Epic Historial Collection (298 page)

“I'm not going to let this happen,” she said.

Merthin did not at first understand. “The funeral?” he said, frowning.

Caris made a sweeping gesture to take in the city and the world beyond it. “Everything. Drunks maiming one another. Parents abandoning their sick children on the doorstep of my hospital. Men queuing to fuck a drunken woman on a table outside the White Horse. Livestock dying in the pastures. Half-naked penitents whipping themselves then collecting pennies from bystanders. And, most of all, a young mother brutally murdered here in my nunnery. I don't care if we are all going to die of the plague. As long as we're still alive, I'm not going to let our world fall apart.”

“What are you going to do?”

She smiled gratefully at Merthin. Most people would have told her she was powerless to fight the situation, but he was always ready to believe in her. She looked at the stone angels carved on a pinnacle, their faces blurred by two hundred years of wind and rain, and she thought of the spirit that had moved the cathedral builders. “We're going to reestablish order and routine here. We're going to force Kingsbridge people to return to normal, whether they like it or not. We're going to rebuild this town and its life, despite the plague.”

“All right,” he said.

“This is the moment to do it.”

“Because everyone is so angry about Tilly?”

“And because they're frightened at the thought that armed men can come into the town at night and murder whomever they will. They think no one's safe.”

“What will you do?”

“I'm going to tell them it must never happen again.”

 

“This must never happen again!” she cried, and her voice rang out across the graveyard and echoed off the ancient gray walls of the cathedral.

A woman could never speak out as part of a service in church, but the graveside ceremony was a gray area, a solemn moment that took place outside the church, a time when laypeople such as the family of the deceased would sometimes make speeches or pray aloud.

All the same, Caris was sticking her neck out. Bishop Henri was officiating, backed up by Archdeacon Lloyd and Canon Claude. Lloyd had been diocesan clerk for decades, and Claude was a colleague of Henri's from France. In such distinguished clerical company, it was audacious for a nun to make an unscheduled speech.

Such considerations had never meant much to Caris, of course.

She spoke just as the small coffin was being lowered into the grave. Several of the congregation had begun to cry. The crowd was at least five hundred strong, but they fell silent at the sound of her voice.

“Armed men have come into our town at night and killed a young woman in the nunnery—and I will not stand for it,” she said.

There was a rumble of assent from the crowd.

She raised her voice. “The priory will not stand for it—the bishop will not stand for it—and the men and women of Kingsbridge will not stand for it!”

The support became louder, the crowd shouting: “No!” and “Amen!”

“People say the plague is sent by God. I say that when God sends rain we take shelter. When God sends winter, we build up the fire. When God sends weeds, we pull them up by the roots. We must defend ourselves!”

She glanced at Bishop Henri. He was looking bemused. He had had no warning of this sermon, and if he had been asked for his permission he would have refused it; but he could tell that Caris had the people on her side, and he did not have the nerve to intervene.

“What can we do?”

She looked around. All faces were turned to her expectantly. They had no idea what to do, but they wanted a solution from her. They would cheer at anything she said, if only it gave them hope.

“We must rebuild the city wall!” she cried.

They roared their approval.

“A new wall that is taller, and stronger, and longer than the broken-down old one.” She caught the eye of Ralph. “A wall that will keep murderers out!”

The crowd shouted: “Yes!” Ralph looked away.

“And we must elect a new constable, and a force of deputies and sentries, to uphold the law and enforce good behavior.”

“Yes!”

“There will be a meeting of the parish guild tonight to work out the practical details, and the guild's decisions will be announced in church next Sunday. Thank you and God bless you all.”

 

At the funeral banquet, in the grand dining hall of the prior's palace, Bishop Henri sat at the head of the table. On his right was Lady Philippa, the widowed countess of Shiring. Next to her was seated the chief mourner, Tilly's widower, Sir Ralph Fitzgerald.

Ralph was delighted to be next to Philippa. He could stare at her breasts while she concentrated on her food, and every time she leaned forward he could peek down the square neckline of her light summer dress. She did not know it yet, but the time was not far away when he would command her to take off her clothes and stand naked in front of him, and he would see those magnificent breasts in their entirety.

The dinner provided by Caris was ample but not extravagant, he noted. There were no gilded swans or towers of sugar, but there was plenty of roasted meat, boiled fish, new bread, beans, and spring berries. He helped Philippa to some soup made of ground chicken with almond milk.

She said to him gravely: “This is a terrible tragedy. You have my most profound sympathy.”

People had been so compassionate that sometimes, for a few moments, Ralph thought of himself as the pitiable victim of a dreadful bereavement, and forgot that he was the one who had slid the knife into Tilly's young heart. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Tilly was so young. But we soldiers get used to sudden death. One day a man will save your life, and swear eternal friendship and loyalty; and the next day he is struck down by a crossbow bolt through the heart, and you forget him.”

She gave him an odd look that reminded him of the way Sir Gregory had regarded him, with a mixture of curiosity and distaste, and he wondered what it was about his attitude to Tilly's death that provoked this reaction.

Philippa said: “You have a baby boy.”

“Gerry. The nuns are looking after him today, but I'll take him home to Tench Hall tomorrow. I've found a wet nurse.” He saw an opportunity to drop a hint. “Of course, he needs someone to mother him properly.”

“Yes.”

He recalled her own bereavement. “But you know what it is to lose your spouse.”

“I was fortunate to have my beloved William for twenty-one years.”

“You must be lonely.” This might not be the moment to propose, but he thought to edge the conversation toward the subject.

“Indeed. I lost my three men—William and our two sons. The castle seems so empty.”

“But not for long, perhaps.”

She stared at him as if she could not believe her ears, and he realized he had said something offensive. She turned away and spoke to Bishop Henri on her other side.

On Ralph's right was Philippa's daughter, Odila. “Would you like some of this pasty?” he said to her. “It's made with peacocks and hares.” She nodded, and he cut her a slice. “How old are you?” he asked.

“I'll be fifteen this year.”

She was tall, and had her mother's figure already, a full bosom and wide, womanly hips. “You seem older,” he said, looking at her breasts.

He intended it as a compliment—young people generally wanted to seem older—but she blushed and looked away.

Ralph looked down at his trencher and speared a chunk of pork cooked with ginger. He ate it moodily. He was not very good at what Gregory called wooing.

 

Caris was seated on the left of Bishop Henri, with Merthin, as alderman, on her other side. Next to Merthin was Sir Gregory Longfellow, who had come for the funeral of Earl William three months ago and had not yet left the neighborhood. Caris had to suppress her disgust at being at a table with the murdering Ralph and the man who had, almost certainly, put him up to it. But she had work to do at this dinner. She had a plan for the revival of the town. Rebuilding the walls was only the first part. For the second, she had to get Bishop Henri on her side.

She poured the bishop a goblet of clear red Gascon wine, and he took a long draft. He wiped his mouth and said: “You preach a good sermon.”

“Thank you,” she said, noting the ironic reproof that underlay his compliment. “Life in this town is degenerating into disorder and debauchery, and if we're to put it right we need to inspire the townspeople. I'm sure you agree.”

“It's a little late to ask whether I agree with you. However, I do.” Henri was a pragmatist who did not re-fight lost battles. She had been counting on that.

She served herself some heron roasted with pepper and cloves, but did not begin to eat: she had too much to say. “There's more to my plan than the walls and the constabulary.”

“I thought there might be.”

“I believe that you, as the bishop of Kingsbridge, should have the tallest cathedral in England.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn't expecting that.”

“Two hundred years ago this was one of England's most important priories. It should be so again. A new church tower would symbolize the revival—and your eminence among bishops.”

He smiled wryly, but he was pleased. He knew he was being flattered, and he liked it.

Caris said: “The tower would also serve the town. Being visible from a distance, it would help pilgrims and traders find their way here.”

“How would you pay for it?”

“The priory is wealthy.”

He was surprised again. “Prior Godwyn complained of money problems.”

“He was a hopeless manager.”

“He struck me as rather competent.”

“He struck a lot of people that way, but he made all the wrong decisions. Right at the start he refused to repair the fulling mill, which would have brought him an income; but he spent money on this palace, which returned him nothing.”

“And how have things changed?”

“I've sacked most of the bailiffs and replaced them with younger men who are willing to make changes. I've converted about half the land to grazing, which is easier to manage in these times of labor shortage. The rest I've leased for cash rents with no customary obligations. And we've all benefited from inheritance taxes and from the legacies of people who died without heirs because of the plague. The monastery is now as rich as the nunnery.”

“So all the tenants are free?”

“Most. Instead of working one day a week on the demesne farm, and carting the landlord's hay, and folding their sheep on the landlord's field, and all those complicated services, they just pay money. They like it better and it certainly makes our life simpler.”

“A lot of landlords—abbots especially—revile that type of tenancy. They say it ruins the peasantry.”

Caris shrugged. “What have we lost? The power to impose petty variations, favoring some serfs and persecuting others, keeping them all subservient. Monks and nuns have no business tyrannizing peasants. Farmers know what crops to sow and what they can sell at market. They work better left to themselves.”

The bishop looked suspicious. “So you feel the priory can pay for a new tower?”

He had been expecting her to ask him for money, she guessed. “Yes—with some assistance from the town's merchants. And that's where you can help us.”

“I thought there must be something.”

“I'm not asking you for money. What I want from you is worth more than money.”

“I'm intrigued.”

“I want to apply to the king for a borough charter.” As she said the words, Caris felt her hands begin to shake. She was taken back to the battle she had fought with Godwyn, ten years ago, that had ended in her being accused of witchcraft. The issue then had been the borough charter, and she had nearly died fighting for it. Circumstances now were completely different, but the charter was no less important. She put down her eating knife and clasped her hands together in her lap to keep them still.

“I see,” said Henri noncommittally.

Caris swallowed hard and went on. “It's essential for the regeneration of the town's commercial life. For a long time Kingsbridge has been held back by the dead hand of priory rule. Priors are cautious and conservative, and instinctively say no to any change or innovation. Merchants live by change—they're always looking for new ways to make money, or at least the good ones are. If we want the men of Kingsbridge to help pay for our new tower, we must give them the freedom they need to prosper.”

“A borough charter.”

“The town would have its own court, set its own regulations, and be ruled by a proper guild, rather than the parish guild we have now, which has no real power.”

“But would the king grant it?”

“Kings like boroughs, which pay lots of taxes. But, in the past, the prior of Kingsbridge has always opposed a charter.”