Epic Historial Collection (272 page)

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.

“Your wife?”

“Yes, rest her soul.”

“It's a long time to go without loving.”

“Yes.”

“But you're not the type to go with just anybody. You want someone to love.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I'm the same. It's wonderful to lie with a man, the best thing in the world, but only if you love one another truly. I've only ever had one man, my husband. I never went with anyone else.”

Merthin wondered if that was true. He could not be sure. Bessie seemed sincere. But it was the kind of thing a woman would say anyway.

“What about you?” she said. “How many women?”

“Three.”

“Your wife, and before that Caris, and…who else? Oh, I remember—Griselda.”

“I'm not saying who they were.”

“Don't worry, everyone knows.”

Merthin smiled ruefully. Of course, everyone did know. Perhaps they could not be sure, but they guessed, and they usually guessed right.

“How old is Griselda's little Merthin now—seven? Eight?”

“Ten.”

“I've got fat knees,” Bessie said. She pulled up the skirt of her dress to show him. “I've always hated my knees, but Richard used to like them.”

Merthin looked. Her knees were plump and dimpled. He could see her white thighs.

“He would kiss my knees,” she said. “He was a sweet man.” She adjusted her dress, as if straightening it, but she lifted it, and for a moment he glimpsed the dark inviting patch of hair at her groin. “He would kiss me all over, sometimes, especially after bathing. I used to like that. I liked everything. A man can do what he likes to a woman who loves him. Don't you agree?”

This had gone far enough. Merthin stood up. “I think you're probably right, but this kind of talk leads only one way, so I'm going to bed before I commit a sin.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Sleep well,” she said. “If you get lonely, I'll be here by the fire.”

“I'll remember that.”

 

They put Mother Cecilia on a bedstead, not a mattress, and placed it immediately in front of the altar, the holiest place in the hospital. Nuns sang and prayed around her bed all day and all night, in shifts. There was always someone to bathe her face with cool rose water, always a cup of clear fountain water at her side. None of it made any difference. She declined as fast as the others, bleeding from her nose and her vagina, her breathing becoming more and more labored, her thirst unquenchable.

On the fourth night after she sneezed, she sent for Caris.