Ken Follett - World Without End

“Oh, thank you.”

Caris silently prayed that she would be able to keep her promise.

“You could live in one of the special guest rooms upstairs in the hospital,” she said.

Tilly looked troubled. “But what if Ralph should come in?”

“He wouldn’t dare. But if it makes you feel safer, you can have Mother Cecilia’s old room, at the end of the nuns’ dormitory.”

“Yes, please.”

A priory servant came in to lay the table for dinner. Caris said to Tilly: “I’ll take you to the refectory. You can have dinner with the nuns, then lie down in the dormitory and rest.” She stood up.

Suddenly she felt dizzy. She put a hand on the table to steady herself. Merthin, still holding baby Gerry, said anxiously: “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” Caris said. “I’m just tired.”

Then she fell to the floor.

Merthin felt a tidal wave of panic. For an instant, he was stunned. Caris had never been ill, never helpless – she was the one who took care of the sick. He could not think of her as a victim.

The moment passed like a blink. Fighting down his fear, he carefully handed the baby to Tilly.

The servant girl had stopped laying the table and stood staring in shock at the unconscious form of Caris on the floor. Merthin deliberately made his voice calm but urgent and said to her: “Run to the hospital and tell them Mother Caris is ill. Bring Sister Oonagh. Go on, now, as quick as you can!” She hurried away.

Merthin knelt beside Caris. “Can you hear me, my darling?” he said. He picked up her limp hand and patted it, then touched her cheek, then lifted an eyelid. She was out cold.

Tilly said: “She’s got the plague, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, God.” Merthin took Caris in his arms. He was a slight man, but he had always been able to lift heavy objects, building stones and timber beams. He lifted her easily and stood upright, then laid her gently on the table. “Don’t die,” he whispered. “Please don’t die.”

He kissed her forehead. Her skin was hot. He had felt it when they embraced a few minutes ago, but he had been too excited to worry. Perhaps that was why she had been so passionate: fever could have that effect.

Sister Oonagh came in. Merthin was so grateful to see her that tears came to his eyes. She was a young nun, only a year or two out of her novitiate, but Caris thought highly of her nursing skill, and was grooming her to take responsibility for the hospital one day.

Oonagh wrapped a linen mask over her mouth and nose and tied it in a knot behind her neck. Then she touched Caris’s forehead and cheek. “Did she sneeze?” she said.

Merthin wiped his eyes. “No,” he answered. He felt sure he would have noticed: a sneeze was an ominous sign.

Oonagh pulled down the front of Caris’s robe. To Merthin she looked agonizingly vulnerable with her small breasts exposed. But he was glad to see there was no rash of purple-black spots on her chest. Oonagh covered her up again. She looked up Caris’s nostrils. “No bleeding,” she said. She felt Caris’s pulse thoughtfully.

After a few moments she looked at Merthin. “This may not be the plague, but it seems a serious illness. She’s feverish, her pulse is rapid and her breathing is shallow. Carry her upstairs, lie her down and bathe her face with rose water. Anyone who attends her must wear a mask and wash their hands as if she had the plague. That includes you.” She gave him a linen strip.

Tears rolled down his face as he tied the mask. He carried Caris upstairs, put her on the mattress in her room and straightened her clothing. The nuns brought rose water and vinegar. Merthin told them of Caris’s instructions regarding Tilly, and they took the young mother and baby to the refectory. Merthin sat beside Caris, patting her forehead and cheeks with a rag damped with the fragrant liquid, praying for her to come round.

At last she did. She opened her eyes, frowned in puzzlement, then looked anxious and said: “What happened?”

“You fainted,” he said.

She tried to sit up.

“Keep still,” he said. “You’re sick. It’s probably not the plague, but you have a serious illness.”

She must have felt weak, for she lay back on the pillow without further protest. “I’ll just rest for an hour,” she said.

She was in bed for two weeks.

After three days the whites of her eyes turned the colour of mustard, and Sister Oonagh said she had the yellow jaundice. Oonagh prepared an infusion of herbs sweetened with honey, which Caris drank hot three times a day. The fever receded, but Caris remained weak. She inquired anxiously about Tilly every day, and Oonagh answered her questions, but refused to discuss any other aspect of life in the nunnery, in case it should tire Caris. Caris was too enfeebled to fight her.

Merthin did not leave the prior’s palace. In the daytime he sat downstairs, close enough to hear her call, and his employees came to him for instructions about the various buildings they were putting up or tearing down. At night he lay on a mattress beside her and slept lightly, waking every time her breathing changed or she turned over in her bed. Lolla slept in the next room.

At the end of the first week, Ralph showed up.

“My wife has disappeared,” he said as he walked into the hall of the prior’s palace.

Merthin looked up from a drawing he was making on a large slate. “Hello, brother,” he said. Ralph looked shifty, he thought. Clearly he had mixed feelings about Tilly’s disappearance. He was not fond of her, but on the other hand no man likes his wife to run away.

Perhaps I have mixed feelings, too, Merthin thought guiltily. After all, I did help his wife to leave him.

Ralph sat on a bench. “Have you got any wine? I’m parched.”

Merthin went to the sideboard and poured from a jug. It crossed his mind to say he had no idea where Tilly could be, but his instinct revolted from the idea of lying to his own brother, especially about something so important. Besides, Tilly’s presence at the priory could not be kept secret: too many nuns, novices and employees had seen her here. It was always best to be honest, Merthin thought, except in dire emergency. Handing the cup to Ralph he said: “Tilly is here, at the nunnery, with the baby.”

“I thought she might be.” Ralph lifted the cup in his left hand, showing the stumps of his three severed fingers. He took a long draught. “What’s the matter with her?”

“She ran away from you, Ralph.”

“You should have let me know.”

“I feel bad about that. But I couldn’t betray her. She’s frightened of you.”

“Why take sides with her against me? I’m your brother!”

“Because I know you. If she’s scared, there’s probably a reason.”

“This is outrageous.” Ralph was trying to appear indignant, but the act was unconvincing.

Merthin wondered what he really felt.

“We can’t throw her out,” Merthin said. “She’s asked for sanctuary.”

“Gerry’s my son and heir. You can’t keep him from me.”

“Not indefinitely, no. If you start a legal action, I’m sure you’ll win. But you wouldn’t try to separate him from his mother, would you?”

“If he comes home, she will.”

That was probably true. Merthin was casting around for another way of persuading Ralph when Brother Thomas came in, bringing Alan Fernhill with him. With his one hand, Thomas was holding Alan’s arm, as if to prevent him from running away. “I found him snooping,” he said.

“I was just looking around,” Alan protested. “I thought the monastery was empty.”

Merthin said: “As you see, it’s not. We’ve got one monk, six novices and a couple of dozen orphan boys.”