Looking worried, Mattie changed her position. She put her left hand on Gwenda’s belly just below the navel, then her right hand over the left. She pressed down, slowly putting on more pressure. Caris was afraid it must hurt the patient, but Gwenda seemed only half conscious. Mattie leaned farther over Gwenda until she seemed to be putting all her weight on to her hands.
Julie said: “She’s stopped bleeding!”
Mattie did not change her position. “Can anyone here count to five hundred?”
“Yes,” Caris said.
“Slowly, please.”
Caris began to count aloud. Julie wiped the blood off Gwenda again, and this time the streaks did not reappear. She began to pray aloud. “Holy Mary, Mother of the Lord Jesus Christ…”
Everyone was still, like a group of statuary, the mother and baby on the bed, the wise woman pressing down on the mother’s belly; the husband, the praying nun and Caris counting: “A hundred and eleven, a hundred and twelve…”
As well as her own voice and Julie’s, Caris could hear the sound of the fair outside, the roar of hundreds of people all speaking at once. The strain of pressing down began to show on Mattie’s face, but she did not move. Wulfric was crying silently, tears streaming down his sunburned cheeks.
When Caris reached five hundred, Mattie slowly eased her weight off Gwenda’s abdomen. Everyone looked at her vagina, dreading the gush of blood.
It did not come.
Mattie breathed a long sigh of relief. Wulfric smiled. Julie said: “Praise God!”
Mattie said: “Give her another drink, please.”
Once again, Mair put a full cup to Gwenda’s lips. Gwenda opened her eyes and drank it all.
“You’re going to be all right now,” Mattie said.
Gwenda whispered: “Thank you.” Then she closed her eyes.
Mattie looked at Mair. “Perhaps you should go and see about that soup,” she said. “The woman must rebuild her strength, otherwise her milk will dry up.”
Mair nodded and left.
The baby cried. Gwenda seemed to revive. She moved the baby to her other breast and helped him find the nipple. Then she looked up at Wulfric and smiled.
Julie said: “What a beautiful little boy.”
Caris looked at the baby again. For the first time, she saw him as an individual. What would he be like – strong and true like Wulfric, or weak and dishonest like his grandfather Joby? He did not resemble either, she thought. “Who does he look like?” she said.
Julie said: “He has his mother’s colouring.”
That was right, Caris thought. The baby had dark hair and beige skin, where Wulfric had fair skin and a mane of dark-blond hair. The baby’s face reminded her of someone, and after a moment she realized it was Merthin. A foolish thought crossed her mind, and she dismissed it immediately. All the same, the resemblance was there. “You know who he reminds me of?” she said.
Suddenly she caught a look from Gwenda. Her eyes widened, an expression of panic crossed her face, and she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was gone in an instant, but the message was unmistakable: Shut up! Caris clamped her teeth together.
“Who?” said Julie innocently.
Caris hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say. At last she was inspired. “Philemon, Gwenda’s brother,” she said.
“Of course,” said Julie. “Someone should tell him to come and see his new nephew.”
Caris was bewildered. So the baby was not Wulfric’s? Then whose? It could not be Merthin’s. He might have lain with Gwenda – he was certainly vulnerable to temptation – but he could never have kept it secret from Caris afterwards. If not Merthin…
Caris was struck by a dreadful thought. What had gone on that day when Gwenda went to plead with Ralph for Wulfric’s inheritance? Could the baby be Ralph’s? It was too grim to contemplate.
She looked at Gwenda, then at the baby, then at Wulfric. Wulfric was smiling with joy, though his face was still wet with tears. He had no suspicions.
Julie said: “Have you thought about the baby’s name?”
“Oh, yes,” said Wulfric. “I want to name him Samuel.”
Gwenda nodded, looking down at the baby’s face. “Samuel,” she said. “Sammy. Sam.”
“After my father,” Wulfric said happily.
32
One year after the death of Anthony, Kingsbridge Priory was a different place, Godwyn thought, with satisfaction, as he stood in the cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair.
The main difference was the separation of monks and nuns. They no longer mingled in the cloisters, the library or the scriptorium. Even here in the church, a new carved-oak screen running down the centre of the choir prevented them from looking at one another during the services. Only in the hospital were they sometimes forced to mix.
In his sermon, Prior Godwyn said the collapse of the bridge a year ago had been God’s punishment for laxity in the monks and nuns, and for sin among the townspeople. The new spirit of rigour and purity at the priory, and piety and submission in the town, would lead to a better life for all, in this world and the hereafter. He felt it went down quite well.
Afterwards he had dinner with Brother Simeon, the treasurer, in the prior’s house. Philemon served them stewed eel and cider. “I want to build a new prior’s house,” Godwyn said.
Simeon’s long, thin face seemed to get longer. “Any particular reason?”
“I’m sure I am the only prior in Christendom who lives in a house like a leather tanner’s. Think of the people who have been guests here in the last twelve months – the earl of Shiring, the bishop of Kingsbridge, the earl of Monmouth – this building isn’t appropriate for such folk. It gives a poor impression of us and of our order. We need a magnificent building to reflect the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory.”
“You want a palace,” said Simeon.
Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon’s tone of voice, as if Godwyn’s aim was to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It’s not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”
“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can’t afford it.”
Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”
“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”
Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”
Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition, and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look, and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer – and make an interesting contribution.
“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there’s no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”
Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”
“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain. Many of our serfs struggled to stay alive. It’s hard to force them to pay their rents when they’re hungry-”
“They must pay, all the same,” Godwyn said. “Monks get hungry too.”
Philemon spoke again. “If the bailiff of a village says that a serf has defaulted on his rent, or that part of the land is untenanted therefore no rent is due, you haven’t really got any way of checking that he’s telling the truth. Bailiffs can be bribed by serfs.”