"And where did you get this knowledge?"
"I was surgeon with the king's armies for many years. I marched alongside your father, the earl, in the Scottish wars. I have seen broken heads before."
"What would you do for my father now?"
Matthew was nervous under William's aggressive questioning, Caris felt; but he seemed sure of what he was saying. "I would take the pieces of broken bone out of the brain, clean them, and try to fit them together again."
Caris gasped. She could hardly imagine such a bold operation. How did Matthew have the nerve to propose it? And what if it went wrong?
William said: "And he would recover?"
"I don't know," Matthew replied. "Sometimes a head wound has strange effects, impairing a man's ability to walk, or speak. All I can do is mend his skull. If you want miracles, ask the saint."
"So you can't promise success."
"Only God is all-powerful. Men must do what they can and hope for the best. But I believe your father will die of this injury if it remains untreated."
"But Joseph and Godwyn have read the books written by the ancient medical philosophers."
"And I have seen wounded men die or recover on the battlefield. It's for you to decide whom to trust."
William looked at his wife. Philippa said: "Let the barber do what he can, and ask Saint Adolphus to help him."
William nodded. "All right," he said to Matthew. "Go ahead."
"I want the earl lying on a table," Matthew said decisively. "Near the window, where a strong light will fall on his injury."
William snapped his fingers at two novice monks. "Do whatever this man asks," he ordered.
Matthew said: "All I need is a bowl of warm wine."
The monks brought a trestle table from the hospital and set it up below the big window in the south transept. Two squires lifted Earl Roland on to the table.
"Facedown, please," said Matthew.
They turned him over.
Matthew had a leather satchel containing the sharp tools from which barbers got their name. He first took out a small pair of scissors. He bent over the earl's head and began to cut away the hair around the wound. The earl had thick black hair that was naturally oily. Matthew snipped the locks and tossed them aside so that they landed on the floor. When he had clipped a circle around the wound, the damage was more clearly visible.
Brother Godwyn reappeared, carrying the reliquary, the carved ivory-and-gold box containing the skull of St. Adolphus and the bones of one arm and a hand. When he saw Matthew operating on Earl Roland, he said indignantly: "What is going on here?"
Matthew looked up. "If you would place the holy relics on the earl's back, as close as possible to his head, I believe the saint will steady my hands."
Godwyn hesitated, clearly angry that a mere barber had taken charge.
Lord William said: "Do as he says, Brother, or the death of my father may be laid at your door."
Still Godwyn did not obey. Instead he spoke to Blind Carlus, standing a few yards away. "Brother Carlus, I am ordered by Lord William to--"
"I heard what Lord William said," Carlus interrupted. "You'd better do as he wishes."
It was not the answer Godwyn had been hoping for. His face showed angry frustration. With evident distaste, he placed the sacred container on Earl Roland's broad back.
Matthew picked up a fine pair of forceps. With a delicate touch, he grasped the visible edge of a piece of bone and lifted it, without touching the gray matter beneath. Caris watched, entranced. The bone came right away from the head, with skin and hair attached. Matthew put it gently into the bowl of warm wine.
He did the same with two more small pieces of bone. The noise from the nave--the groans of the wounded and the sobs of the bereaved--seemed to recede into the background. The people watching Matthew stood silent and still in a circle around him and the unconscious earl.
Next, he worked on the shards that remained attached to the rest of the skull. In each case he snipped away the hair, washed the area carefully with a piece of linen dipped in wine, then used the forceps to press the bone gently into what he thought was its original position.
Caris could hardly breathe, the tension was so great. She had never admired anyone as much as she admired Matthew Barber at this moment. He had such courage, such skill, such confidence. And he was performing this inconceivably delicate operation on an earl! If it went wrong, they would probably hang him. Yet his hands were as steady as the hands of the angels carved in stone over the cathedral doorway.
Finally he replaced the three detached shards that he had put in the bowl of wine, fitting them together as if he were mending a broken jar.
He pulled the skin of the scalp across the wound and sewed it together with swift, precise stitches.
Now Roland's skull was complete.
"The earl must sleep for a day and a night," he said. "If he wakes, give him a strong dose of Mattie Wise's sleeping draft. Then he must lie still for forty days and forty nights. If necessary, strap him down."
Then he asked Mother Cecilia to bandage the head.
Godwyn left the cathedral and ran down to the riverbank, feeling frustrated and annoyed. There was no firm authority: Carlus was letting everyone do as they wished. Prior Anthony was weak, but he was better than Carlus. He had to be found.
Most of the bodies were out of the water now. Those who were merely bruised and shocked had walked away. Most of the dead and wounded had been carried to the cathedral. Those left were somehow entangled with the wreckage.
Godwyn was both excited and frightened by the thought that Anthony might be dead. He longed for a new regime at the priory: a stricter interpretation of Benedict's rule, along with meticulous management of the finances. But, at the same time, he knew that Anthony was his patron, and that under another prior he might not continue to be promoted.
Merthin had commandeered a boat. He and two other young men were out in midstream, where most of what had been the bridge was now floating in the water. Wearing only their underdrawers, the three were trying to lift a heavy beam in order to free someone. Merthin was small in stature, but the other two looked strong and well fed, and Godwyn guessed they were squires from the earl's entourage. Despite their evident fitness, they were finding it difficult to get leverage on the heavy timbers, standing as they were in the well of a small rowing boat.
Godwyn stood with a crowd of townspeople, watching, torn by fear and hope, as the two squires raised a heavy beam and Merthin pulled a body from beneath it. After a short examination, he called out: "Marguerite Jones--dead."
Marguerite was an elderly woman of no account. Impatiently, Godwyn shouted out: "Can't you see Prior Anthony?"
A look passed between the men on the boat, and Godwyn realized he had been too peremptory. But Merthin called back: "I can see a monk's robe."
"Then it's the prior!" Godwyn shouted. Anthony was the only monk still unaccounted for. "Can you tell how he is?"
Merthin leaned over the side of the boat. Apparently unable to get close enough from there, he eased himself into the water. Eventually he called out: "Still breathing."
Godwyn felt both elated and disappointed. "Then get him out, quickly!" he shouted. "Please," he added.
There was no acknowledgment of what he said, but he saw Merthin duck under a partly submerged plank, then relay instructions to the other two. They eased the beam they were holding to one side, letting it slip gently into the water, then they leaned over the prow of the little boat to get hold of the plank Merthin was under. Merthin seemed to be struggling to detach Anthony's clothing from a tangle of boards and splinters.
Godwyn watched, frustrated that he could do nothing to speed the process. He spoke to two of the bystanders. "Go to the priory and get two monks to bring a stretcher. Tell them Godwyn sent you." The two men went up the steps and into the priory grounds.
At last Merthin managed to pull the unconscious figure from the wreckage. He drew him close, then the other two
heaved the prior into the boat. Merthin scrambled in after, and they poled to the bank.
Eager volunteers took Anthony from the boat and put him on the stretcher brought by the monks. Godwyn examined the prior quickly. He was breathing, but his pulse was weak. His eyes were closed and his face was ominously white. His head and chest were only bruised, but his pelvis seemed smashed, and he was bleeding.
The monks picked him up. Godwyn led the way across the priory grounds into the cathedral. "Make way!" he shouted. He took the prior along the nave and into the chancel, the holiest part of the church. He told the monks to lay the body in front of the high altar. The sodden robe clearly outlined Anthony's hips and legs, which were twisted so far out of shape that only his top half looked human.
Within a few moments, all the monks had gathered around the unconscious body of their prior. Godwyn retrieved the reliquary from Earl Roland and placed it at Anthony's feet. Joseph placed a jeweled crucifix on his chest and wrapped Anthony's hands around it.
Mother Cecilia knelt beside Anthony. She wiped his face with a cloth soaked in some soothing liquid. She said to Joseph: "He seems to have broken many bones. Do you want Matthew Barber to look at him?"
Joseph shook his head silently.
Godwyn was glad. The barber would have defiled the holy sanctuary. Better to leave the outcome to God.
Brother Carlus performed the last rites, then led the monks in a hymn.
Godwyn did not know what to hope for. For some years he had been looking forward to the end of Prior Anthony's rule. But in the last hour he had got a glimpse of what might replace Anthony: joint rule by Carlus and Simeon. They were Anthony's cronies, and would be no better.
Suddenly he saw Matthew Barber at the edge of the crowd, looking over the monks' shoulders, studying Anthony's lower half. Godwyn was about to order him indignantly to leave the chancel, when he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and walked away.
Anthony opened his eyes.
Brother Joseph cried: "Praise God!"
The prior seemed to want to speak. Mother Cecilia, who was still kneeling beside him, leaned over his face to catch his words. Godwyn saw Anthony's mouth move, and wished he could hear. After a moment, the prior fell silent.
Cecilia looked shocked. "Is that true?" she said.
They all stared. Godwyn said: "What did he say, Mother Cecilia?"
She did not answer.
Anthony's eyes closed. A subtle change came over him. He went very still.
Godwyn bent over his body. There was no breath. He placed a hand over Anthony's heart, and felt no beat. He grasped the wrist, feeling for a pulse: nothing.
He stood up. "Prior Anthony has left this world," he said. "May God bless his soul and welcome him into His holy presence."
All the monks said: "Amen."
Godwyn thought: Now there will have to be an election.
PART III
June to December 1337
14
Kingsbridge Cathedral was a place of horror. Wounded people groaned in pain and cried out for help to God, or the saints, or their mothers. Every few minutes, someone searching for a loved one would find him or her dead and would scream with the shock of sudden grief. The living and the dead were grotesquely twisted with broken bones, covered in blood, their clothing ripped and sodden. The stone floor of the church was slippery with water, blood, and riverside mud.
In the middle of the horror, a small zone of calm and efficiency was centered on the figure of Mother Cecilia. Like a small, quick bird, she went from one horizontal figure to the next. She was followed by a little flock of hooded nuns, among them her long-time assistant, Sister Juliana, now respectfully known as Old Julie. As she examined each patient, she gave orders: for washing, for ointments, for bandages, for herbal medicines. In the more serious cases she would summon Mattie Wise, Matthew Barber, or Brother Joseph. She always spoke quietly but clearly, her instructions simple and decisive. She left most patients soothed, and their relatives reassured and hopeful.
It reminded Caris, with dreadful vividness, of the day her mother died. There had been terror and confusion then, though only in her heart. In the same way, Mother Cecilia had seemed to know what to do. Mama had died despite Cecilia's help, just as many of today's wounded would die; but there had been an orderliness about the death, a sense that everything possible had been done.
Some people appealed to the Virgin and the saints when someone was sick, but that only made Caris more uncertain and frightened, for there was no way to know if the spirits would help, or even whether they had heard. Mother Cecilia was not as powerful as the saints, the ten-year-old Caris had known; but all the same her assured, practical presence had given Caris both hope and resignation in a combination that brought peace to her soul.
Now Caris became part of Cecilia's entourage, without really making a decision or even thinking about it. She followed the commands of the most assertive person in the vicinity, just as people had obeyed her directions at the riverside immediately after the collapse, when no one else seemed to know what to do. Cecilia's brisk practicality was infectious, and those around her acquired some of the same cool competence. Caris found herself holding a small bowl of vinegar, while a beautiful novice nun called Mair dipped a rag in it and washed the blood from the face of Susanna Chepstow, the timber merchant's wife.
After that it was nonstop until well after dark. Thanks to the long summer evening, all the floating bodies were retrieved from the river before nightfall--though perhaps no one would ever know how many drowned people had sunk to the bottom or drifted downstream. There was no trace of Crazy Nell, who must have been pulled under by the cart to which she was tied. Unjustly, Friar Murdo had survived, having suffered nothing worse than a twisted ankle, and had limped off to the Bell to recuperate with hot ham and strong ale.
However, the treatment of the injured continued, after nightfall, by candlelight. Some of the nuns became exhausted and had to stop; others were overwhelmed by the scale of the tragedy and fell apart, misunderstanding what they were told and becoming clumsy, so that they had to be dismissed; but Caris and a small core group carried on until there was no more to do. It must have been midnight when the last knot was tied in the last bandage, and Caris staggered across the green to her father's house.
Papa and Petranilla sat together in the dining hall, holding hands, grieving for the death of their brother, Anthony. Edmund's eyes were wet with tears, and Petranilla was crying inconsolably. Caris kissed them both, but she could think of nothing to say. If she had sat down, she would have gone to sleep in the chair; so she climbed the stairs. She got into bed next to Gwenda, who was staying with her, as always. Gwenda was deep in an exhausted sleep, and did not stir.
Caris closed her eyes, her body weary and her heart aching with sorrow.
Her father was mourning one person among the many, but she felt the weight of them all. She thought of her friends, neighbors, and acquaintances lying dead on the cold stone floor of the cathedral; and she imagined the sadness of their parents, their children, their brothers and sisters; and the sheer volume of grief overwhelmed her. She sobbed into her pillow. Without speaking, Gwenda put an arm around her and hugged her. After a few moments exhaustion overtook her, and she fell asleep.
She got up again at dawn. Leaving Gwenda still fast asleep, she returned to the cathedral and continued the work. Most of the injured were sent home. Those who still needed to be watched over--such as the still-unconscious Earl Roland--were moved into the hospital. The dead bodies were laid out in neat rows in the chancel, the eastern end of the church, to await burial.
The time flew by, with hardly a moment to rest. Then, late on Sunday afternoon, Mother Cecilia told Caris to take a break. She looked around and realized that most of the work was done. That was when she started to think of the future.
Until that moment she had felt, unconsciously, that ordinary life was over, and she was living in a new world of horror and tragedy. Now she realize
d that this, like everything else, would pass. The dead would be buried, the injured would heal, and somehow the town would struggle back to normal. And she remembered that, just before the bridge collapsed, there had been another tragedy, violent and devastating in its own way.
She found Merthin down by the river, with Elfric and Thomas Langley, organizing the cleanup with the help of fifty or more volunteers. Merthin's quarrel with Elfric had clearly been set aside in the emergency. Most of the loose timber had been retrieved from the water and stacked on the bank. But much of the woodwork was still joined together, and a mass of interlocked timber floated on the surface, moving slightly on the rise and fall of the water, with the innocent tranquillity of a great beast after it has killed and eaten.
The men were trying to break up the wreckage into manageable proportions. It was a dangerous job, with a constant risk that the bridge would collapse further and injure the volunteers. They had tied a rope around the central part of the bridge, now partly submerged, and a team of men stood on the bank hauling on the rope. In a boat in midstream were Merthin and giant Mark Webber with an oarsman. When the men on the bank rested, the boat was rowed in close to the wreckage, and Mark, directed by Merthin, attacked the beams with a huge forester's axe. Then the boat moved to a safe distance, Elfric gave a command, and the rope team pulled again.
As Caris watched, a big section of the bridge came free. Everyone cheered, and the men dragged the tangled woodwork to the shore.
The wives of some of the volunteers arrived with loaves of bread and jugs of ale. Thomas Langley ordered a break. While the men were resting, Caris got Merthin on his own. "You can't marry Griselda," she said without preamble.
The sudden assertion did not surprise him. "I don't know what to do," he said. "I keep thinking about it."
"Will you walk with me?"
"All right."
They left the crowd at the riverside and went up the main street. After the bustle of the Fleece Fair, the town was graveyard quiet. Everyone was staying indoors, tending the sick or mourning the dead. "There can't be many families in town that don't have someone dead or injured," she said. "There must have been a thousand people on the bridge, either trying to leave town or tormenting Crazy Nell. There are more than a hundred bodies in the church, and we've treated about four hundred wounded."