World Without End

“What is he up to?”

“He wants to be bishop of Shiring.”

Henri raised his eyebrows. “Philemon always had nerve, I’ll give him that.”

Claude spoke for the first time. “How do you know?”

“Gregory Longfellow told me.”

Claude looked at Henri and said: “Gregory would know if anyone does.”

Caris could tell that Henri and Claude had not anticipated that Philemon would be so ambitious. To make sure they did not overlook the significance of the revelation, she said: “If Philemon gets his wish, you as archbishop of Monmouth will have endless work adjudicating disputes between Bishop Philemon and the townspeople of Kingsbridge. You know how much friction there has been in the past.”

Claude said: “We certainly do.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Merthin said.

Thinking aloud, Claude said: “We must put forward an alternative candidate.”

That was what Caris had hoped he would say. “We have someone in mind,” she said.

Claude said: “Who?”

“You.”

There was a silence. Caris could tell that Claude liked the idea. She guessed he might be quietly envious of Henri’s promotion, and wondering whether it was his destiny always to be a kind of assistant to Henri. He could easily cope with the post of bishop. He knew the diocese well and handled most of the practical administration already.

However, both men were now surely thinking about their personal lives. She had no doubt they were all but husband and wife: she had seen them kissing. But they were decades past the first flush of romance, and her intuition told her they could tolerate a part-time separation.

She said: “You would still be working together a good deal.”

Claude said: “The archbishop will have many reasons to visit Kingsbridge and Shiring.”

Henri said: “And the bishop of Kingsbridge will need to come to Monmouth often.”

Claude said: “It would be a great honour to be bishop.” With a twinkle in his eye he added: “Especially under you, archbishop.”

Henri looked away, pretending not to notice the double meaning. “I think it’s a splendid idea,” he said.

Merthin said: “The Kingsbridge guild will back Claude – I can guarantee that. But you, Archbishop Henri, will have to put the suggestion to the king.”

“Of course.”

Caris said: “If I may make one suggestion?”

“Please.”

“Find another post for Philemon. Propose him as, I don’t know, archdeacon of Lincoln. Something he would like, but that would take him many miles from here.”

“That’s a sound idea,” Henri said. “If he’s up for two posts, it weakens his case for either one. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

Claude stood up. “This is all very exciting,” he said. “Will you have di

A servant came in and addressed Caris. “There’s someone asking for you, mistress,” the man said. “It’s only a boy, but he seems distressed.”

Henri said: “Let him come in.”

A boy of about thirteen appeared. He was dirty, but his clothes were not cheap, and Caris guessed he came from a family that was comfortably off but suffering some kind of crisis. “Will you come to my house, Mother Caris?”

“I’m not a nun any more, child, but what’s the problem?”

The boy spoke fast. “My father and mother are ill and so is my brother, and my mother heard someone say you were at the bishop’s palace and said to fetch you, and she knows you help the poor but she can pay, but will you please come, please?”

This type of request was not unusual, and Caris carried a leather case of medical supplies with her wherever she went. “Of course I’ll come, lad,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Giles Spicers, mother, and I’m to wait and bring you.”

“All right.” Caris turned to the bishop. “Go ahead with your di

Shiring owed its existence to the sheriff’s castle on the hill, just as Kingsbridge did to the priory. Near the market square were the grand houses of the leading citizens, the wool merchants and sheriff’s deputies and royal officials such as the coroner. A little farther out were the homes of moderately prosperous traders and craftsmen, goldsmiths and tailors and apothecaries. Giles’s father was a dealer in spices, as his name indicated, and Giles led Caris to a street in this neighbourhood. Like most houses of this class, it had a stone-built ground floor that served as warehouse and shop, and flimsier timber living quarters above. Today the shop was closed and locked. Giles led Caris up the outside staircase.

She smelled the familiar odour of sickness as soon as she walked in. Then she hesitated. There was something special about the smell, something that struck a chord in her memory that for some reason made her feel very frightened.

Rather than ponder it, she walked through the living room into the bedroom, and there she found the dreadful answer.

Three people lay on mattresses around the room: a woman of her own age, a slightly older man and an adolescent boy. The man was farthest gone in sickness. He lay moaning and sweating in a fever. The open neck of his shirt showed that he had a rash of purple-black spots on his chest and throat. There was blood on his lips and nostrils.

He had the plague.

“It’s come back,” said Caris. “God help me.”

For a moment fear paralysed her. She stood motionless, staring at the scene, feeling powerless. She had always known, in theory, that the plague might return – that was half the reason she had written her book – but even so she was not prepared for the shock of once again seeing that rash, that fever, that nosebleed.

The woman lifted herself on one elbow. She was not so far gone: she had the rash and the fever, but did not appear to be bleeding. “Give me something to drink, for the love of God,” she said.

Giles picked up a jug of wine, and at last Caris’s mind started to work and her body unfroze. “Don’t give her wine – it will make her thirstier,” she said. “I saw a barrel of ale in the other room – draw her a cup of that.”

The woman focused on Caris. “You’re the prioress, aren’t you?” she said. Caris did not correct her. “People say you’re a saint. Can you make my family well?”

“I’ll try, but I’m not a saint, just a woman who has observed people in sickness and health.” Caris took from her bag a strip of linen and tied it over her mouth and nose. She had not seen a case of the plague for ten years, but she had got into the habit of taking this precaution whenever she dealt with patients whose illness might be catching. She moistened a clean rag with rose water and bathed the woman’s face. As always, the action soothed the patient.

Giles came back with a cup of ale, and the woman drank. Caris said to him: “Let them have as much to drink as they want, but give them ale or watered wine.”

She moved to the father, who did not have long to live. He was not speaking coherently and his eyes failed to focus on Caris. She bathed his face, cleaning the dried blood from around his nose and mouth. Finally she attended to Giles’s elder brother. He had only recently succumbed, and was still sneezing, but he was old enough to realize how seriously ill he was, and he looked terrified.

When she had finished she said to Giles: “Try to keep them comfortable and give them drinks. There’s nothing else you can do. Do you have any relations? Uncles or cousins?”

“They’re all in Wales.”

She made a mental note to warn Bishop Henri that he might need to make arrangements for an orphan boy.

“Mother said to pay you,” the boy said.

“I haven’t done much for you,” Caris said. “You can pay me sixpence.”

There was a leather purse beside his mother’s bed. He took out six silver pe

The woman raised herself again. Speaking more calmly now, she said: “What’s wrong with us?”

“I’m sorry,” said Caris. “It’s the plague.”