Caris sat on the edge of the bed. She dipped a rag in a bowl of rose water and wiped a smear of blood from Cecilia's upper lip.
Cecilia's breathing was tortured. In between gasps, she said: "Has anyone survived this terrible illness?"
"Only Madge Webber."
"The one who didn't want to live."
"All her children died."
"I'm going to die soon."
"Don't say that."
"You forget yourself. We nuns have no fear of death. All our lives we long to be united with Jesus in Heaven. When death comes, we welcome it." The long speech exhausted her. She coughed convulsively.
Caris wiped blood from her chin. "Yes, Mother Prioress. But those who are left behind may weep." Tears came to her eyes. She had lost Mair and Old Julie, and now she was about to lose Cecilia.
"Don't cry. That's for the others. You have to be strong."
"I don't see why."
"I think God has you in mind to take my place, and become prioress."
In that case he has made a very odd choice, Caris thought. He usually picks people whose view of Him is more orthodox. But she had long ago learned that there was no point in saying these things. "If the sisters choose me, I'll do my best."
"I think they'll choose you."
"I'm sure Sister Elizabeth will want to be considered."
"Elizabeth is clever, but you're loving."
Caris bowed her head. Cecilia was probably right. Elizabeth would be too harsh. Caris was the best person to run the nunnery, even though she was skeptical of lives spent in prayer and hymn singing. She did believe in the school and the hospital. Heaven forbid that Elizabeth should end up running the hospital.
"There's something else." Cecilia lowered her voice, and Caris had to lean closer. "Something Prior Anthony told me when he was dying. He had kept it secret until the last, and now I've done the same."
Caris was not sure she wanted to be burdened with such a secret. However, the deathbed seemed to overrule such scruples.
Cecilia said: "The old king did not die of a fall."
Caris was shocked. It had happened more than twenty years ago, but she remembered the rumors. The killing of a king was the worst offense imaginable, a double outrage, combining murder with treason, both of them capital crimes. Even knowing about such a thing was dangerous. No wonder Anthony had kept it a secret.
Cecilia went on: "The queen and her lover, Mortimer, wanted Edward II out of the way. The heir to the throne was a little boy. Mortimer became king in all but name. In the upshot, it didn't last as long as he might have hoped, of course--young Edward III grew up too fast." She coughed again, more weakly.
"Mortimer was executed while I was an adolescent."
"But even Edward didn't want anyone to know what had really happened to his father. So the secret was kept."
Caris was awestruck. Queen Isabella was still alive, living in lavish circumstances in Norfolk, the revered mother of the king. If people found out that she had her husband's blood on her hands, there would be a political earthquake. Caris felt guilt just knowing about it.
"So he was murdered?" she asked.
Cecilia made no reply. Caris looked harder. The prioress was still, her face immobile, her eyes staring upward. She was dead.
60
The day after Cecilia died, Godwyn asked Sister Elizabeth to have dinner with him.
This was a dangerous moment. Cecilia's death unbalanced the power structure. Godwyn needed the nunnery, because the monastery on its own was not viable: he had never succeeded in improving its finances. Yet most of the nuns were now angry about the money he had taken from them, and bitterly hostile to him. If they fell under the control of a prioress bent on revenge--Caris, perhaps--it could mean the end of the monastery.
He was frightened of the plague, too. What if he caught it? What if Philemon died? Such flashes of nightmare unnerved him, but he succeeded in pushing them to the back of his mind. He was determined not to be distracted from his long-term purpose by the plague.
The election of the prioress was an immediate danger. He had visions of the monastery closing down, and himself leaving Kingsbridge in disgrace, being forced to become an ordinary monk in some other place, subordinate to a prior who would discipline and humiliate him. If that happened he thought he might kill himself.
On the other hand, this was an opportunity as well as a threat. If he handled things cleverly he might get a prioress sympathetic to him who would be content to let him take the lead. And Elizabeth was his best bet.
She would make an imperious leader, one who would stand on her dignity. But he could work with her. She was pragmatic: she had proved that, the time she had warned him that Caris was planning to audit the treasury. She would be his ally.
She walked in with her head held high. She knew she had suddenly become important, and she was enjoying it, Godwyn realized. He wondered anxiously if she would go along with the plan he was about to propose. She might need careful handling.
She looked around the grand dining hall. "You built a splendid palace," she said, reminding him that she had helped him get the money for it.
She had never been inside the place, he realized, although it had been finished a year ago. He preferred not to have females in the monks' part of the priory. Only Petranilla and Cecilia had been admitted here, until today. He said: "Thank you. I believe it wins us respect from the noble and powerful. Already we have entertained the archbishop of Monmouth here."
He had used the last of the nuns' florins to buy tapestries showing scenes from the lives of the prophets. She studied a picture of Daniel in the lions' den. "This is very good," she said.
"From Arras."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that your cat under the sideboard?"
Godwyn tutted. "I can't get rid of it," he lied. He shooed it out of the room. Monks were not supposed to have pets, but he found the cat a soothing presence.
They sat at one end of the long banqueting table. He hated having a woman here, sitting down to dinner as if she were just as good as a man; but he hid his discomfort.
He had ordered an expensive dish, pork cooked with ginger and apples. Philemon poured wine from Gascony. Elizabeth tasted the pork and said: "Delicious."
Godwyn was not very interested in food, except as a means of impressing people, but Philemon tucked in greedily.
Godwyn got down to business. "How do you plan to win this election?"
"I believe I'm a better candidate than Sister Caris," she said.
Godwyn sensed the suppressed emotion with which she uttered the name. Clearly she was still angry that Merthin had rejected her in favor of Caris. Now she was about to enter another contest with her old rival. She would kill to win this time, he thought.
That was good.
Philemon said to her: "Why do you think you're better?"
"I'm older than Caris," Elizabeth said. "I've been a nun longer, and a priory officer longer. And I was born and brought up in a deeply religious household."
Philemon shook his head dismissively. "None of that will make any difference."
She raised her eyebrows, startled by his bluntness, and Godwyn hoped Philemon would not be too brutal. We need her compliant, he wanted to whisper. Don't get her back up.
Philemon went on remorselessly. "You've only got one year of experience more than Caris has. And your father, the bishop--rest his soul--will count against you. After all, bishops aren't supposed to have children."
She flushed. "Priors aren't supposed to have cats."
"We're not discussing the prior," he said impatiently. His manner was insolent, and Godwyn winced. Godwyn was good at masking his hostility, and putting on a facade of friendly charm, but Philemon had never learned that art.
However, Elizabeth took it coolly. "So, did you ask me here to tell me I can't win?" She turned to Godwyn. "It's not like you to cook with costly ginger just for the pleasure of it."
"You're quite right," said Godwyn. "We want you
to become prioress, and we're going to do everything we can to help you."
Philemon said: "And we're going to start by taking a realistic look at your prospects. Caris is liked by everyone--nuns, monks, merchants, and nobility. The job she does is a great advantage to her. Most of the monks and nuns, and hundreds of townspeople, have come to the hospital with ailments and been helped by her. By contrast, they rarely see you. You're the treasurer, thought of as cold and calculating."
"I appreciate your frankness," Elizabeth said. "Perhaps I should give up now."
Godwyn could not tell whether she was being ironic.
"You can't win," Philemon said. "But she can lose."
"Don't be enigmatic, it's tiresome," Elizabeth snapped. "Just tell me in plain words what you're getting at."
I can see why she's not popular, Godwyn thought.
Philemon pretended not to notice her tone. "Your task in the next few weeks is to destroy Caris," he said. "You have to transform her, in the nuns' minds, from a likeable, hardworking, compassionate sister into a monster."
A glint of eagerness came into Elizabeth's eye. "Is that possible?"
"With our help, yes."
"Go on."
"Is she still ordering nuns to wear linen masks in the hospital?"
"Yes."
"And wash their hands?"
"Yes."
"There is no basis for these practices in Galen or any other medical authority, and certainly none in the Bible. It seems a mere superstition."
Elizabeth shrugged. "Apparently the Italian doctors believe the plague spreads through the air. You catch it by looking at sick people, or touching them, or breathing their breath. I don't see how--"
"And where did the Italians get this idea?"
"Perhaps just by observing patients."
"I have heard Merthin say that the Italian doctors are the best--except for the Arabs."
Elizabeth nodded. "I've heard that."
"So this whole business of wearing masks probably comes from the Muslims."
"Possibly."
"In other words, it is a heathen practice."
"I suppose so."
Philemon sat back, as if he had proved a point.
Elizabeth did not yet get it. "So we outmaneuver Caris by saying she has introduced a heathen superstition into the nunnery?"
"Not exactly," said Philemon with a crafty smile. "We say she is practising witchcraft."
She saw it then. "Of course! I had almost forgotten about that."
"You testified against her at the trial!"
"It was a long time ago."
"I would think you'd never forget that your enemy was once accused of such a crime," Philemon said.
Philemon himself certainly never forgot such things, Godwyn reflected. Knowing people's weaknesses, and exploiting them shamelessly, was his specialty. Godwyn sometimes felt guilty about the sheer depth of Philemon's malice. But that malice was so useful to Godwyn that he always suppressed his misgivings. Who else could have dreamed up this way of poisoning the nuns' minds against the beloved Caris?
A novice brought apples and cheese, and Philemon poured more wine. Elizabeth said: "All right, this makes sense. Have you thought about how, in detail, we should bring this up?"
"It's important to prepare the ground," Philemon said. "You should never make an accusation such as this formally until it's already believed by large numbers of people."
Philemon was very good at this, Godwyn thought admiringly.
Elizabeth said: "And how do you suggest we achieve that?"
"Actions are better than words. Refuse to wear the mask yourself. When asked, shrug and say quietly that you have heard it is a Muslim practice, and you prefer Christian means of protection. Encourage your friends to refuse the mask, as a sign of support for you. Don't wash your hands too often, either. When you notice people following Caris's precepts, frown disapprovingly--but say nothing."
Godwyn nodded agreement. Philemon's slyness sometimes approached the level of genius.
"Should we not even mention heresy?"
"Talk about it as much as you like, without connecting it directly to Caris. Say that you've heard of a heretic being executed in another city, or a devil-worshipper who succeeded in depraving an entire nunnery, perhaps in France."
"I wouldn't wish to say anything that was not true," Elizabeth said stiffly.
Philemon sometimes forgot that not everyone was as unscrupulous as he. Godwyn said hastily: "Of course not--Philemon just means that you should repeat such stories if and when you hear them, to remind the nuns of the ever-present danger."
"Very good." The bell rang for Nones, and Elizabeth stood up. "I mustn't miss the service. I don't want someone to notice my absence and guess that I've been here."
"Quite right," said Godwyn. "Anyway, we've agreed our plan."
She nodded. "No masks."
Godwyn could see that she was nursing a doubt. He said: "You don't imagine they're effective, do you?"
"No," she replied. "No, of course not. How could they be?"
"Exactly."
"Thank you for dinner." She went out.
That had gone well, Godwyn reflected, but he was still worried. He said anxiously to Philemon: "Elizabeth on her own might not be able to convince people that Caris is still a witch."
"I agree. We may need to help with the process."
"Perhaps with a sermon?"
"Exactly."
"I'll speak about the plague from the cathedral pulpit."
Philemon looked thoughtful. "It might be dangerous to attack Caris directly. That could backfire."
Godwyn agreed. If there were open strife between himself and Caris, the townspeople would probably support her. "I won't mention her name."
"Just sow the seeds of doubt, and let people come to their own conclusions."
"I'll blame heresy, devil worship, and heathenish practices."
Godwyn's mother, Petranilla, came in. She was very stooped, and walked with two canes, but her large head still jutted forward assertively on her bony shoulders. "How did that go?" she said. She had urged Godwyn to attack Caris, and had approved Philemon's plan.
"Elizabeth will do exactly as we wish," Godwyn said, feeling pleased. He enjoyed giving her good news.
"Good. Now I want to talk to you about something else." She turned to Philemon. "We won't need you."
For a moment, Philemon looked hurt, like a child unexpectedly smacked. Brutally abrasive himself, he was easily wounded. However, he recovered quickly, and pretended to be untroubled and even a bit amused by her high-handedness. "Of course, madam," he said with exaggerated deference.
Godwyn said to him: "Take charge of Nones for me, will you?"
"Very good."
When he had gone, Petranilla sat at the big table and said: "I know it was me who urged you to foster that young man's talents, but I have to admit that nowadays he makes my flesh crawl."
"He's more useful than ever."
"You can never really trust a ruthless man. If he will betray others, why should he not betray you?"
"I'll remember that," Godwyn said, though he felt he was now so bound up with Philemon that it was hard to imagine operating without him. However, he did not want to tell his mother that. Changing the subject, he said: "Would you like a cup of wine?"
She shook her head. "I'm already too liable to fall over. Sit down and listen to me."
"Very well, Mother." He sat beside her at the table.
"I want you to leave Kingsbridge before this plague gets much worse."
"I can't do that. But you could go--"
"I don't matter! I'm going to die soon anyway."
The thought filled Godwyn with panic. "Don't say that!"
"Don't be stupid. I'm sixty years old. Look at me--I can't even stand upright. It's time for me to go. But you're only forty-two--and you've got so much ahead! You could be bishop, archbishop, even cardinal."
As always, her limitless ambition for him made God
wyn feel dizzy. Was he really capable of becoming a cardinal? Or was it just a mother's blindness? He did not really know.
"I don't want you to die of the plague before you've achieved your destiny," she finished.
"Mother, you're not going to die."
"Forget about me!" she said angrily.
"I can't leave town. I have to make sure the nuns don't make Caris prioress."
"Get them to hold the election quickly. Failing that, get out anyway and leave the election in God's hands."
He was terrified of the plague, but he feared failure, too. "I could lose everything if they elect Caris!"
Her voice softened. "Godwyn, listen to me. I have only one child, and that's you. I can't bear to lose you."
Her sudden change of tone shocked him into silence.
She went on: "Please, I beg you, get out of this city and go to some place where the plague can't reach you."
He had never known her to plead. It was unnerving. He felt scared. Just to stop her, he said: "Let me think about it."
"This plague," she said. "It's like a wolf in the forest. When you see it, you don't think--you run."
Godwyn gave the sermon on the Sunday before Christmas.
It was a dry day with high, pale cloud roofing the cold vault of heaven. The central tower of the cathedral was covered by a bird's nest of rope-and-branch scaffolding where Elfric was demolishing it from the top down. At the market on the green, shivering traders did desultory business with a few preoccupied customers. Beyond the market, the frozen grass of the cemetery was quilted with the brown rectangles of more than a hundred fresh graves.
But the church was full. The frost that Godwyn had noticed on the inside walls during Prime had been dispersed by the warmth of thousands of bodies by the time he entered the church to perform the Christmas service. They huddled in their heavy earth-colored coats and cloaks, looking like cattle in a pen. They had come because of the plague, he knew. The congregation of thousands of townspeople had been augmented by hundreds more from the surrounding countryside, all in search of God's protection against an illness that had already struck at least one family in every city street and rural village. Godwyn sympathized. Even he had been praying more fervently lately.
Normally only the people at the front solemnly followed the service. Those behind chatted to their friends and neighbors, and the youngsters amused themselves at the back. But today there was little noise from the nave. All heads were turned to the monks and nuns, watching with unusual attention as they performed the rituals. The crowd murmured the responses scrupulously, desperate to acquire what defensive holiness they could. Godwyn studied their faces, reading their expressions. What he saw there was dread. Like him, they were wondering fearfully who would be the next to sneeze, or suffer a nosebleed, or come out in a rash of purple-black spots.