“And where did the Italians get this idea?”

“Perhaps just by observing patients.”

“I have heard Merthin say that the Italian doctors are the best – except for the Arabs.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

“So this whole business of wearing masks probably comes from the Muslims.”

“Possibly.”

“In other words, it is a heathen practice.”

“I suppose so.”

Philemon sat back, as if he had proved a point.

Elizabeth did not yet get it. “So we outmanoeuvre Caris by saying she has introduced a heathen superstition into the nunnery?”

“Not exactly,” said Philemon with a crafty smile. “We say she is practising witchcraft.”

She saw it then. “Of course! I had almost forgotten about that.”

“You testified against her at the trial!”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I would think you’d never forget that your enemy was once accused of such a crime,” Philemon said.

Philemon himself certainly never forgot such things, Godwyn reflected. Knowing people’s weaknesses, and exploiting them shamelessly, was his speciality. Godwyn sometimes felt guilty about the sheer depth of Philemon’s malice. But that malice was so useful to Godwyn that he always suppressed his misgivings. Who else could have dreamed up this way of poisoning the nuns’ minds against the beloved Caris?

A novice brought apples and cheese, and Philemon poured more wine. Elizabeth said: “All right, this makes sense. Have you thought about how, in detail, we should bring this up?”

“It’s important to prepare the ground,” Philemon said. “You should never make an accusation such as this formally until it’s already believed by large numbers of people.”

Philemon was very good at this, Godwyn thought admiringly.

Elizabeth said: “And how do you suggest we achieve that?”

“Actions are better than words. Refuse to wear the mask yourself. When asked, shrug and say quietly that you have heard it is a Muslim practice, and you prefer Christian means of protection. Encourage your friends to refuse the mask, as a sign of support for you. Don’t wash your hands too often, either. When you notice people following Caris’s precepts, frown disapprovingly – but say nothing.”

Godwyn nodded agreement. Philemon’s slyness sometimes approached the level of genius.

“Should we not even mention heresy?”

“Talk about it as much as you like, without connecting it directly to Caris. Say that you’ve heard of a heretic being executed in another city, or a devil worshipper who succeeded in depraving an entire nunnery, perhaps in France.”

“I wouldn’t wish to say anything that was not true,” Elizabeth said stiffly.

Philemon sometimes forgot that not everyone was as unscrupulous as he. Godwyn said hastily: “Of course not – Philemon just means that you should repeat such stories if and when you hear them, to remind the nuns of the ever-present danger.”

“Very good.” The bell rang for Nones, and Elizabeth stood up. “I mustn’t miss the service. I don’t want someone to notice my absence and guess that I’ve been here.”

“Quite right,” said Godwyn. “Anyway, we’ve agreed our plan.”

She nodded. “No masks.”

Godwyn could see that she was nursing a doubt. He said: “You don’t imagine they’re effective, do you?”

“No,” she replied. “No, of course not. How could they be?”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you for dinner.” She went out.

That had gone well, Godwyn reflected, but he was still worried. He said anxiously to Philemon: “Elizabeth on her own might not be able to convince people that Caris is still a witch.”

“I agree. We may need to help with the process.”

“Perhaps with a sermon?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll speak about the plague from the cathedral pulpit.”

Philemon looked thoughtful. “It might be dangerous to attack Caris directly. That could backfire.”

Godwyn agreed. If there were open strife between himself and Caris, the townspeople would probably support her. “I won’t mention her name.”

“Just sow the seeds of doubt, and let people come to their own conclusions.”

“I’ll blame heresy, devil worship and heathenish practices.”

Godwyn’s mother, Petranilla, came in. She was very stooped, and walked with two canes, but her large head still jutted forward assertively on her bony shoulders. “How did that go?” she said. She had urged Godwyn to attack Caris, and had approved Philemon’s plan.

“Elizabeth will do exactly as we wish,” Godwyn said, feeling pleased. He enjoyed giving her good news.

“Good. Now I want to talk to you about something else.” She turned to Philemon. “We won’t need you.”

For a moment, Philemon looked hurt, like a child unexpectedly smacked. Brutally abrasive himself, he was easily wounded. However, he recovered quickly, and pretended to be untroubled and even a bit amused by her high-handedness. “Of course, madam,” he said with exaggerated deference.

Godwyn said to him: “Take charge of Nones for me, will you?”

“Very good.”

When he had gone, Petranilla sat at the big table and said: “I know it was me who urged you to foster that young man’s talents, but I have to admit that nowadays he makes my flesh crawl.”

“He’s more useful than ever.”

“You can never really trust a ruthless man. If he will betray others, why should he not betray you?”

“I’ll remember that,” Godwyn said, though he felt he was now so bound up with Philemon that it was hard to imagine operating without him. However, he did not want to tell his mother that. Changing the subject, he said: “Would you like a cup of wine?”

She shook her head. “I’m already too liable to fall over. Sit down and listen to me.”

“Very well, Mother.” He sat beside her at the table.

“I want you to leave Kingsbridge before this plague gets much worse.”

“I can’t do that. But you could go-”

“I don’t matter! I’m going to die soon anyway.”

The thought filled Godwyn with panic. “Don’t say that!”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m sixty years old. Look at me – I can’t even stand upright. It’s time for me to go. But you’re only forty-two – and you’ve got so much ahead! You could be bishop, archbishop, even cardinal.”

As always, her limitless ambition for him made Godwyn feel dizzy. Was he really capable of becoming a cardinal? Or was it just a mother’s blindness? He did not really know.

“I don’t want you to die of the plague before you’ve achieved your destiny,” she finished.

“Mother, you’re not going to die.”

“Forget about me!” she said angrily.

“I can’t leave town. I have to make sure the nuns don’t make Caris prioress.”

“Get them to hold the election quickly. Failing that, get out anyway and leave the election in God’s hands.”

He was terrified of the plague, but he feared failure too. “I could lose everything if they elect Caris!”

Her voice softened. “Godwyn, listen to me. I have only one child, and that’s you. I can’t bear to lose you.”

Her sudden change of tone shocked him into silence.

She went on: “Please, I beg you, get out of this city and go to some place where the plague can’t reach you.”

He had never known her to plead. It was unnerving. He felt scared. Just to stop her, he said: “Let me think about it.”

“This plague,” she said. “It’s like a wolf in the forest. When you see it, you don’t think – you run.”

Godwyn gave the sermon on the Sunday before Christmas.

It was a dry day with high pale cloud roofing the cold vault of heaven. The central tower of the cathedral was covered by a bird’s nest of rope-and-branch scaffolding where Elfric was demolishing it from the top down. At the market on the green, shivering traders did desultory business with a few preoccupied customers. Beyond the market, the frozen grass of the cemetery was quilted with the brown rectangles of more than a hundred fresh graves.