“Of course you do,” said Elfric. “And we all know why!”
There was a ripple of laughter. Everyone knew about the longstanding on-off love affair between Merthin and Caris.
Merthin smiled. “Go on, laugh – I don’t mind. Just remember that Caris grew up in the wool business and helped her father, so she understands the problems and challenges that merchants face – whereas her rival is the daughter of a bishop, and more likely to sympathize with the prior.”
Elfric was looking red in the face – partly because of the ale he had drunk, Merthin thought, but mainly through anger. “Why do you hate me, Merthin?” he said.
Merthin was surprised. “I thought it was the other way around.”
“You seduced my daughter, then refused to marry her. You tried to prevent my building the bridge. I thought we’d got rid of you, then you came back and humiliated me over the cracks in the bridge. You hadn’t been back more than a few days before you tried to get me ousted as alderman and replaced by your friend Mark. You even hinted that the cracks in the cathedral were my fault, although it was built before I was born. I repeat, why do you hate me?”
Merthin did not know what to say. How could Elfric not know what he had done to Merthin? But Merthin did not want to have this argument in front of the parish guild – it seemed childish. “I don’t hate you, Elfric. You were a cruel master when I was an apprentice, and you’re a slipshod builder, and you toady to Godwyn, but all the same I don’t hate you.”
One of the new members, Joseph Blacksmith, said: “Is this what you do at the parish guild – have stupid arguments?”
Merthin felt hard done by. It was not he who had introduced the personal note. But for him to say that would be seen as continuing a stupid argument. So he said nothing, and reflected that Elfric was ever sly.
“Joe’s right,” said Bill Watkin. “We didn’t come here to listen to Elfric and Merthin squabbling.”
Merthin was troubled by Bill’s willingness to put him and Elfric on the same level. Generally, the guildsmen liked him and felt mildly hostile to Elfric, since the dispute over the bridge cracks. Indeed, they would have ousted Elfric if Mark had not died. But something had changed.
Merthin said: “Can we return to the matter in hand, which is petitioning the bishop to favour Caris as prioress?”
“I’m against it,” Elfric said. “Prior Godwyn wants Elizabeth.”
A new voice spoke up. “I’m with Elfric. We don’t want to quarrel with the Father Prior.” It was Marcel Chandler, who had the contract to supply wax candles to the priory. Godwyn was his biggest customer. Merthin was not surprised.
However, the next speaker shocked him. It was Jeremiah Builder, who said: “I don’t think we should favour someone who has been accused of heresy.” He spat on the floor twice, left and right, and crossed himself.
Merthin was too surprised to reply. Jeremiah had always been fearfully superstitious, but Merthin would never have imagined it would lead him to betray his mentor.
It was left to Bessie to defend Caris. “That charge was always ludicrous,” she said.
“It was never disproved, though,” said Jeremiah.
Merthin stared at him, but Jeremiah would not meet his eye. “What’s got into you, Jimmie?” Merthin said.
“I don’t want to die of the plague,” Jeremiah said. “You heard the sermon. Anyone practising heathen remedies should be shunned. We’re talking about asking the bishop to make her prioress – that’s not shunning her!”
There was a murmur of assent, and Merthin realized that the tide of opinion had turned. The others were not as credulous as Jeremiah, but they shared his fear. The plague had spooked them all, undermining their rationality. Godwyn’s sermon had been more effective than Merthin had imagined.
He was ready to give up – then he thought of Caris, and how weary and demoralized she had looked, and he gave it one more try. “I’ve lived through this once, in Florence,” he said. “I warn you now, priests and monks won’t save anyone from the plague. You’ll have handed the town to Godwyn on a plate, and all for nothing.”
Jeremiah said: “That sounds awfully close to blasphemy.”
Merthin looked around. The others agreed with Jeremiah. They were too scared to think straight. There was nothing more he could do.
They decided to take no action on the election for prioress, and soon afterwards the meeting broke up in somewhat bad humour, the members taking burning sticks from the fire to light their way home.
Merthin decided it was too late to report to Caris – the nuns, like the monks, went to bed at nightfall and got up in the early hours of the morning. However, there was a figure wrapped in a big wool cloak waiting outside the guild hall, and to his surprise his torch revealed the troubled face of Caris. “What happened?” she said anxiously.
“I failed,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
In the torchlight she looked wounded. “What did they say?”
“They won’t intervene. They believed the sermon.”
“Fools.”
Together they walked down the main street. At the priory gates, Merthin said: “Leave the nunnery, Caris. Not for my sake, but for your own. You can’t work under Elizabeth. She hates you, and she’ll block everything you want to do.”
“She hasn’t won yet.”
“She will, though – you said so yourself. Renounce your vows, and marry me.”
“Marriage is a vow. If I break my vow to God, why would you trust me to keep my promise to you?”
He smiled. “I’ll risk it.”
“Let me think about it.”
“You’ve been thinking about it for months,” Merthin said with resentment. “If you don’t leave now, you never will.”
“I can’t leave now. People need me more than ever.”
He began to feel angry. “I won’t keep asking for ever.”
“I know.”
“In fact, I won’t ask you again, after tonight.”
She began to cry. “I’m sorry, but I can’t abandon the hospital in the midst of a plague.”
“The hospital.”
“And the people of the town.”
“But what about yourself?”
The flame of his torch made her tears glisten. “They need me so badly.”
“They’re ungrateful, all of them – nuns, monks, townspeople. I should know, by God.”
“It makes no difference.”
He nodded, accepting her decision, suppressing his selfish anger. “It that’s how you feel, you must do your duty.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“I wish this had turned out differently.”
“So do I.”
“You’d better take this torch.”
“Thank you.”
She took the burning branch from his hand and turned away. He watched her, thinking: Is this how it ends? Is this all? She walked away with her characteristic stride, determined and confident, but her head was bowed. She passed through the gateway and disappeared.
The lights of the Bell shone cheerfully through the gaps around the shutters and the door. He went inside.
The last few customers were saying drunken farewells, and Sairy was collecting tankards and wiping tables. Merthin checked on Lolla, who was fast asleep, and paid the girl who had been watching her. He thought of going to bed, but he knew he would not sleep. He was too upset. Why had he run out of patience tonight, as opposed to any other time? He had got angry. But his anger came from fear, he realized as he calmed down. Underneath it all, he was terrified that Caris would catch the plague and die.
He sat on a bench in the parlour of the inn and took off his boots. He stayed there, staring into the fire, wondering why he could not have the one thing in life that he wanted most.
Bessie came in and hung up her cloak. Sairy left, and Bessie locked up. She sat opposite Merthin, taking the big chair that her father had always used. “I’m sorry about what happened at the guild,” she said. “I’m not sure who’s right, but I know you’re disappointed.”
“Thank you for supporting me, anyway.”