Ken Follett - World Without End

That was Bessie’s father’s inn. “All right,” Caris said despondently.

As Merthin walked away, she called after him: “Loreen would be better off if she’d never married.”

He spoke over his shoulder. “What else would she do?”

That was the problem, Caris thought resentfully as she entered her house. What else was a woman to do?

The place was empty. Edmund and Petranilla were at the banquet, and the servants had the afternoon off. Only Scrap the dog was there to welcome Caris with a lazy wag of her tail. Caris patted her black head absent-mindedly, then sat at the table in the hall, brooding.

Every other young woman in Christendom wanted nothing more than to marry the man she loved – why was Caris so horrified by the prospect? From where had she got such unconventional feelings? Certainly not from her own mother. Rose had wanted only to be a good wife to Edmund. She had believed what men said about the inferiority of women. Her subordination had embarrassed Caris and, though Edmund never complained, Caris suspected that he had been bored by it. Caris had more respect for her forceful, unlovable Aunt Petranilla than for her compliant mother.

Even Petranilla had allowed her life to be shaped by men. For years she had worked to manoeuvre her father up the social ladder until he became alderman of Kingsbridge. Her strongest emotion was resentment: towards Earl Roland because he had jilted her, and towards her husband because he had died. As a widow she had dedicated herself to Godwyn’s career.

Queen Isabella had been similar. She had deposed her husband, King Edward II; but the result had been that her lover, Roger Mortimer, had effectively ruled England until her son grew old enough and confident enough to oust him.

Was that what Caris should do – live her life through men? Her father wanted her to work with him in the wool business. Or she could manage Merthin’s career, helping him secure contracts to construct churches and bridges, expanding his business until he was the richest and most important builder in England.

She was roused from her thoughts by a tap at the door, and the bird-like figure of Mother Cecilia walked briskly in.

“Good afternoon!” Caris said in surprise. “I was just asking myself whether all women are doomed to live their lives through men – and here you are, an obvious counter-example.”

“You’re not quite right,” Cecilia said with a friendly smile. “I live through Jesus Christ, who was a man, though he is God too.”

Caris was not sure whether that counted. She opened the cupboard and took out a small barrel of the best wine. “Would you like a cup of my father’s Rhenish?”

“Just a little, mixed with water.”

Caris half filled two cups with wine then topped up the drinks with water from a jug. “You know that my father and aunt are at the banquet.”

“Yes. I came to see you.”

Caris had guessed as much. The prioress did not wander around the town making social calls without a purpose.

Cecilia sipped, then went on: “I’ve been thinking about you, and the way you acted on the day the bridge collapsed.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“On the contrary. You did everything perfectly. You were gentle but firm with the injured, and you obeyed my orders but at the same time used your initiative. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“And you seemed… not to enjoy it, exactly, but at least to find satisfaction in the work.”

“People were in distress, and we brought them relief – what could be more satisfying?”

“That’s how I feel, and it’s why I’m a nun.”

Caris saw where this was going. “I couldn’t spend my life in the priory.”

“The natural aptitude you showed for looking after the sick is only part of what I noticed. When people first started to walk into the cathedral carrying the injured and dead, I asked who had told them what to do. The answer was Caris Wooler.”

“It was obvious what should be done.”

“Yes – to you.” Cecilia leaned forward earnestly. “The talent for organization is given to few people. I know – I have it, and I recognize it in others. When everyone around us is baffled, or panicked, or terrified, you and I take charge.”

Caris felt this was true. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.

“I’ve watched you for ten years – since the day your mother died.”

“You brought her relief in her distress.”

“I knew then, just by talking to you, that you were going to grow up into an exceptional woman. My feeling was confirmed when you attended the nuns’ school. You’re twenty now. You must be thinking about what to do with your life. I believe that God has work for you.”

“How do you know what God thinks?”

Cecilia bristled. “If anyone else in town asked me that question, I’d order them down on their knees to pray for forgiveness. But you’re sincere, so I’ll answer. I know what God thinks because I accept the teachings of His church. And I’m convinced he wants you to be a nun.”

“I like men too much.”

“Always a problem for me, as a youngster – but, I can assure you, a problem that diminishes with every passing year.”

“I can’t be told how to live.”

“Don’t be a Beguine.”

“What’s that?”

“Beguines are nuns who accept no rules and consider their vows to be temporary. They live together, cultivate their lands and graze their cattle, and refuse to be governed by men.”

Caris was always intrigued to hear of women who defied the rules. “Where are they to be found?”

“Mostly in the Netherlands. They had a leader, Marguerite Porete, who wrote a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“Out of the question. The Beguines have been condemned by the Church for the heresy of the Free Spirit – the belief that we can attain spiritual perfection here on earth.”

“Spiritual perfection? What does that mean? It’s just a phrase.”

“If you’re determined to close your mind to God, you’ll never understand it.”

“I’m sorry, Mother Cecilia, but every time I’m told something about God by a mere human, I think: ‘But humans are fallible, so the truth might be different.’ ”

“How could the church be wrong?”

“Well, the Muslims have different beliefs.”

“They’re heathens!”

“They call us infidels – it’s the same thing. And Buonaventura Caroli says there are more Muslims than Christians in the world. So somebody’s church is wrong.”

“Be careful,” Cecilia said severely. “Don’t allow your passion for argument to lead you into blasphemy.”

“Sorry, mother.” Caris knew that Cecilia enjoyed sparring with her, but there always came a moment when the prioress stopped arguing and started preaching, and Caris had to back down. It left her feeling slightly cheated.

Cecilia stood up. “I know I can’t persuade you against your will, but I wanted you to know the tendency of my thoughts. You could do nothing better than to join our nunnery and dedicate your life to the sacrament of healing. Thank you for the wine.”

As Cecilia was leaving, Caris said: “What happened to Marguerite Porete? Is she still alive?”

“No,” said the prioress. “She was burned at the stake.” She went out into the street, shutting the door behind her.

Caris stared at the closed door. A woman’s life was a house of closed doors: she could not be an apprentice, she could not study at the university, she could not be a priest or a physician, nor shoot a bow nor fight with a sword, and she could not marry without submitting herself to the tyranny of her husband.

She wondered what Merthin was doing now. Was Bessie sitting at his table at the Bell inn, watching him drink her father’s best ale, giving him that inviting smile, pulling the front of her dress tight to make sure he could see what nice breasts she had? Was he being charming and amusing to her, making her laugh? Was she parting her lips to show him her even teeth, and throwing back her head so that he could appreciate the soft skin of her white throat? Was he talking to her father, Paul Bell, asking respectful and interested questions about his business, so that later Paul would tell his daughter that Merthin was a good sort, a fine young man? Would Merthin get drunk and put his arm around Bessie’s waist, resting his hand on her hip then slyly inching his fingertips towards that sensitive place between her thighs that was already itching for his touch – just as he once had with Caris?