Pillars of the Earth, book 2 53 страница

So that was it. “I think so,” said Caris.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not sure, and I didn’t want to frighten you – not to mention the whole town – on the basis of a guess.”

“I’ve heard it’s come to Bristol.”

So the townspeople had been talking about it. “And London,” Caris said. She had heard this from a pilgrim.

“What will happen to us all?”

Sorrow stabbed Caris like a pain in the heart. “I don’t know,” she lied.

“It spreads from one to another, I hear.”

“Many illnesses do.”

The aggression went out of Madge, and her face took on a pleading look that broke Caris’s heart. In a near-whisper she asked: “Will my children die?”

“Merthin’s wife got it,” Caris said. “She died, and so did all her family, but Merthin recovered, and Lolla didn’t catch it at all.”

“So my children will be all right?”

That was not what Caris had said. “They may be. Or some may catch it and others escape.”

That did not satisfy Madge. Like most patients, she wanted certainties, not possibilities. “What can I do to protect them?”

Caris looked at the painting of Christ. “You’re doing all you can,” she said. She began to lose control. As a sob rose in her throat, she turned away to hide her feelings and walked quickly out of the cathedral.

She sat in the nuns’ cloisters for a few minutes, pulling herself together, then went to the hospital, as usual at this hour.

Mair was not there. She had probably been called to attend a sick person in the town. Caris took charge, overseeing the serving of breakfast to guests and patients, making sure the place was cleaned thoroughly, checking on those who were sick. The work eased her distress about Madge. She read a psalm to Old Julie. When all the chores were done, Mair still had not appeared, so Caris went in search of her.

She found her in the dormitory, lying face down on her bed. Caris’s heart quickened. “Mair! Are you all right?” she said.

Mair rolled over. She was pale and sweating. She coughed, but did not speak.

Caris knelt beside her and placed a hand on her forehead. “You’ve got a fever,” she said, suppressing the dread that rose in her belly like nausea. “When did it begin?”

“I was coughing yesterday,” Mair said. “But I slept all right, and got up this morning. Then, when I went in to breakfast, I suddenly felt I was going to throw up. I went to the latrine, then came here and lay down. I think I might have been sleeping… what time is it?”

“The bell is about to ring for Terce. But you’re excused.” It could just be an ordinary illness, Caris told herself. She touched Mair’s neck, then pulled the cowl of her robe down.

Mair smiled weakly. “Are you trying to look at my chest?”

“Yes.”

“You nuns are all the same.”

There was no rash, as far as Caris could see. Perhaps it was just a cold. “Any pains?”

“There’s a dreadfully tender place in my armpit.”

That did not tell Caris much. Painful swellings in the armpits or groin were a feature of other illnesses as well as the plague. “Let’s get you down to the hospital,” she said.

As Mair lifted her head, Caris saw bloodstains on the pillow.

She felt the shock like a blow. Mark Webber had coughed blood. And Mair had been the first person to attend Mark at the start of his illness – she had gone to the house the day before Caris did.

Caris hid her fear and helped Mair up. Tears came to her eyes, but she controlled herself. Mair put her arm around Caris’s waist and her head on her shoulder, as if she needed support walking. Caris put her arm around Mair’s shoulder. Together they walked down the stairs and through the nuns’ cloisters to the hospital.

Caris took Mair to a mattress near the altar. She fetched a cup of cold water from the fountain in the cloisters. Mair drank thirstily. Caris bathed her face and neck with rose water. After a while, Mair seemed to sleep.

The bell rang for Terce. Caris was normally excused this service, but today she felt the need for a few moments of quiet. She joined the file of nuns walking into the church. The old grey stones seemed cold and hard today. She chanted automatically, while in her heart a storm raged.

Mair had the plague. There was no rash, but she had the fever, she was thirsty and she had coughed blood. She would probably die.

Caris felt a terrible guilt. Mair loved her devotedly. Caris had never been able to return Mair’s love, not in the way Mair longed for. Now Mair was dying. Caris wished she could have been different. She ought to have been able to make Mair happy. She should be able to save her life. She cried as she sang the psalm, hoping that anyone who noticed her tears would assume she was moved by religious ecstasy.

At the end of the service, a novice nun was waiting anxiously for her outside the south transept door. “There’s someone asking for you urgently in the hospital,” the girl said.

Caris found Madge Webber there, her face white with fear.

Caris did not need to ask what Madge wanted. She picked up her medical bag and the two of them rushed out. They crossed the cathedral green in a biting November wind and went to the Webber house in the main street. Upstairs, Madge’s children were waiting in the living room. The two older children were sitting at the table, looking frightened; the young boys were both lying on the floor.

Caris examined them quickly. All four were feverish. The girl had a nose bleed. The three boys were coughing.

They all had a rash of purplish-black spots on their shoulders and necks.

Madge said: “It’s the same, isn’t it? This is what Mark died of. They’ve got the plague.”

Caris nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I hope I die, too,” Madge said. “Then we can all be together in heaven.”

In the hospital, Caris instituted the precautions Merthin had told her about. She cut up strips of linen for the nuns to tie over their mouths and noses while they were dealing with people who had the plague. And she compelled everyone to wash their hands in vinegar and water every time they touched a patient. The nuns all got chapped hands.

Madge brought her four children in, then fell ill herself. Old Julie, whose bed had been next to Mark Webber’s while he was dying, also succumbed. There was little Caris could do for any of them. She bathed their faces to cool them, gave them cold clear water to drink from the fountain in the cloisters, cleaned up their bloody vomit, and waited for them to die.

She was too busy to think about her own death. She observed a kind of fearful admiration in the townspeople’s eyes when they saw her soothing the brows of infectious plague victims, but she did not feel like a selfless martyr. She saw herself as the kind of person who disliked brooding and preferred to act. Like everyone else, she was haunted by the question: Who’s next? But she firmly put it out of her mind.

Prior Godwyn came in to see the patients. He refused to wear the face mask, saying it was women’s nonsense. He made the same diagnosis as before, overheated blood, and prescribed bleeding and a diet of sour apples and ram’s tripes.

It did not matter much what the patients ate, as they threw everything up towards the end; but Caris felt sure that taking blood from them made the illness worse. They were already bleeding too much: they coughed blood, vomited blood and pissed blood. But the monks were the trained physicians, so she had to follow their instructions. She did not have time to be angry whenever she saw a monk or nun kneeling at the bedside of a patient, holding an arm out straight, cutting into a vein with a small sharp knife, and supporting the arm while a pint or more of precious blood dripped into a bowl on the floor.

Caris sat with Mair at the end, holding her hand, not caring if anyone disapproved. To ease her torment, she gave her a tiny amount of the euphoric drug Mattie had taught her to make from poppies. Mair still coughed, but it did not hurt her so much. After a coughing fit, her breathing would be easier for a short while, and she could talk. “Thank you for that night in Calais,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t really enjoy it, but I was in heaven.”

Caris tried not to cry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted.”

“You loved me, though, in your own way. I know that.”

She coughed again. When the fit ended, Caris wiped the blood from her lips.

“I love you,” Mair said, and closed her eyes.

Caris let the tears come, then, not caring who saw or what they thought. She watched Mair, through a watery film, as she grew paler and breathed more shallowly, until at last her breathing stopped.

Caris remained where she was, on the floor beside the mattress, holding the hand of the corpse. Mair was still beautiful, even like this, white and forever still. It occurred to Caris that one other person loved her as Mair had, and that was Merthin. How strange that she had rejected his love, too. There was something wrong with her, she thought; some malformation of the soul that prevented her from being like other women, and embracing love gladly.

Later that night, the four children of Mark Webber died; and so did Old Julie.

Caris was distraught. Was there nothing she could do? The plague was spreading fast and killing everyone. It was like living in a prison and wondering which of the inmates would be next to go to the gallows. Was Kingsbridge to be like Florence and Bordeaux, with bodies in the streets? Next Sunday there would be a market on the green outside the cathedral. Hundreds of people from every village within walking distance would come to buy and sell and mingle with the townspeople in churches and taverns. How many would go home fatally ill? When she felt like this, excruciatingly helpless up against terrible forces, she understood why people threw up their hands and said everything was controlled by the spirit world. But that had never been her way.

Whenever a member of the priory died there was always a special burial service, involving all the monks and nuns, with extra prayers for the departed soul. Both Mair and Old Julie had been well loved, Julie for her kind heart and Mair for her beauty, and many of the nuns wept. Madge’s children were included in the funeral, with the result that several hundred townspeople came. Madge herself was too ill to leave the hospital.

They all gathered in the graveyard under a slate-grey sky. Caris thought she could smell snow in the cold north wind. Brother Joseph said the graveside prayers, and six coffins were lowered into the ground.

A voice in the crowd asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “Are we all going to die, Brother Joseph?”

Joseph was the most popular of the monk-physicians. Now close to sixty years old and with no teeth, he was intellectual but had a warm bedside manner. Now he said: “We’re all going to die, friend, but none of us knows when. That’s why we must always be prepared to meet God.”

Betty Baxter spoke up, ever the probing questioner. “What can we do about the plague?” she said. “It is the plague, isn’t it?”

“The best protection is prayer,” Joseph said. “And, in case God has decided to take you regardless, come to church and confess your sins.”

Betty was not so easily fobbed off. “Merthin says that in Florence people stayed in their homes to avoid contact with the sick. Is that a good idea?”

“I don’t think so. Did the Florentines escape the plague?”

Everyone looked at Merthin, standing with Lolla in his arms. “No, they didn’t escape,” he said. “But perhaps even more would have died if they had done otherwise.”

Joseph shook his head. “If you stay at home, you can’t go to church. Holiness is the best medicine.”

Caris could not remain silent. “The plague spreads from one person to another,” she said angrily. “If you stay away from other people, you’ve got a better chance of escaping infection.”

Prior Godwyn spoke up. “So the women are the physicians now, are they?”

Caris ignored him. “We should cancel the market,” she said. “It would save lives.”

“Cancel the market!” he said scornfully. “And how would we do that? Send messengers to every village?”

“Shut the city gates,” she replied. “Block the bridge. Keep all strangers out of the town.”

“But there are already sick people in town.”

“Close all taverns. Cancel meetings of all guilds. Prohibit guests at weddings.”

Merthin said: “In Florence they even abandoned meetings of the city council.”

Elfric spoke up. “Then how are people to do business?”

“If you do business, you’ll die,” Caris said. “And you’ll kill your wife and children, too. So choose.”

Betty Baxter said: “I don’t want to close my shop – I’d lose a lot of money. But I’ll do it to save my life.” Caris’s hopes lifted at this, but then Betty dashed them again. “What do the doctors say? They know best.” Caris groaned aloud.

Prior Godwyn said: “The plague has been sent by God to punish us for our sins. The world has become wicked. Heresy, lasciviousness and disrespect are rife. Men question authority, women flaunt their bodies, children disobey their parents. God is angry, and His rage is fearsome. Don’t try to run from His justice! It will find you, no matter where you hide.”

“What should we do?”

“If you want to live, you should go to church, confess your sins, pray and lead a better life.”

Caris knew it was useless to argue, but all the same she said: “A starving man should go to church, but he should also eat.”

Mother Cecilia said: “Sister Caris, you need say no more.”

“But we could save so many-”

“That will do.”

“This is life and death!”

Cecilia lowered her voice. “But no one is listening to you. Drop it.”

Caris knew Cecilia was right. No matter how long she argued, people would believe the priests, not her. She bit her lip and said no more.

Blind Carlus started a hymn, and the monks began to process back into the church. The nuns followed, and the crowd dispersed.

As they passed from the church into the cloisters, Mother Cecilia sneezed.

*

Every evening Merthin put Lolla to bed in the room at the Bell. He would sing to her, or recite poems, or tell her stories. This was the time when she talked to him, asking him the strangely unexpected questions of a three-year-old, some childish, some profound, some hilarious.

Tonight, while he was singing a lullaby, she burst into tears.

He asked her what the trouble was.

“Why did Dora die?” she wailed.

So that was it. Madge’s daughter, Dora, had taken to Lolla. They had spent time together, playing counting games and plaiting one another’s hair. “She had the plague,” Merthin said.

“My mama had the plague,” Lolla said. She switched to the Italian she had not quite forgotten. “La moria grande.”

“I had it, too, but I got better.”

“So did Libia.” Libia was the wooden doll she had carried all the way from Florence.

“Did Libia have the plague?”

“Yes. She sneezed, felt hot and had spots, but a nun made her better.”

“Tm very pleased. That means she’s safe. Nobody gets it twice.”

“You’re safe, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” That seemed like a good note on which to end. “Go to sleep, now.”

“Goodnight,” she said.

He went to the door.

“Is Bessie safe?” she said.

“Go to sleep.”

“I love Bessie.”

“That’s nice. Goodnight.” He closed the door.

Downstairs, the parlour was empty. People were nervous about going to crowded places. Despite what Godwyn said, Caris’s message had gone home.

He could smell a savoury soup. Following his nose, he went into the kitchen. Bessie was stirring a pot on the fire. “Bean soup with ham,” she said.

Merthin sat at the table with her father, Paul, a big man now in his fifties. He helped himself to bread while Paul poured him a tankard of ale. Bessie served the soup.

Bessie and Lolla were becoming fond of one another, he realized. He had employed a nanny to take care of Lolla during the day, but Bessie often watched Lolla in the evening, and Lolla preferred her.

Merthin owned a house on Leper Island, but it was a small place, especially by comparison with the palagetto he had become used to in Florence. He was happy to let Jimmie go on living there. Merthin was comfortable here at the Bell. The place was warm and clean, and there was plenty of hearty food and good drink. He paid his bill every Saturday, but in other respects he was treated like a member of the family. He was in no hurry to move into a place of his own.

On the other hand, he could not live here for ever. And, when he did move out, Lolla might be upset to leave Bessie behind. Too many of the people in her life had left it. She needed stability. Perhaps he should move out now, before she became too attached to Bessie.

When they had eaten, Paul retired to bed. Bessie gave Merthin another cup of ale, and they sat by the fire. “How many people died in Florence?” she said.

“Thousands. Tens of thousands, probably. No one could keep count.”

“I wonder who’s next in Kingsbridge.”

“I think about it all the time.”

“It might be me.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’d like to lie with a man one more time, before I die.”

Merthin smiled, but said nothing.

“I haven’t been with a man since my Richard passed away, and that’s more than a year.”

“You miss him.”

“How about you? How long is it since you had a woman?”

Merthin had not had sex since Silvia fell ill. Remembering her, he felt a stab of grief. He had been insufficiently grateful for her love. “About the same,” he said.

“Your wife?”

“Yes, rest her soul.”

“It’s a long time to go without loving.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not the type to go with just anybody. You want someone to love.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m the same. It’s wonderful to lie with a man, the best thing in the world, but only if you love one another truly. I’ve only ever had one man, my husband. I never went with anyone else.”

Merthin wondered if that was true. He could not be sure. Bessie seemed sincere. But it was the kind of thing a woman would say anyway.

“What about you?” she said. “How many women?”

“Three.”

“Your wife, and before that Caris, and… who else? Oh, I remember – Griselda.”

“I’m not saying who they were.”

“Don’t worry, everyone knows.”

Merthin smiled ruefully. Of course, everyone did know. Perhaps they could not be sure, but they guessed, and they usually guessed right.

“How old is Griselda’s little Merthin now – seven? Eight?”

“Ten.”

“I’ve got fat knees,” Bessie said. She pulled up the skirt of her dress to show him. “I’ve always hated my knees, but Richard used to like them.”

Merthin looked. Her knees were plump and dimpled. He could see her white thighs.

“He would kiss my knees,” she said. “He was a sweet man.” She adjusted her dress, as if straightening it, but she lifted it, and for a moment he glimpsed the dark inviting patch of hair at her groin. “He would kiss me all over, sometimes, especially after bathing. I used to like that. I liked everything. A man can do what he likes to a woman who loves him. Don’t you agree?”

This had gone far enough. Merthin stood up. “I think you’re probably right, but this kind of talk leads only one way, so I’m going to bed before I commit a sin.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Sleep well,” she said. “If you get lonely, I’ll be here by the fire.”

“I’ll remember that.”

*

They put Mother Cecilia on a bedstead, not a mattress, and placed it immediately in front of the altar, the holiest place in the hospital. Nuns sang and prayed around her bed all day and all night, in shifts. There was always someone to bathe her face with cool rose water, always a cup of clear fountain water at her side. None of it made any difference. She declined as fast as the others, bleeding from her nose and her vagina, her breathing becoming more and more laboured, her thirst unquenchable.

On the fourth night after she sneezed, she sent for Caris.

Caris was heavily asleep. Her days were exhausting: the hospital was overflowing. She was deep in a dream in which all the children in Kingsbridge had the plague, and as she rushed around the hospital trying to care for them all she suddenly realized that she, too, had caught it. One of the children was tugging at her sleeve, but she was ignoring it and desperately trying to figure out how she would cope with all these patients while she was so ill – and then she realized someone was shaking her shoulder with increasing urgency, saying: “Wake up, sister, please, the Mother Prioress needs you!”

She came awake. A novice knelt by her bed with a candle. “How is she?” Caris asked.

“She’s sinking, but she can still speak, and she wants you.”

Caris got out of bed and put on her sandals. It was a bitterly cold night. She was wearing her nun’s robe, and she took the blanket from her bed and pulled it around her shoulders. Then she ran down the stone stairs.

The hospital was full of dying people. The mattresses on the floor were lined up like fish bones, so that those patients who were able to sit upright could see the altar. Families clustered around the beds. There was a smell of blood. Caris took a clean length of linen from a basket by the door and tied it over her mouth and nose.

Four nuns knelt beside Cecilia’s bed, singing. Cecilia lay back with her eyes closed, and at first Caris was afraid she had arrived too late. Then the old prioress seemed to sense her presence. She turned her head and opened her eyes.

Caris sat on the edge of the bed. She dipped a rag in a bowl of rose water and wiped a smear of blood from Cecilia’s upper lip.

Cecilia’s breathing was tortured. In between gasps, she said: “Has anyone survived this terrible illness?”

“Only Madge Webber.”

“The one who didn’t want to live.”

“All her children died.”

“I’m going to die soon.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You forget yourself. We nuns have no fear of death. All our lives we long to be united with Jesus in heaven. When death comes, we welcome it.” The long speech exhausted her. She coughed convulsively.

Caris wiped blood from her chin. “Yes, Mother Prioress. But those who are left behind may weep.” Tears came to her eyes. She had lost Mair and Old Julie, and now she was about to lose Cecilia.

“Don’t cry. That’s for the others. You have to be strong.”

“I don’t see why.”

“I think God has you in mind to take my place, and become prioress.”

In that case he has made a very odd choice, Caris thought. He usually picks people whose view of Him is more orthodox. But she had long ago learned that there was no point in saying these things. “If the sisters choose me, I’ll do my best.”

“I think they’ll choose you.”

“I’m sure Sister Elizabeth will want to be considered.”

“Elizabeth is clever, but you’re loving.”

Caris bowed her head. Cecilia was probably right. Elizabeth would be too harsh. Caris was the best person to run the nunnery, even though she was sceptical of lives spent in prayer and hymn-singing. She did believe in the school and the hospital. Heaven forbid that Elizabeth should end up running the hospital.

“There’s something else.” Cecilia lowered her voice, and Caris had to lean closer. “Something Prior Anthony told me when he was dying. He had kept it secret until the last, and now I’ve done the same.”

Caris was not sure she wanted to be burdened with such a secret. However, the death bed seemed to overrule such scruples.

Cecilia said: “The old king did not die of a fall.”

Caris was shocked. It had happened more than twenty years ago, but she remembered the rumours. The killing of a king was the worst offence imaginable, a double outrage, combining murder with treason, both of them capital crimes. Even knowing about such a thing was dangerous. No wonder Anthony had kept it a secret.

Cecilia went on: “The queen and her lover, Mortimer, wanted Edward II out of the way. The heir to the throne was a little boy. Mortimer became king in all but name. In the upshot, it didn’t last as long as he might have hoped, of course – young Edward III grew up too fast.” She coughed again, more weakly.

“Mortimer was executed while I was an adolescent.”

“But even Edward didn’t want anyone to know what had really happened to his father. So the secret was kept.”

Caris was awestruck. Queen Isabella was still alive, living in lavish circumstances in Norfolk, the revered mother of the king. If people found out that she had her husband’s blood on her hands there would be a political earthquake. Caris felt guilty just knowing about it.

“So he was murdered?” she asked.

Cecilia made no reply. Caris looked harder. The prioress was still, her face immobile, her eyes staring upward. She was dead.

The day after Cecilia died, Godwyn asked Sister Elizabeth to have dinner with him.

This was a dangerous moment. Cecilia’s death unbalanced the power structure. Godwyn needed the nunnery, because the monastery on its own was not viable: he had never succeeded in improving its finances. Yet most of the nuns were now angry about the money he had taken from them, and bitterly hostile to him. If they fell under the control of a prioress bent on revenge – Caris, perhaps – it could mean the end of the monastery.

He was frightened of the plague, too. What if he caught it? What if Philemon died? Such flashes of nightmare unnerved him, but he succeeded in pushing them to the back of his mind. He was determined not to be distracted from his long-term purpose by the plague.

The election of the prioress was an immediate danger. He had visions of the monastery closing down, and himself leaving Kingsbridge in disgrace, being forced to become an ordinary monk in some other place, subordinate to a prior who would discipline and humiliate him. If that happened he thought he might kill himself.

On the other hand, this was an opportunity as well as a threat. If he handled things cleverly he might get a prioress sympathetic to him who would be content to let him take the lead. And Elizabeth was his best bet.

She would make an imperious leader, one who would stand on her dignity. But he could work with her. She was pragmatic: she had proved that, the time she had warned him that Caris was planning to audit the treasury. She would be his ally.

She walked in with her head held high. She knew she had suddenly become important, and she was enjoying it, Godwyn realized. He wondered anxiously if she would go along with the plan he was about to propose. She might need careful handling.

She looked around the grand dining hall. “You built a splendid palace,” she said, reminding him that she had helped him get the money for it.

She had never been inside the place, he realized, although it had been finished a year ago. He preferred not to have females in the monks’ part of the priory. Only Petranilla and Cecilia had been admitted here, until today. He said: “Thank you. I believe it wins us respect from the noble and powerful. Already we have entertained the archbishop of Monmouth here.”

He had used the last of the nuns’ florins to buy tapestries showing scenes from the lives of the prophets. She studied a picture of Daniel in the lions’ den. “This is very good,” she said.

“From Arras.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your cat under the sideboard?”

Godwyn tutted. “I can’t get rid of it,” he lied. He shooed it out of the room. Monks were not supposed to have pets, but he found the cat a soothing presence.

They sat at one end of the long banqueting table. He hated having a woman here, sitting down to dinner as if she were just as good as a man; but he hid his discomfort.

He had ordered an expensive dish, pork cooked with ginger and apples. Philemon poured wine from Gascony. Elizabeth tasted the pork and said: “Delicious.”

Godwyn was not very interested in food, except as a means of impressing people, but Philemon tucked in greedily.

Godwyn got down to business. “How do you plan to win this election?”

“I believe I’m a better candidate than Sister Caris,” she said.

Godwyn sensed the suppressed emotion with which she uttered the name. Clearly she was still angry that Merthin had rejected her in favour of Caris. Now she was about to enter another contest with her old rival. She would kill to win this time, he thought.

That was good.

Philemon said to her: “Why do you think you’re better?”

“I’m older than Caris,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve been a nun longer, and a priory officer longer. And I was born and brought up in a deeply religious household.”

Philemon shook his head dismissively. “None of that will make any difference.”

She raised her eyebrows, startled by his bluntness, and Godwyn hoped Philemon would not be too brutal. We need her compliant, he wanted to whisper. Don’t get her back up.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04