Ken Follett - World Without End

Thomas said: “Anyway, he wasn’t in the monastery, he was in the nuns’ cloisters.”

Merthin frowned. He could hear a psalm being sung in the distance. Alan had timed his incursion well: all the nuns and novices were in the cathedral for the service of Sext. Most of the priory buildings were deserted at this hour. Alan had probably been walking around unhindered for some time.

This did not seem like idle curiosity.

Thomas added: “Fortunately, a kitchen hand saw him and came to fetch me out of the church.”

Merthin wondered what Alan had been looking for. Tilly? Surely he would not have dared to snatch her from a nunnery in broad daylight. He turned to Ralph. “What are you two plotting?”

Ralph batted the question off to Alan. “What did you think you were doing?” he said wrathfully, though Merthin thought the anger was faked.

Alan shrugged. “Just looking around while I waited for you.”

It was not plausible. Idle men-at-arms waited for their masters in stables and taverns, not cloisters.

Ralph said: “Well… don’t do it again.”

Merthin realized that Ralph was going to stick with this story. I was honest with him, but he’s not being honest with me, he thought sadly. He returned to the more important subject. “Why don’t you leave Tilly be for a while?” he said to Ralph. “She’ll be perfectly all right here. And perhaps, after a while, she’ll realize you mean her no harm, and come back to you.”

“It’s too shaming,” Ralph said.

“Not really. A noblewoman sometimes spends a few weeks at a monastery, if she feels the need to retire from the world for a while.”

“Usually when she’s been widowed, or her husband has gone off to war.”

“Not always, though.”

“When there’s no obvious reason, people always say she wants to get away from her husband.”

“How bad is that? You might like some time away from your wife.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Ralph said.

Merthin was startled by this response. He had not expected Ralph to be so easily persuaded. It took him a moment to get over the surprise. Then he said: “That’s it. Give her three months, then come back and talk to her.” Merthin had a feeling that Tilly would never relent, but at least this proposal would postpone the crisis.

“Three months,” said Ralph. “All right.” He stood up to go.

Merthin shook his hand. “How are Mother and Father? I haven’t seen them for months.”

“Getting old. Father doesn’t leave their house now.”

“I’ll come and visit as soon as Caris is better. She’s recovering from yellow jaundice.”

“Give her my best wishes.”

Merthin went to the door and watched Ralph and Alan ride away. He felt deeply disturbed. Ralph was up to something, and it was not simply getting Tilly back.

He returned to his drawing and sat staring at it without seeing it for a long time.

By the end of the second week it was clear that Caris was going to get better. Merthin was exhausted but happy. Feeling like a man reprieved, he put Lolla to bed early and went out for the first time.

It was a mild spring evening, and the sun and balmy air made him light-headed. His own tavern, the Bell, was closed for rebuilding, but the Holly Bush was doing brisk business, customers sitting on benches outside with their tankards. There were so many people out enjoying the weather that Merthin stopped and asked the drinkers if it was a holiday today, thinking he might have lost track of the date. “Every day’s a holiday now,” one said. “What’s the point in working, when we’re all going to die of the plague? Have a cup of ale.”

“No, thanks.” Merthin walked on.

He noticed that many people wore very fancy clothes, elaborate headgear and embroidered tunics that they would not normally have been able to afford. He presumed they had inherited these garments, or perhaps just taken them from wealthy corpses. The effect was a bit nightmarish: velvet hats on filthy hair, gold threads and food stains, ragged hose and jewel-encrusted shoes.

He saw two men dressed all in women’s clothing, floor-length gowns and wimples. They were walking along the main street arm in arm, like merchants’ wives showing off their wealth – but they were unmistakably male, with big hands and feet and hair on their chins. Merthin began to feel disoriented, as if nothing could be relied on any more.

As the dusk thickened, he crossed the bridge to Leper Island. He had built a street of shops and taverns there, between the two parts of the bridge. The work was finished, but the buildings were untenanted, with boards nailed across their doors and windows to keep vagrants out. No one lived there but rabbits. The premises would remain empty until the plague died out and Kingsbridge returned to normal, Merthin supposed. If the plague never went away, they would never be occupied; but, in that eventuality, renting his property would be the least of his worries.

He returned to the old city just as the gate was closing. There seemed to be a huge party going on at the White Horse inn. The house was full of lights, and the crowd filled the road in front of the building. “What’s going on?” Merthin asked a drinker.

“Young Davey’s got the plague, and he has no heirs to bequeath the inn to, so he’s giving all the ale away,” the man said, grinning with delight. “Drink as much as you can hold, it’s free!”

He and many other people had clearly been working on the same principle, and dozens of them were reeling drunk. Merthin pushed his way into the crowd. Someone was banging a drum and others were dancing. He saw a circle of men and looked over their shoulders to see what they were hiding. A very drunk woman of about twenty years was bending over a table while a man entered her from behind. Several other men were clearly waiting their turn. Merthin turned away in distaste. At the side of the building, half concealed by empty barrels, his eye lit on Ozzie Ostler, a wealthy horse dealer, kneeling in front of a younger man and sucking his penis. That was against the law, in fact the penalty was death, but clearly no one cared. Ozzie, a married man who was on the parish guild, caught Merthin’s eye but did not stop, in fact he continued with more enthusiasm, as if excited by being watched. Merthin shook his head, amazed. Just outside the tavern door was a table laden with partly eaten food: joints of roasted meat, smoked fish, puddings and cheese. A dog was standing on the table tearing at a ham. A man was throwing up into a bowl of stew. Beside the tavern door Davey Whitehorse sat in a big wooden chair with a huge cup of wine. He was sneezing and sweating, and the characteristic trickle of blood came from his nose, but he was looking around and cheering the revellers on. He seemed to want to kill himself with drink before the plague finished him off.

Merthin felt nauseated. He left the scene and hurried back to the priory.

To his surprise, he found Caris up and dressed. “I’m better,” she said. “I’m going to return to my usual work tomorrow.” Seeing his sceptical look, she added: “Sister Oonagh said I could.”

“If you’re taking orders from someone else, you can’t be back to normal,” he said; and she laughed. The sight brought tears to his eyes. She had not laughed for two weeks, and there had been moments when he had wondered whether he would ever hear the sound again.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

He told her about his walk around the town, and the disturbing sights he had seen. “None of it was very wicked,” he said. “I just wonder what they’ll do next. When all their inhibitions have gone, will they start to kill one another?”

A kitchen hand brought a tureen of soup for their supper. Caris sipped warily. For a long time, all food had made her feel sick. However, she seemed to find the leek soup palatable, and drank a bowlful.