Ken Follett - World Without End

Caris had seen enough. She marched up to the pair. The man took one look at her nun’s habit and walked quickly away. The girl looked both guilty and resentful. Caris said: “What are you doing – trying to sell your body?”

“No, mother.”

“Tell the truth! Why did you let him feel your breast?”

“I don’t know what to do! I haven’t got anything to eat, and now you’ve chased him away.” She burst into tears.

Caris could believe the girl was hungry. She looked thin and pale. “Come with me,” Caris said. “I’ll give you something to eat.”

She took the girl’s arm and steered her towards the priory. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ismay.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

They reached the priory and Caris took Ismay to the kitchen, where the nuns’ dinner was being prepared under the supervision of a novice called Oonagh. The kitchener, Josephine, had fallen to the plague. “Give this child some bread and butter,” Caris said to Oonagh.

She sat and watched the girl eat. Ismay obviously had not had food for days. She ate half of a four-pound loaf before slowing down.

Caris poured her a cup of cider. “Why were you starving?” she asked.

“All my family died of the plague.”

“What was your father?”

“A tailor, and I can sew very neatly, but no one is buying clothes – they can get anything they want from the homes of dead people.”

“So that’s why you were trying to prostitute yourself.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry, Mother Prioress. I was so hungry.”

“Was that the first time that you tried?”

She shook her head and would not look at Caris.

Tears of rage welled up in Caris’s eyes. What kind of man would have sexual congress with a starving thirteen-year-old? What kind of God would drive a girl to such desperation? “Would you like to live here, with the nuns, and work in the kitchen?” she said. “You would have plenty to eat.”

Ismay looked up with eagerness. “Oh, yes, mother, I’d like that.”

“Then you shall. You can begin by helping to prepare the nuns’ dinner. Oonagh, here’s a new kitchen hand.”

“Thank you, Mother Caris, I need all the help I can get.”

Caris left the kitchen and went thoughtfully into the cathedral for the service of Sext. The plague was not just a physical sickness, she was beginning to realize. Ismay had escaped the disease, but her soul had been in peril.

Bishop Henri took the service, leaving Caris free to think. At the parish guild meeting she needed to talk about more than just the flight of the monks, she decided. It was time to get the town organized to deal with the effects of the plague. But how?

She mulled over the problems through dinner. For all sorts of reasons, this was a good time to make big decisions. With the bishop here to back up her authority, she might be able to push through measures that could otherwise meet with opposition.

This was also a good moment to get what she wanted from the bishop. That was a fertile thought…

After dinner she went to see the bishop in the prior’s house, where he was staying. He was at table with Archdeacon Lloyd. They had been fed by the nuns’ kitchen and were drinking wine while a priory servant cleared the table. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner, my lord bishop,” she said formally.

He was a little less peevish than usual. “It was fine, thank you, Mother Caris – a very tasty pike. Any news of the runaway prior?”

“He seems to have been careful to leave no clue as to his destination.”

“Disappointing.”

“As I walked through the town, making inquiries, I saw several incidents that disturbed me: a thirteen-year-old girl prostituting herself; two normally law-abiding citizens fighting over a dead man’s property; a man dead drunk at midday.”

“These are the effects of the plague. It’s the same everywhere.”

“I believe we must act to counter those effects.”

He raised his eyebrows. It seemed he had not thought of taking such action. “How?”

“The prior is overlord of Kingsbridge. He is the one to take the initiative.”

“But he has vanished.”

“As bishop, you are technically our abbot. I believe you must stay here in Kingsbridge permanently, and take charge of the town.”

This was in fact the last thing she wanted. Fortunately, there was little chance of the bishop agreeing: he had far too much to do elsewhere. She was just trying to back him into a corner.

He hesitated, and for a moment she worried that she might have misjudged him, and he might accept her suggestion. Then he said: “Out of the question. Every town in the diocese has the same problems. Shiring is worse. I have to try to hold together the fabric of Christianity here while my priests are dying. I have no time to worry about drunks and prostitutes.”

“Well, somebody must act as prior of Kingsbridge. The town needs a moral leader.”

Archdeacon Lloyd put in: “My lord bishop, there is also the question of who is to receive monies owed to the priory, maintain the cathedral and other buildings, manage the lands and the serfs…”

Henri said: “Well, you will have to do all that, Mother Caris.”

She pretended to consider the suggestion as if she had not already thought of it. “I could handle all the less important tasks – managing the monks’ money and their lands – but I could not do what you can do, my lord bishop. I could not perform the holy sacraments.”

“We’ve already discussed that,” he said impatiently. “I’m creating new priests as fast as I can. But you can do everything else.”

“It almost seems as if you’re asking me to be acting prior of Kingsbridge.”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

Caris was careful not to show her elation. It seemed too good to be true. She was prior for all purposes except those she did not care about. Were there any hidden snags she had not thought of?

Archdeacon Lloyd said: “You’d better let me write her a letter to that effect, in case she needs to enforce her authority.”

Caris said: “If you want the town to abide by your wishes, you may need to impress upon them that this is your personal decision. A meeting of the parish guild is about to begin. If you’re willing, bishop, I’d like you to attend it and make an announcement.”

“All right, let us go.”

They left Godwyn’s palace and walked up the main street to the guild hall. The members were all waiting to hear what had happened to the monks. Caris began by telling them what she knew. Several people had seen or heard the exodus yesterday after dark, although no one had realized or even suspected that every single one of the monks was leaving.

She asked them to be alert for talk among travellers about a large group of monks on the road with a lot of baggage.

“But we have to accept the likelihood that the monks will not return soon. And in connection with that, the lord bishop has an announcement.” She wanted the words to come from him, not her.

Henri cleared his throat and said: “I have confirmed the election of Caris as prioress, and I have appointed her acting prior. You will all please treat her as my representative and your overlord in all matters, excepting only those reserved to ordained priests.”

Caris watched the faces. Elfric was furious. Merthin smiled faintly, guessing that she had manoeuvred herself into this position, pleased for her and for the town, the rueful twist to his mouth showing that he knew this would keep her out of his arms. Everyone else seemed glad. They knew and trusted her, and she had won even more loyalty by staying while Godwyn fled.

She would make the most of it. “Three matters I want to take care of urgently on my first day as acting prior,” she said. “First, drunkenness. Today I saw Duncan Dyer unconscious in the street before dinner time. I believe this contributes to an atmosphere of debauchery in the town, which is the last thing we need during this dreadful crisis.”