World Without End

by Ken Follett

  "I know," she said, turning to face him again. "But this is my destiny. I can't run away from people who need me."

  "Your prior doesn't seem to think that way."

  "He's vanished."

  "People can't vanish."

  "I mean, no one knows where Prior Godwyn and the monks have gone."

  "I do," said Tam.

  The weather at the end of February was sunny and mild. Caris left Kingsbridge on a dun pony, heading for St.-John-in-the-Forest. Merthin went with her, riding a black cob. Normally, eyebrows would have been raised by a nun going on a journey accompanied only by a man, but these were strange times.

  The danger from outlaws had receded. Many had fallen victim to the plague, Tam Hiding had told her himself before he died. Also, the sudden drop in population had brought about a countrywide surplus of food, wine, and clothing--all the things outlaws normally stole. Those outlaws who survived the plague could walk into ghost towns and abandoned villages and take whatever they wanted.

  Caris had at first felt frustrated to learn that Godwyn was no farther than two days' journey from Kingsbridge. She had imagined him gone to a place so distant that he would never return. However, she was glad of the chance to retrieve the priory's money and valuables and, in particular, the nunnery's charters, so vital whenever there was a dispute about property or rights.

  When and if she was able to confront Godwyn, she would demand the return of the priory's property, in the name of the bishop. She had a letter from Henri to back her up. If Godwyn still refused, that would prove beyond doubt that he was stealing it rather than keeping it safe. The bishop could then take legal action to get it back--or simply arrive at the cell with a force of men-at-arms.

  Although disappointed that Godwyn was not permanently out of her life, Caris relished the prospect of confronting him with his cowardice and dishonesty.

  As she rode away from the town she recalled that her last long journey had been to France, with Mair--a real adventure in every way. She felt bereft when she thought of Mair. Of all those who had died of the plague, she missed Mair the most: her beautiful face, her kind heart, her love.

  But it was a joy to have Merthin to herself for two whole days. Following the road through the forest, side by side on their horses, they talked continuously, about anything that sprang to mind, just as they had when they were adolescents.

  Merthin was as full of bright ideas as ever. Despite the plague, he was building shops and taverns on Leper Island, and he told her he planned to demolish the tavern he had inherited from Bessie Bell and rebuild it twice as big.

  Caris guessed that he and Bessie had been lovers--why else would she have left her property to him? But Caris had only herself to blame. She was the one Merthin really wanted, and Bessie had been second best. Both women had known that. All the same, Caris felt jealous and angry when she thought of Merthin in bed with that plump barmaid.

  They stopped at noon and rested by a stream. They ate bread, cheese, and apples, the food that all but the wealthiest travelers carried. They gave the horses some grain: grazing was not enough for a mount that had to carry a man or woman all day. When they had eaten, they lay in the sun for a few minutes, but the ground was too cold and damp for sleep, and they soon roused themselves and moved on.

  They quickly slipped back into the affectionate intimacy of their youth. Merthin had always been able to make her laugh, and she needed cheering up, with people dying every day in the hospital. She soon forgot to be angry about Bessie.

  They were taking a route that had been followed by Kingsbridge monks for hundreds of years, and they stopped for the night at the usual halfway point, the Red Cow Tavern in the small town of Lordsborough. They had roast beef and strong ale for supper.

  By this time, Caris was aching for him. The last ten years seemed to have vanished from memory, and she longed to take him in her arms and make love to him the way they used to. But it was not to be. The Red Cow had two bedrooms, one for men and one for women--which was no doubt why it had always been the choice of the monks. Caris and Merthin parted company on the landing, and Caris lay awake, listening to the snores of a knight's wife and the wheezing of a spice-seller, touching herself and wishing the hand between her thighs was Merthin's.

  She woke up tired and dispirited, and ate her breakfast porridge mechanically. But Merthin was so happy to be with her that her mood soon lifted. By the time they rode away from Lordsborough, they were talking and laughing as merrily as yesterday.

  The second day's journey was through dense woodland, and they saw no other travelers all morning. Their conversation became more personal. She learned more about his time in Florence: how he had met Silvia, and what kind of person she was. Caris wanted to ask: What was it like to make love to her? Was she different from me? How? But she held back, feeling that such questions would trespass on Silvia's privacy, even though Silvia was dead. Anyway, she could guess a lot from Merthin's tone of voice. He had been happy in bed with Silvia, she sensed, even if the relationship had not been as intensely passionate as his with Caris.

  The unaccustomed hours on horseback were making her sore, so she was relieved to stop for dinner and get off the pony. When they had eaten, they sat on the ground with their backs to a broad tree trunk, to rest and let their food go down before resuming the journey.

  Caris was thinking about Godwyn, and wondering what she would find at St.-John-in-the-Forest, when suddenly she realized that she and Merthin were about to make love. She could not have explained how she knew--they were not even touching--but she had no doubt. She turned to look at him and saw that he sensed it, too. He smiled at her ruefully, and in his eyes she saw ten years of hope and regrets, pain and tears.

  He took her hand and kissed her palm, then he put his lips to the soft inside of her wrist, and closed his eyes. "I can feel your pulse," he said quietly.

  "You can't tell much from the pulse," she breathed. "You'll have to give me a thorough examination."

  He kissed her forehead, and her eyelids, and her nose. "I hope you won't be embarrassed by my seeing your naked body."

  "Don't fret--I'm not taking my clothes off in this weather."

  They both giggled.

  He said: "Perhaps you would be kind enough to lift the skirt of your robe, so that I may proceed with the checkup."

  She reached down and took hold of the hem of her dress. She was wearing hose that came up to her knees. She lifted her dress slowly, revealing her ankles, her shins, her knees, and then the white skin of her thighs. She was feeling playful, but in the back of her mind she wondered if he could detect the changes wrought in her body by the last ten years. She had got thinner, yet at the same time her bottom had spread. Her skin was a little less supple and smooth than it had been. Her breasts were not as firm and upright. What would he think? She suppressed the worry and played the game. "Is that sufficient, for medical purposes?"

  "Not quite."

  "But I'm afraid I'm not wearing underdrawers--such luxuries are considered inappropriate for us nuns."

  "We physicians are obliged to be very thorough, no matter how distasteful we find it."

  "Oh, dear," she said with a smile. "What a shame. All right, then." Watching his face she slowly lifted her skirt until it was around her waist.

  He stared at her body, and she could see that he was breathing harder. "My, my," he said. "This is a very severe case. In fact..." He looked up at her face, swallowed, and said: "I can't joke about this anymore."

  She put her arms around him and pulled his body to her own, squeezing as hard as she could, clinging to him as if she were saving him from drowning. "Make love to me, Merthin," she said. "Now, quickly."

  The priory of St.-John-in-the-Forest looked tranquil in the afternoon light--a sure sign that something was wrong, Caris thought. The little cell was traditionally self-sufficient in food, and was surrounded by fields, moist with rain, that needed plowing and harrowing. But no one was at work.

  When they got clo
ser, they saw that the little cemetery next to the church had a row of fresh graves. "It seems the plague may have reached this far," Merthin said.

  Caris nodded. "So Godwyn's cowardly escape plan failed." She could not help feeling a glow of vengeful satisfaction.

  Merthin said: "I wonder if he himself has fallen victim."

  Caris found herself hoping he had, but was too ashamed to say so.

  She and Merthin rode around the silent monastery to what was obviously the stable yard. The door was open, and the horses had been let out, and were grazing a patch of meadow around a pond. But no one appeared to help the visitors unsaddle.

  They walked through the empty stables into the interior. It was eerily quiet, and Caris wondered if all the monks were dead. They looked into a kitchen, which Caris observed was not as clean as it should be, and a bakery with a cold oven. Their footsteps echoed around the cool gray arcades of the cloisters. Then, approaching the entrance to the church, they met Brother Thomas.

  "You found us!" he said. "Thank God."

  Caris embraced him. She knew that women's bodies did not present a temptation to Thomas. "I'm glad you're alive," she said.

  "I fell ill and got better," he explained.

  "Not many survive."

  "I know."

  "Tell us what happened."

  "Godwyn and Philemon planned it well," Thomas said. "There was almost no warning. Godwyn addressed the chapter, and told the story of Abraham and Isaac to show that God sometimes asks us to do things that appear wrong. Then he told us we were leaving that night. Most of the monks were glad to get away from the plague, and those that had misgivings were instructed to remember their vow of obedience."

  Caris nodded. "I can imagine. It's not hard to obey orders when they are so strongly in your own self-interest."

  "I'm not proud of myself."

  Caris touched the stump of his left arm. "I meant no reproof, Thomas."

  Merthin said: "All the same, I'm surprised no one leaked the destination."

  "That's because Godwyn didn't tell us where we were going. Most of us didn't know even after we arrived--we had to ask the local monks what place this was."

  "But the plague caught up with you."

  "You've seen the graveyard. All the St. John monks are there except Prior Saul, who is buried in the church. Almost all the Kingsbridge men are dead. A few ran away after the sickness broke out here--God knows what happened to them."

  Caris recalled that Thomas had always been close to one particular monk, a sweet-natured man a few years younger than he. Hesitantly she said: "And Brother Matthias?"

  "Dead," Thomas said brusquely; then tears came to his eyes, and he looked away, embarrassed.

  Caris put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm very sorry."

  "So many people have suffered bereavement," he said.

  Caris decided it would be kinder not to dwell on Matthias. "What about Godwyn and Philemon?"

  "Philemon ran away. Godwyn is alive and well--he hasn't caught it."

  "I have a message for Godwyn from the bishop."

  "I can imagine."

  "You'd better take me to him."

  "He's in the church. He set up a bed in a side chapel. He's convinced that's why he hasn't fallen ill. Come with me."

  They crossed the cloisters and entered the little church. It smelled more like a dormitory. The wall painting of the Day of Judgment at the east end seemed grimly appropriate now. The nave was strewn with straw and littered with blankets, as if a crowd of people had been sleeping here; but the only person present was Godwyn. He was lying facedown on the dirt floor in front of the altar, his arms stretched out sideways. For a moment she thought he was dead, then she realized this was simply the attitude of extreme penitence.

  Thomas said: "You have visitors, Father Prior."

  Godwyn remained in position. Caris would have assumed he was putting on a show, but something about his stillness made her think he was sincerely seeking forgiveness.

  Then he got slowly to his feet and turned around.

  He was pale and thin, Caris saw, and he looked tired and anxious.

  "You," he said.

  "You've been discovered, Godwyn," she said. She was not going to call him Father. He was a miscreant and she had caught him. She felt deep satisfaction.

  He said: "I suppose Tam Hiding betrayed me."

  His mind was as sharp as ever, Caris noted. "You tried to escape justice, but you failed."

  "I have nothing to fear from justice," he said defiantly. "I came here in the hope of saving the lives of my monks. My error was to leave it too late."

  "An innocent man doesn't sneak away under cover of night."

  "I had to keep my destination secret. It would have defeated my purpose to allow anyone to follow us here."

  "You didn't have to steal the cathedral ornaments."

  "I didn't steal them. I took them for safekeeping. I shall return them to their rightful place when it's safe to do so."

  "So why did you tell no one that you were taking them?"

  "But I did. I wrote to Bishop Henri. Did he not receive my letter?"

  Caris felt a growing sense of dismay. Surely Godwyn could not wriggle out of this? "Certainly not," she said. "No letter was received, and I don't believe one was sent."

  "Perhaps the messenger died of the plague before he could deliver it."

  "And what was the name of this vanishing messenger?"

  "I never knew it. Philemon hired the man."

  "And Philemon is not here--how convenient," she said sarcastically. "Well, you can say what you like, but Bishop Henri accuses you of stealing the treasure, and he has sent me here to demand its return. I have a letter ordering you to hand everything to me, immediately."

  "That's won't be necessary. I'll take it to him myself."

  "That is not what your bishop commands you to do."

  "I'll be the judge of what's best."

  "Your refusal is proof of theft."

  "I'm sure I can persuade Bishop Henri to see things differently."

  The trouble was, Caris thought despairingly, that Godwyn might well do just that. He could be very plausible, and Henri, like most bishops, would generally avoid confrontation if he could. She felt as if the victory trophy were slipping through her hands.

  Godwyn felt he had turned the tables on her, and he permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. That infuriated her, but she had no more to say. All she could do now was return and tell Bishop Henri what had happened.

  She could hardly believe it. Would Godwyn really return to Kingsbridge and resume his position as prior? How could he possibly hold his head up in Kingsbridge Cathedral? After all he had done to damage the priory, the town, and the church? Even if the bishop accepted him, surely the townspeople would riot? The prospect was dire, yet stranger things had happened. Was there no justice?

  She stared at him. The look of triumph on his face must be matched, she supposed, by the defeat on her own.

  Then she saw something that turned the tables yet again.

  On Godwyn's upper lip, just below his left nostril, there was a trickle of blood.

  Next morning, Godwyn did not get out of bed.

  Caris put on her linen mask and nursed him. She bathed his face in rose water and gave him diluted wine whenever he asked for a drink. Every time she touched him, she washed her hands in vinegar.

  Other than Godwyn and Thomas, there were only two monks left, both Kingsbridge novices. They, too, were dying of the plague; so she brought them down from the dormitory to lie in the church, and she took care of them as well, flitting around the dim-lit nave like a shade as she went from one dying man to the next.

  She asked Godwyn where the cathedral treasures were, but he refused to say.

  Merthin and Thomas searched the priory. The first place they looked was under the altar. Something had been buried there, quite recently, they could tell by the looseness of the earth. However, when they made a hole--Thomas digging surpris
ingly well with one hand--they found nothing. Whatever had been buried there had since been removed.

  They checked every echoing room in the deserted monastery, and even looked in the cold bakery oven and the dry brewery tanks, but they found no jewels, relics, or charters.

  After the first night, Thomas quietly vacated the dormitory--without being asked--and left Merthin and Caris to sleep there alone. He made no comment, not even a nudge or a wink. Grateful for his discreet connivance, they huddled under a pile of blankets and made love. Afterward, Caris lay awake. An owl lived somewhere in the roof, and she heard its nocturnal hooting, and occasionally the scream of a small animal caught in its talons. She wondered if she would become pregnant. She did not want to give up her vocation--but she could not resist the temptation of lying in Merthin's arms. So she just refused to think about the future.

  On the third day, as Caris, Merthin, and Thomas ate dinner in the refectory, Thomas said: "When Godwyn asks for a drink, refuse to give it to him until he's told you where he hid the treasure."

  Caris considered that. It would be perfectly just. But it would also amount to torture. "I can't do that," she said. "I know he deserves it, but all the same I can't do it. If a sick man asks for a drink I must give it to him. That's more important than all the jeweled ornaments in Christendom."

  "You don't owe him compassion--he never showed any to you."

  "I've turned the church into a hospital, but I won't let it become a torture chamber."

  Thomas looked as if he might be inclined to argue further, but Merthin dissuaded him with a shake of the head. "Think, Thomas," he said. "When did you last see this stuff?"

  "The night we arrived," Thomas said. "It was in leather bags and boxes on a couple of horses. It was unloaded at the same time as everything else, and I think it was carried into the church."

  "Then what happened to it?"

  "I never saw it again. But after Evensong, when we all went to supper, I noticed that Godwyn and Philemon stayed behind in the church with two other monks, Juley and John."

  Caris said: "Let me guess: Juley and John were both young and strong."

  "Yes."

  Merthin said: "So that's probably when they buried the treasure under the altar. But when did they dig it up?"

  "It had to be when nobody was in the church, and they could be sure of that only at mealtimes."