Epic Historial Collection (240 page)

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 fulfill 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 parlor 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 absentminded 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 draft 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?”

“You're the driving force behind the campaign for a borough charter. Your fiancé's bridge has saved the Fleece Fair, and your cloth business has pretty much rescued the town's prosperity after the wool slump. You're the child of the existing alderman and, although it's not an inherited 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.”

“Thanks to your scarlet cloth. But people are suspicious of new money. They would just say Mark is a jumped-up weaver. They want an alderman from a well-established family—someone whose father was rich, and preferably grandfather too.”

Caris wanted to beat Elfric, but she did not feel sure of her ability. She thought of her father's patience and shrewdness, his hearty conviviality, his inexhaustible energy. Did she have any such qualities? She looked at Merthin.

He said: “You would be the best alderman the town has ever had.”

His unhesitating confidence decided her. “All right,” she said. “I'll do it.”

 

Godwyn invited Elfric to dine with him on the Friday of the fair. He ordered an expensive dinner: swan cooked with ginger and honey. Philemon served them, and sat down to eat with them. The citizens had decided to elect a new alderman and, in a remarkably short time, two candidates had emerged as the principal contestants: Elfric and Caris.

Godwyn did not like Elfric, but he was useful. He was not a particularly good builder, but he had successfully ingratiated himself with Prior Anthony, and thereby gained the contract for cathedral repairs. When Godwyn took office, he had seen in Elfric a servile toady and had kept him on. Elfric was not well liked, but he either employed or subcontracted most of the building craftsmen and suppliers in town, and they in their turn courted him in the hope of work. Having won his confidence, they all wanted him to continue in a position where he could grant them favors. And that gave him a power base.

“I don't like uncertainty,” Godwyn said.

Elfric tasted the swan and grunted appreciatively. “In what context?”

“The election of a new alderman.”

“By its nature, an election is uncertain—unless there is only one candidate.”

“Which would be my preference.”

“Mine, too, provided that candidate was me.”

“That's what I'm suggesting.”

Elfric looked up from his dinner. “Really?”

“Tell me, Elfric—how badly do you want to be alderman?”

Elfric swallowed his mouthful. “I want it,” he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse, and he slurped some wine. “I deserve it,” he went on, a note of indignation creeping into his tone. “I'm as good as any of them, am I not? Why should I not be alderman?”

“Would you proceed with the application for a borough charter?”

Elfric stared at him. Thoughtfully, he said: “Are you asking me to withdraw it?”

“If you're elected alderman, yes.”

“Are you offering to help me get elected?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“By eliminating the rival candidate.”

Elfric looked skeptical. “I don't see how you could achieve that.”

Godwyn nodded to Philemon, who said: “I believe Caris is a heretic.”

Elfric dropped his knife. “You're going to try Caris as a witch?”

“You must not tell anyone about this,” Philemon said. “If she hears about it beforehand, she may flee.”

“As Mattie Wise did.”

“I have let some townspeople believe that Mattie has been captured, and it is she who will be tried on Saturday at the ecclesiastical court. But, at the last minute, a different person will be accused.”

Elfric nodded. “And, as it's an ecclesiastical court, there is conveniently no need for indictments or juries.” He turned to Godwyn. “And you will be judge.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Godwyn said. “Bishop Richard will preside. So we must prove our point.”

“Have you any evidence?” Elfric said skeptically.

Godwyn replied: “Some, but we'd like more. What we already have would be plenty if the accused were some old woman with no family or friends, like Crazy Nell. But Caris is well known and comes from a wealthy and influential family, as I need hardly tell you.”

Philemon put in: “It's extremely fortunate for us that her father is too ill to leave his bed—God has ordained it so that he will not be able to defend her.”

Godwyn nodded. “Nevertheless, she has many friends. So our evidence must be strong.”

“What have you got in mind?” said Elfric.

Philemon answered. “It would be helpful if a member of her family were to come forward and say that she had called upon the devil, or turned a crucifix upside down, or spoken to some presence in an empty room.”

For a moment, Elfric looked as if he did not understand; then enlightenment dawned. “Oh!” he said. “You mean me?”

“Think very carefully before you answer.”

“You're asking me to help send my sister-in-law to Gallows Cross.”

Godwyn said: “Your sister-in-law; my cousin. Yes.”

“All right, I'm thinking.”

Godwyn saw on Elfric's face ambition, greed, and vainglory, and he marveled at the way God used even men's weaknesses to His holy purpose. He could guess what Elfric was thinking. The position of alderman was a burdensome task for an unselfish man such as Edmund, who exercised his power for the benefit of the town's merchants; but for someone with his eye on the main chance it offered endless opportunities for profit and self-aggrandizement.

Philemon continued in a smooth, assured voice. “If you have never witnessed anything suspicious, then of course that is the end of the matter. But I beg you to search your memory carefully.”

Godwyn noticed again how much Philemon had learned in the last two years. The awkward priory servant had vanished. He talked like an archdeacon.

“There may have been incidents that seemed at the time perfectly harmless, but which take on a sinister cast in the light of what you have been told today. On mature reflection, you may feel that these events were not as innocent as they at first appeared.”

“I get your meaning, Brother,” Elfric said.

There was a long silence. None of them ate. Godwyn waited patiently for Elfric's decision.

Philemon said: “And, of course, if Caris were dead, then Edmund's entire fortune would come to the other sister, Alice…your wife.”

“Yes,” Elfric said. “I'd thought of that.”

“Well?” said Philemon. “Is there anything you can think of that might help us?”