World Without End

Henri said: “But what if we do release her from her vows? How would that solve the problem?”

At this point, Merthin spoke for the first time. “I have a suggestion,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

He said: “Let the town build a new hospital. I will donate a large site on Leper Island. Let it be staffed by a convent of nuns quite separate from the priory, a new group. They will be under the spiritual authority of the bishop of Shiring, of course, but have no co

They were all quiet for a long moment, letting this radical proposal sink in. Caris was thunderstruck. A new hospital… on Leper Island… paid for by the townspeople… staffed by a new order of nuns… having no co

She looked around the group. Philemon and Sime clearly hated the idea. Henri, Claude and Lloyd just looked bemused.

At last the bishop said: “The patron will be very powerful – representing the townspeople, paying the bills and appointing the prioress. Whoever plays that role will control the hospital.”

“Yes,” said Merthin.

“If I authorize a new hospital, will the townspeople be willing to resume paying for the tower?”

Madge Webber spoke for the first time. “If the right patron is appointed, yes.”

“And who should it be?” said Henri.

Caris realized that everyone was looking at her.

A few hours later, Caris and Merthin wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks, put on boots and walked through the snow to the island, where he showed her the site he had in mind. It was on the west side, not far from his house, overlooking the river.

She was still dizzy from the sudden change in her life. She was to be released from her vows as a nun. She would become a normal citizen again, after almost twelve years. She found she could contemplate leaving the priory without anguish. The people she had loved were all dead: Mother Cecilia, Old Julie, Mair, Tilly. She liked Sister Joan and Sister Oonagh well enough, but it was not the same.

And she would still be in charge of a hospital. Having the right to appoint and dismiss the prioress of the new institution, she would be able to run the place according to the new thinking that had grown out of the plague. The bishop had agreed to everything.

“I think we should use the cloister layout again,” Merthin said. “It seemed to work really well for the short time you were in charge.”

She stared at the sheet of unmarked snow and marvelled at his ability to imagine walls and rooms where she could see only whiteness. “The entrance arch was used almost like a hall,” she said. “It was the place where people waited, and where the nuns first examined the patients before deciding what to do with them.”

“You would like it larger?”

“I think it should be a real reception hall.”

“All right.”

She was bemused. “This is hard to believe. Everything has turned out just as I would have wanted it.”

He nodded. “That’s how I worked it out.”

“Really?”

“I asked myself what you would wish for, then I figured out how to achieve it.”

She stared at him. He had said it lightly, as if merely explaining the reasoning process that had led him to his conclusions. He seemed to have no idea how momentous it was to her that he should be thinking about her wishes and how to achieve them.

She said: “Has Philippa had the baby yet?”

“Yes, a week ago.”

“What did she have?”

“A boy.”

“Congratulations. Have you seen him?”

“No. As far as the world is concerned, I’m only his uncle. But Ralph sent me a letter.”

“Have they named him?”

“Roland, after the old earl.”

Caris changed the subject. “The river water isn’t very pure this far downstream. A hospital really needs clean water.”

“I’ll lay a pipe to bring you water from farther upstream.”

The snowfall eased and then stopped, and they had a clear view of the island.

She smiled at him. “You have the answer to everything.”

He shook his head. “These are the easy questions: clean water, airy rooms, a reception hall.”

“And what are the difficult ones?”

He turned to face her. There were snowflakes in his red beard. He said: “Questions like: Does she still love me?”

They stared at one another for a long moment.

Caris was happy.

Part Seven. March to November, 1361

81

Wulfric at forty was still the handsomest man Gwenda had ever seen. There were threads of silver now in his tawny hair, but they just made him look wise as well as strong. When he was young his broad shoulders had tapered dramatically to a narrow waist, whereas nowadays the taper was not so sharp nor the waist so slim – but he could still do the work of two men. And he would always be two years younger than she.

She thought she had changed less. She had the kind of dark hair that did not go grey until late in life. She was no heavier than she had been twenty years ago, although since having the children her breasts and belly were not quite as taut as formerly.

It was only when she looked at her son Davey, at his smooth skin and the restless spring in his step, that she felt her years. Now twenty, he looked like a male version of herself at that age. She, too, had had a face with no lines, and she had walked with a jaunty stride. A lifetime of working in the fields in all weathers had wrinkled her hands, and given her cheeks a raw redness just beneath the skin, and taught her to walk slowly and conserve her strength.

Davey was small like her, and shrewd, and secretive: since he was little she had never been sure what he was thinking. Sam was the opposite: big and strong, not clever enough to be deceitful, but with a mean streak that Gwenda blamed on his real father, Ralph Fitzgerald.

For several years now the two boys had been working alongside Wulfric in the fields – until two weeks ago, when Sam had vanished.

They knew why he had gone. All winter long he had been talking about leaving Wigleigh and moving to a village where he could earn higher wages. He had disappeared the moment the spring ploughing began.

Gwenda knew he was right about the wages. It was a crime to leave your village, or to accept pay higher than the levels of 1347, but all over the country restless young men were flouting the law, and desperate farmers were hiring them. Landlords such as Earl Ralph could do little more than gnash their teeth.

Sam had not said where he would go, and he had given no warning of his departure. If Davey had done the same, Gwenda would have known he had thought things out carefully and decided this was the best way. But she felt sure Sam had just followed an impulse. Someone had mentioned the name of a village, and he had woken up early the next morning and decided to go there immediately.

She told herself not to worry. He was twenty-two years old, big and strong. No one was going to exploit him or ill-treat him. But she was his mother, and her heart ached.

If she could not find him, no one else could, she figured, and that was good. All the same she yearned to know where he was living, and if he was working for a decent master, and whether the people were kind to him.

That winter, Wulfric had made a new light plough for the sandier acres of his holding, and one day in spring Gwenda and he went to Northwood to buy an iron ploughshare, the one part they could not make for themselves. As usual, a small group of Wigleigh folk travelled together to the market. Jack and Eli, who operated the fulling mill for Madge Webber, were stocking up on supplies: they had no land of their own so they bought all their food. A