Epic Historial Collection (239 page)

Her thoughts drifted to the future. The signs were good that the king would grant Kingsbridge a borough charter. Her father would probably be the first mayor, if his health recovered. Her cloth business would continue to grow. Mark Webber would be rich. With increased prosperity, the parish guild could build a Wool Exchange, so that everyone could do business comfortably even in bad weather. Merthin could design the building. Even the priory was going to be better off, though Godwyn would not thank her.

The service came to an end, and the monks and nuns began to process out. A novice monk broke out of line and entered the congregation. It was Philemon. To Caris's surprise, he approached her. “May I have a word?” he said.

She repressed a shudder. There was something loathsome about Gwenda's brother. “What about?” she replied, barely politely.

“I want to ask your advice, really,” he said, with an attempt at a charming smile. “You know Mattie Wise.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her methods?”

She gave him a hard look. Where was this going? She decided she had better defend Mattie anyway. “She has never studied the texts of the ancients, of course. Despite that, her remedies work—sometimes better than those of the monks. I think it's because she bases her treatments on what has worked previously, rather than on a theory about the humors.”

People standing nearby were listening with curiosity, and some of them now joined in uninvited.

“She gave our Nora a potion that brought her fever down,” said Madge Webber.

John Constable said: “When I broke my arm, her medicine took the pain away while Matthew Barber set the bone.”

Philemon said: “And what kind of spells does she pronounce when she's making her mixtures?”

“No spells!” Caris said indignantly. “She tells people to pray when they take their medicines, because only God can heal—she says.”

“Could she be a witch?”

“No! It's a ridiculous idea.”

“Only there has been a complaint to the ecclesiastical court.”

A chill gripped Caris. “From whom?”

“I can't say. But I've been asked to investigate.”

Caris was mystified. Who could Mattie's enemy be? She said to Philemon: “Well, you of all people know Mattie's worth—she saved the life of your sister when she gave birth to Sam. Gwenda would have bled to death if not for Mattie.”

“So it seems.”

“Seems? Gwenda's alive, isn't she?”

“Yes, of course. So you feel sure Mattie does not call on the devil?”

Caris noticed that he asked the question in a slightly raised voice, as if he wanted to make sure the listeners around heard it. She was puzzled, but she had no doubt of her answer. “Of course I'm sure! I'll swear an oath if you want.”

“Not necessary,” Philemon said smoothly. “Thank you for your advice.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow and slithered away.

Caris and Merthin walked toward the exit. “What rubbish!” Caris said. “Mattie a witch!”

Merthin looked troubled. “You would expect Philemon to want evidence against her, wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

“So why did he come to you? He could have guessed that you, of all people, would deny the charge. Why would he be keen to clear her name?”

“I don't know.”

They passed through the great west doorway and out on to the green. The sun was shining on hundreds of stalls loaded with colorful goods. “It doesn't make sense,” Merthin said. “And that troubles me.”

“Why?”

“It's like the cause of weakness in the south aisle. If you can't see it, it may be working away invisibly to undermine you—and you won't know it until everything comes crashing down all around.”

 

The scarlet cloth on Caris's market stall was not as good as that sold by Loro Fiorentino, although you had to have a sharp eye for wool to see the difference. The weave was not so close, because the Italian looms were somehow superior. The color was just as bright, but it was not perfectly even over the length of the bale, no doubt because Italian dyers were more skilled. In consequence, she charged one-tenth less than Loro.

All the same, it was easily the best English scarlet that had ever been seen at Kingsbridge, and business was brisk. Mark and Madge sold it retail by the yard, measuring and cutting for individual customers, and Caris dealt with wholesale buyers, negotiating reductions for one bale or six with drapers from Winchester, Gloucester, and even London. By midday on Monday she knew she would sell out before the end of the week.

When business slowed down for the dinner break, she strolled around the fair. She felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had triumphed over adversity, and so had Merthin. She stopped at Perkin's stall to talk to the Wigleigh folk. Even Gwenda had triumphed. Here she was, married to Wulfric—something that had seemed impossible—and there was her baby, Sammy, a year old, sitting on the ground, fat and happy. Annet was selling eggs from a tray, as always. And Ralph had gone to France to fight for the king, and might never come back.

Farther on she saw Joby, Gwenda's father, selling his squirrel furs. There was a wicked man. But he seemed to have lost his power to hurt Gwenda.

Caris stopped at her own father's stall. She had persuaded him to buy fleece in smaller quantities this year. The international wool market could not possibly thrive when the French and English were raiding one another's ports and burning ships. “How is business?” she asked him.

“Steady,” he said. “I think I've judged it about right.” He forgot that it had been her judgment, not his, that had counseled caution. But that was all right.

Their cook, Tutty, appeared with Edmund's dinner: mutton stew in a pot, a loaf of bread, and a jug of ale. It was important to look prosperous but not overly so. Edmund had explained to Caris, many years ago, that although customers needed to believe they were buying from a successful business, they would resent contributing to the wealth of someone who appeared to be rolling in money.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her.

“Starving.”

He stood up to reach for the stew pot. Then he staggered, made an odd sound halfway between a grunt and a cry, and fell to the ground.

The cook screamed.

Caris cried: “Father!” But she knew he would not respond. She could tell he was unconscious by the way he hit had the earth, inertly heavy, like a sack of onions. She fought down the urge to scream. She knelt beside him. He was alive, and breathing hoarsely. She grasped his wrist and felt his pulse: it was strong, but slow. His face seemed flushed. It was always reddish, but now it seemed more so than usual.

Tutty said: “What is it? What is it?”

Caris forced herself to speak calmly. “He's had a fit,” she said. “Fetch Mark Webber. He can carry Father into the hospital.”

The cook ran off. People from the neighboring stalls gathered around. Dick Brewer appeared and said: “Poor Edmund—what can I do?”

Dick was too old and fat to lift Edmund. Caris said: “Mark's coming to take him to the hospital.” She began to cry. “I hope he'll be all right,” she said.

Mark appeared. He lifted Edmund easily, cradling him gently in his strong arms, and walked toward the hospital, negotiating his way through the crowds, calling: “Mind out, there! Out of the way, please! Injured man, injured man.”

Caris followed, distraught. She could hardly see through her tears, so she stayed close to Mark's broad back. They reached the hospital building and went inside. Caris was grateful to see the familiar knobbly face of Old Julie. “Fetch Mother Cecilia, as quick as you can!” Caris said to her. The old nun hurried away, and Mark laid Edmund on a pallet near the altar.

Edmund was still unconscious, eyes closed, breathing hoarsely. Caris felt his forehead: he was neither hot nor cold. What had caused this? It had been so sudden. One moment he had been talking normally, the next he fell down unconscious. How could such a thing happen?

Mother Cecilia came. Her bustling efficiency was reassuring. She knelt beside the pallet and felt Edmund's heart, then his pulse. She listened to his breathing and touched his face. “Get him a pillow and a blanket,” she said to Julie. “Then fetch one of the monk physicians.”

She stood up and looked at Caris. “He's had a fit,” she said. “He may recover. All we can do is make him comfortable. The physician may recommend bleeding, but apart from that the only treatment is prayer.”

That was not good enough for Caris. “I'm going for Mattie,” she said.

She ran out of the building and dodged through the fair, remembering that she had done exactly the same thing a year ago, rushing to fetch Mattie when Gwenda was bleeding to death. This time it was her father, and she felt a different kind of panic. She had been desperately worried about Gwenda, but now it was as if the world was falling apart. The fear that her father might die gave her the dreadful feeling she sometimes got in dreams, when she found herself on the roof of Kingsbridge Cathedral with no way down but to jump.

The physical effort of running through the streets calmed her a little, and she was in control of her emotions by the time she came to Mattie's house. Mattie would know what to do. She would say: “I've seen this before, I know what will happen next, here's the treatment that helps.”

Caris banged on the door. Hearing no immediate answer, she impatiently tried the latch and found it open. She dashed inside, saying: “Mattie, you have to come to the hospital right away, it's my father!”

The front room was empty. Caris pulled aside the curtain that screened off the kitchen. Mattie was not there, either. Caris said aloud: “Oh, why would you be out of the house at this very moment?” She looked around for some clue as to where Mattie might have gone. Then she noticed how stripped the room appeared. All the little jars and bottles had gone, leaving the shelves bare. There were none of the mortars and pestles Mattie used for grinding ingredients, none of her small pots for melting and boiling, no knives for chopping herbs. Caris returned to the front half of the house and saw that Mattie's personal possessions had also disappeared: her sewing box, her polished wood cups for wine, the embroidered shawl she had hung on the wall for decoration, the carved bone comb she treasured.

Mattie had packed up and gone.

And Caris could guess why. Mattie must have heard about Philemon's questions in church yesterday. Traditionally, the ecclesiastical court held a session on the Saturday of Fleece Fair week. Only two years ago the monks had used the occasion for the trial of Crazy Nell on the absurd charge of heresy.

Mattie was no heretic, of course, but it was difficult to prove that, as many old women had learned. She had calculated her chances of surviving a trial and found the answer frightening. Without telling anyone, she had packed up her possessions and left town. Probably she had found a peasant returning home after selling his produce and persuaded him to take her on his oxcart. Caris imagined her leaving at first light, her box beside her on the cart, the hood of her cloak pulled forward to hide her face. No one could even guess where she had gone.

“What am I going to do?” Caris said to the empty room. Mattie knew better than anyone else in Kingsbridge how to help sick people. This was the worst possible moment for her to disappear, just when Edmund lay unconscious in the hospital. Caris felt despair.

She sat down on Mattie's chair, still panting from the effort of running. She wanted to run back to the hospital, but there was no point. She would not be able to help her father. Nobody could.

The town must have a healer, she thought; one who does not rely on prayers and holy water, or bleeding, but uses simple treatments that have been shown to work. And, as she sat in Mattie's empty house, she realized that there was one person who could fill the role, someone who knew Mattie's methods and believed in her practical philosophy. That person was Caris herself.

The thought burst on her with the blinding light of a revelation, and she sat dead still, bewildered by the implications. She knew the recipes for Mattie's main potions: one for easing pain, one to cause vomiting, one for washing wounds, one to bring down a fever. She knew the uses of all the common herbs: dill for indigestion, fennel for fever, rue for flatulence, watercress for infertility. She knew the treatments Mattie
never
prescribed: poultices made with dung, medicines containing gold and silver, verses written on vellum and bound to the ailing part of the body.

And she had an instinct for it. Mother Cecilia had said so, had practically pleaded with Caris to become a nun. Well, she was not going to enter the priory, but she might perhaps take Mattie's place. Why not? The cloth business could be run by Mark Webber—he was doing most of the work anyway.

She would seek out other wise women—in Shiring, in Winchester, perhaps in London—and question them about their methods, what succeeded and what failed. Men were secretive about their craft skills—their “mysteries” as they called them, as if there were something supernatural about tanning leather or making horseshoes—but women were usually willing to share knowledge with other women.