"Prayed, sang hymns, took blood, prescribed their favorite nostrums, and charged a fortune. Everything they tried was useless."
They were standing close together and speaking in low tones. She could see his face by the faint light of the monks' distant candles. He was staring at her with a strange intensity. He was deeply moved, she could tell, but it did not seem to be grief for Mark that possessed him. He was focused on her.
She asked: "What are the Italian doctors like, compared with our English physicians?"
"After the Muslims, the Italian doctors are supposed to be the most knowledgeable in the world. They even cut up dead bodies to learn more about sickness. But they never cured a single sufferer from this plague."
Caris refused to accept such complete hopelessness. "We can't be utterly helpless."
"No. We can't cure it, but some people think you can escape it."
Caris said eagerly: "How?"
"It seems to spread from one person to another."
She nodded. "Lots of diseases do that."
"Usually, when one in a family gets it, they all do. Proximity is the key factor."
"That makes sense. Some say you fall ill from looking at sick people."
"In Florence, the nuns counseled us to stay at home as much as possible, and avoid social gatherings, markets, and meetings of guilds and councils."
"And church services?"
"No, they didn't say that, though lots of people stayed home from church too."
This chimed with what Caris had been thinking for years. She felt renewed hope: perhaps her methods could stave off the plague. "What about the nuns themselves, and the physicians, people who have to meet the sick and touch them?"
"Priests refused to hear confessions in whispers, so that they did not have to get too near. Nuns wore linen masks over their mouths and noses so that they would not breathe the same air. Some washed their hands in vinegar every time they touched a patient. The priest-physicians said none of this would do any good, but most of them left the city anyway."
"And did these precautions help?"
"It's hard to say. None of this was done until the plague was rampant. And it wasn't systematic--just everyone trying different things."
"All the same, we must make the effort."
He nodded. After a pause he said: "However, there is one precaution that is sure."
"What's that?"
"Run away."
This was what he had been waiting to say, she realized.
He went on: "The saying goes: 'Leave early, go far, and stay long.' People who did that escaped the sickness."
"We can't go away."
"Why not?"
"Don't be silly. There are six or seven thousand people in Kingsbridge--they can't all leave town. Where would they go?"
"I'm not talking about them--just you. Listen, you may not have caught the plague from Mark. Madge and the children almost certainly have, but you spent less time close to him. If you're still all right, we could escape. We could leave today, you and me and Lolla."
Caris was appalled by the way he assumed it had spread by now. Was she doomed already? "And...and go where?"
"To Wales, or Ireland. We need to find a remote village where they don't see a stranger from one year to the next."
"You've had the sickness. You told me people don't get it twice."
"Never. And some people don't catch it at all. Lolla must be like that. If she didn't pick it up from her mother, she's not likely to get it from anyone else."
"So why do you want to go to Wales?"
He just stared at her with that intense look, and she realized that the fear she had detected in him was for her. He was terrified that she would die. Tears came to her eyes. She remembered what Madge had said: "Knowing there's one person in the world who will always be on your side." Merthin tried to look after her, no matter what she did. She thought of poor Madge, blasted by grief at the loss of the one who was always on her side. How could she, Caris, even think of rejecting Merthin?
But she did. "I can't leave Kingsbridge," she said. "Of all times, not now. They rely on me if someone is sick. When the plague strikes, I'm the one they will turn to for help. If I were to flee...well, I don't know how to explain this."
"I think I understand," Merthin said. "You'd be like a soldier who runs away as soon as the first arrow is shot. You'd feel a coward."
"Yes--and a cheat, after all these years of being a nun, and saying that I live to serve others."
"I knew you would feel this way," Merthin said. "But I had to try." The sadness in his voice nearly broke her heart as he added: "And I suppose this means you won't be renouncing your vows in the foreseeable future."
"No. The hospital is where they come for help. I have to be here at the priory, to play my role. I have to be a nun."
"All right, then."
"Don't be too downhearted."
With wry sorrow he said: "And why should I not be downhearted?"
"You said that it killed half the population of Florence?"
"Something like that."
"So at least half the people just didn't catch it."
"Like Lolla. No one knows why. Perhaps they have some special strength. Or maybe the disease strikes at random, like arrows fired into the enemy ranks, killing some and missing others."
"Either way, there's a good chance I'll escape the illness."
"One chance in two."
"Like the toss of a coin."
"Heads or tails," he said. "Life or death."
58
Hundreds of people came to Mark Webber's funeral. He had been one of the town's leading citizens, but it was more than that. Poor weavers arrived from the surrounding villages, some of them having walked for hours. He had been unusually well loved, Merthin reflected. The combination of his giant's body and his gentle temperament cast a spell.
It was a wet day, and the bared heads of rich and poor men were soaked as they stood around the grave. Cold rain mingled with hot tears on the faces of the mourners. Madge stood with her arms around the shoulders of her two younger sons, Dennis and Noah. They were flanked by the eldest son, John, and the daughter, Dora, who were both much taller than their mother, and looked as if they might be the parents of the three short people in the middle.
Merthin wondered grimly whether Madge or one of her children would be the next to die.
Six strong men grunted with the effort of lowering the extra-large coffin into the grave. Madge sobbed helplessly as the monks sang the last hymn. Then the gravediggers started to shovel the sodden earth back into the hole, and the crowd began to disperse.
Brother Thomas approached Merthin, pulling up his hood to keep the rain off. "The priory has no money to rebuild the tower," he said. "Godwyn has commissioned Elfric to demolish the old tower and just roof the crossing."
Merthin tore his mind away from apocalyptic thoughts of the plague. "How will Godwyn pay Elfric for that?"
"The nuns are putting up the money."
"I thought they hated Godwyn."
"Sister Elizabeth is the treasurer. Godwyn is careful to be kind to her family, who are tenants of the priory. Most of the other nuns do hate him, it's true--but they need a church."
Merthin had not given up his hope of rebuilding the tower higher than before. "If I could find the money, would the priory build a new tower?"
Thomas shrugged. "Hard to say."
That afternoon, Elfric was reelected alderman of the parish guild. After the meeting Merthin sought out Bill Watkin, the largest builder in town after Elfric. "Once the foundations of the tower are repaired, it could be built even higher," he said.
"No reason why not," Bill agreed. "But what would be the point?"
"So that it could be seen from Mudeford Crossing. Many travelers--pilgrims, merchants, and so on--miss the road for Kingsbridge and go on to Shiring. The town loses a lot of custom that way."
"Godwyn will say he can't afford it."
"Consider this," Me
rthin said. "Suppose the new tower could be financed the same way as the bridge? The town merchants could lend the money and be repaid out of bridge tolls."
Bill scratched his monklike fringe of gray hair. This was an unfamiliar concept. "But the tower is nothing to do with the bridge."
"Does that matter?"
"I suppose not."
"The bridge tolls are just a way of guaranteeing that the loan is repaid."
Bill considered his self-interest. "Would I be commissioned to do any of the work?"
"It would be a big project--every builder in town would get a piece of it."
"That would be useful."
"All right. Listen, if I design a large tower, will you back me, here at the parish guild, at the next meeting?"
Bill looked dubious. "The guild members aren't likely to approve of extravagance."
"I don't think it needs to be extravagant, just high. If we put a domed ceiling over the crossing, I can build that with no centering."
"A dome? That's a new idea."
"I saw domes in Italy."
"I can see how it would save money."
"And the tower can be topped by a slender wooden spire, which will save money and look wonderful."
"You've got this all worked out, haven't you?"
"Not really. But it's been at the back of my mind ever since I returned from Florence."
"Well, it sounds good to me--good for business, good for the town."
"And good for our eternal souls."
"I'll do my best to help you push it through."
"Thank you."
Merthin mulled over the design of the tower as he went about his more mundane work, repairing the bridge and building new houses on Leper Island. It helped turn his mind away from dreadful, obsessive visions of Caris ill with the plague. He thought a lot about the south tower at Chartres. It was a masterpiece, albeit a little old-fashioned, having been built about two hundred years ago.
What Merthin had liked about it, he recalled very clearly, was the transition from the square tower to the octagonal spire above. At the top of the tower, perched on each of the four corners, were pinnacles facing diagonally outward. On the same level, at the midpoint of each side of the square, were dormer windows similar in shape to the pinnacles. These eight structures matched the eight sloping sides of the tower rising behind them, so that the eye hardly noticed the change of shape from square to octagon.
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."
&nbs
p; "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?"