World Without End (126 page)

This time the plague had struck some leading townspeople who had previously escaped. Caris was dismayed by the death of John Constable. She had never much liked his rough-and-ready approach to justice - which was to hit troublemakers over the head with a stick and ask questions afterward - but it was going to be more difficult to maintain order without him. Fat Betty Baxter, baker of special buns for every town festivity, shrewd questioner at parish guild meetings, was dead, her business awkwardly shared out between four squabbling daughters. And Dick Brewer had died, the last of Caris's father's generation, a cohort of men who knew how to make money and how to enjoy it.

Caris and Merthin had been able to slow the spread of the disease by canceling major public gatherings. There had been no big Easter procession in the cathedral, and there would be no Fleece Fair this Whitsun. The weekly market was held outside the city walls, in Lovers' Field, and most townspeople stayed away. Caris had wanted such measures when the plague first struck, but Godwyn and Elfric had opposed her. According to Merthin, some Italian cities had even closed their gates for a period of thirty or forty days, called a trentine or a quarantine. It was now too late to keep the disease out, but Caris still thought restrictions would save lives.

One problem she did not have was money. More and more people bequeathed their wealth to the nuns, having no surviving relatives, and many of the new novices brought with them lands, flocks, orchards, and gold. The nunnery had never been so rich.

It was small consolation. For the first time in her life she felt tired - not just weary from hard work, but drained of energy, short of willpower, enfeebled by adversity. The plague was worse than ever, killing two hundred people a week, and she did not know how she was going to carry on. Her muscles ached, her head hurt, and sometimes her vision seemed to blur. Where would it end? she wondered dismally. Would everyone die?

Two men staggered in through the door, both bleeding. Caris hurried forward. Before she got within touching distance, she picked up the sweetly rotten smell of drink on them. They were both nearly helpless, although it was not yet dinnertime. She groaned in frustration: this was all too common.

She knew the men vaguely: Barney and Lou, two strong youngsters employed in the abattoir owned by Edward Slaughterhouse. Barney had one arm hanging limp, possibly broken. Lou had a dreadful injury to his face: his nose was crushed and one eye was a ghastly pulp. Both seemed too drunk to feel pain. 'It was a fight,' Barney slurred, his words only just comprehensible. 'I didn't mean it. He's my best friend. I love him.'

Caris and Sister Nellie got the two drunks lying down on adjacent mattresses. Nellie examined Barney and said his arm was not broken but dislocated, and sent a novice to fetch Matthew Barber, the surgeon, who would try to relocate it. Caris bathed Lou's face. There was nothing she could do to save his eye: it had burst like a soft-boiled egg.

This kind of thing made her furious. The two men were not suffering from a disease or an accidental injury: they had harmed one another while drinking to excess. After the first wave of the plague, she had managed to galvanize the townspeople into restoring law and order; but the second wave had done something terrible to people's souls. When she called again for a return to civilized behavior, the response had been apathetic. She did not know what to do next, and she felt so tired.

As she contemplated the two maimed men lying shoulder to shoulder on the floor, she heard a strange noise from outside. For an instant, she was transported back three years, to the battle of Crécy, and the terrifying booming sound made by King Edward's new machines that shot stone balls into the enemy ranks. A moment later the noise came again and she realized it was a drum - several drums, in fact, being struck in no particular rhythm. Then she heard pipes and bells whose notes failed to form any kind of tune; then hoarse cries, wailing, and shouts that might have indicated triumph or agony, or both. It was not unlike the noise of battle, but without the swish of deadly arrows or the screams of maimed horses. Frowning, she went outside.

A group of forty or so people had come onto the cathedral green, dancing a mad antic jig. Some played on musical instruments, or rather sounded them, for there was no melody or harmony to the noise. Their flimsy light-colored clothes were ripped and stained, and some were half-naked, carelessly exposing the intimate parts of their bodies. All those who did not have instruments were carrying whips. A crowd of townspeople followed, staring in curiosity and amazement.

The dancers were led by Friar Murdo, fatter than ever but cavorting energetically, sweat pouring down his dirty face and dripping from his straggly beard. He led them to the great west door of the cathedral, where he turned to face them. 'We have all sinned!' he roared.

His followers cried out in response, inarticulate shrieks and groans.

'We are dirt!' he said thrillingly. 'We wallow in lasciviousness like pigs in filth. We yield, quivering with desire, to our fleshly lusts. We deserve the plague!'

'Yes!'

'What must we do?'

'Suffer!' they called. 'We must suffer!'

One of the followers dashed forward, flourishing a whip. It had three leather thongs, each of which appeared to have sharp stones attached to a knot. He threw himself at Murdo's feet and began to lash his own back. The whip tore the thin material of his robe and drew blood from the skin of his back. He cried out in pain, and the rest of Murdo's followers groaned in sympathy.

Then a woman came forward. She pulled her robe down to her waist and turned, exposing her bare breasts to the crowd; then lashed her bare back with a similar whip. The followers moaned again.

As they came forward in ones and twos, flogging themselves, Caris saw that many of them had bruises and half-healed cuts on their skin: they had done this before, some of them many times. Did they go from town to town repeating the performance? Given Murdo's involvement, she felt sure that sooner or later someone would start collecting money.

A woman in the watching crowd suddenly ran forward screaming: 'Me, too, I must suffer!' Caris was surprised to see that it was Mared, the browbeaten young wife of Marcel Chandler. Caris could not imagine that she had committed many sins, but perhaps she had at last seen a chance to make her life dramatic. She threw off her dress and stood stark naked before the friar. Her skin was unmarked; in fact she looked beautiful.

Murdo gazed at her for a long moment then said: 'Kiss my feet.'

She knelt in front of him, exposing her rear obscenely to the crowd, and lowered her face to his filthy feet.

He took a whip from another penitent and handed it to her. She lashed herself, then shrieked in pain, and red marks appeared instantly on her white skin.

Several more ran forward eagerly from the crowd, mostly men, and Murdo went through the same ritual with each. Soon there was an orgy. When they were not whipping themselves they were banging their drums and clanging their bells and dancing their fiendish jig.

Their actions had a mad abandon, but Caris's professional eye noted that the strokes of the whips, though dramatic and undoubtedly painful, did not appear to inflict permanent damage.

Merthin appeared beside Caris and said: 'What do you think of this?'

She frowned and said: 'Why does it make me feel indignant?'

'I don't know.'

'If people want to whip themselves, why should I object? Perhaps it makes them feel better.'

'I agree with you, though,' Merthin said. 'There's generally something fraudulent about anything Murdo is involved with.'

'That's not it.'

The mood here was not one of penitence, she decided. These dancers were not looking back contemplatively over their lives, feeling sorrow and regret for sins committed. People who genuinely repented tended to be quiet, thoughtful, and undemonstrative. What Caris sensed in the air here was quite different. It was excitement.

'This is a debauch,' she said.

'Only instead of drink, they're overindulging in self-loathing.'

'And there's a kind of ecstasy in it.'

'But no sex.'

'Give them time.'

Murdo led the procession off again, heading out of the priory precincts. Caris noticed that some of the flagellants had produced bowls and were begging coins from the crowd. They would go through the principal streets of the town like this, she guessed. They would probably finish up at one of the larger taverns, where people would buy them food and drink.

Merthin touched her arm. 'You look pale,' he said. 'How do you feel?'

'Just tired,' she said curtly. She had to soldier on regardless of how she felt, and it did not help her to be reminded of her tiredness. However, it was kind of him to notice, and she softened her tone to say: 'Come to the prior's house. It's almost dinnertime.'

They walked across the green as the procession disappeared. They stepped inside the palace. As soon as they were alone, Caris put her arms around Merthin and kissed him. She suddenly felt very physical, and she thrust her tongue into his mouth, which she knew he liked. In response, he took both her breasts in his hands and squeezed gently. They had never kissed like this inside the palace, and Caris wondered vaguely whether something about Friar Murdo's bacchanal had weakened her normal inhibitions.

'Your skin is hot,' Merthin said in her ear.

She wanted Merthin to pull down her robe and put his mouth to her nipples. She felt she was losing control, and might find herself recklessly making love right here on the floor, where they might so easily be caught.

Then a girl's voice said: 'I didn't mean to spy.'

Caris was shocked. She sprang guiltily away from Merthin. She turned around, looking for the speaker. At the far end of the room, sitting on a bench, was a young woman holding a baby. It was Ralph Fitzgerald's wife. 'Tilly!' said Caris.

Tilly stood up. She looked exhausted and frightened. 'I'm so sorry to startle you,' she said.

Caris was relieved. Tilly had attended the nuns' school and lived at the nunnery for years, and she was fond of Caris. She could be trusted not to make a fuss about the kiss she had seen. But what was she doing here? 'Are you all right?' Caris said.

'I'm a bit tired,' Tilly said. She staggered, and Caris caught her arm.

The baby cried. Merthin took the child and rocked him expertly. 'There, there, my little nephew,' he said. The crying fell to a mild grizzle of discontent.

Caris said to Tilly: 'How did you get here?'

'I walked.'

'From Tench Hall? Carrying Gerry?' The baby was now six months old, and no easy burden.

'It took me three days.'

'My goodness. Has something happened?'

'I ran away.'

'Didn't Ralph come after you?'

'Yes, with Alan. I hid in the forest while they went by. Gerry was very good and didn't cry.'

The picture brought a lump to Caris's throat. 'But...' She swallowed. 'But why did you run away?'

'Because my husband wants to kill me,' Tilly said, and she burst into tears.

Caris sat her down and Merthin brought her a cup of wine. They let her sob. Caris sat on the bench beside her and put an arm around her shoulders while Merthin cradled baby Gerry. When at last Tilly had cried herself out, Caris said: 'What has Ralph done?'

Tilly shook her head. 'Nothing. It's just the way he looks at me. I know he wants to murder me.'

Merthin muttered: 'I wish I could say my brother is incapable of that.'

Caris said: 'But why would he want to do such a terrible thing?'

'I don't know,' Tilly said miserably. 'Ralph went to Uncle William's funeral. There was a lawyer from London there, Sir Gregory Longfellow.'

'I know him,' Caris said. 'A clever man, but I don't like him.'

'It started after that. I have a feeling it's all to do with Gregory.'

Caris said: 'You wouldn't have walked all this way, carrying a baby, because of something you just imagined.'

'I know it sounds fanciful, but he just sits and glares at me hatefully. How can a man look at his wife like that?'

'Well, you've come to the right place,' Caris said. 'You're safe here.'

'Can I stay?' she begged. 'You won't send me back, will you?'

'Certainly not,' said Caris. She caught Merthin's eye. She knew what he was thinking. It would be rash to give Tilly a guarantee. Fugitives might take refuge in churches, as a general principle, but it was very doubtful whether a nunnery had the right to shelter a knight's wife and keep her from him indefinitely. Moreover Ralph would certainly be entitled to make her give up the baby, his son and heir. All the same, Caris put as much confidence into her voice as she could and said: 'You can stay here just as long as you like.'

'Oh, thank you.'

Caris silently prayed that she would be able to keep her promise.

'You could live in one of the special guest rooms upstairs in the hospital,' she said.

Tilly looked troubled. 'But what if Ralph should come in?'

'He wouldn't dare. But if it makes you feel safer, you can have Mother Cecilia's old room, at the end of the nuns' dormitory.'

'Yes, please.'

A priory servant came in to lay the table for dinner. Caris said to Tilly: 'I'll take you to the refectory. You can have dinner with the nuns, then lie down in the dormitory and rest.' She stood up.

Suddenly she felt dizzy. She put a hand on the table to steady herself. Merthin, still holding baby Gerry, said anxiously: 'What's wrong?'

'I'll be fine in a moment,' Caris said. 'I'm just tired.'

Then she fell to the floor.

Merthin felt a tidal wave of panic. For an instant, he was stunned. Caris had never been ill, never helpless - she was the one who took care of the sick. He could not think of her as a victim.

The moment passed like a blink. Fighting down his fear, he carefully handed the baby to Tilly.

The servant girl had stopped laying the table and stood staring in shock at the unconscious form of Caris on the floor. Merthin deliberately made his voice calm but urgent and said to her: 'Run to the hospital and tell them Mother Caris is ill. Bring Sister Oonagh. Go on now, as quick as you can!' She hurried away.