"Yes, Brother." Caris was doubtful of the value of poultices. She had noticed that many injuries healed well without bringing forth the pus that monks thought such a healthy sign. In her experience, wounds sometimes became corrupt beneath such ointments. But the monks disagreed--except for Brother Thomas, who was convinced he had lost his arm because of the poultice prescribed by Prior Anthony almost twenty years ago. However, this was another battle Caris had given up. The monks' techniques had the authority of Hippocrates and Galen, the ancient writers on medicine, and everyone agreed they must be right.
Joseph left. Caris made sure that Minnie was comfortable and her father was reassured. "When she wakes up, she will be thirsty. Make sure she gets plenty to drink--weak ale or watered wine."
She was in no hurry to make the poultice. She would give God a few hours to work unaided before she began Joseph's treatment. The likelihood that the monk-physician would come back later to check on his patient was small. She sent Nellie out to collect goat dung from the green to the west of the cathedral; then she went to her pharmacy.
It was next to the monks' library. Unfortunately, she did not have large windows matching those in the library. The room was small and dark. However, it had a workbench, some shelves for her jars and vials, and a small fireplace for heating ingredients.
In a cupboard she kept a small notebook. Parchment was expensive, and a text block of identical sheets would be used only for holy scriptures. However, she had gathered a stack of odd-shaped offcuts and sewn them together. She kept a record of every patient with a serious complaint. She wrote down the date, the patient's name, the symptoms, and the treatment given; then later she added the results, always noting exactly how many hours or days had passed before the patient got better or worse. She often looked back over past cases to refresh her memory on how effective different treatments had been.
When she wrote down Minnie's age, it occurred to her that her own child would have been eight this year, if she had not taken Mattie Wise's potion. For no good reason, she thought her baby would have been a girl. She wondered how she would have reacted if her own daughter had suffered an accident. Would she have been able to deal so coolly with the emergency? Or would she have been almost hysterical with fear, like Christopher Blacksmith?
She had just finished logging the case when the bell rang for Evensong, and she went to the service. Afterward it was time for the nuns' supper. Then they went to bed, to get some sleep before they had to rise for Matins at three o'clock in the morning.
Instead of going to bed, Caris went back to her pharmacy to make the poultice. She did not mind the goat's dung--anyone who worked in a hospital saw worse things. But she wondered how Joseph could imagine it was a good thing to put on burned flesh.
She would not be able to apply it until morning, now. Minnie was a healthy child: her recovery would be well advanced by then.
While she was working, Mair came in.
Caris looked at her curiously. "What are you doing out of bed?"
Mair stood beside her at the workbench. "I came to help you."
"It doesn't take two people to make a poultice. What did Sister Natalie say?" Natalie was the subprioress, in charge of discipline, and no one could leave the dormitory at night without her permission.
"She's fast asleep. Do you really think you're not pretty?"
"Did you get out of bed to ask me that?"
"Merthin must have thought you were."
Caris smiled. "Yes, he did."
"Do you miss him?"
Caris finished mixing the poultice and turned away to wash her hands in a bowl. "I think about him every day," she said. "He is now the richest architect in Florence."
"How do you know?"
"I get news of him every Fleece Fair from Buonaventura Caroli."
"Does Merthin get news of you?"
"What news? There's nothing to tell. I'm a nun."
"Do you long for him?"
Caris turned back and gave Mair a direct look. "Nuns are forbidden to long for men."
"But not for women," Mair said, and she leaned forward and kissed Caris on the mouth.
Caris was so surprised that for a second she froze. Mair held the kiss. The touch of a woman's lips was soft, not like Merthin's. Caris was shocked, though not horrified. It was seven years since anyone had kissed her, and she realized suddenly how much she missed it.
In the silence, there was a loud noise from the library next door.
Mair jerked away guiltily. "What was that?"
"It sounded like a box being dropped on the floor."
"Who could it be?"
Caris frowned. "There shouldn't be anyone in the library at this time of night. Monks and nuns are in bed."
Mair looked scared. "What should we do?"
"We'd better go and look."
They left the pharmacy. Although the library was adjacent, they had to walk through the nuns' cloisters and into the monks' cloisters to reach the library door. It was a dark night, but they had both lived here for years, and they could find their way blindfolded. When they reached their destination, they saw a flickering light in the high windows. The door, normally locked at night, was ajar.
Caris pushed it open.
For a moment, she could not make out what she was looking at. She saw a closet door standing open, a box on a table, a candle next to it, and a shadowy figure. After a moment, she realized that the closet was the treasury, where charters and other valuables were kept, and the box was the chest containing the jeweled gold and silver ornaments used in the cathedral for special services. The shadowy man was taking objects out of the box and putting them in some kind of bag.
The figure looked up, and Caris recognized the face. It was Gilbert of Hereford, the pilgrim who had arrived earlier today. Except that he was no pilgrim, and he probably was not even from Hereford. He was a thief.
They stared at each other for a moment, no one moving.
Then Mair screamed.
Gilbert put out the candle.
Caris pulled the door shut, to delay him a second longer. Then she dashed along the cloisters and darted into a recess, pulling Mair with her.
They were at the foot of the stairs that led to the monks' dorm. Mair's scream would have awakened the men, but they might be slow to react. "Tell the monks what's happening!" Caris yelled at Mair. "Go on, run!" Mair dashed up the stairs.
Caris heard a creak, and guessed that the library door was opening. She listened for the sound of footsteps on the flagstones of the cloisters, but Gilbert must have been a practised burglar, for he walked silently. She held her breath and listened for his. Then a commotion broke out upstairs.
The thief must have realized then that he had only a few seconds to escape, for he broke into a run, and Caris heard his tread.
She did not care greatly for the precious cathedral ornaments, believing that gold and jewels probably pleased the bishop and the prior more than they pleased God; but she had taken a dislike to Gilbert, and she hated the idea that he might get rich by robbing the priory. So she stepped out of her recess.
She could hardly see, but there was no mistaking the running steps hurtling toward her. She held her arms out to protect herself, and he cannoned into her. She was knocked off balance, but grasped his clothing, and they both fell to the ground. There was a clatter as his sack of crucifixes and chalices hit the paving stones.
The pain of the fall enraged Caris, and she let go of his clothes and reached for where she thought his face might be. She encountered skin and dragged her fingernails across it, digging deep. He roared with pain and she felt blood flow under her fingertips.
But he was stronger. He grappled with her and swung himself on top. A light appeared from the head of the monks' stairs, and suddenly she could see Gilbert--and he could see her. Kneeling astride her, he punched her face, first with his right fist, then with his left, then with the right again. She cried out in agony.
There was more light. The monks were
stumbling down the stairs. Caris heard Mair scream: "Leave her alone, you devil!" Gilbert leaped to his feet and scrabbled for his sack, but he was too late: suddenly Mair was flying at him with some kind of blunt instrument. He took a blow to the head, turned to retaliate, and fell beneath a tidal wave of monks.
Caris got to her feet. Mair came to her and they hugged.
Mair said: "What did you do?"
"Tripped him up then scratched his face. What did you hit him with?"
"The wooden cross off the dormitory wall."
"Well," said Caris, "so much for turning the other cheek."
44
Gilbert Hereford was tried before the ecclesiastical court, found guilty, and sentenced, by Prior Godwyn, to an appropriate punishment for those who robbed churches: he would be flayed alive. His skin would be cut off him, while he was fully conscious, and he would bleed to death.
On the day of the flaying, Godwyn had his weekly meeting with Mother Cecilia. Their deputies would also attend: Subprior Philemon and Subprioress Natalie. Waiting in the hall of the prior's house for the nuns to arrive, Godwyn said to Philemon: "We must try to persuade them to build a new treasury. We can no longer keep our valuables in a box in the library."
Philemon said thoughtfully: "Would it be a shared building?"
"It would have to be. We can't afford to pay for it."
Godwyn thought regretfully of the ambitions he had once had, as a young man, to reform the monastery's finances and make it rich again. This had not happened, and he still did not understand why. He had been tough, forcing the townspeople to use and pay for the priory's mills, fishponds, and warrens, but they seemed to find ways around his rules--like building mills in neighboring villages. He had imposed harsh sentences on men and women caught poaching or illegally cutting down trees in the priory's forests. And he had resisted the blandishments of those who would tempt him to spend the priory's money by building mills, or waste the priory's timber by licensing charcoal burners and iron smelters. He felt sure his approach was right, but it had not yet yielded the increased income he felt he deserved.
"So you will ask Cecilia for the money," Philemon said thoughtfully. "There might be advantages in keeping our wealth in the same place as the nuns'."
Godwyn saw which way Philemon's devious mind was leading him. "But we wouldn't say that to Cecilia."
"Of course not."
"All right, I'll propose it."
"While we're waiting..."
"Yes?"
"There's a problem you need to know about in the village of Long Ham."
Godwyn nodded. Long Ham was one of dozens of villages that paid homage--and feudal dues--to the priory.
Philemon explained: "It has to do with the landholding of a widow, Mary-Lynn. When her husband died, she agreed to let a neighbor farm her land, a man called John Nott. Now the widow has remarried, and she wants the land back so that her new husband can farm it."
Godwyn was puzzled. This was a typical peasant squabble, too trivial to require his intervention. "What does the bailiff say?"
"That the land should revert to the widow, since the arrangement was always intended to be temporary."
"Then that is what must happen."
"There is a complication. Sister Elizabeth has a half brother and two half sisters in Long Ham."
"Ah." Godwyn might have guessed there would be a reason for Philemon's interest. Sister Elizabeth, formerly Elizabeth Clerk, was the nuns' matricularius, in charge of their buildings. She was young and bright, and would rise farther up the hierarchy. She could be a valuable ally.
"They are the only family she's got, apart from her mother, who works at the Bell," Philemon went on. "Elizabeth is fond of her peasant relatives, and they in turn revere her as the holy one of the family. When they come to Kingsbridge they bring gifts to the nunnery--fruit, honey, eggs, that sort of thing."
"And...?"
"John Nott is the half brother of Sister Elizabeth."
"Has Elizabeth asked you to intervene?"
"Yes. And she also asked that I should not tell Mother Cecilia of the request."
Godwyn knew that this was just the kind of thing Philemon liked. He loved to be regarded as a powerful person who could use his influence to favor one side or the other in a dispute. Such things fed his ego, which was never satisfied. And he was drawn to anything clandestine. The fact that Elizabeth did not want her superior to know about this request delighted Philemon. It meant he knew her shameful secret. He would store the information away like miser's gold.
"What do you want to do?" Godwyn asked.
"It's for you to say, of course, but I suggest we let John Nott keep the land. Elizabeth would be in our debt, and that cannot fail to be useful at some point in the future."
"That's hard on the widow," Godwyn said uneasily.
"I agree. But that must be balanced against the interests of the priory."
"And God's work is more important. Very well. Tell the bailiff."
"The widow will receive her reward in the hereafter."
"Indeed." There had been a time when Godwyn had hesitated to authorize Philemon's underhand schemes, but that was long ago. Philemon had proved too useful--as Godwyn's mother, Petranilla, had forecast all those years ago.
There was a tap at the door, and Petranilla herself came in.
She now lived in a comfortable small house in Candle Court, just off the main street. Her brother Edmund had left her a generous bequest, enough to last her the rest of her life. She was fifty-eight years old, her tall figure was now stooped and frail, and she walked with a stick, but she still had a mind like a bear trap. As always, Godwyn was glad to see her but also apprehensive that he might have done something to displease her.
Petranilla was the head of the family now. Anthony had been killed in the bridge collapse and Edmund had died seven years ago, so she was the last survivor of her generation. She never hesitated to tell Godwyn what to do. She was the same with her niece Alice. Alice's husband, Elfric, was the alderman, but she gave him orders, too. Her authority even extended to her stepgranddaughter Griselda, and she terrorized Griselda's eight-year-old son, Little Merthin. Her judgment was as sound as ever, so they all obeyed her most of the time. If for some reason she did not take command, they would usually ask her opinion anyway. Godwyn was not sure how they would manage without her. And on the rare occasions when they did not do her bidding, they worked very hard to hide the fact. Only Caris stood up to her. "Don't you dare tell me what to do," she had said to Petranilla more than once. "You would have let them kill me."
Petranilla sat down and looked around the room. "This is not good enough," she said.
She was often abrupt, but all the same Godwyn became edgy when she spoke like this. "What do you mean?"
"You should have a better house."
"I know." Eight years ago, Godwyn had tried to persuade Mother Cecilia to pay for a new palace. She had promised to give him the money three years later but, when the time came, she said she had changed her mind. He felt sure it was because of what he had done to Caris. After that heresy trial, his charm had ceased to work on Cecilia, and it had become difficult to get money out of her.
Petranilla said: "You need a palace for entertaining bishops and archbishops, barons and earls."
"We don't get many of those, nowadays. Earl Roland and Bishop Richard have been in France for much of the last few years." King Edward had invaded northeast France in 1339 and spent all of 1340 there; then in 1342 he had taken his army to northwest France and fought in Brittany. In 1345 English troops had done battle in the southwestern wine district of Gascony. Now Edward was back in England, but assembling another army of invasion.
"Roland and Richard aren't the only noblemen," Petranilla said testily.
"The others never come here."
Her voice hardened. "Perhaps that's because you can't accommodate them in the style they expect. You need a banqueting hall, and a private chapel, and spacious bedchambers."
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She had been awake all night thinking about this, he guessed. That was her way: she brooded over things then shot off her ideas like arrows. He wondered what had brought on this particular complaint. "It sounds very extravagant," he said, playing for time.
"Don't you understand?" she snapped. "The priory is not as influential as it might be, simply because you don't ever see the powerful men of the land. When you've got a palace with beautiful rooms for them, they will come."
She was probably right. Wealthy monasteries such as Durham and St. Albans even complained about the number of noble and royal visitors they were obliged to entertain.
She went on: "Yesterday was the anniversary of my father's death." So that's what brought this on, Godwyn thought: she's been remembering Grandfather's glorious career. "You've been prior here for almost nine years," she said. "I don't want you to get stuck. The archbishops and the king should be considering you for a bishopric, a major abbey such as Durham, or a mission to the pope."
Godwyn had always assumed that Kingsbridge would be his springboard to higher things but, he realized now, he had let his ambition wane. It seemed only a little while ago that he had won the election for prior. He felt he had only just got on top of the job. But she was right, it was more than eight years.
"Why aren't they thinking of you for more important posts?" she asked rhetorically. "Because they don't know you exist! You are prior of a great monastery, but you haven't told anyone about it. Display your magnificence! Build a palace. Invite the archbishop of Canterbury to be your first guest. Dedicate the chapel to his favorite saint. Tell the king you have built a royal bedchamber in the hope that he will visit."
"Wait a moment, one thing at a time," Godwyn protested. "I'd love to build a palace, but I haven't got the money."
"Then get it," she said.
He wanted to ask her how, but at that moment the two leaders of the nunnery came into the room. Petranilla and Cecilia greeted one another with wary courtesy, then Petranilla took her leave.
Mother Cecilia and Sister Natalie sat down. Cecilia was fifty-one now, with gray in her hair and poor eyesight. She still darted about the place like a busy bird, poking her beak into every room, chirping her instructions to nuns, novices, and servants; but she had mellowed with the years, and would go a long way to avoid a conflict.