Epic Historial Collection (207 page)

He spoke over his shoulder. “What else would she do?”

That was the problem, Caris thought resentfully as she entered her house. What else was a woman to do?

The place was empty. Edmund and Petranilla were at the banquet, and the servants had the afternoon off. Only Scrap the dog was there to welcome Caris with a lazy wag of her tail. Caris patted her black head absentmindedly, then sat at the table in the hall, brooding.

Every other young woman in Christendom wanted nothing more than to marry the man she loved—why was Caris so horrified by the prospect? From where had she got such unconventional feelings? Certainly not from her own mother. Rose had wanted only to be a good wife to Edmund. She had believed what men said about the inferiority of women. Her subordination had embarrassed Caris and, though Edmund never complained, Caris suspected that he had been bored by it. Caris had more respect for her forceful, unlovable aunt Petranilla than for her compliant mother.

Even Petranilla had allowed her life to be shaped by men. For years she had worked to maneuver her father up the social ladder until he became alderman of Kingsbridge. Her strongest emotion was resentment: toward Earl Roland because he had jilted her, and toward her husband because he had died. As a widow she had dedicated herself to Godwyn's career.

Queen Isabella had been similar. She had deposed her husband, King Edward II; but the result had been that her lover, Roger Mortimer, had effectively ruled England until her son grew old enough and confident enough to oust him.

Was that what Caris should do—live her life through men? Her father wanted her to work with him in the wool business. Or she could manage Merthin's career, helping him secure contracts to construct churches and bridges, expanding his business until he was the richest and most important builder in England.

She was roused from her thoughts by a tap at the door, and the birdlike figure of Mother Cecilia walked briskly in.

“Good afternoon!” Caris said in surprise. “I was just asking myself whether all women are doomed to live their lives through men—and here you are, an obvious counterexample.”

“You're not quite right,” Cecilia said with a friendly smile. “I live through Jesus Christ, who was a man, though he is God, too.”

Caris was not sure whether that counted. She opened the cupboard and took out a small barrel of the best wine. “Would you like a cup of my father's Rhenish?”

“Just a little, mixed with water.”

Caris half-filled two cups with wine then topped up the drinks with water from a jug. “You know that my father and aunt are at the banquet.”

“Yes. I came to see you.”

Caris had guessed as much. The prioress did not wander around the town making social calls without a purpose.

Cecilia sipped, then went on: “I've been thinking about you, and the way you acted on the day the bridge collapsed.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“On the contrary. You did everything perfectly. You were gentle but firm with the injured, and you obeyed my orders but at the same time used your initiative. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“And you seemed…not to enjoy it, exactly, but at least to find satisfaction in the work.”

“People were in distress, and we brought them relief—what could be more satisfying?”

“That's how I feel, and it's why I'm a nun.”

Caris saw where this was going. “I couldn't spend my life in the priory.”

“The natural aptitude you showed for looking after the sick is only part of what I noticed. When people first started to walk into the cathedral carrying the injured and dead, I asked who had told them what to do. The answer was Caris Wooler.”

“It was obvious what should be done.”

“Yes—to you.” Cecilia leaned forward earnestly. “The talent for organization is given to few people. I know—I have it, and I recognize it in others. When everyone around us is baffled, or panicked, or terrified, you and I take charge.”

Caris felt this was true. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.

“I've watched you for ten years—since the day your mother died.”

“You brought her relief in her distress.”

“I knew then, just by talking to you, that you were going to grow up into an exceptional woman. My feeling was confirmed when you attended the nuns' school. You're twenty now. You must be thinking about what to do with your life. I believe that God has work for you.”

“How do you know what God thinks?”

Cecilia bristled. “If anyone else in town asked me that question, I'd order them down on their knees to pray for forgiveness. But you're sincere, so I'll answer. I know what God thinks because I accept the teachings of His church. And I'm convinced he wants you to be a nun.”

“I like men too much.”

“Always a problem for me, as a youngster—but, I can assure you, a problem that diminishes with every passing year.”

“I can't be told how to live.”

“Don't be a Beguine.”

“What's that?”

“Beguines are nuns who accept no rules and consider their vows to be temporary. They live together, cultivate their lands and graze their cattle, and refuse to be governed by men.”

Caris was always intrigued to hear of women who defied the rules. “Where are they to be found?”

“Mostly in the Netherlands. They had a leader, Marguerite Porete, who wrote a book called
The Mirror of Simple Souls
.”

“I'd like to read it.”

“Out of the question. The Beguines have been condemned by the church for the heresy of the Free Spirit—the belief that we can attain spiritual perfection here on earth.”

“Spiritual perfection? What does that mean? It's just a phrase.”

“If you're determined to close your mind to God, you'll never understand it.”

“I'm sorry, Mother Cecilia, but every time I'm told something about God by a mere human, I think: But humans are fallible, so the truth might be different.”

“How could the church be wrong?”

“Well, the Muslims have different beliefs.”

“They're heathens!”

“They call us infidels—it's the same thing. And Buonaventura Caroli says there are more Muslims than Christians in the world. So somebody's church is wrong.”

“Be careful,” Cecilia said severely. “Don't allow your passion for argument to lead you into blasphemy.”

“Sorry, Mother.” Caris knew that Cecilia enjoyed sparring with her, but there always came a moment when the prioress stopped arguing and started preaching, and Caris had to back down. It left her feeling slightly cheated.

Cecilia stood up. “I know I can't persuade you against your will, but I wanted you to know the tendency of my thoughts. You could do nothing better than to join our nunnery, and dedicate your life to the sacrament of healing. Thank you for the wine.”

As Cecilia was leaving, Caris said: “What happened to Marguerite Porete? Is she still alive?”

“No,” said the prioress. “She was burned at the stake.” She went out into the street, shutting the door behind her.

Caris stared at the closed door. A woman's life was a house of closed doors: she could not be an apprentice, she could not study at the university, she could not be a priest or a physician, or shoot a bow or fight with a sword, and she could not marry without submitting herself to the tyranny of her husband.

She wondered what Merthin was doing now. Was Bessie sitting at his table at the Bell Inn, watching him drink her father's best ale, giving him that inviting smile, pulling the front of her dress tight to make sure he could see what nice breasts she had? Was he being charming and amusing to her, making her laugh? Was she parting her lips to show him her even teeth, and throwing back her head so that he could appreciate the soft skin of her white throat? Was he talking to her father, Paul Bell, asking respectful and interested questions about his business, so that later Paul would tell his daughter that Merthin was a good sort, a fine young man? Would Merthin get drunk and put his arm around Bessie's waist, resting his hand on her hip then slyly inching his fingertips toward that sensitive place between her thighs that was already itching for his touch—just as he once had with Caris?

Tears came to her eyes. She felt she was a fool. She had the best man in town and here she was handing him over to a barmaid. Why did she do these things to herself?

At that moment he walked in.

She looked at him through a mist of tears. Her vision was so blurred that she could not read his expression. Had he come to make friends again—or to berate her, venting his anger with the courage of several tankards of ale?

She stood up. For a moment she was held in suspense, as he closed the door behind him and came slowly to stand in front of her. Then he said: “No matter what you do or say, I still love you.”

She threw her arms around him and burst out crying.

He stroked her hair and said nothing, which was just right.

After a while they started to kiss. She felt the familiar hunger, but stronger than ever: she wanted his hands all over her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers inside her. She felt differently and she wanted their love to find a new expression. “Let's take off all our clothes,” she said. They had never done that before.

He smiled with pleasure. “All right, but what if someone comes in?”

“They'll be at the banquet for hours. And anyway we can go upstairs.”

They went to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes. Suddenly she felt shy. What would he think when he saw her naked? She knew he loved her body bit by bit: her breasts, her legs, her throat, her cunt—he always told her how beautiful they were as he kissed and caressed them. But would he now notice that her hips were too wide, her legs a little short, her breasts quite small?

He seemed to have no such inhibitions. He threw off his shirt, pulled down his underdrawers, and stood unself-consciously before her. His body was slight but strong, and he seemed full of pent-up energy, like a young deer. She noticed for the first time that the hair at his groin was the color of autumn leaves. His cock stood up eagerly. Desire overcame her shyness, and she pulled her dress quickly over her head.

He stared at her bare body, but she no longer felt embarrassed—his look inflamed her like an intimate caress. “You're beautiful,” he said.

“So are you.”

They lay side by side on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. As they kissed and touched one another, she realized that today she was not going to be satisfied with the games they usually played. “I want to do it properly,” she said.

“You mean go the whole way?”

The thought of pregnancy surfaced in her mind, but she pushed it back down. She was too heated to think of consequences. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

He lay on top of her. Half her life she had wondered what this moment would be like. She looked up at his face. It wore the concentrated expression that she loved so much, the look he had when he was working, his small hands shaping wood with tenderness and skill. His fingertips softly spread the petals of her sex. She was slippery and yearning for him.

He said: “Are you sure?”

Once again she suppressed the thought of pregnancy. “I'm sure.”

She felt a moment of fear when he entered her. She tightened involuntarily, and he hesitated, feeling her body resisting him. “It's all right,” she said. “You can push harder. You won't hurt me.” She was wrong about that, and there was a sudden sharp pain as he thrust. She could not help crying out.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“Just wait a minute,” she said.

They lay still. He kissed her eyelids and her forehead and the tip of her nose. She stroked his face and looked into his golden brown eyes. Then the pain was gone and the desire came back, and she began to move, rejoicing in the feeling of having the man she loved deep inside her body for the first time. She thrilled to see the intensity of his pleasure. He stared at her, a faint smile on his lips, a deep hunger in his eyes, as they moved faster.

“I can't stop,” he said breathlessly.

“Don't stop, don't stop.”

She watched him intently. In a few moments he was overwhelmed by pleasure, his eyes shut tight and his mouth open and his whole body as taut as a bowstring. She felt his spasms inside her, and the jet of his ejaculation, and she thought that nothing in life had prepared her for such happiness. A moment later she herself was convulsed with ecstasy. She had had this sensation before, but not so powerfully, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, pulling his body hard against her own as she shook like a tree in the wind.

When it was over, they lay still for a long while. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt his panting breath on her skin. She stroked his back. His skin was damp with perspiration. Gradually her heartbeat slowed, and a deep contentment stole over her like twilight on a summer evening.