Ken Follett - World Without End

She smiled gratefully at Merthin. Most people would have told her she was powerless to fight the situation, but he was always ready to believe in her. She looked at the stone angels carved on a pinnacle, their faces blurred by two hundred years of wind and rain, and she thought of the spirit that had moved the cathedral builders. “We’re going to re-establish order and routine here. We’re going to force Kingsbridge people to return to normal, whether they like it or not. We’re going to rebuild this town and its life, despite the plague.”

“All right,” he said.

“This is the moment to do it.”

“Because everyone is so angry about Tilly?”

“And because they’re frightened at the thought that armed men can come into the town at night and murder whomever they will. They think no one’s safe.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to tell them it must never happen again.”

“This must never happen again!” she cried, and her voice rang out across the graveyard and echoed off the ancient walls of the cathedral.

A woman could never speak out as part of a service in church, but the graveside ceremony was a grey area, a solemn moment that took place outside the church, a time when lay people such as the family of the deceased would sometimes make speeches or pray aloud.

All the same, Caris was sticking her neck out. Bishop Henri was officiating, backed up by Archdeacon Lloyd and Canon Claude. Lloyd had been diocesan clerk for decades, and Claude was a colleague of Henri’s from France. In such distinguished clerical company, it was audacious for a nun to make an unscheduled speech.

Such considerations had never meant much to Caris, of course.

She spoke just as the small coffin was being lowered into the grave. Several of the congregation had begun to cry. The crowd was at least five hundred strong, but they fell silent at the sound of her voice.

“Armed men have come into our town at night and killed a young woman in the nunnery – and I will not stand for it,” she said.

There was a rumble of assent from the crowd.

She raised her voice. “The priory will not stand for it – the bishop will not stand for it – and the men and women of Kingsbridge will not stand for it!”

The support became louder, the crowd shouting: “No!” and “Amen!”

“People say the plague is sent by God. I say that when God sends rain we take shelter. When God sends winter, we build up the fire. When God sends weeds, we pull them up by the roots. We must defend ourselves!”

She glanced at Bishop Henri. He was looking bemused. He had had no warning of this sermon, and if he had been asked for his permission he would have refused it; but he could tell that Caris had the people on her side, and he did not have the nerve to intervene.

“What can we do?”

She looked around. All faces were turned to her expectantly. They had no idea what to do, but they wanted a solution from her. They would cheer at anything she said, if only it gave them hope.

“We must rebuild the city wall!” she cried.

They roared their approval.

“A new wall that is taller, and stronger, and longer than the broken-down old one.” She caught the eye of Ralph. “A wall that will keep murderers out!”

The crowd shouted: “Yes!” Ralph looked away.

“And we must elect a new constable, and a force of deputies and sentries, to uphold the law and enforce good behaviour.”

“Yes!”

“There will be a meeting of the parish guild tonight to work out the practical details, and the guild’s decisions will be announced in church next Sunday. Thank you and God bless you all.”

At the funeral banquet, in the grand dining hall of the prior’s palace, Bishop Henri sat at the head of the table. On his right was Lady Philippa, the widowed countess of Shiring. Next to her was seated the chief mourner, Tilly’s widower, Sir Ralph Fitzgerald.

Ralph was delighted to be next to Philippa. He could stare at her breasts while she concentrated on her food, and every time she leaned forward he could peek down the square neckline of her light summer dress. She did not know it yet, but the time was not far away when he would command her to take off her clothes and stand naked in front of him, and he would see those magnificent breasts in their entirety.

The dinner provided by Caris was ample but not extravagant, he noted. There were no gilded swans or towers of sugar, but there was plenty of roasted meat, boiled fish, new bread, beans and spring berries. He helped Philippa to some soup made of minced chicken with almond milk.

She said to him gravely: “This is a terrible tragedy. You have my most profound sympathy.”

People had been so compassionate that sometimes, for a few moments, Ralph thought of himself as the pitiable victim of a dreadful bereavement, and forgot that he was the one who had slid the knife into Tilly’s young heart. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Tilly was so young. But we soldiers get used to sudden death. One day a man will save your life, and swear eternal friendship and loyalty; and the next day he is struck down by a crossbow bolt through the heart, and you forget him.”

She gave him an odd look that reminded him of the way Sir Gregory had regarded him, with a mixture of curiosity and distaste, and he wondered what it was about his attitude to Tilly’s death that provoked this reaction.

Philippa said: “You have a baby boy.”

“Gerry. The nuns are looking after him today, but I’ll take him home to Tench Hall tomorrow. I’ve found a wet nurse.” He saw an opportunity to drop a hint. “Of course, he needs someone to mother him properly.”

“Yes.”

He recalled her own bereavement. “But you know what it is to lose your spouse.”

“I was fortunate to have my beloved William for twenty-one years.”

“You must be lonely.” This might not be the moment to propose, but he thought to edge the conversation towards the subject.

“Indeed. I lost my three men – William and our two sons. The castle seems so empty.”

“But not for long, perhaps.”

She stared at him as if she could not believe her ears, and he realized he had said something offensive. She turned away and spoke to Bishop Henri on her other side.

On Ralph’s right was Philippa’s daughter, Odila. “Would you like some of this pasty?” he said to her. “It’s made with peacocks and hares.” She nodded, and he cut her a slice. “How old are you?” he asked.

“I’ll be fifteen this year.”

She was tall, and had her mother’s figure already, a full bosom and wide, womanly hips. “You seem older,” he said, looking at her breasts.

He intended it as a compliment – young people generally wanted to seem older – but she blushed and looked away.

Ralph looked down at his trencher and speared a chunk of pork cooked with ginger. He ate it moodily. He was not very good at what Gregory called wooing.

Caris was seated on the left of Bishop Henri, with Merthin, as alderman, on her other side. Next to Merthin was Sir Gregory Longfellow, who had come for the funeral of Earl William three months ago and had not yet left the neighbourhood. Caris had to suppress her disgust at being at a table with the murdering Ralph and the man who had, almost certainly, put him up to it. But she had work to do at this dinner. She had a plan for the revival of the town. Rebuilding the walls was only the first part. For the second, she had to get Bishop Henri on her side.

She poured the bishop a goblet of clear red Gascon wine, and he took a long draught. He wiped his mouth and said: “You preach a good sermon.”

“Thank you,” she said, noting the ironic reproof that underlay his compliment. “Life in this town is degenerating into disorder and debauchery, and if we’re to put it right we need to inspire the townspeople. I’m sure you agree.”