Epic Historial Collection (274 page)

“Elizabeth will do exactly as we wish,” Godwyn said, feeling pleased. He enjoyed giving her good news.

“Good. Now I want to talk to you about something else.” She turned to Philemon. “We won't need you.”

For a moment, Philemon looked hurt, like a child unexpectedly smacked. Brutally abrasive himself, he was easily wounded. However, he recovered quickly, and pretended to be untroubled and even a bit amused by her high-handedness. “Of course, madam,” he said with exaggerated deference.

Godwyn said to him: “Take charge of Nones for me, will you?”

“Very good.”

When he had gone, Petranilla sat at the big table and said: “I know it was me who urged you to foster that young man's talents, but I have to admit that nowadays he makes my flesh crawl.”

“He's more useful than ever.”

“You can never really trust a ruthless man. If he will betray others, why should he not betray you?”

“I'll remember that,” Godwyn said, though he felt he was now so bound up with Philemon that it was hard to imagine operating without him. However, he did not want to tell his mother that. Changing the subject, he said: “Would you like a cup of wine?”

She shook her head. “I'm already too liable to fall over. Sit down and listen to me.”

“Very well, Mother.” He sat beside her at the table.

“I want you to leave Kingsbridge before this plague gets much worse.”

“I can't do that. But you could go—”

“I don't matter! I'm going to die soon anyway.”

The thought filled Godwyn with panic. “Don't say that!”

“Don't be stupid. I'm sixty years old. Look at me—I can't even stand upright. It's time for me to go. But you're only forty-two—and you've got so much ahead! You could be bishop, archbishop, even cardinal.”

As always, her limitless ambition for him made Godwyn feel dizzy. Was he really capable of becoming a cardinal? Or was it just a mother's blindness? He did not really know.

“I don't want you to die of the plague before you've achieved your destiny,” she finished.

“Mother, you're not going to die.”

“Forget about me!” she said angrily.

“I can't leave town. I have to make sure the nuns don't make Caris prioress.”

“Get them to hold the election quickly. Failing that, get out anyway and leave the election in God's hands.”

He was terrified of the plague, but he feared failure, too. “I could lose everything if they elect Caris!”

Her voice softened. “Godwyn, listen to me. I have only one child, and that's you. I can't bear to lose you.”

Her sudden change of tone shocked him into silence.

She went on: “Please, I beg you, get out of this city and go to some place where the plague can't reach you.”

He had never known her to plead. It was unnerving. He felt scared. Just to stop her, he said: “Let me think about it.”

“This plague,” she said. “It's like a wolf in the forest. When you see it, you don't think—you run.”

 

Godwyn gave the sermon on the Sunday before Christmas.

It was a dry day with high, pale cloud roofing the cold vault of heaven. The central tower of the cathedral was covered by a bird's nest of rope-and-branch scaffolding where Elfric was demolishing it from the top down. At the market on the green, shivering traders did desultory business with a few preoccupied customers. Beyond the market, the frozen grass of the cemetery was quilted with the brown rectangles of more than a hundred fresh graves.

But the church was full. The frost that Godwyn had noticed on the inside walls during Prime had been dispersed by the warmth of thousands of bodies by the time he entered the church to perform the Christmas service. They huddled in their heavy earth-colored coats and cloaks, looking like cattle in a pen. They had come because of the plague, he knew. The congregation of thousands of townspeople had been augmented by hundreds more from the surrounding countryside, all in search of God's protection against an illness that had already struck at least one family in every city street and rural village. Godwyn sympathized. Even he had been praying more fervently lately.

Normally only the people at the front solemnly followed the service. Those behind chatted to their friends and neighbors, and the youngsters amused themselves at the back. But today there was little noise from the nave. All heads were turned to the monks and nuns, watching with unusual attention as they performed the rituals. The crowd murmured the responses scrupulously, desperate to acquire what defensive holiness they could. Godwyn studied their faces, reading their expressions. What he saw there was dread. Like him, they were wondering fearfully who would be the next to sneeze, or suffer a nosebleed, or come out in a rash of purple-black spots.

Right at the front he could see Earl William with his wife, Philippa, their two grown sons, Roland and Richard, and their much younger daughter, Odila, who was fourteen. William ruled the county in the same style as his father, Roland, with order and justice and a firm hand that was occasionally cruel. He looked worried: an outbreak of plague in his earldom was something he could not control, no matter how harsh he was. Philippa had her arm around the young girl, as if to protect her.

Next to them was Sir Ralph, lord of Tench. Ralph had never been any good at hiding his feelings, and now he looked terrified. His child-wife was carrying a tiny baby boy. Godwyn had recently christened the child Gerald, after its grandfather, who stood nearby with the grandmother, Maud.

Godwyn's eye moved along the line to Ralph's brother, Merthin. When Merthin had returned from Florence, Godwyn had hoped that Caris would renounce her vows and leave the nunnery. He thought she might be less of a nuisance as the mere wife of a citizen. But it had not happened. Merthin was holding the hand of his little Italian daughter. Next to them was Bessie from the Bell Inn. Bessie's father, Paul Bell, had succumbed to the plague already.

Not far away was the family Merthin had spurned: Elfric, with his daughter, Griselda, the little boy they had named Merthin—now ten—and Harry Mason, the husband Griselda had wed after she gave up hope of the original Merthin. Next to Elfric was his second wife, Godwyn's cousin Alice. Elfric kept looking up. He had built a temporary ceiling over the crossing while he tore down the tower, and he was either admiring his work or worrying about it.

Conspicuously absent was the bishop of Shiring, Henri of Mons. The bishop normally gave the sermon on Christmas Day. However, he had not come. So many clergy had died of the plague that the bishop was frantically busy visiting parishes and searching for replacements. There was already talk of easing the requirements for priests, and ordaining under-twenty-fives and even illegitimate men.

Godwyn stepped forward to speak. He had a delicate task. He needed to whip up fear and hatred of the most popular person in Kingsbridge. And he had to do it without mentioning her name, indeed without even letting people think he was hostile to her. They must turn on her with fury but, when they did, they had to believe it was their own idea, not his.

Not every service featured a sermon. Only at major solemnities, attended by large crowds, did he address the congregation, and then he did not always preach. Often there were announcements, messages from the archbishop or the king about national events—military victories, taxes, royal births and deaths. But today was special.

“What is sickness?” he said. The church was already quiet, but the congregation became very still. He has asked the question that was on everybody's mind.

“Why does God send illnesses and plagues to torment and kill us?” He caught the eye of his mother, standing behind Elfric and Alice, and he was suddenly reminded of her forecast that she would die soon. For a moment he froze, paralyzed with fear, unable to speak. The congregation shifted restlessly, waiting. Knowing he was losing their attention, he felt panicky, and that made his paralysis worse. Then the moment passed.

“Sickness is a punishment for sin,” he resumed. Over the years he had developed a preaching style. He was not a ranter, like Friar Murdo. He spoke in a more conversational manner, sounding like a reasonable man rather than a demagogue. He wondered how suitable that was for whipping up the kind of hatred he wanted them to feel. But Philemon said it made him sound more convincing.

“The plague is a special sickness, so we know God is inflicting a special punishment on us.” There was a low collective sound, between a murmur and a moan, from the crowd. This was what they wanted to hear. He was encouraged.

“We must ask ourselves what sins we have committed, to merit such punishment.” As he said this, he noticed Madge Webber, standing alone. Last time she came to church she had had a husband and four children. He thought of making the point that she had enriched herself using dyes concocted by witchcraft, but he decided against that tactic. Madge was too well liked and respected.

“I say to you that God is punishing us for heresy. There are people in the world—in this town—even in this great cathedral today—who question the authority of God's holy church and its ministers. They doubt that the sacrament turns bread into the true body of Christ; they deny the efficacy of masses for the dead; they claim that it is idolatry to pray before statues of the saints.” These were the usual heresies debated among student priests at Oxford. Few people in Kingsbridge cared about such arguments, and Godwyn saw disappointment and boredom on the faces in the crowd. He sensed he was losing them again, and he felt the panic rise. Desperately, he added: “There are people in this city who practise witchcraft.”

That got their attention. There was a collective gasp.

“We must be vigilant against false religion,” he said. “Remember that only God can cure sickness. Prayer, confession, communion, penance—these are the remedies sanctioned by Christianity.” He raised his voice a little. “All else is blasphemy!”

This was not clear enough, he decided. He needed to be more specific.

“For if God sends us a punishment, and we try to escape it, are we not defying His will? We may pray to Him to forgive us, and perhaps in his wisdom he will heal our sickness. But heretical cures will only make matters worse.” The audience was rapt, and he warmed up. “I warn you! Magic spells, appeals to the fairy folk, unchristian incantations, and especially heathen practices—all are witchcraft, all are forbidden by God's holy church.”

His real audience today was the thirty-two nuns standing behind him in the choir of the church. So far only a few had registered their opposition to Caris, and their support for Elizabeth, by refusing to wear the mask against the plague. As things stood, Caris would easily win next week's election. He needed to give the nuns the clear message that Caris's medical ideas were heretical.

“Anyone who is guilty of such practices…,” he paused for effect, leaning forward and staring at the congregation, “…anyone in town…,” he turned and looked behind him, at the monks and nuns in the choir, “…or even in the priory…” He turned back. “I say, anyone guilty of such practices should be shunned.”

He paused for effect.

“And may God have mercy on their souls.”

61

P
aul Bell was buried three days before Christmas. All those who stood at his frosty graveside in the December cold were invited to the Bell to drink to his memory. His daughter, Bessie, now owned the place. She did not want to grieve alone, so she poured the tavern's best ale generously. Lennie Fiddler played sad tunes on his five-stringed instrument, and the mourners became tearful and maudlin as they got drunker.

Merthin sat in the corner with Lolla. At yesterday's market he had bought some sweet raisins from Corinth—an expensive luxury. He was sharing them with Lolla, teaching her numbers at the same time. He counted nine raisins for himself, but when he was counting out hers he missed every other number, saying: “One, three, five, seven, nine.”

“No!” she said. “That's not right!” She was laughing, knowing that he was only teasing.

“But I counted nine each,” he protested.

“But you've got more!”

“Well, how did that happen?”

“You didn't count them right, silly.”

“You'd better count them, then, and see if you can do better.”

Bessie sat with them. She was wearing her best dress, which was a bit tight. “Can I have some raisins?” she said.

Lolla said: “Yes, but don't let Daddy count them.”

“Don't worry,” Bessie said. “I know his tricks.”

“Here you are,” Merthin said to Bessie. “One, three, nine, thirteen—oh, thirteen is too many. I'd better take some away.” He took back three raisins. “Twelve, eleven, ten. There, now you've got ten raisins.”

Lolla thought this was hysterically funny. “But she's only got one!” she said.

“Did I count them wrong again?”

“Yes!” She looked at Bessie. “We know his tricks.”