Ken Follett - World Without End

But what was going on? Everyone waited for Cecilia to explain.

She said: “Caris has applied to become a novice nun here at the priory-”

Once again she was interrupted by a shout of shock from the assembled townspeople.

She yelled over their voices: “-and I have accepted her!”

There was uproar. Merthin could see Godwyn yelling at the top of his voice, but his words were lost. Elizabeth was enraged; Philemon stared at Cecilia with poisonous hatred; Elfric looked bewildered; Richard was amused. Merthin’s own mind reeled with the implications. Would the bishop accept this? Did it mean the trial was over? Had Caris been saved from execution?

Eventually the tumult died down. As soon as he could be heard, Godwyn spoke, his face white with fury. “Did she, or did she not, confess to heresy?”

“The confessional is a sacred trust,” Cecilia replied imperturbably. “I don’t know what she said to the priest, and if I did I could not tell you or anyone else.”

“Does she bear the mark of Satan?”

“We did not examine her.” This answer was evasive, Merthin realized, but Cecilia quickly added: “It was not necessary once she had received absolution.”

“This is unacceptable!” Godwyn bellowed. He had dropped the pretence that Philemon was the prosecutor. “The prioress cannot frustrate the proceedings of the court in this way!”

Bishop Richard said: “Thank you, Father Prior-”

“The order of the court must be carried out!”

Richard raised his voice. “That will do!”

Godwyn opened his mouth to protest further, then thought better of it.

Richard said: “I don’t need to hear any more argument. I have made my decision, and I will now announce my judgement.”

Silence fell.

“The proposal that Caris be permitted to enter the nunnery is an interesting one. If she is a witch, she will be unable to do any harm in the holiness of her surroundings. The devil cannot enter here. On the other hand, if she is not a witch, we will have been saved from the error of condemning an innocent woman. Perhaps the nunnery would not have been Caris’s choice as a way of life, but her consolation will be an existence dedicated to serving God. On balance, then, I find this a satisfactory solution.”

Godwyn said: “What if she should leave the nunnery?”

“Good point,” said the bishop. “That is why I am formally sentencing her to death, but suspending the sentence for as long as she remains a nun. If she should renounce her vows, the sentence would be carried out.”

That’s it, thought Merthin in despair: a life sentence; and he felt tears of rage and grief come to his eyes.

Richard stood up. Godwyn said: “The court is adjourned!” The bishop left, followed by the monks and nuns in procession.

Merthin moved in a daze. His mother spoke to him in a consoling voice, but he ignored her. He let the crowd carry him to the great west door of the cathedral and out on to the green. The traders were packing up their leftover goods and dismantling their stalls: the Fleece Fair was over for another year. Godwyn had got what he wanted, he realized. With Edmund dying and Caris out of the way, Elfric would become alderman and the application for a borough charter would be withdrawn.

He looked at the grey stone walls of the priory buildings: Caris was in there somewhere. He turned that way, moving across the tide of the crowd, and headed for the hospital.

The place was empty. It had been swept clean, and the straw-filled palliasses used by the overnight visitors were stacked neatly against the walls. A candle burned on the altar at the eastern end. Merthin walked slowly the length of the room, not sure what to do next.

He recalled, from Timothy’s Book, that his ancestor Jack Builder had briefly become a novice monk. The author had hinted that Jack had been a reluctant recruit, and had not taken easily to monastic discipline; at any rate, his novitiate had ended abruptly in circumstances over which Timothy drew a tactful veil.

But Bishop Richard had stated that if Caris ever left the nunnery she would be under sentence of death.

A young nun came in. When she recognized Merthin she looked scared. “What do you want?” she said.

“I must speak to Caris.”

“I’ll go and ask,” she said, and hurried out.

Merthin looked at the altar, and the crucifix, and the triptych on the wall showing Elizabeth of Hungary, the patron saint of hospitals. One panel showed the saint, who had been a princess, wearing a crown and feeding the poor; the second showed her building her hospital; and the third illustrated the miracle in which the food she carried beneath her cloak was turned into roses. What would Caris do in this place? She was a sceptic, doubtful of just about everything the church taught. She did not believe that a princess could turn bread into roses. “How do they know that?” she would say to stories that everyone else accepted without question – Adam and Eve, Noah’s ark, David and Goliath, even the Nativity. She would be a caged wildcat in here.

He had to talk to her, to find out what was in her mind. She must have some plan that he was not able to guess at. He waited impatiently for the nun to return. She did not come back, but Old Julie appeared. “Thank heaven!” he said. “Julie, I have to see Caris, quickly!”

“I’m sorry, young Merthin,” she said. “Caris doesn’t want to see you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “We’re betrothed – we’re supposed to get married tomorrow. She has to see me!”

“She’s a novice nun, now. She won’t be getting married.”

Merthin raised his voice. “If that’s true, don’t you think she should tell me herself?”

“It’s not for me to say. She knows you’re here, and she won’t see you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Merthin pushed past the old nun and went through the door by which she had entered. He found himself in a small lobby. He had never been here before: few men had ever entered the nuns’ area of the priory. He passed through another door and found himself in the nuns’ cloisters. Several of them stood there, some reading, some walking around the square meditatively, some talking in quiet voices.

He ran along the arcade. A nun caught sight of him and screamed. He ignored her. Seeing a staircase, he ran up it and entered the first room. He found himself in a dormitory. There were two lines of mattresses, with neatly folded blankets on top. No one was there. He went a few steps along the corridor and tried another door. It was locked. “Caris!” he shouted. “Are you in there? Speak to me!” He banged on the door with his fist. He scraped the skin of his knuckles, which started to bleed, but he hardly felt the pain. “Let me in!” he yelled. “Let me in!”

A voice behind him said: “I’ll let you in.”

He spun round to see Mother Cecilia.

She took a key from her belt and calmly unlocked the door. Merthin threw it open. Beyond it was a small room with a single window. All around the walls were shelves packed with folded clothes.

“This is where we keep our winter robes,” Cecilia said. “It’s a storeroom.”

“Where is she?” Merthin shouted.

“She’s in a room that is locked by her own request. You won’t find the room and, if you did, you couldn’t get in. She will not see you.”

“How do I know she’s not dead?” Merthin heard his voice crack with emotion, but he did not care.

“You know me,” Cecilia said. “She’s not dead.” She looked at his hand. “You’ve hurt yourself,” she said sympathetically. “Come with me and let me put some ointment on your cuts.”

He looked at his hand, and then at her. “You’re a devil,” he said.

He ran from her, back the way he had come, into the hospital, past a scared-looking Julie, out into the open. He made his way through the end-of-fair chaos in front of the cathedral and emerged on to the main street. He thought of speaking to Edmund, but decided against it: someone else could tell Caris’s ailing father the terrible truth. Whom could he trust? He thought of Mark Webber.