World Without End

She found it hard to climb up. It was tiring, and she seemed to have lost her energy. She stopped for a rest, and looked down. Merthin was standing on the bottom of the ladder, steadying it with his weight.

When she was almost at the top, she looked down again. He was still there. It occurred to her that her unhappiness would be over if she fell. It was a long drop to those unforgiving stones. She would die instantly.

Merthin seemed to sense what she was thinking, for he gave an impatient wave, indicating that she should hurry up and get off the ladder. She thought of how devastated he would be if she killed herself, and for a moment she enjoyed imagining his misery and guilt. She felt sure God would not punish her in the afterlife, if there was an afterlife.

Then she climbed the last few rungs and stood on solid ground. How foolish she had been, just for a moment. She was not going to end her life. She had too much to do.

She returned to the nu

This afternoon had been a low moment, she decided, but she would recover. All the same she found herself fighting back tears as she sang the psalms.

For supper the nuns had smoked eel. Chewy and strongly flavoured, it was not Caris’s favourite dish. Tonight she was not hungry, anyway. She ate some bread.

After the meal she retired to her pharmacy. Two novices were there, copying out Caris’s book. She had finished it soon after Christmas. Many people had asked for copies: apothecaries, prioresses, barbers, even one or two physicians. Copying the book had become part of the training of nuns who wanted to work in the hospital. The copies were cheap – the book was short, and there were no elaborate drawings or costly inks – and the demand seemed never-ending.

Three people made the room feel crowded. Caris was looking forward to the space and light of the pharmacy in the new hospital.

She wanted to be alone, so she sent the novices away. However, she was not destined to get her wish. A few moments later Lady Philippa came in.

Caris had never warmed to the reserved countess, but sympathized with her plight, and was glad to give sanctuary to any woman fleeing from a husband such as Ralph. Philippa was an easy guest, making few demands, spending a lot of time in her room. She had only a limited interest in sharing the nuns’ life of prayer and self-denial – but Caris of all people could understand that.

Caris invited her to sit on a stool at the bench.

Philippa was a remarkably direct woman, despite her courtly ma

“What?” Caris was astonished and offended.

“Of course you have to talk to him, but you should not kiss or touch him.”

“How dare you?” What did Philippa know – and why did she care?

“He’s not your lover any more. Stop bothering him.”

Merthin must have told her about their quarrel this afternoon. “But why would he tell you…?” Before the question was out of her mouth, she guessed the answer.

Philippa confirmed it with her next utterance. “He’s not yours, now – he’s mine.”

“Oh, my soul!” Caris was flabbergasted. “You and Merthin?”

“Yes.”

“Are you… have you actually…”

“Yes.”

“I had no idea!” She felt betrayed, though she knew she had no right. When had this happened? “But how… where…?”

“You don’t need to know the details.”

“Of course not.” At his house on Leper Island, she supposed. At night, probably. “How long…?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Caris could work it out. Philippa had been here less than a month. “You moved fast.”

It was an unworthy jibe, and Philippa had the grace to ignore it. “He would have done anything to keep you. But you threw him over. Now let him go. It’s been difficult for him to love anyone else, after you – but he has managed it. Don’t you dare interfere.”

Caris wanted to rebuff her furiously, tell her angrily that she had no right to give orders and make moral demands – but the trouble was that Philippa was in the right. Caris had to let Merthin go, for ever.

She did not want to show her heartbreak in front of Philippa. “Would you leave me now, please?” she said with an attempt at Philippa’s style of dignity. “I would like to be alone.”

Philippa was not easily pushed around. “Will you do as I say?” she persisted.

Caris did not like to be cornered, but she had no spirit left. “Yes, of course,” she said.

“Thank you.” Philippa left.

When she was sure Philippa was out of earshot, Caris began to cry.

78

Philemon as prior was no better than Godwyn. He was overwhelmed by the challenge of managing the assets of the priory. Caris had made a list, during her spell as acting prior, of the monks’ main sources of income:

1. Rents

2. A share of profits from commerce and industry (tithing)

3. Agricultural profits on land not rented out

4. Profits from grain mills and other, industrial mills

5. Waterway tolls and a share of all fish landed

6. Stallage in markets

7. Proceeds of justice – fees and fines from courts

8. Pious gifts from pilgrims and others

9. Sale of books, holy water, candles, etc.

She had given the list to Philemon, and he had thrown it back at her as if insulted. Godwyn, better than Philemon only in that he had a certain superficial charm, would have thanked her and quietly ignored her list.

In the nu

He had only one talent, and it was the same as Godwyn’s: a flair for manipulating people. He had shrewdly weeded the new intake of monks, sending the modern-minded physician, Brother Austin, and two other bright young men to St-John-in-the-Forest, where they would be too far away to challenge his authority.

But Philemon was the bishop’s problem now. Henri had appointed him and Henri would have to deal with him. The town was independent, and Caris had her new hospital.

The hospital was to be consecrated by the bishop on Whit Sunday, which was always seven weeks after Easter. A few days beforehand, Caris moved her equipment and supplies into the new pharmacy. There was plenty of room for two people to work at the bench, preparing medicines, and a third to sit at a writing desk.

Caris was preparing an emetic, Oonagh was grinding dried herbs, and a novice, Greta, was copying out Caris’s book, when a novice monk came in with a small wooden chest. It was Josiah, a teenage boy usually called Joshie. He was embarrassed to be in the presence of three women. “Where shall I put this?” he said.

Caris looked at him. “What is it?”

“A chest.”

“I can see that,” she said patiently. The fact that someone was capable of learning to read and write did not, unfortunately, make him intelligent. “What does the chest contain?”