Bessie came in and hung up her cloak. Sairy left, and Bessie locked up. She sat opposite Merthin, taking the big chair that her father had always used. “I’m sorry about what happened at the guild,” she said. “I’m not sure who’s right, but I know you’re disappointed.”
“Thank you for supporting me, anyway.”
“I’ll always support you.”
“Perhaps it’s time for me to stop fighting Caris’s battles.”
“I agree with that. But I can see that it makes you sad.”
“Sad and angry. I seem to have wasted half my life waiting for Caris.”
“Love is never wasted.”
He looked up at her, surprised. After a pause, he said: “You’re a wise person.”
“There’s no one else in the house, except for Lolla,” she said. “All the Christmas guests have left.” She got up from her chair and knelt in front of him. “I’d like to comfort you,” she said. “Any way I can.”
He looked at her round, friendly face and felt his body stir in response. It was such a long time since he had held the soft body of a woman in his arms. But he shook his head. “I don’t want to use you.”
She smiled. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not even asking you to love me. I’ve just buried my father, and you’ve been disappointed by Caris, and we’re both in need of someone warm to hold on to.”
“To dull the pain, like a jug of wine.”
She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Better than wine,” she said. She pressed his hand to her breast. It was big and soft, and he sighed as he caressed it. She turned her face up, and he leaned down and kissed her lips. She gave a little moan of pleasure. The kiss was delicious, like a cold drink on a hot day, and he did not want to stop.
Eventually she broke away from him, panting. She stood upright and pulled her woollen dress over her head. Her naked body looked rosy in the firelight. She was all curves: round hips, round belly, round breasts. Still seated, he put his hands on her waist and drew her to him. He kissed the warm skin of her belly, then the pink tips of her breasts. He looked up at her flushed face. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he murmured.
“No,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t wait that long.”
62
The election for prioress was held on the day after Christmas. That morning, Caris felt so depressed she could hardly get out of bed. When the bell rang for Matins in the early hours, she was strongly tempted to put her head under the blankets and say that she did not feel well. But she could not pretend when so many were dying, so in the end she forced herself.
She shuffled around the ice-cold flagstones of the cloisters side by side with Elizabeth, the two of them at the head of the procession to the church. This protocol had been agreed because neither would yield precedence to the other while they were competing in the election. But Caris no longer cared. The result was a foregone conclusion. She stood yawning and shivering in the choir through the psalms and readings. She was angry. Later today, Elizabeth would be elected prioress. Caris resented the nuns for rejecting her, she hated Godwyn for his enmity, and she despised the town’s merchants for refusing to intervene.
She felt as if her life had been a failure. She had not built the new hospital she had dreamed of, and now she never would.
She also resented Merthin, for making her an offer she could not accept. He did not understand. For him, their marriage would be an adjunct to his life as an architect. For her, marriage would have to replace the work to which she had dedicated herself. That was why she had vacillated for so many years. It was not that she did not want him. She longed for him with a hunger that she could hardly bear.
She mumbled the last of the responses and then, mechanically, walked out of the church at the front of the line. As they walked around the cloisters again, someone behind her sneezed. She was too dispirited even to look and see who it was.
The nuns climbed the stairs to their dormitory. When Caris entered the room she heard heavy breathing, and realized that someone had stayed behind. Her candle revealed the novice mistress, Sister Simone – a dour middle-aged woman, normally a conscientious nun, not one to malinger. Caris bound a strip of linen around her own face then knelt by Simone’s mattress. Simone was perspiring and looking scared.
Caris said: “How do you feel?”
“Awful,” Simone said. “I’ve had strange dreams.”
Caris touched her forehead. She was burning hot.
Simone said: “Can I have something to drink?”
“In a moment.”
“It’s just a cold, I expect.”
“You’re certainly running a fever.”
“I haven’t got the plague, though, have I? It’s not that bad.”
“We’ll take you to the hospital anyway,” Caris said evasively. “Can you walk?”
Simone struggled to her feet. Caris took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around Simone’s shoulders.
As they were heading for the door, Caris heard a sneeze. This time she could see that it came from Sister Rosie, the plump matricularius. Caris looked hard at Rosie, who appeared scared.
Caris picked another nun at random. “Sister Cressie, take Simone to the hospital while I look at Rosie.”
Cressie took Simone’s arm and led her down the stairs.
Caris held her candle up to Rosie’s face. She, too, was perspiring. Caris pulled down the neck of her robe. There was a rash of small purple spots over her shoulders and breasts.
“No,” Rosie said. “No, please.”
“It may be nothing at all,” Caris lied.
“I don’t want to die of the plague!” Rosie said, her voice cracking.
Caris said quietly: “Just keep calm and come with me.” She took Rosie’s arm firmly.
Rosie resisted. “No, I’ll be all right!”
“Try saying a prayer,” Caris said. “Ave Maria, come on.”
Rosie began to pray, and a moment later Caris was able to lead her away.
The hospital was crammed with dying people and their families, most of them awake despite the hour. There was a strong odour of sweaty bodies, vomit and blood. The place was dimly lit by tallow lamps and the candles on the altar. A handful of nuns attended to the patients, bringing water and cleaning up. Some wore the mask, others did not.
Brother Joseph was there, the oldest of the monk-physicians and the most well liked. He was giving the last rites to Rick Silvers, the head of the jewellers’ guild, bending to hear the man’s whispered confession, surrounded by the children and grandchildren.
Caris made a space for Rosie and persuaded her to lie down. One of the nuns brought her a cup of clear fountain water. Rosie lay still, but her eyes shifted restlessly this way and that. She knew her fate, and she was frightened. “Brother Joseph will come and see you shortly,” Caris told her.
“You were right, Sister Caris,” said Rosie.
“What do you mean?”
“Simone and I were among the original friends of Sister Elizabeth who refused to wear the mask – and look what has happened to us.”
Caris had not thought of this. Would she be proved horribly right by the deaths of those who disagreed with her? She would rather be wrong.
She went to look at Simone. She was lying down and holding the hand of Cressie. Simone was older and calmer than Rosie, but there was fear in her eyes, and she was gripping Cressie’s hand hard.
Caris glanced at Cressie. There was a dark stain above her lip. Caris reached out and wiped it with her sleeve.
Cressie, too, was among the original group who had abandoned the mask.
She looked at the mark on Caris’s sleeve. “What is it?” she said.
“Blood,” said Caris.
The election took place in the refectory an hour before dinner time. Caris and Elizabeth were side by side behind a table at one end of the room, and the nuns sat on benches in rows.