Ken Follett - World Without End

She did not feel for Mair the same happy lust that Merthin inspired in her. But Merthin was a thousand miles away and seven years in the past. And she was fond of Mair. It was something to do with her angelic face, something about her blue eyes, some response to her gentleness in the hospital and the school.

Mair always spoke sweetly to Caris and, when no one was looking, touched her arm, or her shoulder, and once her cheek. Caris did not rebuff her, but she held back from responding. It was not that she thought it would be a sin. She felt sure God was much too wise to make a rule against women harmlessly pleasuring themselves or each other. But she was afraid of disappointing Mair. Instinct told her that Mair’s feelings were strong and definite, whereas her own were uncertain. She’s in love with me, Caris thought, but I’m not in love with her. If I kiss her again, she may hope that the two of us will be soul mates for life, and I can’t promise her that.

So she did nothing, until Fleece Fair week.

The Kingsbridge fair had recovered from the slump of 1338. The trade in raw wool was still suffering from interference by the king, and the Italians came only every second year, but the new business of weaving and dyeing compensated. The town was still not as prosperous as it might have been, for Prior Godwyn’s prohibition of private mills had driven the industry out of the city and into the surrounding villages; but most of the cloth was sold in the market, indeed it had become known as Kingsbridge Scarlet. Merthin’s bridge had been finished by Elfric, and people poured across the wide double span with their packhorses and wagons.

So, on the Saturday night before the official opening of the fair, the hospital was full to bursting with visitors.

And one of them was ill.

His name was Maldwyn Cook, and his trade was to make salty little savouries with flour and scraps of meat or fish, cook them quickly in butter over a fire, and sell them six for a farthing. Soon after he arrived, he was afflicted with a sudden, savage belly ache, followed by vomiting and diarrhoea. There was nothing Caris could do for him other than give him a bed near the door.

She had long wanted to give the hospital its own latrine, so that she could supervise its cleanliness. But that was only one of the improvements she hoped for. She needed a new pharmacy, adjacent to the hospital, a spacious, well-lit room where she could prepare medicines and make her notes. And she was trying to figure out a way to give patients more privacy. At present everyone in the room could see a woman giving birth, a man having a fit, a child vomiting. People in distress should have small rooms of their own, she felt, like the side chapels in a large church. But she was not sure how to achieve this: the hospital was not big enough. She had had several discussions with Jeremiah Builder – who had been Merthin’s apprentice Jimmie, many years ago – but he had not come up with a satisfactory solution.

Next morning, three more people had the same symptoms as Maldwyn Cook.

Caris fed the visitors breakfast and tipped them out into the market. Only the sick were allowed to stay behind. The floor of the hospital was filthier than usual, and she had it swept and swabbed. Then she went to the service in the cathedral.

Bishop Richard was not present. He was with the king, preparing to invade France again – he had always regarded his bishopric mainly as a means of supporting his aristocratic lifestyle. In his absence the diocese was run by Archdeacon Lloyd, who collected the bishop’s tithes and rents, baptized children and conducted services with dogged but unimaginative efficiency – a trait he illustrated by giving a tedious sermon on why God was more important than Money, an odd note on which to open one of England’s great commercial fairs.

Nevertheless, everyone was in high spirits, as was usual on the first day. The Fleece Fair was the high point of the year for the townspeople and the peasants of the surrounding villages. People made money at the fair and lost it gambling in the inns. Strapping village girls allowed themselves to be seduced by slick city boys. Prosperous peasants paid the town’s prostitutes for services they dared not ask their wives to perform. There was usually a murder, often several.

Caris spotted the heavy-set, richly dressed figure of Buonaventura Caroli in the congregation, and her heart faltered. He might have news of Merthin. She went through the service distractedly, mumbling the psalms. On the way out she managed to catch Buonaventura’s eye. He smiled at her. She tried to indicate, with an inclination of her head, that she wanted him to meet her afterwards. She was not sure whether he got the message.

However, she went to the hospital – the only place in the priory where a nun could meet a man from outside – and Buonaventura came in not long afterwards. He wore a costly blue coat and pointed shoes. He said: “Last time I saw you, you had just been consecrated a nun by Bishop Richard.”

“I’m guest master now,” she said.

“Congratulations! I never expected you to take so well to convent life.” Buonaventura had known her since she was a little girl.

“Nor did I,” she laughed.

“The priory seems to be doing well.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I see that Godwyn is building a new palace.”

“Yes.”

“He must be prospering.”

“I suppose he is. How about you? Is trade good?”

“We have some problems. The war between England and France has disrupted transport, and your King Edward’s taxes make English wool more expensive than the Spanish. But it’s also better quality.”

They always complained about taxes. Caris came to the subject that really interested her. “Any news of Merthin?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Buonaventura said; and although his manner was as urbane as ever, she detected a hesitation. “Merthin is married.”

Caris felt as if she had been punched. She had never expected this, never even thought of it. How could Merthin do this? He was… they were…

There was no reason at all why he should not get married, of course. She had rejected him more than once, and on the last occasion she had made her rejection final by entering the nunnery. It was only remarkable that he had waited so long. She had no right to feel hurt.

She forced a smile. “How splendid!” she said. “Please send him my congratulations. Who is the girl?”

Buonaventura pretended not to notice her distress. “Her name is Silvia,” he said, as casually as if he were passing on harmless gossip. “She’s the younger daughter of one of the city’s most prominent citizens, Alessandro Christi, a trader in oriental spices who owns several ships.”

“How old?”

He grinned. “Alessandro? He must be about my age…”

“Don’t tease me!” She was grateful to Buonaventura for lightening the tone. “How old is Silvia?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Six years younger than me.”

“A beautiful girl…”

She sensed the unspoken qualification. “But…?”

He tilted his head to one side apologetically. “She has the reputation of being sharp-tongued. Of course, people say all sorts of things… but perhaps that is why she remained single so long – girls in Florence generally marry before the age of eighteen.”

“I’m sure it’s true,” Caris said. “The only girls Merthin liked in Kingsbridge were me and Elizabeth Clerk, and we’re both shrews.”

Buonaventura laughed. “Not so, not so.”

“When was the wedding?”

“Two years ago. Not long after I last saw you.”

Caris realized that Merthin had remained single until she had been consecrated as a nun. He would have heard, via Buonaventura, that she had taken the final step. She thought of him waiting and hoping, for more than four years, in a foreign country; and her brittle façade of good cheer began to crack.