They were tense and restless. Sister Beth, the former treasurer and now the oldest nun, read a prayer to open the meeting. Almost before she had finished, several nuns spoke at once. The voice that prevailed was that of Sister Margaret, the former cellarer. “Caris was right, and Elizabeth was wrong!” she cried. “Those who refused the mask are now dying.”
There was a collective rumble of agreement.
Caris said: “I wish it were otherwise. I’d rather have Rosie and Simone and Cressie sitting here voting against me.” She meant it. She was sick of seeing people die. It made her think how trivial everything else was.
Elizabeth stood up. “I propose we postpone the election,” she said. “Three nuns are dead and three more are in the hospital. We should wait until the plague is over.”
That took Caris by surprise. She had thought there was nothing Elizabeth could do to avoid defeat – but she had been wrong. No one would now vote for Elizabeth, but her supporters might prefer to avoid making any choice at all.
Caris’s apathy vanished. Suddenly she remembered all the reasons why she wanted to be prioress: to improve the hospital, to teach more girls to read and write, to help the town prosper. It would be a catastrophe if Elizabeth were elected instead.
Elizabeth was immediately supported by old Sister Beth. “We shouldn’t hold the election in a panic, and make a choice we might regret later when things have calmed down.” Her statement sounded rehearsed: Elizabeth had obviously planned this. But the argument was not unreasonable, Caris thought with some trepidation.
Margaret said indignantly: “Beth, you only say that because you know Elizabeth is going to lose.”
Caris held back from speaking, for fear of prompting the same argument against herself.
Sister Naomi, who was not committed to either side, said: “The trouble is, we have no leader. Mother Cecilia, rest her soul, never appointed a sub-prioress after Natalie died.”
“Is that so bad?” Elizabeth said.
“Yes!” Margaret said. “We can’t even make up our minds who is to go first in the procession!”
Caris decided to risk making a practical point. “There is a long list of decisions that need to be taken, especially about inheritance of nunnery properties whose tenants have died of the plague. It would be difficult to go much longer with no prioress.”
Sister Elaine, one of the original five friends of Elizabeth, now argued against postponement. “I hate elections,” she said. She sneezed, then went on: “They set sister against sister and cause acrimony. I want to get this over with so that we can be united in the face of this dreadful plague.”
That raised a cheer of support.
Elizabeth glared angrily at Elaine. Elaine caught her eye and said: “You see, I can’t even make a pacific remark like that without Elizabeth looking at me as if I’ve betrayed her!”
Elizabeth dropped her gaze.
Margaret said: “Come on, let’s vote. Whoever is for Elizabeth, say: ‘Aye.’ ”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Beth said quietly: “Aye.”
Caris waited for someone else to speak, but Beth was the only one.
Caris’s heart beat faster. Was she about to achieve her ambition?
Margaret said: “Who is for Caris?”
The response was instant. There was a shout of “Aye!” It seemed to Caris that almost all the nuns voted for her.
I’ve done it, she thought. I’m prioress. Now we can really begin.
Margaret said: “In that case-”
A male voice suddenly said: “Wait!”
Several nuns gasped, and one screamed. They all looked at the door. Philemon stood there. He must have been listening outside, Caris thought.
He said: “Before you go any farther-”
Caris was not having this. She stood up and interrupted him. “How dare you enter the nunnery?” she said. “You do not have permission and you are not welcome. Leave now!”
“I’m sent by the lord prior-”
“He has no right-”
“He is the senior religious in Kingsbridge, and in the absence of a prioress or a sub-prioress he has authority over the nuns.”
“We are no longer without a prioress, Brother Philemon.” Caris advanced towards him. “I have just been elected.”
The nuns hated Philemon, and they all cheered.
He said: “Father Godwyn refuses to permit this election.”
“Too late. Tell him Mother Caris is now in charge of the nunnery – and she threw you out.”
Philemon backed away. “You are not prioress until your election has been ratified by the bishop!”
“Out!” said Caris.
The nuns took up the chant. “Out! Out! Out!”
Philemon was intimidated. He was not used to being defied. She took another step towards him, and he took another back. He looked amazed by what was happening, but also scared. The chanting got louder. Suddenly he turned around and scurried out.
The nuns laughed and cheered.
But Caris realized that his parting remark had been true. Her election would have to be ratified by Bishop Henri.
And Godwyn would do everything in his power to prevent that.
A team of volunteers from the town had cleared an acre of rough woodland on the far side of the river, and Godwyn was in the process of consecrating the new land as a cemetery. Every churchyard within the town walls was full, and the available space in the cathedral graveyard was shrinking fast.
Godwyn paced the borders of the plot in a biting cold wind, sprinkling holy water that froze when it hit the ground, while monks and nuns marched behind him, singing a psalm. Although the service was not yet over, the gravediggers were already at work. Humps of raw earth stood in neat lines beside straight-sided pits, placed as close together as possible to save space. But an acre would not last long, and men were already at work clearing the next patch of woodland.
At moments such as this, Godwyn had to struggle to keep his composure. The plague was like an incoming tide, submerging everyone in its path, unstoppable. The monks had buried a hundred people during the week before Christmas and the numbers were still rising. Brother Joseph had died yesterday, and two more monks were now ill. Where would it end? Would everyone in the world die? Would Godwyn himself die?
He was so scared that he stopped, staring at the gold aspergillum with which he was sprinkling the holy water as if he had no idea how it had got into his hand. For a moment he was so panicked that he could not move. Then Philemon, at the head of the procession, pushed him gently from behind. Godwyn stumbled forward and resumed his march. He had to thrust these frightening thoughts from his mind.
He turned his brain to the problem of the nuns’ election. Reaction to his sermon had been so favourable that he had thought Elizabeth’s victory secure. The tide had turned with shocking rapidity, and the infuriating revival in Caris’s popularity had taken him by surprise. Philemon’s last-ditch intervention had been a desperate measure taken just too late. When he thought of it, Godwyn wanted to scream.
But it was not yet over. Caris had mocked Philemon, but the truth was that she could not consider her position safe until she had Bishop Henri’s approval.
Unfortunately, Godwyn had not yet had a chance to ingratiate himself with Henri. The new bishop, who spoke no English, had visited Kingsbridge only once. Because he was so new, Philemon had not yet learned whether he had any fatal weaknesses. But he was a man, and a priest, so he ought to side with Godwyn against Caris.
Godwyn had written to Henri saying that Caris had bewitched the nuns into thinking she could save them from the plague. He had detailed Caris’s history: the accusation of heresy, the trial and sentence eight years ago, the rescue by Cecilia. He hoped Henri would arrive in Kingsbridge with his mind firmly prejudiced against Caris.