But that was only one of the improvements she hoped for. She needed a new pharmacy, adjacent to the hospital, a spacious, well-lit room where she could prepare medicines and make her notes. And she was trying to figure out a way to give patients more privacy. At present everyone in the room could see a woman giving birth, a man having a fit, a child vomiting. People in distress should have small rooms of their own, she felt, like the side chapels in a large church. But she was not sure how to achieve this: the hospital was not big enough. She had had several discussions with Jeremiah Builder - who had been Merthin's apprentice Jimmie, many years ago - but he had not come up with a satisfactory solution.
Next morning, three more people had the same symptoms as Maldwyn Cook.
Caris fed the visitors breakfast and tipped them out into the market. Only the sick were allowed to stay behind. The floor of the hospital was filthier than usual, and she had it swept and swabbed. Then she went to the service in the cathedral.
Bishop Richard was not present. He was with the king, preparing to invade France again - he had always regarded his bishopric mainly as a means of supporting his aristocratic lifestyle. In his absence the diocese was run by Archdeacon Lloyd, who collected the bishop's tithes and rents, baptized children and conducted services with dogged but unimaginative efficiency - a trait he illustrated by giving a tedious sermon on why God was more important than Money, an odd note on which to open one of England's great commercial fairs.
Nevertheless, everyone was in high spirits, as was usual on the first day. The Fleece Fair was the high point of the year for the townspeople and the peasants of the surrounding villages. People made money at the fair and lost it gambling in the inns. Strapping village girls allowed themselves to be seduced by slick city boys. Prosperous peasants paid the town's prostitutes for services they dared not ask their wives to perform. There was usually a murder, often several.
Caris spotted the heavy-set, richly dressed figure of Buonaventura Caroli in the congregation, and her heart faltered. He might have news of Merthin. She went through the service distractedly, mumbling the psalms. On the way out she managed to catch Buonaventura's eye. He smiled at her. She tried to indicate, with an inclination of her head, that she wanted him to meet her afterwards. She was not sure whether he got the message.
However, she went to the hospital - the only place in the priory where a nun could meet a man from outside - and Buonaventura came in not long afterwards. He wore a costly blue coat and pointed shoes. He said: "Last time I saw you, you had just been consecrated a nun by Bishop Richard."
"I'm guest master now," she said.
"Congratulations! I never expected you to take so well to convent life." Buonaventura had known her since she was a little girl.
"Nor did I," she laughed.
"The priory seems to be doing well."
"What makes you say that?"
"I see that Godwyn is building a new palace."
"Yes."
"He must be prospering."
"I suppose he is. How about you? Is trade good?"
"We have some problems. The war between England and France has disrupted transport, and your King Edward's taxes make English wool more expensive than the Spanish. But it's also better quality."
They always complained about taxes. Caris came to the subject that really interested her. "Any news of Merthin?"
"As a matter of fact, there is," Buonaventura said; and although his manner was as urbane as ever, she detected a hesitation. "Merthin is married."
Caris felt as if she had been punched. She had never expected this, never even thought of it. How could Merthin do this? He was... they were...
There was no reason at all why he should not get married, of course. She had rejected him more than once, and on the last occasion she had made her rejection final by entering the nunnery. It was only remarkable that he had waited so long. She had no right to feel hurt.
She forced a smile. "How splendid!" she said. "Please send him my congratulations. Who is the girl?"
Buonaventura pretended not to notice her distress. "Her name is Silvia," he said, as casually as if he were passing on harmless gossip. "She's the younger daughter of one of the city's most