World Without End

Which happened to fit in with his plans very neatly.

The baby snuffled in his sleep, and it occurred to Ralph that he might cry. What if the nuns came back just then? He thought it through. One or two would probably come in here to see if Tilly needed help. He would just kill them, he decided. It would not be the first time. He had killed nuns in France.

At last he heard them shuffling back into the dormitory.

Alan would be watching from the kitchen, counting them as they returned. When they were all safely inside the room, Alan and the other four men would draw their swords and make their move.

Ralph lifted Tilly to her feet. Her face was streaked with tears. He turned her so that her back was to him, then put an arm around her waist and lifted her, hoisting her on to his hip. She was as light as a child.

He drew his long dagger.

From outside, he heard a man say: “Silence, or you die!” It was Alan, he knew, although the hood muffled the voice.

This was a crucial moment. There were other people on the premises – nuns and patients in the hospital, monks in their own quarters – and Ralph did not want them to appear and complicate matters.

Despite Alan’s warning, there were several shouts of shock and shrieks of fear – but, Ralph thought, not too loud. So far, so good.

He threw open the door and stepped into the dormitory carrying Tilly on his hip.

He could see by the light of the nuns’ lamps. At the far end of the room, Alan had a woman in his grasp, his knife to her throat, in the same pose as Ralph with Tilly. Two more men stood behind Alan. The other two hirelings would be on guard at the foot of the stairs.

“Listen to me,” Ralph said.

When he spoke, Tilly jerked convulsively. She had recognized his voice. But that did not matter so long as no one else did.

There was a terrified silence.

Ralph said: “Which of you is treasurer?”

No one spoke.

Ralph touched the edge of his blade to the skin of Tilly’s throat. She began to struggle, but she was too small, and he held her easily. Now, he thought, now is the time to kill her; but he hesitated. He had killed many people, women as well as men, but suddenly it seemed terrible to stick a knife into the warm body of someone he had embraced and kissed and slept with, the woman who had borne his child.

Also, he told himself, the effect on the nuns would be more shocking if one of their own died.

He nodded to Alan.

With one strong cut, Alan slit the throat of the nun he was holding. Blood gushed out of her neck on to the floor.

Someone screamed.

It was not merely a cry or a shriek, but a fortissimo yell of pure terror that might have awakened the dead, and it went on until one of the hired men hit the screamer a mighty blow over her head with his club and she fell unconscious to the floor, blood trickling down her cheek.

Ralph said again: “Which of you is treasurer?”

Merthin had woken up briefly when the bell rang for Matins and Caris slipped out of bed. As usual, he turned over and fell into a light doze, so that when she returned it seemed as if she had been away only for a minute or two. She was cold when she got back into bed, and he drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her. They often stayed awake for a while, talking, and usually made love before going to sleep. It was Merthin’s favourite time.

She pressed up against him, her breasts squashed comfortably against his chest. He kissed her forehead. When she had warmed up, he reached between her legs and gently stroked the soft hair there.

But she was feeling talkative. “Did you hear yesterday’s rumour? Outlaws in the woods north of town.”

“It seems a bit unlikely,” he said.

“I don’t know. The walls are decrepit on that side.”

“But what are they going to steal? Anything they want is theirs for the taking. If they need meat, there are thousands of sheep and cattle unguarded in the fields, with no one to claim ownership.”

“That’s what makes it strange.”

“These days, stealing is like leaning over the fence to breathe your neighbour’s air.”

She sighed. “Three months ago I thought this terrible plague was over.”

“How many more people have we lost?”

“We’ve buried a thousand since Easter.”

That seemed about right to Merthin. “I hear that other towns are similar.”

He felt her hair move against his shoulder as she nodded in the dark. She said: “I believe something like a quarter of the population of England is gone already.”

“And more than half the priests.”

“That’s because they make contact with so many people every time they hold a service. They can hardly escape.”

“So half the churches are closed.”

“A good thing, if you ask me. I’m sure crowds spread the plague faster than anything.”

“Anyway, most people have lost respect for religion.”

To Caris, that was no great tragedy. She said: “Perhaps they’ll stop believing in mumbo-jumbo medicine, and start thinking about what treatments actually make a difference.”

“You say that, but it’s hard for ordinary people to know what is a genuine cure and what a false remedy.”

“I’ll give you four rules.”

He smiled in the dark. She always had a list. “All right.”

“One: If there are dozens of different remedies for a complaint, you can be sure none of them works.”

“Why?”

“Because if one worked, people would forget the rest.”

“Logical.”

“Two: Just because a remedy is unpleasant doesn’t mean it’s any good. Raw larks’ brains do nothing for a sore throat, even though they make you heave; whereas a nice cup of hot water and honey will soothe you.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Three: Human and animal dung never does anyone any good. It usually makes them worse.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Four: If the remedy looks like the disease – the spotted feathers of a thrush for the pox, say, or sheep’s urine for yellow jaundice – it’s probably imaginative rubbish.”

“You should write a book about this.”

She made a scornful noise. “Universities prefer ancient Greek texts.”

“Not a book for university students. One for people like you – nuns and midwives and barbers and wise women.”

“Wise women and midwives can’t read.”

“Some can, and others have people who can read for them.”

“I suppose people might like a little book that tells them what to do about the plague.”

She was thoughtful for a few moments.

In the silence, there was a scream.

“What was that?” Merthin said.

“It sounded like a shrew being caught by an owl,” she said.

“No, it didn’t,” he said, and he got up.

One of the nuns stepped forward and addressed Ralph. She was young – they were nearly all young – with black hair and blue eyes. “Please don’t hurt Tilly,” she begged. “I’m Sister Joan, the treasurer. We’ll give you anything you want. Please don’t do any more violence.”

“I am Tam Hiding,” Ralph said. “Where are the keys to the nuns’ treasury?”

“I have them here on my belt.”

“Take me there.”

Joan hesitated. Perhaps she sensed that Ralph did not know where the treasury was. On their reco

Ralph had no time to lose. He did not know who might have heard that scream. He pressed the point of his knife into Tilly’s throat until it drew blood. “I want to go to the treasury,” he said.