Ken Follett - World Without End

Out of a population of about seven thousand, Kingsbridge had lost at least a thousand by mid-January. Other towns were similar. Despite the masks Caris had invented, the death toll was higher among the nuns, no doubt because they were continually in contact with plague victims. There had been thirty-five nuns, and now there were twenty. But they heard of places where almost every monk or nun had died, leaving a handful, or sometimes just one, to carry on the work; so they counted themselves fortunate. Meanwhile, Caris had shortened the period of novitiate and intensified the training so that she would have more help in the hospital.

Merthin hired the barman from the Holly Bush and put him in charge of the Bell. He also took on a sensible seventeen-year-old girl called Martina to nursemaid Lolla.

Then the plague seemed to die down. Having buried a hundred people a week in the run-up to Christmas, Caris found that the number dropped to fifty in January, then twenty in February. She allowed herself to hope that the nightmare might be coming to an end.

One of the unlucky people to fall ill during this period was a dark-haired man in his thirties who might once have been good-looking. He was a visitor to the town. “I thought I had a cold yesterday,” he said when he came through the door. “But now I’ve got this nosebleed that won’t stop.” He was holding a bloody rag to his nostrils.

“I’ll find you somewhere to lie down,” she said through her linen mask.

“It’s the plague, isn’t it?” he said, and she was surprised to hear calm resignation in his voice in place of the usual panic. “Can you do anything to cure it?”

“We can make you comfortable, and we can pray for you.”

“That won’t do any good. Even you don’t believe in it, I can tell.”

She was shocked by how easily he had read her heart. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she protested weakly. “I’m a nun, I must believe it.”

“You can tell me the truth. How soon will I die?”

She looked hard at him. He was smiling at her, a charming smile that she guessed had melted a few female hearts. “Why aren’t you frightened?” she said. “Everyone else is.”

“I don’t believe what I’m told by priests.” He looked at her shrewdly. “And I have a suspicion that you don’t either.”

She was not about to have this discussion with a stranger, no matter how charming. “Almost everyone who falls ill with the plague dies within three to five days,” she said bluntly. “A few survive, no one knows why.”

He took it well. “As I thought.”

“You can lie down here.”

He gave her the bad-boy grin again. “Will it do me any good?”

“If you don’t lie down soon, you’ll fall down.”

“All right.” He lay on the palliasse she indicated.

She gave him a blanket. “What’s your name?”

“Tam.”

She studied his face. Despite his charm, she sensed a streak of cruelty. He might seduce women, she thought, but if that failed he would rape them. His skin was weathered by outdoor living, and he had the red nose of a drinker. His clothes were costly but dirty. “I know who you are,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be punished for your sins?”

“If I believed that, I wouldn’t have committed them. Are you afraid you’ll burn in hell?”

It was a question she normally sidestepped, but she felt that this dying outlaw deserved a true answer. “I believe that what I do becomes part of me,” she said. “When I’m brave and strong, and care for children and the sick and the poor, I become a better person. And when I’m cruel, or cowardly, or tell lies, or get drunk, I turn into someone less worthy, and I can’t respect myself. That’s the divine retribution I believe in.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I wish I’d met you twenty years ago.”

She made a deprecatory noise. “I would have been twelve.”

He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

That was enough, she decided. He was beginning to flirt – and she was beginning to enjoy it. She turned away.

“You’re a brave woman to do this work,” he said. “It will probably kill you.”

“I know,” she said, turning to face him again. “But this is my destiny. I can’t run away from people who need me.”

“Your prior doesn’t seem to think that way.”

“He’s vanished.”

“People can’t vanish.”

“I mean, no one knows where Prior Godwyn and the monks have gone.”

“I do,” said Tam.

The weather at the end of February was sunny and mild. Caris left Kingsbridge on a dun pony, heading for St-John-in-the-Forest. Merthin went with her, riding a black cob. Normally, eyebrows would have been raised by a nun going on a journey accompanied only by a man, but these were strange times.

The danger from outlaws had receded. Many had fallen victim to the plague, Tam Hiding had told her himself before he died. Also, the sudden drop in population had brought about a countrywide surplus of food, wine and clothing – all the things outlaws normally stole. Those outlaws who survived the plague could walk into ghost towns and abandoned villages and take whatever they wanted.

Caris had at first felt frustrated to learn that Godwyn was no farther than two days’ journey from Kingsbridge. She had imagined him gone to a place so distant that he would never return. However, she was glad of the chance to retrieve the priory’s money and valuables and, in particular, the nunnery’s charters, so vital whenever there was a dispute about property or rights.

When and if she was able to confront Godwyn, she would demand the return of the priory’s property, in the name of the bishop. She had a letter from Henri to back her up. If Godwyn still refused, that would prove beyond doubt that he was stealing it rather than keeping it safe. The bishop could then take legal action to get it back – or simply arrive at the cell with a force of men-at-arms.

Although disappointed that Godwyn was not permanently out of her life, Caris relished the prospect of confronting him with his cowardice and dishonesty.

As she rode away from the town she recalled that her last long journey had been to France, with Mair – a real adventure in every way. She felt bereft when she thought of Mair. Of all those who had died of the plague, she missed Mair the most: her beautiful face, her kind heart, her love.

But it was a joy to have Merthin to herself for two whole days. Following the road through the forest, side by side on their horses, they talked continuously, about anything that sprang to mind, just as they had when they were adolescents.

Merthin was as full of bright ideas as ever. Despite the plague, he was building shops and taverns on Leper Island, and he told her he planned to demolish the tavern he had inherited from Bessie Bell and rebuild it twice as big.

Caris guessed that he and Bessie had been lovers – why else would she have left her property to him? But Caris had only herself to blame. She was the one Merthin really wanted, and Bessie had been second best. Both women had known that. All the same, Caris felt jealous and angry when she thought of Merthin in bed with that plump barmaid.

They stopped at noon and rested by a stream. They ate bread, cheese and apples, the food that all but the wealthiest travellers carried. They gave the horses some grain: grazing was not enough for a mount that had to carry a man or woman all day. When they had eaten, they lay in the sun for a few minutes, but the ground was too cold and damp for sleep, and they soon roused themselves and moved on.

They quickly slipped back into the affectionate intimacy of their youth. Merthin had always been able to make her laugh, and she needed cheering up, with people dying every day in the hospital. She soon forgot to be angry about Bessie.