And she had an instinct for it. Mother Cecilia had said so, had practically pleaded with Caris to become a nun. Well, she was not going to enter the priory, but she might perhaps take Mattie’s place. Why not? The cloth business could be run by Mark Webber – he was doing most of the work anyway.
She would seek out other wise women – in Shiring, in Winchester, perhaps in London – and question them about their methods, what succeeded and what failed. Men were secretive about their craft skills – their ‘mysteries’ as they called them, as if there were something supernatural about tanning leather or making horseshoes – but women were usually willing to share knowledge with other women.
She would even read some of the monks’ ancient texts. There might be some truth in them. Perhaps the instinct that Cecilia attributed to her would help her winnow the seeds of practical treatment from the chaff of priestly mumbo-jumbo.
She stood up and left the house. She walked slowly back, dreading what she would find at the hospital. She felt fatalistic now. Her father would either be all right, or he would not. All she could do was carry out her resolution so that in future, when the people she loved were sick, she would know she was doing everything possible to help them.
She fought back tears as she made her way through the fair to the priory buildings. When she entered the hospital, she hardly dared look at her father. She approached the bed, which was surrounded by people: Mother Cecilia, Old Julie, Brother Joseph, Mark Webber, Petranilla, Alice, Elfric.
What must be, must be, she thought. She touched the shoulder of her sister, Alice, who moved aside, making room. At last Caris looked at her father.
He was alive and conscious, though he looked pale and tired. His eyes were open, and he looked straight at her and tried a weak smile. “I’m afraid I gave you a scare,” he said. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Caris, and she began to cry.
On Wednesday morning Merthin came to Caris’s stall in consternation. “Betty Baxter just asked me a strange question,” he said. “She wanted to know who was going to stand against Elfric in the election for alderman.”
“What election?” Caris said. “My father is alderman… oh.” She realized what must be going on. Elfric was telling people that Edmund was too old and sick to fulfil the role, and the town needed someone new. And he was presenting himself as a candidate. “We must tell my father right away.”
Caris and Merthin left the fairground and crossed the main street to the house. Edmund had left the priory hospital yesterday, saying – correctly – that there was nothing the monks could do for him but bleed him, which made him feel worse. He had been carried home, and a bed had been made up for him in the parlour on the ground floor.
This morning he was reclining on a stack of pillows in his improvised bed. He looked so weak that Caris hesitated to bother him with the news, but Merthin sat down beside him and laid out the facts starkly.
“Elfric is right,” Edmund said when Merthin had finished. “Look at me. I can hardly sit upright. The parish guild needs strong leadership. It’s no job for a sick man.”
“But you’ll be better soon!” Caris exclaimed.
“Perhaps. But I’m getting old. You must have noticed how absent-minded I’ve become. I forget things. And I was fatally slow to react to the downturn in the market for raw wool – I lost a lot of money last year. Thank God, we’ve rebuilt our fortune with the scarlet cloth – but you did that, Caris, not me.”
She knew all that, of course, but still she felt indignant. “Are you just going to let Elfric take over?”
“Certainly not. He would be a disaster. He’s too much in thrall to Godwyn. Even after we become a borough, we’ll need an alderman who can stand up to the priory.”
“Who else could do the job?”
“Talk to Dick Brewer. He’s one of the richest men in town, and the alderman must be rich, to have the respect of the other merchants. Dick’s not afraid of Godwyn or any of the monks. He’d be a good leader.”
Caris found herself reluctant to do as he said. It seemed like accepting that he was going to die. She could not remember a time when her father had not been alderman. She did not want her world to change.
Merthin understood her reluctance, but urged her on. “We have to accept this,” he said. “If we ignore what’s happening, we could end up with Elfric in charge. He would be a disaster – he might even withdraw the application for the borough charter.”
That decided her. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s find Dick.”
Dick Brewer had several carts in different locations in the fairground. Each bore a huge barrel. His children, grandchildren and in-laws were selling ale from the barrels as fast as they could pour it. Caris and Merthin found him setting an example by drinking a large pot of his own brew while he watched his family making money for him. They took him aside and explained what was going on.
Dick said to Caris: “When your father dies, I suppose his fortune will be divided equally between you and your sister?”
“Yes.” Edmund had already told Caris that this was in his will.
“When Alice’s inheritance is added to Elfric’s existing wealth, he will be very rich.”
Caris realized that half the money she was making from her scarlet cloth might go to her sister. She had not thought of this before, because she had not thought about her father dying. It came as a shock. Money itself was not important to her, but she did not want to help Elfric become alderman. “It’s not just a question of who is the richest man,” she said. “We need someone who will stand up for the merchants.”
“Then you must put up a rival candidate,” Dick said.
“Will you stand?” she asked him directly.
He shook his head. “Don’t bother trying to persuade me. At the end of this week I’m handing over to my eldest son. I’m planning to spend the rest of my days drinking beer instead of brewing it.” He took a long draught from his tankard and belched contentedly.
Caris felt she had to accept that: he seemed quite sure. She said: “Who do you think we might approach?”
“There’s only one real possibility,” he said. “You.”
Caris was astonished. “Me! Why?”
“You’re the driving force behind the campaign for a borough charter. Your fiancé’s bridge has saved the Fleece Fair, and your cloth business has pretty much rescued the town’s prosperity after the wool slump. You’re the child of the existing alderman and, although it’s not an inherited office, people think leaders breed leaders. And they’re right. You’ve actually been acting as alderman for almost a year, ever since your father’s powers started to fail.”
“Has the town ever had a woman alderman?”
“Not as far as I know. Nor one as young as you. Both these things will count heavily against you. I’m not saying you’re going to win. I’m telling you no one else has a better chance of beating Elfric.”
Caris had a faintly dizzy feeling. Was it possible? Could she do the job? What about her vow to become a healer? Were there not many other people in town who would be better than she as alderman? “What about Mark Webber?” she said.
“He’d be good, especially with that shrewd wife of his at his side. But people in this town still think of Mark as a poor weaver.”
“He’s prosperous now.”
“Thanks to your scarlet cloth. But people are suspicious of new money. They would just say Mark is a jumped-up weaver. They want an alderman from a well-established family – someone whose father was rich, and preferably grandfather too.”
Caris wanted to beat Elfric, but she did not feel sure of her ability. She thought of her father’s patience and shrewdness, his hearty conviviality, his inexhaustible energy. Did she have any such qualities? She looked at Merthin.