She had long wanted to give the hospital its own latrine, so that she could supervise its cleanliness. But that was only one of the improvements she hoped for. She needed a new pharmacy, adjacent to the hospital, a spacious, well-lit room where she could prepare medicines and make her notes. And she was trying to figure out a way to give patients more privacy. At present everyone in the room could see a woman giving birth, a man having a fit, a child vomiting. People in distress should have small rooms of their own, she felt, like the side chapels in a large church. But she was not sure how to achieve this: the hospital was not big enough. She had had several discussions with Jeremiah Builder – who had been Merthin’s apprentice Jimmie, many years ago – but he had not come up with a satisfactory solution.
Next morning, three more people had the same symptoms as Maldwyn Cook.
Caris fed the visitors breakfast and tipped them out into the market. Only the sick were allowed to stay behind. The floor of the hospital was filthier than usual, and she had it swept and swabbed. Then she went to the service in the cathedral.
Bishop Richard was not present. He was with the king, preparing to invade France again – he had always regarded his bishopric mainly as a means of supporting his aristocratic lifestyle. In his absence the diocese was run by Archdeacon Lloyd, who collected the bishop’s tithes and rents, baptized children and conducted services with dogged but unimaginative efficiency – a trait he illustrated by giving a tedious sermon on why God was more important than Money, an odd note on which to open one of England’s great commercial fairs.
Nevertheless, everyone was in high spirits, as was usual on the first day. The Fleece Fair was the high point of the year for the townspeople and the peasants of the surrounding villages. People made money at the fair and lost it gambling in the inns. Strapping village girls allowed themselves to be seduced by slick city boys. Prosperous peasants paid the town’s prostitutes for services they dared not ask their wives to perform. There was usually a murder, often several.
Caris spotted the heavy-set, richly dressed figure of Buonaventura Caroli in the congregation, and her heart faltered. He might have news of Merthin. She went through the service distractedly, mumbling the psalms. On the way out she managed to catch Buonaventura’s eye. He smiled at her. She tried to indicate, with an inclination of her head, that she wanted him to meet her afterwards. She was not sure whether he got the message.
However, she went to the hospital – the only place in the priory where a nun could meet a man from outside – and Buonaventura came in not long afterwards. He wore a costly blue coat and pointed shoes. He said: “Last time I saw you, you had just been consecrated a nun by Bishop Richard.”
“I’m guest master now,” she said.
“Congratulations! I never expected you to take so well to convent life.” Buonaventura had known her since she was a little girl.
“Nor did I,” she laughed.
“The priory seems to be doing well.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I see that Godwyn is building a new palace.”
“Yes.”
“He must be prospering.”
“I suppose he is. How about you? Is trade good?”
“We have some problems. The war between England and France has disrupted transport, and your King Edward’s taxes make English wool more expensive than the Spanish. But it’s also better quality.”
They always complained about taxes. Caris came to the subject that really interested her. “Any news of Merthin?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Buonaventura said; and although his manner was as urbane as ever, she detected a hesitation. “Merthin is married.”
Caris felt as if she had been punched. She had never expected this, never even thought of it. How could Merthin do this? He was… they were…
There was no reason at all why he should not get married, of course. She had rejected him more than once, and on the last occasion she had made her rejection final by entering the nunnery. It was only remarkable that he had waited so long. She had no right to feel hurt.
She forced a smile. “How splendid!” she said. “Please send him my congratulations. Who is the girl?”
Buonaventura pretended not to notice her distress. “Her name is Silvia,” he said, as casually as if he were passing on harmless gossip. “She’s the younger daughter of one of the city’s most prominent citizens, Alessandro Christi, a trader in oriental spices who owns several ships.”
“How old?”
He grinned. “Alessandro? He must be about my age…”
“Don’t tease me!” She was grateful to Buonaventura for lightening the tone. “How old is Silvia?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Six years younger than me.”
“A beautiful girl…”
She sensed the unspoken qualification. “But…?”
He tilted his head to one side apologetically. “She has the reputation of being sharp-tongued. Of course, people say all sorts of things… but perhaps that is why she remained single so long – girls in Florence generally marry before the age of eighteen.”
“I’m sure it’s true,” Caris said. “The only girls Merthin liked in Kingsbridge were me and Elizabeth Clerk, and we’re both shrews.”
Buonaventura laughed. “Not so, not so.”
“When was the wedding?”
“Two years ago. Not long after I last saw you.”
Caris realized that Merthin had remained single until she had been consecrated as a nun. He would have heard, via Buonaventura, that she had taken the final step. She thought of him waiting and hoping, for more than four years, in a foreign country; and her brittle façade of good cheer began to crack.
Buonaventura said: “And they have a child, a little baby girl called Lolla.”
That was too much. All the grief Caris had felt seven years ago – the pain she thought had gone for ever – came back in a rush. She had not truly lost him back then in 1339, she realized. He had remained loyal to her memory for years. But she had lost him now, finally, eternally.
She was shaken as if by a fit, and she knew she could not hold out much longer. Trembling, she said: “It’s such a pleasure to see you, and catch up with the news, but I must get back to my work.”
His face showed concern. “I hope I haven’t upset you too much. I thought you would prefer to know.”
“Don’t be kind to me – I can’t stand it.” She turned from him and hurried away.
She bent her head to hide her face as she walked from the hospital into the cloisters. Searching for somewhere to be alone, she ran up the stairs to the dormitory. There was no one there in the daytime. She began to sob as she walked the length of the bare room. At the far end was Mother Cecilia’s bedroom. No one was allowed in there without an invitation, but Caris went in anyway, slamming the door behind her. She fell on Cecilia’s bed, not caring that her nun’s cap had fallen off. She buried her face in the straw mattress, and wept.
After a while she felt a hand on her head, stroking her short-cropped hair. She had not heard the person enter the room. She did not care who it was. All the same she was slowly, gradually soothed. Her sobs became less wrenching, her tears dried, and the storm of her emotions began to die down. She rolled over and looked up at her comforter. It was Mair.
Caris said: “Merthin is married – he has a baby girl.” She began to cry again.
Mair lay down on the bed and cradled Caris’s head in her arms. Caris pressed her face into Mair’s soft breasts, letting the woollen robe soak up the tears. “There, there,” said Mair.