Epic Historial Collection (308 page)

Caris was dismayed. “Sime wants to keep his books and instruments here? Is he planning to work here?”

Joshie did not know anything about Sime's intentions, of course.

Before Caris could say any more, Sime appeared, accompanied by Philemon. Sime looked around the room then, without explanation, began unpacking his things. He moved some of Caris's vessels from a shelf and replaced them with his books. He took out sharp knives for opening veins, and the teardrop-shaped glass flasks used for examining urine samples.

Caris said neutrally: “Are you planning to spend a great deal of time here in the hospital, Brother Sime?”

Philemon answered for him, clearly having anticipated the question with relish. “Where else?” he said. His tone was indignant, as if Caris had challenged him already. “This is the hospital, is it not? And Sime is the only physician in the priory. How shall people be treated, if not by him?”

Suddenly the pharmacy did not seem so spacious anymore.

Before Caris could say anything, a stranger appeared. “Brother Thomas told me to come here,” he said. “I am Jonas Powderer, from London.”

The visitor was a man of about fifty dressed in an embroidered coat and a fur hat. Caris noted his ready smile and affable manner, and guessed that he made his living by selling things. He shook hands, then looked around the room, nodding with apparent approval at Caris's neat rows of labeled jars and vials. “Remarkable,” he said. “I have never seen such a sophisticated pharmacy outside London.”

“Are you a physician, sir?” Philemon asked. His tone was cautious: he was not sure of Jonas's status.

“Apothecary. I have a shop in Smithfield, next to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I shouldn't boast, but it is the largest such business in the city.”

Philemon relaxed. An apothecary was a mere merchant, well below a prior in the pecking order. With a hint of a sneer he said: “And what brings the biggest apothecary in London all the way down here?”

“I was hoping to acquire a copy of
The Kingsbridge Panacea.
”

“The what?”

Jonas smiled knowingly. “You cultivate humility, Father Prior, but I see this novice nun making a copy right here in your pharmacy.”

Caris said: “The book? It's not called a panacea.”

“Yet it contains cures for all ills.”

There was a certain logic to that, she realized. “But how do you know of it?”

“I travel a good deal, searching for rare herbs and other ingredients, while my sons take care of the shop. I met a nun of Southampton who showed me a copy. She called it a panacea, and told me it was written in Kingsbridge.”

“Was the nun Sister Claudia?”

“Yes. I begged her to lend me the book just long enough to make a copy, but she would not be parted from it.”

“I remember her.” Claudia had made a pilgrimage to Kingsbridge, stayed in the nunnery, and nursed plague victims with no thought for her own safety. Caris had given her the book in thanks.

“A remarkable work,” Jonas said warmly. “And in English!”

“It's for healers who aren't priests, and therefore don't speak much Latin.”

“There is no other book of its kind in
any
language.”

“Is it so unusual?”

“The arrangement of subjects!” Jonas enthused. “Instead of the humors of the body, or the classes of illness, the chapters refer to the pains of the patient. So, whether the customer's complaint is stomachache, or bleeding, or fever, or diarrhea, or sneezing, you can just go to the relevant page!”

Philemon said impatiently: “Suitable enough for apothecaries and their
customers,
I am sure.”

Jonas appeared not to hear the note of derision. “I assume, Father Prior, that you are the author of this invaluable book.”

“Certainly not!” he said.

“Then who…?”

“I wrote it,” Caris said.

“A woman!” Jonas marveled. “But where did you get all the information? Virtually none of it appears in other texts.”

“The old texts have never proved very useful to me, Jonas. I was first taught how to make medicines by a wise woman of Kingsbridge, called Mattie, who sadly left town for fear of being persecuted as a witch. I learned more from Mother Cecilia, who was prioress here before me. But gathering the recipes and treatments is not difficult. Everyone knows a hundred of them. The difficulty is to identify the few effective ones in all the dross. What I did was to keep a diary, over the years, of the effects of every cure I tried. In my book, I included only those I have seen working, with my own eyes, time after time.”

“I am awestruck to be speaking to you in person.”

“Well, you shall have a copy of my book. I'm flattered that someone should come such a long way for it!” She opened a cupboard. “This was intended for our priory of St.-John-in-the-Forest, but they can wait for another copy.”

Jonas handled it as if it were a holy object. “I am most grateful.” He produced a bag of soft leather and gave it to Caris. “And, in token of my gratitude, accept a modest gift from my family to the nuns of Kingsbridge.”

Caris opened the bag and took out a small object swathed in wool. When she unwrapped the material she found a gold crucifix embedded with precious stones.

Philemon's eyes glittered with greed.

Caris was startled. “This is a costly present!” she exclaimed. That was less than charming, she realized. She added: “Extraordinarily generous of your family, Jonas.”

He made a deprecatory gesture. “We are prosperous, thanks be to God.”

Philemon said enviously: “That—for a book of old women's nostrums!”

Jonas said: “Ah, Father Prior, you are above such things, of course. We do not aspire to your intellectual heights. We do not try to understand the body's humors. Just as a child sucks on a cut finger because that eases the pain, so we administer cures only because they work. As to why and how these things happen, we leave that to greater minds than ours. God's creation is too mysterious for the likes of us to comprehend.”

Caris thought Jonas was speaking with barely concealed irony. She saw Oonagh smother a grin. Sime, too, picked up the undertone of mockery, and his eyes flashed anger. But Philemon did not notice, and he seemed mollified by the flattery. A sly look came over his face, and Caris guessed he was wondering how he could share in the credit for the book—and get some jeweled crucifixes for himself.

 

The Fleece Fair opened on Whitsunday, as always. It was traditionally a busy day for the hospital, and this year was no exception. Elderly folk fell ill after making a long journey to the fair; babies and children got diarrhea from strange food and foreign water; men and women drank too much in the taverns and injured themselves and each other.

For the first time, Caris was able to separate the patients into two categories. The rapidly diminishing number of plague victims, and others who had catching illnesses such as stomach upsets and poxes, went into the new building, which was officially blessed by the bishop early in the day. Victims of accidents and fights were treated in the old hospital, safe from the risk of infection. Gone were the days when someone would come into the priory with a dislocated thumb and die there of pneumonia.

The crisis came on Whitmonday.

Early in the afternoon Caris happened to be at the fair, taking a stroll after dinner, looking around. It was quiet by comparison with the old days, when hundreds of visitors and thousands of townspeople thronged not just the cathedral green but all the principal streets. Nevertheless, this year's fair was better than expected after last year's cancellation. Caris figured that people had noticed how the grip of the plague seemed to be weakening. Those who had survived so far thought they must be invulnerable—and some were, though others were not, for it continued to kill people.

Madge Webber's cloth was the talking point of the fair. The new looms designed by Merthin were not just faster—they also made it easier to produce complex patterns in the weave. She had sold half her stock already.

Caris was talking to Madge when the fight started. Madge was embarrassing her by saying, as she had often said before, that without Caris she would still be a penniless weaver. Caris was about to give her customary denial when they heard shouts.

Caris recognized immediately the deep-chested sound of aggressive young men. It came from the neighborhood of an ale barrel thirty yards away. The shouts increased rapidly, and a young woman screamed. Caris hurried over to the place, hoping to stop the fight before it got out of control.

She was a little too late.

The fracas was well under way. Four of the town's young tearaways were fighting fiercely with a group of peasants, identifiable as such by their rustic clothing, and probably all from the same village. A pretty girl, no doubt the one who had screamed, was struggling to separate two men who were punching one another mercilessly. One of the town boys had drawn a knife, and the peasants had heavy wooden shovels. As Caris arrived, more people were joining in on both sides.

She turned to Madge, who had followed her. “Send someone to fetch Mungo Constable, quick as you can. He's probably in the basement of the guildhall.” Madge hurried off.

The fight was getting nastier. Several town boys had knives out. A peasant lad was lying on the ground bleeding copiously from his arm, and another was fighting on despite a gash in his face. As Caris watched, two more townies started kicking the peasant on the ground.

Caris hesitated another moment, then stepped forward. She grabbed the nearest fighter by the shirt. “Willie Bakerson, stop this right now!” she shouted in her most authoritative voice.

It almost worked.

Willie stepped back from his opponent, startled, and looked at Caris guiltily. She opened her mouth to speak again, but at that instant a shovel struck her a violent blow on the head that had surely been intended for Willie.

It hurt like hell. Her vision blurred, she lost her balance, and the next thing she knew she hit the ground. She lay there dazed, trying to recover her wits, while the world seemed to sway around her. Then someone grabbed her under the arms and dragged her away.

“Are you hurt, Mother Caris?” The voice was familiar, though she could not place it.

Her head cleared at last, and she struggled to her feet with the help of her rescuer, whom she now identified as the muscular corn merchant Megg Robbins. “I'm just a bit stunned,” Caris said. “We have to stop these boys killing each other.”

“Here come the constables. Let's leave it to them.”

Sure enough, Mungo and six or seven deputies appeared, all wielding clubs. They waded into the fight, cracking heads indiscriminately. They were doing as much damage as the original fighters, but their presence confused the battleground. The boys looked bewildered, and some ran off. In a remarkably few moments the fight was over.

Caris said: “Megg, run to the nunnery and fetch Sister Oonagh, and tell her to bring bandages.”

Megg hurried away.

The walking wounded quickly disappeared. Caris began to examine those who were left. A peasant boy who had been knifed in the stomach was trying to hold his guts in: there was little hope for him. The one with the gashed arm would live if Caris could stop the bleeding. She took off his belt, wound it around his upper arm, and tightened it until the flow of blood slowed to a trickle. “Hold that there,” she told him, and moved on to a town boy who seemed to have broken some bones in his hand. Her head was still hurting but she ignored it.

Oonagh and several more nuns appeared. A moment later, Matthew Barber arrived with his bag. Between them they patched up the wounded. Under Caris's instructions, volunteers picked up the worst victims and carried them to the nunnery. “Take them to the old hospital, not the new one,” she said.

She stood up from a kneeling position and felt dizzy. She grabbed Oonagh to steady herself. “What's the matter?” said Oonagh.

“I'll be all right. We'd better get to the hospital.”

They threaded their way through the market stalls to the old hospital. When they went in, they saw immediately that none of the wounded were here. Caris cursed. “The fools have taken them all to the wrong place,” she said. It was going to take a while for people to learn the importance of the difference, she concluded.

She and Oonagh went to the new building. The cloister was entered through a wide archway. As they went in, they met the volunteers coming out. “You brought them to the wrong place!” Caris said crossly.

One said: “But, Mother Caris—”

“Don't argue, there's no time,” she said impatiently. “Just carry them to the old hospital.”

Stepping into the cloisters, she saw the boy with the gashed arm being carried into a room where, she knew, there were five plague victims. She rushed across the quadrangle. “Stop!” she yelled furiously. “What do you think you're doing?”