Epic Historial Collection (271 page)

However, Chartres was unnecessarily chunky by the standards of the fourteenth century. Merthin's tower would have slender columns and large window openings, to lighten the weight on the pillars below, and to reduce stress by allowing the wind to blow through.

He made his own tracing floor at his workshop on the island. He enjoyed himself planning the details, doubling and quadrupling the narrow lancets of the old cathedral to make the large windows of the new tower, updating the clusters of columns and the capitals.

He hesitated over the height. He had no way to calculate how high it had to be in order to be visible from Mudeford Crossing. That could be done only by trial and error. When he had finished the stone tower he would have to erect a temporary spire, then go to Mudeford on a clear day and determine whether it could be seen. The cathedral was built on elevated ground, and at Mudeford the road breasted a rise just before descending to the river crossing. His instinct told him that if he went a little higher than Chartres—say about four hundred feet—that would be sufficient.

The tower at Salisbury Cathedral was four hundred and four feet high.

Merthin planned his to be four hundred and five.

While he was bent over the tracing floor, drawing the roof pinnacles, Bill Watkin appeared. “What do you think of this?” Merthin said to him. “Does it need a cross on top, to point to heaven? Or an angel, to watch over us?”

“Neither,” said Bill. “It's not going to get built.”

Merthin stood up, holding a straightedge in his left hand and a sharpened iron drawing needle in his right. “What makes you say that?”

“I've had a visit from Brother Philemon. I thought I might as well let you know as soon as possible.”

“What did that snake have to say?”

“He pretended to be friendly. He wanted to give me a piece of advice for my own good. He said it wouldn't be wise of me to support any plan for a tower designed by you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would annoy Prior Godwyn, who was not going to approve your plans, regardless.”

Merthin could hardly be surprised. If Mark Webber had become alderman, the balance of power in the town would have changed, and Merthin might have won the commission to build the new tower. But Mark's death meant the odds were against him. He had clung to hope, however, and now he felt the deep ache of heavy disappointment. “I suppose he'll commission Elfric?”

“That was the implication.”

“Will he never learn?”

“When a man is proud, that counts for more than common sense.”

“Will the parish guild pay for a stumpy little tower designed by Elfric?”

“Probably. They may not get excited about it, but they'll find the money. They are proud of their cathedral, despite everything.”

“Elfric's incompetence almost cost them the bridge!” Merthin said indignantly.

“They know that.”

He allowed his wounded feelings to show. “If I hadn't diagnosed the problem with the tower, it would have collapsed—and it might have brought down the entire cathedral.”

“They know that, too. But they're not going to fight with the prior just because he's treated you badly.”

“Of course not,” said Merthin, as if he thought that was perfectly reasonable; but he was hiding his bitterness. He had done more for Kingsbridge than Godwyn, and he was hurt that the townspeople had not put up more of a fight for him. But he also knew that most people most of the time acted in their own immediate self-interest.

“People are ungrateful,” Bill said. “I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” Merthin said. “That's all right.” He looked at Bill, then looked away; and then he threw down his drawing implements and walked off.

 

During the predawn service of Lauds, Caris was surprised to look down the nave and see a woman in the north aisle, on her knees, in front of a wall painting of Christ Risen. She had a candle by her side and, in its unsteady light, Caris made out the chunky body and jutting chin of Madge Webber.

Madge stayed there throughout the service, not paying any attention to the psalms, apparently deep in prayer. Perhaps she was asking God to forgive Mark's sins and let him rest in peace—not that Mark had committed many sins, as far as Caris knew. More likely, Madge was asking Mark to send her good fortune from the spirit world. Madge was going to carry on the cloth business with the help of her two older children. It was the usual thing, when a trader died leaving a widow and a thriving enterprise. Still, no doubt she felt the need of her dead husband's blessing on her efforts.

But this explanation did not quite satisfy Caris. There was something intense in Madge's posture, something about her stillness that suggested great passion, as if she were begging Heaven to grant her some terribly important boon.

When the service ended, and the monks and nuns began to file out, Caris broke away from the procession and walked through the vast gloom of the nave toward the candle's glow.

Madge stood up at the sound of her footsteps. When she recognized Caris's face, she spoke with a note of accusation. “Mark died of the plague, didn't he?”

So that was it. “I think so,” said Caris.

“You didn't tell me.”

“I'm not sure, and I didn't want to frighten you—not to mention the whole town—on the basis of a guess.”

“I've heard it's come to Bristol.”

So the townspeople had been talking about it. “And London,” Caris said. She had heard this from a pilgrim.

“What will happen to us all?”

Sorrow stabbed Caris like a pain in the heart. “I don't know,” she lied.

“It spreads from one to another, I hear.”

“Many illnesses do.”

The aggression went out of Madge, and her face took on a pleading look that broke Caris's heart. In a near-whisper she asked: “Will my children die?”

“Merthin's wife got it,” Caris said. “She died, and so did all her family, but Merthin recovered, and Lolla didn't catch it at all.”

“So my children will be all right?”

That was not what Caris had said. “They may be. Or some may catch it and others escape.”

That did not satisfy Madge. Like most patients, she wanted certainties, not possibilities. “What can I do to protect them?”

Caris looked at the painting of Christ. “You're doing all you can,” she said. She began to lose control. As a sob rose in her throat, she turned away to hide her feelings, and walked quickly out of the cathedral.

She sat in the nuns' cloisters for a few minutes, pulling herself together, then went to the hospital, as usual at this hour.

Mair was not there. She had probably been called to attend a sick person in the town. Caris took charge, overseeing the serving of breakfast to guests and patients, making sure the place was cleaned thoroughly, checking on those who were sick. The work eased her distress about Madge. She read a psalm to Old Julie. When all the chores were done, Mair still had not appeared, so Caris went in search of her.

She found her in the dormitory, lying facedown on her bed. Caris's heart quickened. “Mair! Are you all right?” she said.

Mair rolled over. She was pale and sweating. She coughed, but did not speak.

Caris knelt beside her and placed a hand on her forehead. “You've got a fever,” she said, suppressing the dread that rose in her belly like nausea. “When did it begin?”

“I was coughing yesterday,” Mair said. “But I slept all right, and got up this morning. Then, when I went in to breakfast, I suddenly felt I was going to throw up. I went to the latrine, then came here and lay down. I think I might have been sleeping…What time is it?”

“The bell is about to ring for Terce. But you're excused.” It could just be an ordinary illness, Caris told herself. She touched Mair's neck, then pulled the cowl of her robe down.

Mair smiled weakly. “Are you trying to look at my chest?”

“Yes.”

“You nuns are all the same.”

There was no rash, as far as Caris could see. Perhaps it was just a cold. “Any pains?”

“There's a dreadfully tender place in my armpit.”

That did not tell Caris much. Painful swellings in the armpits or groin were a feature of other illnesses as well as the plague. “Let's get you down to the hospital,” she said.

As Mair lifted her head, Caris saw bloodstains on the pillow.

She felt the shock like a blow. Mark Webber had coughed blood. And Mair had been the first person to attend Mark at the start of his illness—she had gone to the house the day before Caris did.

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

I
n 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.