World Without End

by Ken Follett

  Petranilla noticed the red coat. "Whose is this?" she said. "It's the most expensive Italian cloth!"

  "I bought it for Rose," said Papa.

  Petranilla stared at him for a moment. Caris could tell she thought he was a fool to buy such a coat for a woman who had not left the house for a year. But all she said was: "You're very good to her," which might have been a compliment or not.

  Father did not care. "Go up and see her," he urged. "You'll cheer her up."

  Caris doubted that, but Petranilla suffered no such misgivings, and she went up the stairs.

  Caris's sister, Alice, came in from the street. She was eleven, a year older than Caris. She stared at Gwenda and said: "Who's she?"

  "My new friend Gwenda," said Caris. "She's going to take a puppy."

  "But she's got the one I wanted!" Alice protested.

  She had not said that before. "Ooh--you never picked one!" Caris said, outraged. "You're just saying that to be mean."

  "Why should she have one of our puppies?"

  Papa intervened. "Now, now," he said. "We've got more puppies than we need."

  "Caris should have asked me which one I wanted first!"

  "Yes, she should," Papa said, even though he knew perfectly well that Alice was only making trouble. "Don't do it again, Caris."

  "Yes, Papa."

  The cook came in from the kitchen with jugs and cups. When Caris was learning to talk she had called the cook Tutty, no one knew why, but the name had stuck. Papa said: "Thank you, Tutty. Sit at the table, girls." Gwenda hesitated, not sure if she was invited, but Caris nodded at her, knowing that Papa intended her to be included--he generally asked everyone within his range of vision to come to dinner.

  Tutty refilled Papa's cup with ale, then gave Alice, Caris, and Gwenda ale mixed with water. Gwenda drank all of hers immediately, with relish, and Caris guessed she did not often get ale: poor people drank cider made from crab apples.

  Next, the cook put in front of each of them a thick slice of rye bread a foot square. Gwenda picked hers up to eat it, and Caris realized she had never dined at a table before. "Wait," she said quietly, and Gwenda put the bread down again. Tutty brought in the ham on a board and a dish of cabbage. Papa took a big knife and cut slices off the ham, piling it on their bread trenchers. Gwenda stared big-eyed at the quantity of meat she was given. Caris spooned cabbage leaves on top of the ham.

  The chambermaid, Elaine, came hurrying down the stairs. "The mistress seems worse," she said. "Mistress Petranilla says we should send for Mother Cecilia."

  "Then run to the priory and beg her to come," Papa said.

  The maid hurried off.

  "Eat up, children," said Papa, and he speared a slice of hot ham with his knife; but Caris could see that the dinner now had no relish for him, and he seemed to be looking at something far away.

  Gwenda ate some cabbage and whispered: "This is food from Heaven." Caris tried it. The cabbage was cooked with ginger. Gwenda had probably never tasted ginger: only rich people could afford it.

  Petranilla came down, put some ham on a wooden platter, and took it up for Mama; but she came back a few moments later with the food untouched. She sat at the table to eat it herself, and the cook brought her a bread trencher. "When I was a girl, we were the only family in Kingsbridge who had meat for dinner every day," she said. "Except on fast days--my father was very devout. He was the first wool merchant in town to deal directly with the Italians. Everyone does now--although my brother Edmund is still the most important."

  Caris had lost her appetite, and she had to chew for a long time before she could swallow. At last Mother Cecilia arrived, a small, vital woman with a reassuringly bossy manner. With her was Sister Juliana, a simple person with a warm heart. Caris felt better as she watched them climb the stairs, a chirpy sparrow with a hen waddling behind. They would wash Mama in rose water to cool her fever, and the fragrance would lift her spirits.

  Tutty brought in apples and cheese. Papa peeled an apple absentmindedly with his knife. Caris remembered how, when she was younger, he used to feed her peeled slices then eat the skin himself.

  Sister Juliana came downstairs, a worried look on her pudgy face. "The prioress wants Brother Joseph to come and see Mistress Rose," she said. Joseph was the senior physician at the monastery: he had trained with the masters at Oxford. "I'll just go and fetch him," Juliana said, and she ran out through the door to the street.

  Papa put his peeled apple down uneaten.

  Caris said: "What is going to happen?"

  "I don't know, buttercup. Will it rain? How many sacks of wool do the Florentines need? Will the sheep catch a murrain? Is the baby a girl, or a boy with a twisted leg? We never know, do we? That's..." He looked away. "That's what makes it so hard."

  He gave her the apple. Caris gave it to Gwenda, who ate it entire, core and pips, too.

  Brother Joseph arrived a few minutes later with a young assistant whom Caris recognized as Saul Whitehead, so called because his hair--what little he had left after his monkish haircut--was ash blond.

  Cecilia and Juliana came downstairs, no doubt to make room for the two men in the small bedroom. Cecilia sat at the table, but did not eat. She had a small face with sharp features: a little pointed nose, bright eyes, a chin like the prow of a boat. She looked with curiosity at Gwenda. "Well, now," she said brightly, "who is this little girl, and does she love Jesus and His Holy Mother?"

  Gwenda said: "I'm Gwenda, I'm Caris's friend." She looked anxiously at Caris, as if she feared it might have been presumptuous of her to claim friendship.

  Caris said: "Will the Virgin Mary make my mama better?"

  Cecilia raised her eyebrows. "Such a direct question. I could have guessed you're Edmund's daughter."

  "Everyone prays to her, but not everyone gets well," Caris said.

  "And do you know why that is?"

  "Perhaps she never helps anyone, and it's just that the strong people get well and the weak don't."

  "Now, now, don't be silly," said Papa. "Everyone knows the Holy Mother helps us."

  "That's all right," Cecilia told him. "It's normal for children to ask questions--especially the bright ones. Caris, the saints are always powerful, but some prayers are more effective than others. Do you understand that?"

  Caris nodded reluctantly, feeling not convinced so much as outwitted.

  "She must come to our school," Cecilia said. The nuns had a school for the daughters of the nobility and of the more prosperous townspeople. The monks ran a separate school for boys.

  Papa looked stubborn. "Rose has taught both girls their letters," he said. "And Caris knows her numbers as well as I do--she helps me in the business."

  "She should learn more than that. Surely you don't want her to spend her life as your servant?"

  Petranilla put in: "She has no need of book learning. She will marry extremely well. There will be crowds of suitors for both sisters. Sons of merchants, even sons of knights will be eager to marry into this family. But Caris is a willful child: we must take care she doesn't throw herself away on some penniless minstrel boy."

  Caris noticed that Petranilla did not anticipate trouble with obedient Alice, who would probably marry whomever they picked for her.

  Cecilia said: "God might call Caris to his service."

  Papa said grumpily: "God has already called two from this family--my brother and my nephew. I'd have thought He would be satisfied by now."

  Cecilia looked at Caris. "What do you think?" she said. "Will you be a wool merchant, a knight's wife, or a nun?"

  The idea of being a nun horrified Caris. She would have to obey someone else's orders every hour of the day. It would be like remaining a child all your life, and having Petranilla for a mother. Being the wife of a knight, or of anyone else, seemed almost as bad, for women had to obey their husbands. Helping Papa, then perhaps taking over the business when he was too old, was the least unattractive option, but on the other hand it was not exactly her dream. "I don't
want to be any of those," she said.

  "Is there something you would like?" Cecilia asked.

  There was, although Caris had not told anyone before, in fact had not fully realized it until now; but the ambition seemed fully formed, and suddenly she knew without doubt that it was her destiny. "I'm going to be a doctor," she said.

  There was a moment of silence, then they all laughed.

  Caris flushed, not knowing what was so funny.

  Papa took pity and said: "Only men can be doctors. Didn't you know that, buttercup?"

  Caris was bewildered. She turned to Cecilia. "But what about you?"

  "I'm not a physician," Cecilia said. "We nuns care for the sick, of course, but we follow the instructions of trained men. The monks who have studied under the masters understand the humors of the body, the way they go out of balance in sickness, and how to bring them back to their correct proportions for good health. They know which vein to bleed for migraine, leprosy, or breathlessness; where to cup and cauterize; whether to poultice or bathe."

  "Couldn't a woman learn those things?"

  "Perhaps, but God has ordained it otherwise."

  Caris felt frustrated with the way adults trotted out this truism every time they were stuck for an answer. Before she could say anything, Brother Saul came downstairs with a bowl of blood and went through the kitchen to the backyard to get rid of it. The sight made Caris feel weepy. All doctors used bloodletting as a cure, so it must be effective, she supposed; but all the same she hated to see her mother's life force in a bowl to be thrown away.

  Saul returned to the sick room, and a few moments later he and Joseph came down. "I've done what I can for her," Joseph said solemnly to Papa. "And she has confessed her sins."

  Confessed her sins! Caris knew what that meant. She began to cry.

  Papa took six silver pennies from his purse and gave them to the monk. "Thank you, Brother," he said. His voice was hoarse.

  As the monks left, the two nuns went back upstairs.

  Alice sat on Papa's lap and buried her face in his neck. Caris cried and hugged Scrap. Petranilla ordered Tutty to clear the table. Gwenda watched everything with wide eyes. They sat around the table in silence, waiting.

  4

  Brother Godwyn was hungry. He had eaten his dinner, a stew of sliced turnips with salt fish, and it had not satisfied him. The monks nearly always had fish and weak ale for dinner, even when it was not a fast day.

  Not all the monks, of course: Prior Anthony had a privileged diet. He would dine especially well today, for the prioress, Mother Cecilia, was to be his guest. She was accustomed to rich food. The nuns, who always seemed to have more money than the monks, killed a pig or a sheep every few days and washed it down with Gascony wine.

  It was Godwyn's job to supervise the dinner, a hard task when his own stomach was rumbling. He spoke to the monastery cook, and checked on the fat goose in the oven and the pot of apple sauce bubbling on the fire. He asked the cellarer for a jug of cider from the barrel, and got a loaf of rye bread from the bakery--stale, for there was no baking on Sunday. He took the silver platters and goblets from the locked chest and set them on the table of the hall in the prior's house.

  The prior and prioress dined together once a month. The monastery and the nunnery were separate institutions, with their own premises, and different sources of income. Prior and prioress were independently responsible to the bishop of Kingsbridge. Nevertheless they shared the great cathedral and several other buildings, including the hospital, where monks worked as doctors and nuns as nurses. So there were always details to discuss: cathedral services, hospital guests and patients, town politics. Anthony often tried to get Cecilia to pay costs that should, strictly speaking, have been divided equally--glass windows for the chapter house, bedsteads for the hospital, the repainting of the cathedral's interior--and she usually agreed.

  Today, however, the talk was likely to center on politics. Anthony had returned yesterday from two weeks in Gloucester, where he had assisted at the interment of King Edward II, who had lost his throne in January and his life in September. Mother Cecilia would want to hear the gossip while pretending to be above it all.

  Godwyn had something else on his mind. He wanted to talk to Anthony about his future. He had been anxiously awaiting the right moment ever since the prior returned home. He had rehearsed his speech, but had not yet found the opportunity to deliver it. He hoped to get a chance this afternoon.

  Anthony entered the hall as Godwyn was putting a cheese and a bowl of pears on the sideboard. The prior looked like an older version of Godwyn. Both were tall, with regular features and light brown hair, and like all the family they had greenish eyes with flecks of gold. Anthony stood by the fire--the room was cold and the old building let in freezing drafts. Godwyn poured him a cup of cider. "Father Prior, today is my birthday," he said as Anthony drank. "I'm twenty-one."

  "So it is," said Anthony. "I remember your birth very well. I was fourteen years old. My sister, Petranilla, screamed like a boar with an arrow in its guts as she brought you into the world." He raised his goblet in a toast, looking fondly at Godwyn. "And now you're a man."

  Godwyn decided that this was his moment. "I've been at the priory ten years," he said.

  "Is it that long?"

  "Yes--as schoolboy, novice, and monk."

  "My goodness."

  "I hope I've been a credit to my mother and to you."

  "We're both very proud of you."

  "Thank you." Godwyn swallowed. "And now I want to go to Oxford."

  The city of Oxford had long been a center for masters of theology, medicine, and law. Priests and monks went there to study and debate with teachers and other students. In the last century the masters had been incorporated into a company, or university, that had royal permission to set examinations and award degrees. Kingsbridge Priory maintained a branch or cell in the city, known as Kingsbridge College, where eight monks could carry on their lives of worship and self-denial while they studied.

  "Oxford!" said Anthony, and an expression of anxiety and distaste came over his face. "Why?"

  "To study. It's what monks are supposed to do."

  "I never went to Oxford--and I'm prior."

  It was true, but Anthony was sometimes at a disadvantage with his senior colleagues in consequence. The sacrist, the treasurer, and several other monastic officials, or obedientiaries, were graduates of the university, as were all the physicians. They were quick-thinking and skilled in argument, and Anthony sometimes appeared bumbling by comparison, especially in chapter, the daily meeting of all the monks. Godwyn longed to acquire the sharp logic and confident superiority he observed in the Oxford men. He did not want to be like his uncle.

  But he could not say that. "I want to learn," he said.

  "Why learn heresy?" Anthony said scornfully. "Oxford students question the teachings of the church!"

  "In order to understand them better."

  "Pointless and dangerous."

  Godwyn asked himself why Anthony was making this fuss. The prior had never appeared concerned about heresy before, and Godwyn was not in the least interested in challenging accepted doctrines. He frowned. "I thought you and my mother had ambitions for me," he said. "Don't you want me to advance, and become an obedientiary, and perhaps one day prior?"

  "Eventually, yes. But you don't have to leave Kingsbridge to achieve that."

  You don't want me to advance too fast, in case I outstrip you; and you don't want me to leave town, in case you lose control of me, Godwyn thought in a flash of insight. He wished he had anticipated this resistance to his plans. "I don't want to study theology," he said.

  "What, then?"

  "Medicine. It's such an important part of our work here."

  Anthony pursed his lips. Godwyn had seen the same disapproving expression on his mother's face. "The monastery can't afford to pay for you," Anthony said. "Do you realize that just one book costs at least fourteen shillings?"

  Godw
yn was taken by surprise. Students could hire books by the page, he knew; but that was not the main point. "What about the students already there?" he said. "Who pays for them?"

  "Two are supported by their families, and one by the nuns. The priory pays for the other three, but we can't afford any more. In fact there are two places vacant in the college for lack of funds."

  Godwyn knew the priory was in financial difficulties. On the other hand, it had vast resources: thousands of acres of land; mills and fishponds and woodland; and the enormous income from Kingsbridge market. He could not believe his uncle was refusing him the money to go to Oxford. He felt betrayed. Anthony was his mentor as well as a relative. He had always favored Godwyn over other young monks. But now he was trying to hold Godwyn back.

  "Physicians bring money into the priory," he argued. "If you don't train young men, eventually the old ones will die and the priory will be poorer."

  "God will provide."

  This infuriating platitude was always Anthony's answer. For some years the priory's income from the annual Fleece Fair had been declining. The townspeople had urged Anthony to invest in better facilities for the wool traders--tents, booths, latrines, even a wool exchange building--but he always refused, pleading poverty. And when his brother, Edmund, told him the fair would eventually decline to nothing, he said: "God will provide."

  Godwyn said: "Well, then, perhaps he will provide the money for me to go to Oxford."

  "Perhaps he will."

  Godwyn felt painfully disappointed. He had an urge to get away from his hometown and breathe a different air. At Kingsbridge College he would be subject to the same monastic discipline, of course--but nevertheless he would be far from his uncle and his mother, and that prospect was alluring.

  He was not yet ready to give up the argument. "My mother will be very disappointed if I don't go."

  Anthony looked uneasy. He did not want to incur the wrath of his formidable sister. "Then let her pray for the money to be found."

  "I may be able to get it elsewhere," Godwyn said, extemporizing.

  "How would you do that?"

  He cast about for an answer, and found inspiration. "I could do what you do, and ask Mother Cecilia." It was possible. Cecilia made him nervous--she could be as intimidating as Petranilla--but she was more susceptible to his boyish charm. She might be persuaded to pay for a bright young monk's education.