World Without End

The woman nodded fatalistically. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Don’t you recognize the symptoms from last time?”

“We were living in a small town in Wales – we escaped it. Are we all going to die?”

Caris did not believe in deceiving people about such important questions. “A few people survive it,” she said. “Not many, though.”

“May God have mercy on us, then,” said the woman.

Caris said: “Amen.”

All the way back to Kingsbridge, Caris brooded on the plague. It would spread, of course, just as fast as last time. It would kill thousands. The prospect filled her with rage. It was like the senseless carnage of war, except that war was caused by men, and the plague was not. What was she going to do? She could not sit back and watch as the events of thirteen years ago were cruelly repeated.

There was no cure for the plague, but she had discovered ways to slow its murderous progress. As her horse jogged the well-worn road through the forest, she thought over what she knew about the illness and how to combat it. Merthin was quiet, recognizing her mood, probably guessing accurately what she was thinking about.

When they got home, she explained to him what she wanted to do. “There will be opposition,” he warned. “Your plan is drastic. Those who did not lose family and friends last time may imagine they are invulnerable, and say you’re overreacting.”

“That’s where you can help me,” she said.

“In that case, I recommend we divide up the potential objectors and deal with them separately.”

“All right.”

“You have three groups to win over: the guild, the monks and the nuns. Let’s start with the guild. I’ll call a meeting – and I won’t invite Philemon.”

Nowadays the guild met in the Cloth Exchange, a large new stone building on the main street. It enabled traders to do business even in bad weather. It had been paid for by profits from Kingsbridge Scarlet.

But before the guild convened, Caris and Merthin met individually with the leading members, to win their support in advance, a technique Merthin had developed long ago. His motto was: “Never call a meeting until the result is a foregone conclusion.”

Caris herself went to see Madge Webber.

Madge had married again. Much to everyone’s amusement, she had enchanted a villager as handsome as her first husband and fifteen years her junior. His name was Anselm, and he seemed to adore her, though she was as plump as ever and covered her grey hair with a selection of exotic caps. Even more surprising, in her forties she had conceived again and given birth to a healthy baby girl, Selma, now eight years old and attending the nuns’ school. Motherhood had never kept Madge from doing business, and she continued to dominate the market in Kingsbridge Scarlet, with Anselm as her lieutenant.

Her home was still the large house on the main street that she and Mark had moved into when she first began to profit from weaving and dyeing. Caris found her and Anselm taking delivery of a consignment of red cloth, trying to find room for it in the overcrowded storeroom on the ground floor. “I’m stocking up for the Fleece Fair,” Madge explained.

Caris waited while she checked the delivery, then they went upstairs, leaving Anselm in charge of the shop. As Caris entered the living room she was vividly reminded of the day, thirteen years ago, when she had been summoned here to see Mark – the first Kingsbridge victim of the plague. She suddenly felt depressed.

Madge noticed her expression. “What is it?” she said.

You could not hide things from women the way you could from men. “I walked in here thirteen years ago because Mark was ill,” Caris said.

Madge nodded. “That was the begi

“Days of grief,” Caris said.

Madge went to the sideboard, where there were cups and a jug, but instead of offering Caris a drink she stood staring at the wall. “Shall I tell you something strange?” she said. “After they died, I couldn’t say Amen to the paternoster.” She swallowed, and her voice went quieter. “I know what the Latin means, you see. My father taught me. ‘Fiat voluntas tua: Thy will be done.’ I couldn’t say that. God had taken my family, and that was sufficient torture – I would not acquiesce in it.” Tears came to her eyes as she remembered. “I didn’t want God’s will to prevail, I wanted my children back. ‘Thy will be done.’ I knew I’d go to hell, but still I couldn’t say Amen.”

Caris said. “The plague has come back.”

Madge staggered, and clutched the sideboard for support. Her solid figure suddenly looked frail, and as the confidence went from her face she appeared old. “No,” she said.

Caris pulled a bench forward and held Madge’s arm while she sat on it. “I’m sorry to shock you,” she said.

“No,” Madge said again. “It can’t come back. I can’t lose Anselm and Selma. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.” She looked so white and drawn that Caris began to fear she might suffer some kind of attack.

Caris poured wine from the jug into a cup. She gave it to Madge, who drank it automatically. A little of her colour came back.

“We understand it better now,” Caris said. “Perhaps we can fight it.”

“Fight it? How can we do that?”

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. Are you feeling a little better?”

Madge met Caris’s eye at last. “Fight it,” she said. “Of course that’s what we must do. Tell me how.”

“We have to close the city. Shut the gates, man the walls, prevent anyone coming in.”

“But the city has to eat.”

“People will bring supplies to Leper Island. Merthin will act as middleman, and pay them – he contracted the plague last time and survived, and no one has ever got it twice. Traders will leave their goods on the bridge. Then, when they have gone, people will come out from the city and get the food.”

“Could people leave the city?”

“Yes, but they couldn’t come back.”

“What about the Fleece Fair?”

“That may be the hardest part,” Caris said. “It must be cancelled.”

“But Kingsbridge merchants will lose hundreds of pounds!”

“It’s better than dying.”

“If we do as you say, will we avoid the plague? Will my family survive?”

Caris hesitated, resisting the temptation to tell a reassuring lie. “I can’t promise,” she said. “The plague may already have reached us. There may be someone right now dying alone in a hovel near the waterfront, with nobody to get help. So I fear we may not escape entirely. But I believe my plan gives you the best chance of still having Anselm and Selma by your side at Christmas.”

“Then we’ll do it,” Madge said decisively.

“Your support is crucial,” Caris said. “Frankly, you will lose more money than anyone else from the cancellation of the fair. For that reason, people are more likely to believe you. I need you to say how serious it is.”

“Don’t worry,” said Madge. “I’ll tell them.”

“A very sound idea,” said Prior Philemon.

Merthin was surprised. He could not remember a time when Philemon had agreed readily with a proposal of the guild’s. “Then you will support it,” he said, to make sure he had heard aright.

“Yes, indeed,” said the prior. He was eating a bowl of raisins, stuffing handfuls into his mouth as fast as he could chew them. He did not offer Merthin any. “Of course,” he said, “it wouldn’t apply to monks.”

Merthin sighed. He might have known better. “On the contrary, it applies to everyone,” he said.

“No, no,” said Philemon, in the tone of one who instructs a child. “The guild has no power to restrict the movements of monks.”