Epic Historial Collection (309 page)

A man's voice said: “They are carrying out my instructions.”

Caris stopped and looked around. It was Brother Sime. “Don't be a fool,” she said. “He's got a knife wound—do you want him to die of the plague?”

His round face turned pink. “I don't propose to submit my decision to you for approval, Mother Caris.”

That was stupid and she ignored it. “All these injured boys must be kept away from plague victims, or they'll catch it!”

“I think you're overwrought. I suggest you go and lie down.”

“Lie down?” She was outraged. “I've just patched up all these men—now I've got to look at them properly. But not here!”

“Thank you for your emergency work, Mother. You can now leave me to examine the patients thoroughly.”

“You idiot, you'll kill them!”

“Please leave the hospital until you have calmed down.”

“You can't throw me out of here, you stupid boy! I built this hospital with the nuns' money. I'm in charge here.”

“Are you?” he said coolly.

Caris realized that, although she had not anticipated this moment, he almost certainly had. He was flushed, but he had his feelings under control. He was a man with a plan. She paused, thinking fast. Looking around, she saw that the nuns and volunteers were all watching, waiting to see how this would turn out.

“We have to attend to these boys,” she said. “While we're standing here arguing, they're bleeding to death. We'll compromise, for now.” She raised her voice. “Put every one down exactly where they are, please.” The weather was warm, there was no need for the patients to be indoors. “We'll see to their needs first, then decide later where they are to be bedded.”

The volunteers and nuns knew and respected Caris, whereas Sime was new to them; and they obeyed her with alacrity.

Sime saw that he was beaten, and a look of utter fury came over his face. “I cannot treat patients in these circumstances,” he said, and he stalked out.

Caris was shocked. She had tried to save his pride with her compromise, and she had not thought he would walk away from sick people in a fit of petulance.

She quickly put him out of her mind as she began to look again at the injured.

For the next couple of hours she was busy bathing wounds, sewing up gashes, and administering soothing herbs and comforting drinks. Matthew Barber worked alongside her, setting broken bones and fixing dislocated joints. Matthew was in his fifties now, but his son Luke assisted him with equal skill.

The afternoon was cooling into evening when they finished. They sat on the cloister wall to rest. Sister Joan brought them tankards of cool cider. Caris still had a headache. She had been able to ignore it while she was busy, but now it bothered her. She would go to bed early, she decided.

While they were drinking their cider, young Joshie appeared. “The lord bishop asks you to attend on him in the prior's palace at your convenience, Mother Prioress.”

She grunted irritably. No doubt Sime had complained. This was the last thing she needed. “Tell him I'll come immediately,” she said. In a lower voice she added: “Might as well get it over with.” She drained her tankard and left.

Wearily she walked across the green. The stallholders were packing up for the night, covering their goods and locking their boxes. She passed through the graveyard and entered the palace.

Bishop Henri sat at the head of the table. Canon Claude and Archdeacon Lloyd were with him. Philemon and Sime were also there. Godwyn's cat, Archbishop, was sitting on Henri's lap, looking smug. The bishop said: “Please sit down.”

She sat beside Claude. He said kindly: “You look tired, Mother Caris.”

“I've spent the afternoon patching up stupid boys who got into a big fight. Also, I got a bang on the head myself.”

“We heard about the fight.”

Henri added: “And about the argument in the new hospital.”

“I assume that's why I'm here.”

“Yes.”

“The whole idea of the new place is to separate patients with infectious illnesses—”

“I know what the argument is about,” Henri interrupted. He addressed the group. “Caris ordered that those injured in the fight be taken to the old hospital. Sime countermanded her orders. They had an unseemly row in front of everyone.”

Sime said: “I apologize for that, my lord bishop.”

Henri ignored that. “Before we go any farther, I want to get something clear.” He looked from Sime to Caris and back again. “I am your bishop and, ex officio, the abbot of Kingsbridge Priory. I have the right and power to command you all, and it is your duty to obey me. Do you accept that, Brother Sime?”

Sime bowed his head. “I do.”

Henri turned to Caris. “Do you, Mother Prioress?”

There was no argument, of course. Henri was completely in the right. “Yes,” she said. She felt confident that Henri was not stupid enough to force injured hooligans to catch the plague.

Henri said: “Allow me to state the arguments. The new hospital was built with the nuns' money, to the specifications of Mother Caris. She intended it to provide a place for plague victims and others whose illnesses may, according to her, be spread from the sick to the well. She believes it is essential to compartmentalize the two types of patient. She feels she is entitled, in all the circumstances, to insist that her plan be carried out. Is that fair, Mother?”

“Yes.”

“Brother Sime was not here when Caris conceived her plan, so he could not be consulted. However, he has spent three years studying medicine at the university, and has been awarded a degree. He points out that Caris has no training and, apart from what she has picked up by practical experience, little understanding of the nature of disease. He is a qualified physician, and more than that, he is the only one in the priory, or indeed in Kingsbridge.”

“Exactly,” said Sime.

“How can you say I have no training?” Caris burst out. “After all the years I've cared for patients—”

“Be quiet, please,” Henri said, hardly raising his voice; and something in his quiet tone caused Caris to shut up. “I was about to mention your history of service. Your work here has been invaluable. You are known far and wide for your dedication during the plague that is still with us. Your experience and practical knowledge are priceless.”

“Thank you, Bishop.”

“On the other hand, Sime is a priest, a university graduate…and a man. The learning he brings with him is essential to the proper running of a priory hospital. We do not want to lose him.”

Caris said: “Some of the masters at the university agree with my methods—ask Brother Austin.”

Philemon said: “Brother Austin has been sent to St.-John-in-the-Forest.”

“And now we know why,” Caris said.

The bishop said: “I have to make this decision, not Austin or the masters at the university.”

Caris realized that she had not prepared for this showdown. She was exhausted, she had a headache, and she could hardly think straight. She was in the middle of a power struggle, and she had no strategy. If she had been fully alert, she would not have come when the bishop called. She would have gone to bed and got over her bad head and woken up refreshed in the morning, and she would not have met with Henri until she had worked out her battle plan.

Was it yet too late for that?

She said: “Bishop, I don't feel adequate to this discussion tonight. Perhaps we could postpone it until tomorrow, when I'm feeling better.”

“No need,” said Henri. “I've heard Sime's complaint, and I know your views. Besides, I will be leaving at sunrise.”

He had made up his mind, Caris realized. Nothing she said would make any difference. But what had he decided? Which way would he jump? She really had no idea. And she was too tired to do anything but sit and listen to her fate.

“Humankind is weak,” Henri said. “We see, as the apostle Paul puts it, as through a glass, darkly. We err, we go astray, we reason poorly. We need help. That is why God gave us His church, and the pope, and the priesthood—to guide us, because our own resources are fallible and inadequate. If we follow our own way of thinking, we will fail. We must consult the authorities.”

It looked as if he was going to back Sime, Caris concluded. How could he be so stupid?

But he was. “Brother Sime has studied the ancient texts of medical literature, under the supervision of the masters at the university. His course of study is endorsed by the church. We must accept its authority, and therefore his. His judgment cannot be subordinated to that of an uneducated person, no matter how brave and admirable she may be. His decisions must prevail.”

Caris felt so weary and ill that she was almost glad the interview was over. Sime had won; she had lost; and all she wanted to do was sleep. She stood up.

Henri said: “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mother Caris…”

His voice tailed off as she walked away.

She heard Philemon say: “Insolent behavior.”

Henri said quietly: “Let her go.”

She reached the door and went out without turning back.

The full meaning of what had happened became clear to her as she walked slowly through the graveyard. Sime was in charge of the hospital. She would have to follow his orders. There would be no separation of different categories of patient. There would be no face masks or hand washing in vinegar. Weak people would be made weaker by bleeding; starved people would be made thinner by purging; wounds would be covered with poultices made of animal dung to encourage the body to produce pus. No one would care about cleanliness or fresh air.

She spoke to nobody as she walked across the cloisters, up the stairs, and through the dormitory to her own room. She lay facedown on her bed, her head pounding.

She had lost Merthin, she had lost her hospital, she had lost everything.

Head injuries could be fatal, she knew. Perhaps she would go to sleep now and never wake up.

Perhaps that would be for the best.

79

M
erthin's orchard had been planted in the spring of 1349. A year later most of the trees were established and came out in a scatter of brave leaves. Two or three were struggling, and only one was inarguably dead. He did not expect any of them to bear fruit yet, but by July, to his surprise, one precocious sapling had a dozen or so tiny dark green pears, small as yet and as hard as stones, but promising ripeness in the autumn.

One Sunday afternoon he showed them to Lolla, who refused to believe that they would grow into the tangy, juicy fruits she loved. She thought—or pretended to think—that he was playing one of his teasing games. When he asked her where she imagined ripe pears came from, she looked at him reproachfully and said: “The market, silly!”

She, too, would ripen one day, he thought, although it was hard to imagine her bony body rounding out into the soft shape of a woman. He wondered whether she would bear him grandchildren. She was five years old, so that day might be only a decade or so away.

His thoughts were on ripeness when he saw Philippa coming toward him through the garden, and it struck him how round and full her breasts were. It was unusual for her to visit him in daylight, and he wondered what had brought her here. In case they were observed, he greeted her with only a chaste kiss on the cheek, such as a brother-in-law might give without arousing comment.

She looked troubled, and he realized that for a few days now she had been more reserved and thoughtful than usual. As she sat beside him on the grass he said: “Something on your mind?”

“I've never been good at breaking news gently,” she said. “I'm pregnant.”

“Good God!” He was too shocked to hold back his reaction. “I'm surprised because you told me…”

“I know. I was sure I was too old. For a couple of years my monthly cycle was irregular, and then it stopped altogether—I thought. But I've been vomiting in the morning, and my nipples hurt.”

“I noticed your breasts as you came into the garden. But can you be sure?”

“I've been pregnant six times previously—three children and three miscarriages—and I know the feeling. There's really no doubt.”

He smiled. “Well, we're going to have a child.”

She did not return the smile. “Don't look pleased. You haven't thought through the implications. I'm the wife of the earl of Shiring. I haven't slept with him since October, haven't lived with him since February, yet in July I'm two or at most three months pregnant. He and the whole world will know that the baby is not his, and that the countess of Shiring has committed adultery.”

“But he wouldn't…”

“Kill me? He killed Tilly, didn't he?”

“Oh, my God. Yes, he did. But…”

“And if he killed me, he might kill my baby, too.”