“I do…” Mattie looked uneasy.
“Is there a snag?”
“The way to get rid of a pregnancy is to poison yourself. Some girls drink a gallon of strong wine. I make up a dose with several toxic herbs. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But it always makes you feel dreadful.”
“Is it dangerous? Could I die?”
“Yes, though it’s not as risky as childbirth.”
“I’ll take it.”
Mattie took her pot off the fire and put it on a stone slab to cool. Turning to her scarred old workbench, she took a small pottery bowl from a cupboard and poured into it small quantities of different powders.
Caris said: “What’s the matter? You say you don’t make judgements, but you look disapproving.”
Mattie nodded. “You’re right. I do make judgements, of course; everyone does.”
“And you’re judging me.”
“I’m thinking that Merthin is a good man and you love him, but you don’t seem able to find happiness with him. That makes me sad.”
“You think I should be like other women, and throw myself at the feet of some man.”
“It seems to make them happy. But I chose a different way of life. And so will you, I suppose.”
“Are you happy?”
“I wasn’t born to be happy. But I help people, I make a living, and I’m free.” She poured her mixture into a cup, added some wine and stirred, dissolving the powders. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Just some milk.”
She dripped a little honey into the cup. “Drink this, and don’t bother to eat dinner – you’ll only throw it up.”
Caris took the cup, hesitated, then swallowed the draught. “Thank you.” It had a vilely bitter taste that was only partly masked by the sweetness of the honey.
“It should be all over by tomorrow morning – one way or the other.”
Caris paid her and left. Walking home, she felt an odd mixture of elation and sadness. Her spirits were lifted by having made a decision, after all the weeks of worry; but she also felt a tug of loss, as if she were saying goodbye to someone – Merthin, perhaps. She wondered if their separation would be permanent. She could contemplate the prospect calmly, because she still felt angry with him, but she knew she would miss him terribly. He would find another lover eventually – Bessie Bell, perhaps – but Caris felt sure she would not do the same. She would never love anyone as she had loved Merthin.
When she got home, the smell of roasting pork in the house nauseated her, and she went out again. She did not want to gossip with other women in the main street or talk business with the men at the guild hall, so she drifted into the priory grounds, her heavy wool cloak wrapped around her for warmth, and sat on a tombstone in the graveyard, looking at the north wall of the cathedral, marvelling at the perfection of its carved mouldings and the grace of its flying buttresses.
It was not long before she felt ill.
She puked on a grave, but her stomach was empty, and nothing came up except a sour fluid. Her head began to ache. She wanted to lie down, but she was reluctant to go home because of the kitchen smell. She decided to go to the priory hospital. The nuns would let her lie down for a minute. She left the graveyard, crossed the green in front of the cathedral and entered the hospital. Suddenly she was terribly thirsty.
She was greeted by the kindly, podgy face of Old Julie. “Oh, Sister Juliana,” Caris said gratefully. “Would you bring me a cup of water?” The priory had water piped from upstream, cool and clear and safe to drink.
“Are you ill, child?” said Old Julie anxiously.
“A little nauseated. If I may, I’ll just lie down for a moment.”
“Of course. I’ll fetch Mother Cecilia.”
Caris lay down on one of the straw mattresses lined up neatly on the floor. For a few moments she felt better, then the headache became worse. Julie returned with a jug and a cup, and Mother Cecilia. Caris drank some water, threw up, and drank some more.
Cecilia asked her some questions then said: “You’ve eaten something corrupt. You need to be purged.”
Caris hurt so much she could make no response. Cecilia left and returned moments later with a bottle and a spoon. She gave Caris a spoonful of treacly medicine that tasted of cloves.
Caris lay back with her eyes closed and longed for the pain to go away. After a while, she was afflicted with stomach cramps, followed by uncontrollable diarrhoea. She assumed vaguely that it had been brought on by the treacle. After an hour it went away. Julie undressed her, washed her, gave her a nun’s robe instead of her own soiled dress, and put her on a clean mattress. She lay down and closed her eyes, exhausted.
Prior Godwyn came to see her and said she must be bled. Another monk came to do the job. He made her sit up and stretch out her arm with her elbow over a large bowl. Then he took a sharp knife and opened the vein in the crook of her arm. She hardly noticed the pain of the cut or the slow throb of the bleeding. After a while the monk put a dressing on the cut and told her to hold it there firmly. He took away the bowl of blood.
She was vaguely conscious of people coming to see her: her father, Petranilla, Merthin. Old Julie put a cup to her lips from time to time and she always drank, for she was insatiably thirsty. At some point she noticed candles, and realized it must be night. Eventually she fell into a troubled sleep, and had terrifying dreams about blood. Every time she woke, Julie gave her water.
At last she woke to daylight. The pain had receded, leaving only a dull headache. The next thing she realized was that someone was washing her thighs. She raised herself on her elbow.
A novice nun with the face of an angel crouched beside the mattress. Caris’s dress was up around her waist, and the nun was bathing her with a cloth dipped in warm water. After a moment, she remembered the girl’s name. “Mair,” she said.
“Yes,” the novice answered with a smile.
As she squeezed out the cloth into a bowl, Caris was frightened to see that it was red. “Blood!” she said fearfully.
“Don’t worry,” said Mair. “It’s just your monthly cycle. Heavy, but normal.”
Caris saw that her dress and the mattress were soaked with blood.
She lay back, looking up at the ceiling. Tears came to her eyes, but she did not know whether she was crying out of relief or sadness.
She was no longer pregnant.
Part Four. June 1338 to May 1339
30
The June of 1338 was dry and sunny, but the Fleece Fair was a catastrophe – for Kingsbridge in general, and for Edmund Wooler in particular. By the middle of the week, Caris knew that her father was bankrupt.
The townspeople had expected that it would be difficult, and had done all they could to prepare. They commissioned Merthin to build three large rafts that could be poled across the river, to supplement the ferry and Ian’s boat. He could have built more, but there was no room to land them on the banks. The priory’s grounds were opened a day early, and the ferry operated all night, by torchlight. They persuaded Godwyn to give permission for Kingsbridge shopkeepers to cross to the suburban side and sell to the queue, in the hope that Dick Brewer’s ale and Betty Baxter’s buns would mollify the people waiting.
It was not enough.
Fewer people than usual came to the fair, but the queues were worse than ever. The extra rafts were insufficient but, even so, the shore on both sides became so swampy that carts were constantly getting stuck in the mud and having to be towed out by teams of oxen. Worse, the rafts were difficult to steer, and on two occasions there were collisions that threw passengers into the water, though fortunately no one drowned.
Some traders anticipated these problems and stayed away. Others turned back when they saw the length of the queue. Of those willing to wait half a day to get into the city, some then did such paltry business that they left after a day or two. By Wednesday the ferry was taking more people away than it was bringing in.