"And was there?"
"Lots of things. I'm bad friends with my sister. I haven't any children. I lost that scarlet coat my father gave my mother on the day she died."
"How did you lose it?"
"I wasn't allowed to bring it with me when I entered the nunnery. I don't know what happened to it."
"What was your biggest regret?"
"There were two. I haven't built my hospital; and I've spent too little time in bed with you."
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, the second one is easily rectified."
"I know."
"What about the nuns?"
"Nobody cares anymore. You saw what it was like in the town. Here in the nunnery, we're too busy dealing with the dying to fuss about the old rules. Joan and Oonagh sleep together every night in one of the upstairs rooms of the hospital. It doesn't matter."
Merthin frowned. "It's odd that they do that, and still go to church services in the middle of the night. How do they reconcile the two things?"
"Listen. St. Luke's Gospel says: 'He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none.' How do you think the bishop of Shiring reconciles that with his chest full of robes? Everybody takes what they like from the teachings of the church, and ignores the parts that don't suit them."
"And you?"
"I do the same, but I'm honest about it. So I'm going to live with you, as your wife, and if anyone questions me I shall say that these are strange times." She got up, went to the door, and barred it. "You've been sleeping here for two weeks. Don't move out."
"You don't have to lock me in," he said with a laugh. "I'll stay voluntarily." He put his arms around her.
She said: "We started something a few minutes before I fainted. Tilly interrupted us."
"You were feverish."
"In that way, I still am."
"Perhaps we should pick up where we left off."
"We could go to bed first."
"All right."
Holding hands, they went up the stairs.
71
Ralph and his men hid in the forest north of Kingsbridge, waiting.
It was May, and the evenings were long. When night fell Ralph encouraged the others to take a nap while he sat up, watching.
With him were Alan Fernhill and four hired men, soldiers demobilized from the king's army, fighters who had failed to find their niche in peacetime. Alan had hired them at the Red Lion in Gloucester. They did not know who Ralph was and had never seen him in daylight. They would do as they were told, take their money, and ask no questions.
Ralph stayed awake, noting the passing of time automatically, as he had when with the king in France. He had found that, if he tried too hard to figure out how many hours had gone by, he became doubtful; but, if he simply guessed, what came into his head was always right. Monks used a burning candle, marked with rings for the hours, or an hourglass with sand or water trickling through a narrow funnel; but Ralph had a better measure in his head.
He sat very still, with his back to a tree, staring into the low fire they had built. He could hear the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth and the occasional hoot of a predatory owl. He never felt so calm as in the waiting hours before action. There was quiet, and darkness, and time to think. The knowledge of danger to come, which made most men jumpy, actually soothed him.
The main risk tonight did not in fact come from the hazards of fighting. There would be some hand-to-hand combat, but the enemy would consist of fat townsmen or soft-skinned monks. The real peril was that Ralph might be recognized. What he was about to do was shocking. It would be talked of with outrage in every church in the land, perhaps in Europe. Gregory Longfellow, for whom Ralph was doing this, would be the loudest in condemning it. If the fact ever got out that Ralph was the villain, he would be hanged.
But if he succeeded, he would be the earl of Shiring.
When he judged it was two hours past midnight, he roused the others.
They left their tethered horses and walked out of the woodland and along the road to the city. Alan was carrying the equipment, as he always had when they fought in France. He had a short ladder, a coil of rope, and a grappling iron they had used when attacking city walls in Normandy. In his belt were a mason's chisel and a hammer. They might not need these tools, but they had learned that it was best to be prepared.
Alan also had several large sacks, rolled up tightly and tied with string in a bundle.
When they came within sight of the city, Ralph gave out hoods with holes for the eyes and mouth, and they all put them on. Ralph also wore a mitten on his left hand, to conceal the telltale stumps of his three missing fingers. He was completely unrecognizable--unless, of course, he should be captured.
They all pulled felt bags over their boots, tying them to their knees, to muffle their footsteps.
It was hundreds of years since Kingsbridge had been attacked by an army, and security was slack, especially since the advent of the plague. Nevertheless, the southern entrance to the town was firmly closed. At the townward end of Merthin's great bridge was a stone gatehouse barred with a mighty wooden door. But the river defended the town only on the east and south sides. To the north and west no bridge was needed, and the town was protected by a wall that was in poor repair. That was why Ralph was approaching from the north.
Mean houses huddled outside the walls like dogs at the back of a butcher's shop. Alan had scouted the route several days ago, when the two of them had come to Kingsbridge and inquired about Tilly. Now Ralph and the hired men followed Alan, padding between the hovels as quietly as possible. Even paupers in the suburbs could raise the alarm if awakened. A dog barked, and Ralph tensed, but someone cursed the animal and it fell silent. In another moment they came to a place where the wall was broken down and they could easily clamber over the fallen stones.
They found themselves in a narrow alley behind some warehouses. It came out just inside the north gate of the city. At the gate, Ralph knew, was a sentry in a booth. The six men approached silently. Although they were now within the walls, a sentry would question them if he saw them, and shout for help if he was not satisfied with their answers. But, to Ralph's relief, the man was fast asleep, sitting on a stool and leaning against the side of his box, a stub of candle guttering on a shelf beside him.
All the same, Ralph decided not to risk the man's waking up. He tiptoed close, leaned into the booth, and slit the sentry's throat with a long knife. The man woke up and tried to scream with pain, but all that came out of his mouth was blood. As he slumped, Ralph caught him and held him for the few moments it took him to lose consciousness. Then he propped the body back up against the wall of the booth.
He wiped his bloody blade on the dead man's tunic and sheathed the knife.
The large double door that stopped the gateway had within it a smaller, man-size doorway. Ralph unbarred this little door, ready for a quick getaway later.
The six men walked silently along the street that led to the priory.
There was no moon--Ralph had chosen tonight for that reason--but they were faintly lit by starlight. He looked anxiously at the upstairs windows of the houses on either side. If sleepless people happened to look out, they would see the unmistakably sinister sight of six masked men. Fortunately it was not quite warm enough to leave windows open at night, and all the shutters were closed. Just the same, Ralph pulled up the hood of his cloak and dragged it forward as far as it would go, in the hope of shadowing his face and concealing the mask; then he signed to the others to do the same.
This was the city where he had spent his adolescence, and the streets were familiar. His brother, Merthin, still lived here, although Ralph was not sure exactly where.
They went down the main street, past the Holly Bush, closed for the night and locked up hours ago. They turned into the cathedral close. The entrance had tall ironbound timber gates, but they stood open, not having been closed for years, their hinges rusted and seized up.
The priory was dark
except for a dim light in the windows of the hospital. Ralph reckoned this would be the time when the monks and nuns were sleeping most deeply. In an hour or so they would be wakened for the service of Matins, which started and finished before dawn.
Alan, who had reconnoitered the priory, led the team around the north side of the church. They walked silently through the graveyard and past the prior's palace, then turned along the narrow strip of land that divided the east end of the cathedral from the riverbank. Alan propped his short ladder up against a blank wall and whispered: "Nuns' cloisters. Follow me."
He went up the wall and over the roof. His feet made little noise on the slates. Happily, he did not need to use the grappling iron, which might have made an alarming clang.
The others followed, Ralph last.
On the inside, they dropped from the roof and landed with soft thumps on the turf of the quadrangle. Once there, Ralph looked warily at the regular stone columns of the cloisters around him. The arches seemed to stare at him like watchmen, but nothing stirred. It was a good thing monks and nuns were not allowed to have pet dogs.
Alan led them around the deep-shadowed walkway and through a heavy door. "Kitchen," he whispered. The room was dimly lit by the embers of a big fire. "Move slowly so that you don't knock over any pots."
Ralph waited, letting his eyes adjust. Soon he could make out the outlines of a big table, several barrels, and a stack of cooking vessels. "Find somewhere to sit or lie down, and try to make yourselves comfortable," he said to them. "We stay here until they all get up and go into the church."
Peering out of the kitchen an hour later, Ralph counted the nuns and novices shuffling out of the dormitory and heading through the cloisters toward the cathedral, some carrying lamps that threw antic shadows on the vaulted ceiling. "Twenty-five," he whispered to Alan. As he had expected, Tilly was not among them. Visiting noblewomen were not expected to attend services in the middle of the night.
When they had all disappeared, he moved. The others remained behind.
There were only two places where Tilly might be sleeping: the hospital and the nuns' dormitory. Ralph had guessed she would feel safer in the dormitory, and headed there first.
He went softly up the stone steps, his boots still muffled by felt overshoes. He peeped into the dorm. It was lit by a single candle. He was hoping that all the nuns would be in the church, for he did not want miscellaneous people confusing the situation. He was afraid one or two might have stayed behind, because of illness or laziness. But the room was empty--not even Tilly was there. He was about to retreat when he saw a door at the far end.
He padded the length of the dormitory, picking up the candle, and went through the door silently. The unsteady light revealed the young head of his wife on a pillow, her hair in disarray around her face. She looked so innocent and pretty that Ralph felt a stab of remorse, and had to remind himself of how much he hated her for standing in the way of his advancement.
The baby, his son Gerry, lay in a crib next to her, eyes closed, mouth open, sleeping peacefully.
Ralph crept closer and, with a swift movement, clamped his right hand hard over Tilly's mouth, waking her and at the same time stopping her making any noise.
Tilly opened her eyes wide and stared at him in dread.
He put the candle down. In his pocket he had an assortment of useful odds and ends, including rags and leather thongs. He stuffed a rag into Tilly's mouth to keep her quiet. Despite his mask and glove, he had a feeling she recognized him, even though he had not spoken. Perhaps she could smell him, like a dog. It did not matter. She was not going to tell anyone.
He tied her hands and feet with leather thongs. She was not struggling now, but she would later. He checked that her gag was secure. Then he settled down to wait.
He could hear the singing from the church: a strong choir of females and a ragged few male voices trying to match them. Tilly kept staring at him with big, pleading eyes. He turned her over so that he could not see her face.
She had guessed he was going to kill her. She had read his mind. She must be a witch. Perhaps all women were witches. Anyway, she had known his intention almost as soon as he had formed it. She had started to watch him, especially in the evenings, her fearful eyes following him around the room, no matter what he did. She had lain stiff and alert beside him at night while he fell asleep, and in the mornings when he awoke she was invariably up already. Then, after a few days of this, she had disappeared. Ralph and Alan had searched for her without success, then he had heard a rumor that she had taken refuge in Kingsbridge Priory.
Which happened to fit in with his plans very neatly.
The baby snuffled in his sleep, and it occurred to Ralph that he might cry. What if the nuns came back just then? He thought it through. One or two would probably come in here to see if Tilly needed help. He would just kill them, he decided. It would not be the first time. He had killed nuns in France.
At last he heard them shuffling back into the dormitory.
Alan would be watching from the kitchen, counting them as they returned. When they were all safely inside the room, Alan and the other four men would draw their swords and make their move.
Ralph lifted Tilly to her feet. Her face was streaked with tears. He turned her so that her back was to him, then put an arm around her waist and lifted her, hoisting her onto his hip. She was as light as a child.
He drew his long dagger.
From outside, he heard a man say: "Silence, or you die!" It was Alan, he knew, although the hood muffled the voice.
This was a crucial moment. There were other people on the premises--nuns and patients in the hospital, monks in their own quarters--and Ralph did not want them to appear and complicate matters.
Despite Alan's warning, there were several shouts of shock and shrieks of fear--but, Ralph thought, not too loud. So far, so good.
He threw open the door and stepped into the dormitory carrying Tilly on his hip.
He could see by the light of the nuns' lamps. At the far end of the room, Alan had a woman in his grasp, his knife to her throat, in the same pose as Ralph with Tilly. Two more men stood behind Alan. The other two hirelings would be on guard at the foot of the stairs.
"Listen to me," Ralph said.
When he spoke, Tilly jerked convulsively. She had recognized his voice. But that did not matter so long as no one else did.
There was a terrified silence.
Ralph said: "Which of you is treasurer?"
No one spoke.
Ralph touched the edge of his blade to the skin of Tilly's throat. She began to struggle, but she was too small, and he held her easily. Now, he thought, now is the time to kill her; but he hesitated. He had killed many people, women as well as men, but suddenly it seemed terrible to stick a knife into the warm body of someone he had embraced and kissed and slept with, the woman who had borne his child.
Also, he told himself, the effect on the nuns would be more shocking if one of their own died.
He nodded to Alan.
With one strong cut, Alan slit the throat of the nun he was holding. Blood gushed out of her neck onto the floor.
Someone screamed.
It was not merely a cry or a shriek, but a fortissimo yell of pure terror that might have awakened the dead, and it went on until one of the hired men hit the screamer a mighty blow over her head with his club and she fell unconscious to the floor, blood trickling down her cheek.
Ralph said again: "Which of you is treasurer?"
Merthin had woken up briefly when the bell rang for Matins and Caris slipped out of bed. As usual, he turned over and fell into a light doze, so that when she returned it seemed as if she had been away only for a minute or two. She was cold when she got back into bed, and he drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her. They often stayed awake for a while, talking, and usually made love before going to sleep. It was Merthin's favorite time.
She pressed up against him, her breasts squashed comfortably agains
t his chest. He kissed her forehead. When she had warmed up, he reached between her legs and gently stroked the soft hair there.
But she was feeling talkative. "Did you hear yesterday's rumor? Outlaws in the woods north of town."
"It seems a bit unlikely," he said.
"I don't know. The walls are decrepit on that side."
"But what are they going to steal? Anything they want is theirs for the taking. If they need meat, there are thousands of sheep and cattle unguarded in the fields, with no one to claim ownership."
"That's what makes it strange."
"These days, stealing is like leaning over the fence to breathe your neighbor's air."
She sighed. "Three months ago I thought this terrible plague was over."
"How many more people have we lost?"
"We've buried a thousand since Easter."
That seemed about right to Merthin. "I hear that other towns are similar."
He felt her hair move against his shoulder as she nodded in the dark. She said: "I believe something like a quarter of the population of England is gone already."
"And more than half the priests."
"That's because they make contact with so many people every time they hold a service. They can hardly escape."
"So half the churches are closed."
"A good thing, if you ask me. I'm sure crowds spread the plague faster than anything."
"Anyway, most people have lost respect for religion."
To Caris, that was no great tragedy. She said: "Perhaps they'll stop believing in mumbo-jumbo medicine, and start thinking about what treatments actually make a difference."
"You say that, but it's hard for ordinary people to know what is a genuine cure and what a false remedy."
"I'll give you four rules."
He smiled in the dark. She always had a list. "All right."
"One: If there are dozens of different remedies for a complaint, you can be sure none of them works."
"Why?"
"Because if one worked, people would forget the rest."
"Logical."
"Two: Just because a remedy is unpleasant doesn't mean it's any good. Raw larks' brains do nothing for a sore throat, even though they make you heave; whereas a nice cup of hot water and honey will soothe you."
"That's good to know."