80

September 1350 was cold and wet, but all the same there was a sense of euphoria. As damp sheaves of wheat were gathered in the surrounding countryside, only one person died of the plague in Kingsbridge: Marge Taylor, a dressmaker sixty years old. No one caught the disease in October, November or December. It seemed to have vanished, Merthin thought gratefully – at least for the time being.

The age-old migration of enterprising, restless people from countryside to town had been reversed during the plague, but now it recommenced. They came to Kingsbridge, moved into empty houses, fixed them up and paid rent to the priory. Some started new businesses – bakeries, breweries, candle manufactories – to replace the old ones that had disappeared when the owners and all their heirs died off. Merthin, as alderman, had made it easier to open a shop or a market stall, sweeping away the lengthy process of obtaining permission that had been imposed by the priory. The weekly market grew busier.

One by one Merthin rented out the shops, houses and taverns he had built on Leper Island, his tenants either enterprising newcomers or existing tradesmen who wanted a better location. The road across the island, between the two bridges, had become an extension of the main street, and therefore prime commercial property – as Merthin had foreseen, twelve years ago, when people had thought he was mad to take the barren rock as payment for his work on the bridge.

Winter drew in, and once again the smoke from thousands of fires hung over the town in a low brown cloud; but the people still worked and shopped, ate and drank, played dice in taverns and went to church on Sundays. The guild hall saw the first Christmas Eve banquet since the parish guild had become a borough guild.

Merthin invited the prior and prioress. They no longer had power to overrule the merchants, but they were still among the most important people in town. Philemon came, but Caris declined the invitation: she had become worryingly withdrawn.

Merthin sat next to Madge Webber. She was now the richest merchant and the largest employer in Kingsbridge, perhaps in the whole county. She was deputy alderman, and probably should have been alderman but that it was unusual to have a woman in that position.

Among Merthin’s many enterprises was a workshop turning out the treadle looms that had improved the quality of Kingsbridge Scarlet. Madge bought more than half his production, but enterprising merchants came from as far away as London to place orders for the rest. The looms were complex pieces of machinery that had to be made accurately and assembled with precision, so Merthin had to employ the best carpenters available; but he priced the finished product at more than double what it cost him to make, and still people could hardly wait to give him the money.

Several people had hinted that he should marry Madge, but the idea did not tempt him or her. She had never been able to find a man to match Mark, who had had the physique of a giant and the disposition of a saint. She had always been chunky, but these days she was quite fat. Now in her forties, she was growing into one of those women who looked like barrels, almost the same width all the way from shoulders to bottom. Eating and drinking well were now her chief pleasures, Merthin thought as he watched her tuck into gingered ham with a sauce made of apples and cloves. That and making money.

At the end of the meal they had a mulled wine called hippocras. Madge took a long draught, belched, and moved closer to Merthin on the bench. “We have to do something about the hospital,” she said.

“Oh?” He was not aware of a problem. “Now that the plague has ended, I would have thought people didn’t have much need of a hospital.”

“Of course they do,” she said briskly. “They still get fevers and bellyache and cancer. Women want to get pregnant and can’t, or they suffer complications giving birth. Children burn themselves and fall out of trees. Men are thrown by their horses or knifed by their enemies or have their heads broken by angry wives-”

“Yes, I get the picture,” Merthin said, amused by her garrulousness. “What’s the problem?”

“Nobody will go to the hospital any more. They don’t like Brother Sime and, more importantly, they don’t trust his learning. While we were all coping with the plague, he was at Oxford reading ancient textbooks, and he still prescribes remedies such as bleeding and cupping that no one believes in any more. They want Caris – but she never appears.”

“What do people do when they’re sick, if they don’t go to the hospital?”

“They see Matthew Barber, or Silas Pothecary, or a newcomer called Maria Wisdom, who specializes in women’s problems.”

“So what’s worrying you?”

“They’re starting to mutter about the priory. If they don’t get help from the monks and nuns, they say, why should they pay towards building the tower?”

“Oh.” The tower was a huge project. No individual could possibly finance it. A combination of monastery, nunnery and city funds was the only way to pay for it. If the town defaulted, the project could be threatened. “Yes, I see,” said Merthin worriedly. “That is a problem.”

It had been a good year for most people, Caris thought as she sat through the Christmas Day service. People were adjusting to the devastation of the plague with astonishing speed. As well as bringing terrible suffering and a near-breakdown of civilized life, the disease had provided the opportunity for a shake-up. Almost half the population had died, by her calculations; but one effect was that her remaining peasants were farming only the most fertile soils, so each man produced more. Despite the Ordinance of Labourers, and the efforts of noblemen such as Earl Ralph to enforce it, she was gratified to see that people continued to move to where the pay was highest, which was usually where the land was most productive. Grain was plentiful and herds of cattle and sheep were growing again. The nunnery was thriving and, because Caris had reorganized the monks’ affairs as well as the nuns’ after the flight of Godwyn, the monastery was now more prosperous than it had been for a hundred years. Wealth created wealth, and good times in the countryside brought more business to the towns, so Kingsbridge craftsmen and shopkeepers were beginning to return to their former affluence.

As the nuns left the church at the end of the service, Prior Philemon spoke to her. “I need to talk to you, Mother Prioress. Would you come to my house?”

There had been a time when she would have politely acceded to such a request without hesitation, but those days were over. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

He reddened immediately. “You can’t refuse to speak to me!”

“I didn’t. I refused to go to your palace. I decline to be summoned before you like a subordinate. What do you want to talk about?”

“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.”