Ken Follett - World Without End

“Yes!”

“What must we do?”

“Suffer!” they called. “We must suffer!”

One of the followers dashed forward, flourishing a whip. It had three leather thongs, each of which appeared to have sharp stones attached to a knot. He threw himself at Murdo’s feet and began to lash his own back. The whip tore the thin material of his robe and drew blood from the skin of his back. He cried out in pain, and the rest of Murdo’s followers groaned in sympathy.

Then a woman came forward. She pulled her robe down to her waist and turned, exposing her bare breasts to the crowd; then lashed her bare back with a similar whip. The followers moaned again.

As they came forward in ones and twos, flogging themselves, Caris saw that many of them had bruises and half-healed cuts on their skin: they had done this before, some of them many times. Did they go from town to town repeating the performance? Given Murdo’s involvement, she felt sure that sooner or later someone would start collecting money.

A woman in the watching crowd suddenly ran forward screaming: “Me, too, I must suffer!” Caris was surprised to see that it was Mared, the browbeaten young wife of Marcel Chandler. Caris could not imagine that she had committed many sins, but perhaps she had at last seen a chance to make her life dramatic. She threw off her dress and stood stark naked before the friar. Her skin was unmarked, in fact she looked beautiful.

Murdo gazed at her for a long moment then said: “Kiss my feet.”

She knelt in front of him, exposing her rear obscenely to the crowd, and lowered her face to his filthy feet.

He took a whip from another penitent and handed it to her. She lashed herself, then shrieked in pain, and red marks appeared instantly on her white skin.

Several more ran forward eagerly from the crowd, mostly men, and Murdo went through the same ritual with each. Soon there was an orgy. When they were not whipping themselves they were banging their drums and clanging their bells and dancing their fiendish jig.

Their actions had a mad abandon, but Caris’s professional eye noted that the strokes of the whips, though dramatic and undoubtedly painful, did not appear to inflict permanent damage.

Merthin appeared beside Caris and said: “What do you think of this?”

She frowned and said: “Why does it make me feel indignant?”

“I don’t know.”

“If people want to whip themselves, why should I object? Perhaps it makes them feel better.”

“I agree with you, though,” Merthin said. “There’s generally something fraudulent about anything Murdo is involved with.”

“That’s not it.”

The mood here was not one of penitence, she decided. These dancers were not looking back contemplatively over their lives, feeling sorrow and regret for sins committed. People who genuinely repented tended to be quiet, thoughtful and undemonstrative. What Caris sensed in the air here was quite different. It was excitement.

“This is a debauch,” she said.

“Only instead of drink, they’re overindulging in self-loathing.”

“And there’s a kind of ecstasy in it.”

“But no sex.”

“Give them time.”

Murdo led the procession off again, heading out of the priory precincts. Caris noticed that some of the flagellants had produced bowls and were begging coins from the crowd. They would go through the principal streets of the town like this, she guessed. They would probably finish up at one of the larger taverns, where people would buy them food and drink.

Merthin touched her arm. “You look pale,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Just tired,” she said curtly. She had to soldier on regardless of how she felt, and it did not help her to be reminded of her tiredness. However, it was kind of him to notice, and she softened her tone to say: “Come to the prior’s house. It’s almost dinner time.”

They walked across the green as the procession disappeared. They stepped inside the palace. As soon as they were alone, Caris put her arms around Merthin and kissed him. She suddenly felt very physical, and she thrust her tongue into his mouth, which she knew he liked. In response, he took both her breasts in his hands and squeezed gently. They had never kissed like this inside the palace, and Caris wondered vaguely whether something about Friar Murdo’s bacchanal had weakened her normal inhibitions.

“Your skin is hot,” Merthin said in her ear.

She wanted Merthin to pull down her robe and put his mouth to her nipples. She felt she was losing control, and might find herself recklessly making love right here on the floor, where they might so easily be caught.

Then a girl’s voice said: “I didn’t mean to spy.”

Caris was shocked. She sprang guiltily away from Merthin. She turned around, looking for the speaker. At the far end of the room, sitting on a bench, was a young woman holding a baby. It was Ralph Fitzgerald’s wife. “Tilly!” said Caris.

Tilly stood up. She looked exhausted and frightened. “I’m so sorry to startle you,” she said.

Caris was relieved. Tilly had attended the nuns’ school and lived at the nunnery for years, and she was fond of Caris. She could be trusted not to make a fuss about the kiss she had seen. But what was she doing here? “Are you all right?” Caris said.

“I’m a bit tired,” Tilly said. She staggered, and Caris caught her arm.

The baby cried. Merthin took the child and rocked him expertly. “There, there, my little nephew,” he said. The crying fell to a mild grizzle of discontent.

Caris said to Tilly: “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“From Tench Hall? Carrying Gerry?” The baby was now six months old, and no easy burden.

“It took me three days.”

“My goodness. Has something happened?”

“I ran away.”

“Didn’t Ralph come after you?”

“Yes, with Alan. I hid in the forest while they went by. Gerry was very good and didn’t cry.”

The picture brought a lump to Caris’s throat. “But…” She swallowed. “But why did you run away?”

“Because my husband wants to kill me,” Tilly said, and she burst into tears.

Caris sat her down and Merthin brought her a cup of wine. They let her sob. Caris sat on the bench beside her and put an arm around her shoulders while Merthin cradled baby Gerry. When at last Tilly had cried herself out, Caris said: “What has Ralph done?”

Tilly shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just the way he looks at me. I know he wants to murder me.”

Merthin muttered: “I wish I could say my brother is incapable of that.”

Caris said: “But why would he want to do such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know,” Tilly said miserably. “Ralph went to Uncle William’s funeral. There was a lawyer from London there, Sir Gregory Longfellow.”

“I know him,” Caris said. “A clever man, but I don’t like him.”

“It started after that. I have a feeling it’s all to do with Gregory.”

Caris said: “You wouldn’t have walked all this way, carrying a baby, because of something you just imagined.”

“I know it sounds fanciful, but he just sits and glares at me hatefully. How can a man look at his wife like that?”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Caris said. “You’re safe here.”

“Can I stay?” she begged. “You won’t send me back, will you?”

“Certainly not,” said Caris. She caught Merthin’s eye. She knew what he was thinking. It would be rash to give Tilly a guarantee. Fugitives might take refuge in churches, as a general principle, but it was very doubtful whether a nunnery had the right to shelter a knight’s wife and keep her from him indefinitely. Moreover Ralph would certainly be entitled to make her give up the baby, his son and heir. All the same, Caris put as much confidence into her voice as she could and said: “You can stay here just as long as you like.”