Ken Follett - World Without End

“The hospital. There have been complaints.”

“Speak to Brother Sime – he’s in charge of it, as you well know.”

“Is there no reasoning with you?” he said exasperatedly. “If Sime could solve the problem I would be talking to him, not you.”

By now they were in the monks’ cloisters. Caris sat on the low wall around the quadrangle. The stone was cold. “We can talk here. What do you have to say to me?”

Philemon was annoyed, but he gave in. He stood in front of her, and now he was the one who seemed like a subordinate. He said: “The townspeople are unhappy about the hospital.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Merthin complained to me at the guild’s Christmas dinner. They don’t come here any more, but see charlatans like Silas Pothecary.”

“He’s no more of a charlatan than Sime.”

Philemon realized that several novices were standing nearby, listening to the argument. “Go away, all of you,” he said. “Get to your studies.”

They scurried off.

Philemon said to Caris: “The townspeople think you ought to be at the hospital.”

“So do I. But I won’t follow Sime’s methods. At best, his cures have no effect. Much of the time they make patients worse. That’s why people no longer come here when they’re ill.”

“Your new hospital has so few patients that we’re using it as a guest house. Doesn’t that bother you?”

That jibe went home. Caris swallowed and looked away. “It breaks my heart,” she said quietly.

“Then come back. Figure out a compromise with Sime. You worked under monk-physicians in the early days, when you first came here. Brother Joseph was the senior doctor then. He had the same training as Sime.”

“You’re right. In those days, we felt that the monks sometimes did more harm than good, but we could work with them. Most of the time we didn’t call them in at all, we just did what we thought best. When they did attend, we didn’t always follow their instructions exactly.”

“You can’t believe they were always wrong.”

“No. Sometimes they cured people. I remember Joseph opening a man’s skull and draining accumulated fluid that had been causing unbearable headaches – it was very impressive.”

“So do the same now.”

“It’s no longer possible. Sime put an end to that, didn’t he? He moved his books and equipment into the pharmacy and took charge of the hospital. And I’m sure he did so with your encouragement. In fact it was probably your idea.” She could tell from Philemon’s expression that she was right. “You and he plotted to push me out. You succeeded – and now you’re suffering the consequences.”

“We could go back to the old system. I’ll make Sime move out.”

She shook her head. “There have been other changes. I’ve learned a lot from the plague. I’m surer than ever that the physicians’ methods can be fatal. I won’t kill people for the sake of a compromise with you.”

“You don’t realize how much is at stake.” He had a faintly smug look.

So, there was something else. She had been wondering why he had brought this up. It was not like him to fret about the hospital: he had never cared much for the work of healing. He was interested only in what would raise his status and defend his fragile pride. “All right,” she said. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

“The townspeople are talking about cutting off funds for the new tower. Why should they pay extra to the cathedral, they say, when they’re not getting what they want from us? And now that the town is a borough, I as prior can no longer enforce the payment.”

“And if they don’t pay…?”

“Your beloved Merthin will have to abandon his pet project,” Philemon said triumphantly.

Caris could see that he thought this was his trump card. And, indeed, there had been a time when the revelation would have jolted her. But no longer. “Merthin isn’t my beloved any more, is he?” she said. “You put a stop to that, too.”

A look of panic crossed his face. “But the bishop has set his heart on this tower – you can’t put that at risk!”

Caris stood up. “Can’t I?” she said. “Why not?” She turned away, heading for the nunnery.

He was flabbergasted. He called after her: “How can you be so reckless?”

She was going to ignore him, then she changed her mind and decided to explain. She turned back. “You see, all that I ever held dear has been taken from me,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And when you’ve lost everything-” Her façade began to crumble, and her voice broke, but she made herself carry on. “When you’ve lost everything, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

The first snow fell in January. It formed a thick blanket on the roof of the cathedral, smoothed out the delicate carving of the spires, and masked the faces of the angels and saints sculpted over the west door. The new masonry of the tower foundations had been covered with straw to insulate the new mortar against winter frost, and now the snow overlaid the straw.

There were few fireplaces in a priory. The kitchen had fires, of course, which was why work in kitchens was always popular with novices. But there was no fire in the cathedral, where the monks and nuns spent seven or eight hours every day. When churches burned down, it was usually because some desperate monk had brought a charcoal brazier into the building, and a spark had flown from the fire to the timber ceiling. When not in church or labouring, the monks and nuns were supposed to walk and read in the cloisters, which were out of doors. The only concession to their comfort was the warming room, a small chamber off the cloisters where a fire was lit in the most severe weather. They were allowed to come into the warming room from the cloisters for short periods.

As usual, Caris ignored rules and traditions, and permitted nuns to wear woollen hose in the winter. She did not believe that God needed his servants to get chilblains.

Bishop Henri was so worried about the hospital – or rather, about the threat to his tower – that he drove from Shiring to Kingsbridge through the snow. He came in a charette, a heavy wooden cart with a waxed canvas cover and cushioned seats. Canon Claude and Archdeacon Lloyd came with him. They paused at the prior’s palace only long enough to dry their clothes and drink a warming cup of wine before summoning a crisis meeting with Philemon, Sime, Caris, Oonagh, Merthin and Madge.

Caris knew it would be a waste of time but she went anyway: it was easier than refusing, which would have required her to sit in the nunnery and deal with endless messages begging, commanding and threatening her.

She looked at the snowflakes falling past the glazed windows as the bishop drearily summarized a quarrel in which she really had no interest. “This crisis has been brought about by the disloyal and disobedient attitude of Mother Caris,” Henri said.

That stung her into a response. “I worked in the hospital here for ten years,” she said. “My work, and the work of Mother Cecilia before me, are what made it so popular with the townspeople.” She pointed a rude finger at the bishop. “You changed it. Don’t try to blame others. You sat in that chair and announced that Brother Sime would henceforth be in charge. Now you should take responsibility for the consequences of your foolish decision.”

“You must obey me!” he said, his voice rising to a screech in frustration. “You are a nun – you have taken a vow.” The grating sound disturbed the cat, Archbishop, and it stood up and walked out of the room.

“I realize that,” Caris said. “It puts me in an intolerable position.” She spoke without forethought, but as the words came out she realized they were not really ill-considered. In fact they were the fruit of months of brooding. “I can no longer serve God in this way,” she went on, her voice calm but her heart pounding. “That is why I have decided to renounce my vows and leave the nunnery.”