Epic Historial Collection (269 page)

But she spent most of her time thinking about her own position. Merthin's return was an earthquake that shook the foundations of her life. Her first reaction had been horror at the prospect of abandoning all that she had worked for over the last nine years; her position in the convent hierarchy; maternal Cecilia and affectionate Mair and ailing Old Julie; and most of all her hospital, so much more clean and efficient and welcoming than it had been before.

But as the days became shorter and colder, and Merthin repaired his bridge and began laying out the foundations of the street of new buildings he wanted to create on Leper Island, Caris's resolve to remain a nun weakened. Monastic restrictions that she had stopped noticing began to chafe again. The devotion of Mair, which had been a pleasant romantic diversion, now became irritating. She started to think about what kind of life she might lead as Merthin's wife.

She thought a lot about Lolla, and about the child she might have had with Merthin. Lolla was dark-eyed and black-haired, presumably like her Italian mother. Caris's daughter might have had the green eyes of the Wooler family. The idea of giving up everything to take care of another woman's daughter had appalled Caris in theory, but as soon as she met the little girl she softened.

She could not talk to anyone in the priory about this, of course. Mother Cecilia would tell her she must keep her vows; Mair would beg her to stay. So she agonized alone at night.

Her quarrel with Merthin over Wulfric made her despair. After he walked away from her, she had gone back to her pharmacy and cried. Why were things so difficult? All she wanted was to do the right thing.

While Merthin was at Tench, she confided in Madge Webber.

Two days after Merthin left, Madge came into the hospital soon after dawn, when Caris and Mair were doing their rounds. “I'm worried about my Mark,” she said.

Mair said to Caris: “I went to see him yesterday. He had been to Melcombe and come back with a fever and an upset stomach. I didn't tell you because it didn't seem serious.”

“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 odor 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 woolen 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. Laypeople 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 sixpence. 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 Merthin 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?”