pleaded with Caris to become a nun. Well, she was not going to enter the priory, but she might perhaps take Mattie’s place. Why not? The cloth business could be run by Mark Webber – he was doing most of the work anyway.

She would seek out other wise women – in Shiring, in Winchester, perhaps in London – and question them about their methods, what succeeded and what failed. Men were secretive about their craft skills – their ‘mysteries’ as they called them, as if there were something supernatural about tanning leather or making horseshoes – but women were usually willing to share knowledge with other women.

She would even read some of the monks’ ancient texts. There might be some truth in them. Perhaps the instinct that Cecilia attributed to her would help her winnow the seeds of practical treatment from the chaff of priestly mumbo-jumbo.

She stood up and left the house. She walked slowly back, dreading what she would find at the hospital. She felt fatalistic now. Her father would either be all right, or he would not. All she could do was carry out her resolution so that in future, when the people she loved were sick, she would know she was doing everything possible to help them.

She fought back tears as she made her way through the fair to the priory buildings. When she entered the hospital, she hardly dared look at her father. She approached the bed, which was surrounded by people: Mother Cecilia, Old Julie, Brother Joseph, Mark Webber, Petranilla, Alice, Elfric.

What must be, must be, she thought. She touched the shoulder of her sister, Alice, who moved aside, making room. At last Caris looked at her father.

He was alive and conscious, though he looked pale and tired. His eyes were open, and he looked straight at her and tried a weak smile. “I’m afraid I gave you a scare,” he said. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Caris, and she began to cry.

*

On Wednesday morning Merthin came to Caris’s stall in consternation. “Betty Baxter just asked me a strange question,” he said. “She wanted to know who was going to stand against Elfric in the election for alderman.”

“What election?” Caris said. “My father is alderman… oh.” She realized what must be going on. Elfric was telling people that Edmund was too old and sick to fulfil the role, and the town needed someone new. And he was presenting himself as a candidate. “We must tell my father right away.”

Caris and Merthin left the fairground and crossed the main street to the house. Edmund had left the priory hospital yesterday, saying – correctly – that there was nothing the monks could do for him but bleed him, which made him feel worse. He had been carried home, and a bed had been made up for him in the parlour on the ground floor.

This morning he was reclining on a stack of pillows in his improvised bed. He looked so weak that Caris hesitated to bother him with the news, but Merthin sat down beside him and laid out the facts starkly.

“Elfric is right,” Edmund said when Merthin had finished. “Look at me. I can hardly sit upright. The parish guild needs strong leadership. It’s no job for a sick man.”

“But you’ll be better soon!” Caris exclaimed.

“Perhaps. But I’m getting old. You must have noticed how absent-minded I’ve become. I forget things. And I was fatally slow to react to the downturn in the market for raw wool – I lost a lot of money last year. Thank God, we’ve rebuilt our fortune with the scarlet cloth – but you did that, Caris, not me.”

She knew all that, of course, but still she felt indignant. “Are you just going to let Elfric take over?”

“Certainly not. He would be a disaster. He’s too much in thrall to Godwyn. Even after we become a borough, we’ll need an alderman who can stand up to the priory.”

“Who else could do the job?”

“Talk to Dick Brewer. He’s one of the richest men in town, and the alderman must be rich, to have the respect of the other merchants. Dick’s not afraid of Godwyn or any of the monks. He’d be a good leader.”

Caris found herself reluctant to do as he said. It seemed like accepting that he was going to die. She could not remember a time when her father had not been alderman. She did not want her world to change.

Merthin understood her reluctance, but urged her on. “We have to accept this,” he said. “If we ignore what’s happening, we could end up with Elfric in charge. He would be a disaster – he might even withdraw the application for the borough charter.”

That decided her. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s find Dick.”

Dick Brewer had several carts in different locations in the fairground. Each bore a huge barrel. His children, grandchildren and in-laws were selling ale from the barrels as fast as they could pour it. Caris and Merthin found him setting an example by drinking a large pot of his own brew while he watched his family making money for him. They took him aside and explained what was going on.

Dick said to Caris: “When your father dies, I suppose his fortune will be divided equally between you and your sister?”

“Yes.” Edmund had already told Caris that this was in his will.

“When Alice’s inheritance is added to Elfric’s existing wealth, he will be very rich.”

Caris realized that half the money she was making from her scarlet cloth might go to her sister. She had not thought of this before, because she had not thought about her father dying. It came as a shock. Money itself was not important to her, but she did not want to help Elfric become alderman. “It’s not just a question of who is the richest man,” she said. “We need someone who will stand up for the merchants.”

“Then you must put up a rival candidate,” Dick said.

“Will you stand?” she asked him directly.

He shook his head. “Don’t bother trying to persuade me. At the end of this week I’m handing over to my eldest son. I’m planning to spend the rest of my days drinking beer instead of brewing it.” He took a long draught from his tankard and belched contentedly.

Caris felt she had to accept that: he seemed quite sure. She said: “Who do you think we might approach?”

“There’s only one real possibility,” he said. “You.”

Caris was astonished. “Me! Why?”

office, people think leaders breed leaders. And they’re right. You’ve actually been acting as alderman for almost a year, ever since your father’s powers started to fail.”

“Has the town ever had a woman alderman?”

“Not as far as I know. Nor one as young as you. Both these things will count heavily against you. I’m not saying you’re going to win. I’m telling you no one else has a better chance of beating Elfric.”

Caris had a faintly dizzy feeling. Was it possible? Could she do the job? What about her vow to become a healer? Were there not many other people in town who would be better than she as alderman? “What about Mark Webber?” she said.

“He’d be good, especially with that shrewd wife of his at his side. But people in this town still think of Mark as a poor weaver.”

“He’s prosperous now.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04