Pillars of the Earth, book 2 52 страница

“Now he’s coughing blood,” Madge said.

“I’ll go,” Caris said. The Webbers were old friends: she preferred to attend Mark herself. She picked up a bag containing some basic medicines and went with Madge to her house in the main street.

The living area was upstairs, over the shop. Mark’s three sons loitered anxiously in the dining hall. Madge took Caris into a bedroom that smelled bad. Caris was used to the odour of a sick room, a mixture of sweat, vomit and human waste. Mark lay on a straw mattress, perspiring. His huge belly stuck up in the air as if he were pregnant. The daughter, Dora, stood by the bed.

Caris knelt beside Mark and said: “How do you feel?”

“Rough,” Mark said in a croaky voice. “Can I have something to drink?”

Dora handed Caris a cup of wine, and Caris held it to Mark’s lips. She found it strange to see a big man helpless. Mark had always seemed invulnerable. It was unnerving, like finding an oak tree that has been there all your life suddenly felled by lightning.

She touched his forehead. He was burning up: no wonder he was thirsty. “Let him have as much to drink as he wants,” she said. “Weak beer is better than wine.”

She did not tell Madge that she was puzzled and worried by Mark’s illness. The fever and the stomach upset were routine, but his coughing blood was a dangerous sign.

She took a vial of rose water from her bag, soaked a small piece of woollen cloth and bathed his face and neck. The action soothed him immediately. The water would cool him a little, and the perfume masked the bad smells in the room. “I’ll give you some of this from my pharmacy,” she said to Madge. “The physicians prescribe it for an inflamed brain. A fever is hot and humid, and roses are cool and dry, so the monks say. Whatever the reason, it will give him some ease.”

“Thank you.”

But Caris knew of no effective treatment for bloody sputum. The monk-physicians would diagnose an excess of blood and recommend bleeding, but they prescribed that for almost everything, and Caris did not believe in it.

As she bathed Mark’s throat, she noticed a symptom Madge had not mentioned. There was a rash of purple-black spots on Mark’s neck and chest.

This was an illness she had not come across before, and she was mystified, but she did not let Madge know that. “Come back with me and I’ll give you the rose water.”

The sun was rising as they walked from the house to the hospital. “You’ve been very good to my family,” Madge said. “We were the poorest people in town, until you started the scarlet business.”

“It was your energy and industry that made it work.”

Madge nodded. She knew what she had done. “All the same, it wouldn’t have happened without you.”

On impulse, Caris decided to take Madge through the nuns’ cloisters to her pharmacy so that they could talk privately. Lay people were not normally allowed inside, but there were exceptions, and Caris was now senior enough to decide when the rules could be broken.

They were alone in the cramped little room. Caris filled a pottery bottle with rose water and asked Madge for six pence. Then she said: “I’m thinking of renouncing my vows.”

Madge nodded, unsurprised. “Everybody’s wondering what you’re going to do.”

Caris was shocked that the townspeople had guessed her thoughts. “How do they know?”

“It doesn’t take a clairvoyant. You entered the nunnery only to escape a death sentence for witchcraft. After the work you’ve done here, you should be able to get a pardon. You and Merthin were in love, and always seemed so right for one another. Now he’s come back. You must at least be thinking about marrying him.”

“I just don’t know what my life would be like as someone’s wife.”

Madge shrugged. “A bit like mine, perhaps. Mark and I run the cloth business together. I have to organize the household as well – all husbands expect that – but it’s not so difficult, especially if you have the money for servants. And the children will always be your responsibility rather than his. But I manage, and so would you.”

“You don’t make it sound very exciting.”

She smiled. “I assume you already know about the good parts: feeling loved and adored; knowing there’s one person in the world who will always be on your side; getting into bed every night with someone strong and tender who wants to fuck you… that’s happiness, for me.”

Madge’s simple words painted a vivid picture, and Caris was suddenly filled with a longing that was almost unbearable. She felt she could hardly wait to quit the cold, hard, loveless life of the priory, in which the greatest sin was to touch another human being. If Merthin had walked into the room at that moment she would have torn off his clothes and taken him there on the floor.

She saw that Madge was watching her with a little smile, reading her thoughts, and she blushed.

“It’s all right,” Madge said. “I understand.” She put six silver pennies down on the bench and picked up the bottle. “I’d better go home and look after my man.”

Caris recovered her composure. “Try to keep him comfortable, and come and fetch me immediately there’s any change.”

“Thank you, sister,” said Madge. “I don’t know what we’ll do without you.”

*

Merthin was thoughtful on the journey back to Kingsbridge. Even Lolla’s bright, meaningless chatter did not bring him out of his mood. Ralph had learned a lot, but he had not changed deep down. He was still a cruel man. He neglected his child-wife, barely tolerated his parents and was vengeful to the point of mania. He enjoyed being a lord, but felt little obligation to care for the peasants in his power. He saw everything around him, people included, as being there for his gratification.

However, Merthin felt optimistic about Kingsbridge. All the signs were that Mark would become alderman on All Hallows’ Day, and that could be the start of a boom.

Merthin got back on the last day of October, All Hallows’ Eve. It was a Friday this year, so there was not the influx of crowds that came when the night of evil spirits fell on a Saturday, as it had in the year that Merthin was eleven, and he met the ten-year-old Caris. All the same the people were nervous, and everyone planned to be in bed by nightfall.

On the main street he saw Mark Webber’s eldest son, John. “My father is in the hospital,” the boy said. “He has a fever.”

“This is a bad time for him to fall sick,” Merthin said.

“It’s an ill-starred day.”

“I didn’t mean because of the date. He has to be present at the parish guild meeting tomorrow. An alderman can’t be elected in his absence.”

“I don’t think he’ll be going to any meetings tomorrow.”

That was worrying. Merthin took his horses to the Bell and left Lolla in the care of Betty.

Entering the priory grounds, he ran into Godwyn with his mother. He guessed they had dined together and now Godwyn was walking her to the gate. They were deep in an anxious conversation, and Merthin guessed they were worried about the prospect of their placeman Elfric losing the post of alderman. They stopped abruptly when they saw him. Petranilla said unctuously: “I’m sorry to hear that Mark is unwell.”

Forcing himself to be civil, Merthin replied: “It’s just a fever.”

“We will pray that he gets well quickly.”

“Thank you.”

Merthin entered the hospital. He found Madge distraught. “He’s been coughing blood,” she said. “And I can’t quench his thirst.” She held a cup of ale to Mark’s lips.

Mark had a rash of purple blotches on his face and arms. He was perspiring, and his nose was bleeding.

Merthin said: “Not so good today, Mark?”

Mark did not seem to see him, but he croaked: “I’m very thirsty.” Madge gave him the cup again. She said: “No matter how much he drinks, he’s always thirsty.” She spoke with a note of panic that Merthin had never heard in her voice before.

Merthin was filled with dread. Mark made frequent trips to Melcombe, where he talked to sailors from plague-ridden Bordeaux.

Tomorrow’s meeting of the parish guild was the least of Mark’s worries now. And the least of Merthin’s, too.

Merthin’s first impulse was to cry out to everyone the news that they were in mortal danger. But he clamped his mouth shut. No one listened to a man in a panic, and besides he was not yet sure. There was a small chance Mark’s illness was not what he feared. When he was certain, he would get Caris alone and speak to her calmly and logically. But it would have to be soon.

Caris was bathing Mark’s face with a sweet-smelling fluid. She wore a stony expression that Merthin recognized: she was hiding her feelings. She obviously had some idea of how serious Mark’s illness was.

Mark was clutching something that looked like a scrap of parchment. Merthin guessed it would have a prayer written on it, or a verse of the Bible, or perhaps a magic spell. That would be Madge’s idea – Caris had no faith in writing as a remedy.

Prior Godwyn came into the hospital, trailed as usual by Philemon. “Stand away from the bed!” Philemon said immediately. “How will the man get well if he cannot see the altar?”

Merthin and the two women stood back, and Godwyn bent over the patient. He touched Mark’s forehead and neck, then felt his pulse. “Show me the urine,” he said.

The monk-physicians set great store by examination of the patient’s urine. The hospital had special glass bottles, called urinals, for the purpose. Caris handed one to Godwyn. It did not take an expert to see that there was blood in Mark’s urine.

Godwyn handed it back. “This man is suffering from overheated blood,” he said. “He must be bled, then fed sour apples and tripes.”

Merthin knew, from his experience of the plague in Florence, that Godwyn was talking rubbish, but he made no comment. In his mind there was no longer much room for doubt about what was wrong with Mark. The skin rash, the bleeding, the thirst: this was the illness he himself had suffered in Florence, the one that had killed Silvia and all her family. This was la moria grande.

The plague had come to Kingsbridge.

*

As darkness fell on All Hallows’ Eve, Mark Webber’s breathing became more difficult. Caris watched him weaken. She felt the angry impotence that possessed her when she was unable to help a patient. Mark passed into a state of troubled unconsciousness, sweating and gasping although his eyes were closed and he showed no awareness. At Merthin’s quiet suggestion, Caris felt in Mark’s armpits, and found large boil-like swellings there. She did not ask him the significance of this: she would question him later. The nuns prayed and sang hymns while Madge and her four children stood around, helplessly distraught.

At the end Mark convulsed, and blood jetted from his mouth in a sudden flood. Then he fell back, lay still and stopped breathing.

Dora wailed loudly. The three sons looked bewildered, and struggled to hold back unmanly tears. Madge wept bitterly. “He was the best man in the world,” she said to Caris. “Why did God have to take him?”

Caris had to fight back her own grief. Her loss was nothing compared with theirs. She did not know why God so often took the best people and left the wicked alive to do more wrong. The whole idea of a benevolent deity watching over everyone seemed unbelievable at moments such as this. The priests said sickness was a punishment for sin. Mark and Madge loved one another, cared for their children and worked hard: why should they be punished?

There were no answers to religious questions, but Caris had some urgent practical inquiries to make. She was deeply worried by Mark’s illness, and she could guess that Merthin knew something about it. She swallowed her tears.

First she sent Madge and her children home to rest, and told the nuns to prepare the body for burial. Then she said to Merthin: “I want to talk to you.”

“And I to you,” he said.

She noticed that he looked frightened. That was rare. Her fear deepened. “Come to the church,” she said. “We can talk privately there.”

A wintry wind swept across the cathedral green. It was a clear night, and they could see by starlight. In the chancel, monks were preparing for the All Hallows dawn service. Caris and Merthin stood in the northwest corner of the nave away from the monks, so that they could not be overheard. Caris shivered, and pulled her robe closer around her. She said: “Do you know what killed Mark?”

Merthin took a shaky breath. “It’s the plague,” he said. “La moria grande.”

She nodded. This was what she had feared. But all the same she challenged him. “How do you know?”

“Mark goes to Melcombe and talks to sailors from Bordeaux, where the bodies are piled in the streets.”

She nodded. “He’s just back.” But she did not want to believe Merthin. “All the same, can you be sure it’s the plague?”

‘The symptoms are the same: fever, purple-black spots, bleeding, buboes in the armpits, and most of all the thirst. I remember it, by Christ. I was one of the few to recover. Almost everyone dies within five days, often less.”

She felt as if doomsday had come. She had heard the terrible stories from Italy and southern France: entire families wiped out, unburied bodies rotting in empty palaces, orphaned toddlers wandering the streets crying, livestock dying untended in ghost villages. Was this to happen to Kingsbridge? “What did the Italian doctors do?”

“Prayed, sang hymns, took blood, prescribed their favourite nostrums and charged a fortune. Everything they tried was useless.”

They were standing close together and speaking in low tones. She could see his face by the faint light of the monks’ distant candles. He was staring at her with a strange intensity. He was deeply moved, she could tell, but it did not seem to be grief for Mark that possessed him. He was focused on her.

She asked: “What are the Italian doctors like, compared with our English physicians?”

“After the Muslims, the Italian doctors are supposed to be the most knowledgeable in the world. They even cut up dead bodies to learn more about sickness. But they never cured a single sufferer from this plague.”

Caris refused to accept such complete hopelessness. “We can’t be utterly helpless.”

“No. We can’t cure it, but some people think you can escape it.”

Caris said eagerly: “How?”

“It seems to spread from one person to another.”

She nodded. “Lots of diseases do that.”

“Usually, when one in a family gets it, they all do. Proximity is the key factor.”

“That makes sense. Some say you fall ill from looking at sick people.”

“In Florence, the nuns counselled us to stay at home as much as possible, and avoid social gatherings, markets and meetings of guilds and councils.”

“And church services?”

“No, they didn’t say that, though lots of people stayed home from church too.”

This chimed with what Caris had been thinking for years. She felt renewed hope: perhaps her methods could stave off the plague. “What about the nuns themselves, and the physicians, people who have to meet the sick and touch them?”

“Priests refused to hear confessions in whispers, so that they did not have to get too near. Nuns wore linen masks over their mouths and noses so that they would not breathe the same air. Some washed their hands in vinegar every time they touched a patient. The priest-physicians said none of this would do any good, but most of them left the city anyway.”

“And did these precautions help?”

“It’s hard to say. None of this was done until the plague was rampant. And it wasn’t systematic – just everyone trying different things.”

“All the same, we must make the effort.”

He nodded. After a pause he said: “However, there is one precaution that is sure.”

“What’s that?”

“Run away.”

This was what he had been waiting to say, she realized.

He went on: “The saying goes: ‘Leave early, go far and stay long.’ People who did that escaped the sickness.”

“We can’t go away.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be silly. There are six or seven thousand people in Kingsbridge – they can’t all leave town. Where would they go?”

“I’m not talking about them – just you. Listen, you may not have caught the plague from Mark. Madge and the children almost certainly have, but you spent less time close to him. If you’re still all right, we could escape. We could leave today, you and me and Lolla.”

Caris was appalled by the way he assumed it had spread by now. Was she doomed already? “And… and go where?”

“To Wales, or Ireland. We need to find a remote village where they don’t see a stranger from one year to the next.”

“You’ve had the sickness. You told me people don’t get it twice.”

“Never. And some people don’t catch it at all. Lolla must be like that. If she didn’t pick it up from her mother, she’s not likely to get it from anyone else.”

“So why do you want to go to Wales?”

He just stared at her with that intense look, and she realized that the fear she had detected in him was for her. He was terrified that she would die. Tears came to her eyes. She remembered what Madge had said: “Knowing there’s one person in the world who will always be on your side.” Merthin tried to look after her, no matter what she did. She thought of poor Madge, blasted by grief at the loss of the one who was always on her side. How could she, Caris, even think of rejecting Merthin?

But she did. “I can’t leave Kingsbridge,” she said. “Of all times, not now. They rely on me if someone is sick. When the plague strikes, I’m the one they will turn to for help. If I were to flee… well, I don’t know how to explain this.”

“I think I understand,” Merthin said. “You’d be like a soldier who runs away as soon as the first arrow is shot. You’d feel a coward.”

“Yes – and a cheat, after all these years of being a nun and saying that I live to serve others.”

“I knew you would feel this way,” Merthin said. “But I had to try.” The sadness in his voice nearly broke her heart as he added: “And I suppose this means you won’t be renouncing your vows in the foreseeable future.”

“No. The hospital is where they come for help. I have to be here at the priory, to play my role. I have to be a nun.”

“All right, then.”

“Don’t be too downhearted.”

With wry sorrow he said: “And why should I not be downhearted?”

“You said that it killed half the population of Florence?”

“Something like that.”

“So at least half the people just didn’t catch it.”

“Like Lolla. No one knows why. Perhaps they have some special strength. Or maybe the disease strikes at random, like arrows fired into the enemy ranks, killing some and missing others.”

“Either way, there’s a good chance I’ll escape the illness.”

“One chance in two.”

“Like the toss of a coin.”

“Heads or tails,” he said. “Life or death.”

Hundreds of people came to Mark Webber’s funeral. He had been one of the town’s leading citizens, but it was more than that. Poor weavers arrived from the surrounding villages, some of them having walked for hours. He had been unusually well loved, Merthin reflected. The combination of his giant’s body and his gentle temperament cast a spell.

It was a wet day, and the bared heads of rich and poor men were soaked as they stood around the grave. Cold rain mingled with hot tears on the faces of the mourners. Madge stood with her arms around the shoulders of her two younger sons, Dennis and Noah. They were flanked by the eldest son, John, and the daughter, Dora, who were both much taller than their mother, and looked as if they might be the parents of the three short people in the middle.

Merthin wondered grimly whether Madge or one of her children would be the next to die.

Six strong men grunted with the effort of lowering the extra-large coffin into the grave. Madge sobbed helplessly as the monks sang the last hymn. Then the gravediggers started to shovel the sodden earth back into the hole, and the crowd began to disperse.

Brother Thomas approached Merthin, pulling up his hood to keep the rain off. “The priory has no money to rebuild the tower,” he said. “Godwyn has commissioned Elfric to demolish the old tower and just roof the crossing.”

Merthin tore his mind away from apocalyptic thoughts of the plague. “How will Godwyn pay Elfric for that?”

“The nuns are putting up the money.”

“I thought they hated Godwyn.”

“Sister Elizabeth is the treasurer. Godwyn is careful to be kind to her family, who are tenants of the priory. Most of the other nuns do hate him, it’s true – but they need a church.”

Merthin had not given up his hope of rebuilding the tower higher than before. “If I could find the money, would the priory build a new tower?”

Thomas shrugged. “Hard to say.”

That afternoon, Elfric was re-elected alderman of the parish guild. After the meeting Merthin sought out Bill Watkin, the largest builder in town after Elfric. “Once the foundations of the tower are repaired, it could be built even higher,” he said.

“No reason why not,” Bill agreed. “But what would be the point?”

“So that it could be seen from Mudeford Crossing. Many travellers – pilgrims, merchants and so on – miss the road for Kingsbridge and go on to Shiring. The town loses a lot of custom that way.”

“Godwyn will say he can’t afford it.”

“Consider this,” Merthin said. “Suppose the new tower could be financed the same way as the bridge? The town merchants could lend the money and be repaid out of bridge tolls.”

Bill scratched his monk-like fringe of grey hair. This was an unfamiliar concept. “But the tower is nothing to do with the bridge.”

“Does that matter?”

“I suppose not.”

“The bridge tolls are just a way of guaranteeing that the loan is repaid.”

Bill considered his self-interest. “Would I be commissioned to do any of the work?”

“It would be a big project – every builder in town would get a piece of it.”

“That would be useful.”

“All right. Listen, if I design a large tower, will you back me, here at the parish guild, at the next meeting?”

Bill looked dubious. “The guild members aren’t likely to approve of extravagance.”

“I don’t think it needs to be extravagant, just high. If we put a domed ceiling over the crossing, I can build that with no centering.”

“A dome? That’s a new idea.”

“I saw domes in Italy.”

“I can see how it would save money.”

“And the tower can be topped by a slender wooden spire, which will save money and look wonderful.”

“You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?”

“Not really. But it’s been at the back of my mind ever since I returned from Florence.”

“Well, it sounds good to me – good for business, good for the town.”

“And good for our eternal souls.”

“I’ll do my best to help you push it through.”

“Thank you.”

Merthin mulled over the design of the tower as he went about his more mundane work, repairing the bridge and building new houses on Leper Island. It helped turn his mind away from dreadful, obsessive visions of Caris ill with the plague. He thought a lot about the south tower at Chartres. It was a masterpiece, albeit a little old-fashioned, having been built about two hundred years ago.

What Merthin had liked about it, he recalled very clearly, was the transition from the square tower to the octagonal spire above. At the top of the tower, perched on each of the four corners, were pinnacles facing diagonally outwards. On the same level, at the midpoint of each side of the square, were dormer windows similar in shape to the pinnacles. These eight structures matched the eight sloping sides of the tower rising behind them, so that the eye hardly noticed the change of shape from square to octagon.

However, Chartres was unnecessarily chunky by the standards of the fourteenth century. Merthin’s tower would have slender columns and large window openings, to lighten the weight on the pillars below, and to reduce stress by allowing the wind to blow through.

He made his own tracing floor at his workshop on the island. He enjoyed himself planning the details, doubling and quadrupling the narrow lancets of the old cathedral to make the large windows of the new tower, updating the clusters of columns and the capitals.

He hesitated over the height. He had no way to calculate how high it had to be in order to be visible from Mudeford Crossing. That could be done only by trial and error. When he had finished the stone tower he would have to erect a temporary spire, then go to Mudeford on a clear day and determine whether it could be seen. The cathedral was built on elevated ground, and at Mudeford the road breasted a rise just before descending to the river crossing. His instinct told him that if he went a little higher than Chartres – say about four hundred feet – that would be sufficient.

The tower at Salisbury cathedral was four hundred and four feet high.

Merthin planned his to be four hundred and five.

While he was bent over the tracing floor, drawing the roof pinnacles, Bill Watkin appeared. “What do you think of this?” Merthin said to him. “Does it need a cross on top, to point to heaven? Or an angel, to watch over us?”

“Neither,” said Bill. “It’s not going to get built.”

Merthin stood up, holding a straight-edge in his left hand and a sharpened iron drawing-needle in his right. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve had a visit from Brother Philemon. I thought I might as well let you know as soon as possible.”

“What did that snake have to say?”

“He pretended to be friendly. He wanted to give me a piece of advice for my own good. He said it wouldn’t be wise of me to support any plan for a tower designed by you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would annoy Prior Godwyn, who was not going to approve your plans, regardless.”

Merthin could hardly be surprised. If Mark Webber had become alderman, the balance of power in the town would have changed, and Merthin might have won the commission to build the new tower. But Mark’s death meant the odds were against him. He had clung to hope, however, and now he felt the deep ache of heavy disappointment. “I suppose he’ll commission Elfric?”

“That was the implication.”

“Will he never learn?”

“When a man is proud, that counts for more than common sense.”

“Will the parish guild pay for a stumpy little tower designed by Elfric?”

“Probably. They may not get excited about it, but they’ll find the money. They are proud of their cathedral, despite everything.”

“Elfric’s incompetence almost cost them the bridge!” Merthin said indignantly.

“They know that.”

He allowed his wounded feelings to show. “If I hadn’t diagnosed the problem with the tower, it would have collapsed – and it might have brought down the entire cathedral.”

“They know that, too. But they’re not going to fight with the prior just because he’s treated you badly.”

“Of course not,” said Merthin, as if he thought that was perfectly reasonable; but he was hiding his bitterness. He had done more for Kingsbridge than Godwyn, and he was hurt that the townspeople had not put up more of a fight for him. But he also knew that most people most of the time acted in their own immediate self-interest.

“People are ungrateful,” Bill said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Merthin said. “That’s all right.” He looked at Bill, then looked away; and then he threw down his drawing implements and walked off.

*

During the pre-dawn service of Lauds, Caris was surprised to look down the nave and see a woman in the north aisle, on her knees, in front of a wall painting of Christ Risen. She had a candle by her side and, in its unsteady light, Caris made out the chunky body and jutting chin of Madge Webber.

Madge stayed there throughout the service, not paying any attention to the psalms, apparently deep in prayer. Perhaps she was asking God to forgive Mark’s sins and let him rest in peace – not that Mark had committed many sins, as far as Caris knew. More likely, Madge was asking Mark to send her good fortune from the spirit world. Madge was going to carry on the cloth business with the help of her two older children. It was the usual thing, when a trader died leaving a widow and a thriving enterprise. Still, no doubt she felt the need of her dead husband’s blessing on her efforts.

But this explanation did not quite satisfy Caris. There was something intense in Madge’s posture, something about her stillness that suggested great passion, as if she were begging heaven to grant her some terribly important boon.

When the service ended, and the monks and nuns began to file out, Caris broke away from the procession and walked through the vast gloom of the nave towards the candle’s glow.

Madge stood up at the sound of her footsteps. When she recognized Caris’s face, she spoke with a note of accusation. “Mark died of the plague, didn’t he?”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04