World Without End (107 page)

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 gray 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 nosebleed. 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.'

59

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 tripe.

It did not matter much what the patients ate, as they threw everything up toward 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-gray 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.'

'I'm 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.'

'Good night,' she said.

He went to the door.

'Is Bessie safe?' she said.

'Go to sleep.'

'I love Bessie.'

'That's nice. Good night.' He closed the door.

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

He could smell a savory 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 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 forever. 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.