World Without End by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page B

she?'
    'My new friend Gwenda,' said Caris. 'She's going to take a puppy.'
    'But she's got the one I wanted!' Alice protested.
    She had not said that before. 'Ooh - you never picked one!' Caris said, outraged. 'You're just saying that to be mean.'
    'Why should she have one of our puppies?'
    Papa intervened. 'Now, now,' he said. 'We've got more puppies than we need.'
    'Caris should have asked me which one I wanted first!'
    'Yes, she should,' Papa said, even though he knew perfectly well that Alice was only making trouble. 'Don't do it again, Caris.'
    'Yes, Papa.'
    The cook came in from the kitchen with jugs and cups. When Caris was learning to talk she had called the cook Tutty, no one knew why, but the name had stuck. Papa said: 'Thank you, Tutty. Sit at the table, girls.' Gwenda hesitated, not sure if she was invited, but Caris nodded at her, knowing that Papa intended her to be included - he generally asked everyone within his range of vision to come to dinner.
    Tutty refilled Papa's cup with ale, then gave Alice, Caris, and Gwenda ale mixed with water. Gwenda drank all of hers immediately, with relish, and Caris guessed she did not often get ale: poor people drank cider made from crab apples.
    Next, the cook put in front of each of them a thick slice of rye bread a foot square. Gwenda picked hers up to eat it, and Caris realized she had never dined at a table before. 'Wait,' she said quietly, and Gwenda put the bread down again. Tutty brought in the ham on a board and a dish of cabbage. Papa took a big knife and cut slices off the ham, piling it on their bread trenchers. Gwenda stared big-eyed at the quantity of meat she was given. Caris spooned cabbage leaves on top of the ham.
    The chambermaid, Elaine, came hurrying down the stairs. 'The mistress seems worse,' she said. 'Mistress Petranilla says we should send for Mother Cecilia.'
    'Then run to the priory and beg her to come,' Papa said.
    The maid hurried off.
    'Eat up, children,' said Papa, and he speared a slice of hot ham with his knife; but Caris could see that the dinner now had no relish for him, and he seemed to be looking at something far away.
    Gwenda ate some cabbage and whispered: 'This is food from Heaven.' Caris tried it. The cabbage was cooked with ginger. Gwenda had probably never tasted ginger: only rich people could afford it.
    Petranilla came down, put some ham on a wooden platter, and took it up for Mama; but she came back a few moments later with the food untouched. She sat at the table to eat it herself, and the cook brought her a bread trencher. 'When I was a girl, we were the only family in Kingsbridge who had meat for dinner every day,' she said. 'Except on fast days - my father was very devout. He was the first wool merchant in town to deal directly with the Italians. Everyone does now - although my brother Edmund is still the most important.'
    Caris had lost her appetite, and she had to chew for a long time before she could swallow. At last Mother Cecilia arrived, a small, vital woman with a reassuringly bossy manner. With her was Sister Juliana, a simple person with a warm heart. Caris felt better as she watched them climb the stairs, a chirpy sparrow with a hen waddling behind. They would wash Mama in rose water to cool her fever, and the fragrance would lift her spirits.
    Tutty brought in apples and cheese. Papa peeled an apple absentmindedly with his knife. Caris remembered how, when she was younger, he used to feed her peeled slices then eat the skin himself.
    Sister Juliana came downstairs, a worried look on her pudgy face. 'The prioress wants Brother Joseph to come and see Mistress Rose,' she said. Joseph was the senior physician at the monastery: he had trained with the masters at Oxford. 'I'll just go and fetch him,' Juliana said, and she ran out through the door to the street.
    Papa put his peeled apple down uneaten.
    Caris said: 'What is going to happen?'
    'I don't know, buttercup. Will it rain? How many sacks of wool do the Florentines