Epic Historial Collection (292 page)

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.

Merthin knelt beside Caris. “Can you hear me, my darling?” he said. He picked up her limp hand and patted it, then touched her cheek, then lifted an eyelid. She was out cold.

Tilly said: “She's got the plague, hasn't she?”

“Oh, God.” Merthin took Caris in his arms. He was a slight man, but he had always been able to lift heavy objects, building stones and timber beams. He lifted her easily and stood upright, then laid her gently on the table. “Don't die,” he whispered. “Please don't die.”

He kissed her forehead. Her skin was hot. He had felt it when they embraced a few minutes ago, but he had been too excited to worry. Perhaps that was why she had been so passionate: fever could have that effect.

Sister Oonagh came in. Merthin was so grateful to see her that tears came to his eyes. She was a young nun, only a year or two out of her novitiate, but Caris thought highly of her nursing skill and was grooming her to take responsibility for the hospital one day.

Oonagh wrapped a linen mask over her mouth and nose and tied it in a knot behind her neck. Then she touched Caris's forehead and cheek. “Did she sneeze?” she said.

Merthin wiped his eyes. “No,” he answered. He felt sure he would have noticed: a sneeze was an ominous sign.

Oonagh pulled down the front of Caris's robe. To Merthin she looked agonizingly vulnerable with her small breasts exposed. But he was glad to see there was no rash of purple-black spots on her chest. Oonagh covered her up again. She looked up Caris's nostrils. “No bleeding,” she said. She felt Caris's pulse thoughtfully.

After a few moments she looked at Merthin. “This may not be the plague, but it seems a serious illness. She's feverish, her pulse is rapid, and her breathing is shallow. Carry her upstairs, lay her down, and bathe her face with rose water. Anyone who attends her must wear a mask and wash their hands as if she had the plague. That includes you.” She gave him a linen strip.

Tears rolled down his face as he tied the mask. He carried Caris upstairs, put her on the mattress in her room, and straightened her clothing. The nuns brought rose water and vinegar. Merthin told them of Caris's instructions regarding Tilly, and they took the young mother and baby to the refectory. Merthin sat beside Caris, patting her forehead and cheeks with a rag damped with the fragrant liquid, praying for her to come round.

At last she did. She opened her eyes, frowned in puzzlement, then looked anxious and said: “What happened?”

“You fainted,” he said.

She tried to sit up.

“Keep still,” he said. “You're sick. It's probably not the plague, but you have a serious illness.”

She must have felt weak, for she lay back on the pillow without further protest. “I'll just rest for an hour,” she said.

She was in bed for two weeks.

 

After three days the whites of her eyes turned the color of mustard, and Sister Oonagh said she had the yellow jaundice. Oonagh prepared an infusion of herbs sweetened with honey, which Caris drank hot three times a day. The fever receded, but Caris remained weak. She inquired anxiously about Tilly every day, and Oonagh answered her questions, but refused to discuss any other aspect of life in the nunnery, in case it should tire Caris. Caris was too enfeebled to fight her.