World Without End (134 page)

Caris concluded that Philemon had run from the plague until he had realized he must be one of those fortunate people who were not prone to catch it. Then he had learned from Murdo that Caris was sleeping with Merthin in the prior's palace, and he had immediately seen how he could exploit that situation to restore his own fortunes. God had nothing to do with it.

But Bishop Henri had believed Philemon's tale. Philemon was careful to appear humble to the point of obsequiousness. Henri did not know the man, and failed to see beneath the surface.

She left Philemon in the palace and walked to the cathedral. She climbed the long, narrow spiral staircase in the northwest tower and found Merthin in the mason's loft, drawing designs on the tracing floor in the light from the tall north-facing windows.

She looked with interest at what he had done. It was always difficult to read plans, she found. The thin lines scratched in the mortar had to be transformed, in the viewer's imagination, into thick walls of stone with windows and doors.

Merthin regarded her expectantly as she studied his work. He was obviously anticipating a big reaction.

At first she was baffled by the drawing. It looked nothing like a hospital. She said: 'But you've drawn...a cloister!'

'Exactly,' he said. 'Why should a hospital be a long narrow room like the nave of a church? You want the place to be light and airy. So, instead of cramming the rooms together, I've set them around a quadrangle.'

She visualized it: the square of grass, the building around, the doors leading to rooms of four or six beds, the nuns moving from room to room in the shelter of the covered arcade. 'It's inspired!' she said. 'I would never have thought of it, but it will be perfect.'

'You can grow herbs in the quadrangle, where the plants will have sunshine but be sheltered from the wind. There will be a fountain in the middle of the garden, for fresh water, and it can drain through the latrine wing to the south and into the river.'

She kissed him exuberantly. 'You're so clever!' Then she recalled the news she had to tell him.

He must have seen her face fall, for he said: 'What's the matter?'

'We have to move out of the palace,' she said. She told him about her conversation with Philemon, and why she had given in. 'I foresee major conflicts with Philemon - I don't want this to be the one on which I make my stand.'

'That makes sense,' he said. His tone of voice was reasonable, but she knew by his face that he was angry. He stared at his drawing, though he was not really thinking about it.

'And there's something else,' she said. 'We're telling everyone they have to live as normally as possible - order in the streets, a return to real family life, no more drunken orgies. We ought to set an example.'

He nodded. 'A prioress living with her lover is about as abnormal as could be, I suppose,' he said. Once again his equable tone was contradicted by his furious expression.

'I'm very sorry,' she said.

'So am I.'

'But we don't want to risk everything we both want - your tower, my hospital, the future of the town.'

'No. But we're sacrificing our life together.'

'Not entirely. We'll have to sleep separately, which is painful, but we'll have plenty of opportunities to be together.'

'Where?'

She shrugged. 'Here, for example.' An imp of mischief possessed her. She walked away from him across the room, slowly lifting the skirt of her robe, and went to the doorway at the top of the stairs. 'I don't see anyone coming,' she said as she raised her dress to her waist.

'You can hear them, anyway,' he said. 'The door at the foot of the stairs makes a noise.'

She bent over, pretending to look down the staircase. 'Can you see anything unusual, from where you are?'

He chuckled. She could usually pull him out of an angry mood by being playful. 'I can see something winking at me,' he laughed.

She walked back toward him, still holding her robe up around her waist, smiling triumphantly. 'You see, we don't have to give up everything.'

He sat on a stool and pulled her toward him. She straddled his thighs and lowered herself onto his lap. 'You'd better get a straw mattress up here,' she said, her voice thick with desire.

He nuzzled her breasts. 'How would I explain the need for a bed in a mason's loft?' he murmured.

'Just say that masons need somewhere soft to put their tools.'

A week later Caris and Thomas Langley went to inspect the rebuilding of the city wall. It was a big job but simple and, once the line had been agreed, the actual stonework could be done by inexperienced young masons and apprentices. Caris was glad the project had begun so promptly. It was necessary that the town be able to defend itself in troubled times - but she had a more important motive. Getting the townspeople to guard against disruption from outside would lead naturally, she hoped, to a new awareness of the need for order and good behavior among themselves.

She found it deeply ironic that fate had cast her in this role. She had never been a rule keeper. She had always despised orthodoxy and flouted convention. She felt she had the right to make her own rules. Now here she was clamping down on merrymakers. It was a miracle that no one had yet called her a hypocrite.

The truth was that some people flourished in an atmosphere of anarchy, and others did not. Merthin was one of those who were better off without constraints. She recalled the carving he had made of the wise and foolish virgins. It was different from anything anyone had seen before - so Elfric had made that his excuse for destroying it. Regulation only served to handicap Merthin. But men such as Barney and Lou, the slaughterhouse workers, had to have laws to stop them maiming one another in drunken fights.

All the same her position was shaky. When you were trying to enforce law and order, it was difficult to explain that the rules did not actually apply to you personally.

She was mulling over this as she returned with Thomas to the priory. Outside the cathedral she found Sister Joan pacing up and down in a state of agitation. 'I'm so angry with Philemon,' she said. 'He claims you have stolen his money, and I must give it back!'

'Just calm down,' Caris said. She led Joan into the porch of the church, and they sat on a stone bench. 'Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.'

'Philemon came up to me after Terce and said he needed ten shillings to buy candles for the shrine of St. Adolphus. I said I would have to ask you.'

'Quite right.'

'He became very angry and shouted that it was the monks' money, and I had no right to refuse him. He demanded my keys, and I think he would have tried to snatch them from me, but I pointed out that they would be no use to him, as he didn't know where the treasury was.'

'What a good idea it was to keep that secret,' Caris said.

Thomas was standing beside them, listening. He said: 'I notice he picked a time when I was off the premises - the coward.'

Caris said: 'Joan, you did absolutely right to refuse him, and I'm sorry he tried to bully you. Thomas, go and find him and bring him to me at the palace.'

She left them and walked through the graveyard, deep in thought. Clearly, Philemon was set on making trouble. But he was not the kind of blustering bully whom she could have overpowered with ease. He was a wily opponent, and she must watch her step.

When she opened the door of the prior's house, Philemon was there in the hall, sitting at the head of the long table.

She stopped in the doorway. 'You shouldn't be here,' she said. 'I specifically told you - '

'I was looking for you,' he said.

She realized she would have to lock the building. Otherwise he would always find a pretext for flouting her orders. She controlled her anger. 'You looked for me in the wrong place,' she said.

'I've found you now, though, haven't I?'

She studied him. He had shaved and cut his hair since his arrival, and he wore a new robe. He was every inch the priory official, calm and authoritative. She said: 'I've been speaking to Sister Joan. She's very upset.'

'So am I.'

She realized he was sitting in the big chair, and she was standing in front of him, as if he were in charge and she a supplicant. How clever he was at manipulating these things. She said: 'If you need money, you must ask me.'

'I'm the subprior!'

'And I'm the acting prior, which makes me your superior.' She raised her voice. 'So the first thing you must do is stand up when you're speaking to me!'

He started, shocked by her tone; then he controlled himself. With insulting slowness he pulled himself out of the chair.

Caris sat down in his place and let him stand.

He seemed unabashed. 'I understand you're using monastery money to pay for the new tower.'

'By order of the bishop, yes.'

A flash of annoyance crossed his face. He had hoped to ingratiate himself and make the bishop his ally against Caris. Even as a child he had toadied unendingly to people in authority. That was how he had gained admission to the monastery.

He said: 'I must have access to the monastery's money. It's my right. The monks' assets should be in my charge.'

'The last time you were in charge of the monks' assets, you stole them.'

He went pale: that arrow had struck the bull's-eye. 'Ridiculous,' he blustered, trying to cover his embarrassment. 'Prior Godwyn took them for safekeeping.'

'Well, nobody is going to take them for 'safekeeping' while I'm acting prior.'

'You should at least give me the ornaments. They are sacred jewels, to be handled by priests, not women.'

'Thomas has been dealing with them quite adequately, taking them out for services and restoring them to our treasury afterward.'

'It's not satisfactory - '

Caris remembered something, and interrupted him. 'Besides, you haven't yet returned all that you took.'

'The money - '

'The ornaments. There's a gold candlestick missing, a gift from the chandlers' guild. What happened to that?'

His reaction surprised her. She was expecting another blustering denial. But he looked embarrassed and said: 'That was always kept in the prior's room.'

She frowned. 'And...?'

'I kept it separate from the other ornaments.'

She was astonished. 'Are you telling me that
you
have had the candlestick all this time?'

'Godwyn asked me to look after it.'

'And so you took it with you on your travels to Monmouth and elsewhere?'

'That was his wish.'

This was a wildly implausible tale, and Philemon knew it. The fact was that he had stolen the candlestick. 'Do you still have it?'

He nodded uncomfortably.

At that moment, Thomas came in. 'There you are!' he said to Philemon.

Caris said: 'Thomas, go upstairs and search Philemon's room.'

'What am I looking for?'

'The lost gold candlestick.'

Philemon said: 'No need to search. You'll see it on the prie-dieu.'

Thomas went upstairs and came down again carrying the candlestick. He handed it to Caris. It was heavy. She looked at it curiously. The base was engraved with the names of the twelve members of the chandlers' guild in tiny letters. Why had Philemon wanted it? Not to sell or melt down, obviously: he had had plenty of time to get rid of it but he had not done so. It seemed he had just wanted to have his own gold candlestick. Did he gaze at it and touch it when he was alone in his room?

She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes.

He said: 'Are you going to take it from me?'

It was a stupid question. 'Of course,' she replied. 'It belongs in the cathedral, not in your bedroom. The chandlers gave it for the glory of God and the beautification of church services, not the private pleasure of one monk.'

He did not argue. He looked bereft, but not penitent. He did not understand that he had done wrong. His grief was not remorse for wrongdoing, but regret for what had been taken from him. He had no sense of shame, she realized.

'I think that ends our discussion about your access to the priory's valuables,' she said to Philemon. 'Now you may go.' He went out.

She handed the candlestick back to Thomas. 'Take it to Sister Joan and tell her to put it away,' she said. 'We'll inform the chandlers that it has been found, and use it next Sunday.'

Thomas went off.

Caris stayed where she was, thinking. Philemon hated her. She wasted no time wondering why: he made enemies faster than a tinker made friends. But he was an implacable foe and completely without scruples. Clearly he was determined to make trouble for her at every opportunity. Things would never get better. Each time she overcame him in one of these little skirmishes, his malice would burn hotter. But if she let him win he would only be encouraged in his insubordination.

It was going to be a bloody battle, and she could not see how it would end.

The flagellants came back on a Saturday evening in June.

Caris was in the scriptorium, writing her book. She had decided to begin with the plague and how to deal with it, then go on to lesser ailments. She was describing the linen face masks she had introduced in the Kingsbridge hospital. It was hard to explain that the masks were effective but did not offer total immunity. The only certain safeguard was to leave town before the plague arrived and stay away until it had gone, but that was never going to be an option for the majority of people. Partial protection was a difficult concept for people who believed in miracle cures. The truth was that some masked nuns still caught the plague, but not as many as would otherwise have been expected. She decided to compare the masks to shields. A shield did not guarantee that a man would survive attack, but it certainly gave him valuable protection, and no knight would go into battle without one. She was writing this down, on a pristine sheet of blank parchment, when she heard the flagellants, and groaned in dismay.

The drums sounded like drunken footsteps, the bagpipes like a wild creature in pain, and the bells like a parody of a funeral. She went outside just as the procession entered the precincts. There were more of them this time, seventy or eighty, and they seemed wilder than before: their hair long and matted, their clothing a few shreds, their shrieks more lunatic. They had already been around the town and gathered a long tail of followers, some looking on in amusement, others joining in, tearing their clothes and lashing themselves.