He paused for effect.

“And may God have mercy on their souls.”

61

Paul Bell was buried three days before Christmas. All those who stood at his frosty graveside in the December cold were invited to the Bell to drink to his memory. His daughter, Bessie, now owned the place. She did not want to grieve alone, so she poured the tavern’s best ale generously. Lennie Fiddler played sad tunes on his five-stringed instrument, and the mourners became tearful and maudlin as they got drunker.

Merthin sat in the corner with Lolla. At yesterday’s market he had bought some sweet raisins from Corinth – an expensive luxury. He was sharing them with Lolla, teaching her numbers at the same time. He counted nine raisins for himself, but when he was counting out hers he missed every other number, saying: “One, three, five, seven, nine.”

“No!” she said. “That’s not right!” She was laughing, knowing that he was only teasing.

“But I counted nine each,” he protested.

“But you’ve got more!”

“Well, how did that happen?”

“You didn’t count them right, silly.”

“You’d better count them, then, and see if you can do better.”

Bessie sat with them. She was wearing her best dress, which was a bit tight. “Can I have some raisins?” she said.

Lolla said: “Yes, but don’t let Daddy count them.”

“Don’t worry,” Bessie said. “I know his tricks.”

“Here you are,” Merthin said to Bessie. “One, three, nine, thirteen – oh, thirteen is too many. I’d better take some away.” He took back three raisins. “Twelve, eleven, ten. There, now you’ve got ten raisins.”

Lolla thought this was hysterically funny. “But she’s only got one!” she said.

“Did I count them wrong again?”

“Yes!” She looked at Bessie. “We know his tricks.”

“You count them, then.”

The door opened, letting in a blast of icy air. Caris came in, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Merthin smiled: every time he saw her, he felt glad she was still alive.

Bessie looked at her warily, but spoke a welcome. “Hello, sister,” she said. “It’s kind of you to remember my father.”

Caris said: “I’m very sorry you have lost him. He was a good man.” She, too, was being formally polite. Merthin realized that these two women saw themselves as rivals for his affections. He did not know what he had done to deserve such devotion.

“Thank you,” Bessie said to Caris. “Will you have a cup of ale?”

“That’s very kind, but no. I need to speak to Merthin.”

Bessie looked at Lolla. “Shall we roast some nuts on the fire?”

“Yes, please!”

Bessie took Lolla away.

“They get on well together,” Caris said.

Merthin nodded. “Bessie has a warm heart, and no children of her own.”

Caris looked sad. “I have no children… but perhaps I haven’t got the warm heart.”

Merthin touched her hand. “I know better,” he said. “You have such a warm heart you have to take care of not just one or two children but dozens of people.”

“It’s kind of you to see it that way.”

“It’s true, that’s all. How are things at the hospital?”

“Unbearable. The place is full of people dying, and I can’t do anything for them except bury them.”

Merthin felt a surge of compassion. She was always so competent, so reliable, but the strain told on her, and she was willing to show it to him, if to no one else. “You look tired,” he said.

“I am, God knows.”

“I suppose you’re worrying about the election, too.”

“I came to ask for your help with that.”

Merthin hesitated. He was torn by contradictory feelings. Part of him wanted her to achieve her ambition and become prioress. But then would she ever be his wife? He had a shamefully selfish hope that she would lose the election and renounce her vows. All the same, he wanted to give her whatever help she asked for, just because he loved her. “All right,” he said.

“Godwyn’s sermon yesterday hurt me.”

“Will you never be rid of that old accusation of witchcraft? It’s so absurd!”

“People are stupid. The sermon had a big impact on the nuns.”

“As was intended, of course.”

“No doubt of it. Few of them believed Elizabeth when she said that my linen masks were heathenish. Only her close friends discarded the mask: Cressie, Elaine, Jeannie, Rosie and Simone. But when the others heard the message from the pulpit of the cathedral, it was different. The more impressionable sisters have all now discarded the mask. A few avoid making an obvious choice by never coming into the hospital. Only a handful still wear it: me and four nuns I’m close to.”

“I was afraid of this.”

“Now that Mother Cecilia, Mair and Old Julie are dead, there are only thirty-two nuns eligible to vote. Seventeen votes are all you need to win. Elizabeth originally had five sworn supporters. The sermon has given her eleven more. With her own vote, that makes seventeen. I have only five, and even if all the waverers came over to me, I would lose.”

Merthin felt angry on her behalf. It must be hurtful to be rejected like this after all she had done for the nunnery. “What can you do?”

“The bishop is my last hope. If he sets his face against Elizabeth, and announces that he will not ratify her election, some of her support may fall away, and I could have a chance.”

“How can you influence him?”

“I can’t, but you could – or, at least, the parish guild could.”

“I suppose so…”

“They have a meeting this evening. You’ll be there, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

“Think about it. Godwyn already has the town in a stranglehold. He’s close to Elizabeth – her family are tenants of the priory, and Godwyn has always been careful to favour them. If she becomes prioress, she will be as compliant as Elfric. Godwyn will have no opposition in or out of the priory. It will be the death of Kingsbridge.”

“That’s true, but whether the guildsmen will agree to intercede with the bishop…”

Suddenly she looked terribly disheartened. “Just try. If they turn you down, so be it.”

Her desperation touched him, and he wished he could be more optimistic. “I will, of course.”

“Thank you.” She stood up. “You must have conflicting feelings about this. Thank you for being a true friend.”

He smiled wryly. He wanted to be her husband, not her friend. But he would take what he could get.

She went out into the cold.

Merthin joined Bessie and Lolla at the fireside and sampled their roasted nuts, but he was preoccupied. Godwyn’s influence was malign, but all the same his power never ceased to grow. Why was that? Perhaps because he was an ambitious man with no conscience – a potent combination.

As darkness fell he put Lolla to bed and paid a neighbour’s daughter to watch her. Bessie left the barmaid, Sairy, in charge of the tavern. Wearing heavy cloaks, they walked up the main street to the guild hall for the midwinter meeting of the parish guild.

At the back of the long room there was a seasonal barrel of ale for the members. The merrymaking seemed to have a driven quality this Christmas, Merthin thought. They had been drinking hard at Paul Bell’s wake, and some of those people now followed Merthin in and filled their tankards again as eagerly as if they had not tasted ale for a week. Perhaps it took their minds off the plague.

Bessie was one of four people introduced as new members. The other three were eldest sons of leading merchants who had died. Godwyn, as overlord of the townspeople, must be enjoying a rise in his income from inheritance tax, Merthin realized.

When the routine business had been dealt with, Merthin raised the subject of the election of the new prioress.

“That’s none of our business,” Elfric said immediately.

“On the contrary, the result will affect commerce in this town for years to come, perhaps decades,” Merthin argued. “The prioress is one of the richest and most powerful people in Kingsbridge, and we ought to do what we can to get one who will do nothing to fetter trade.”