On Whit Sunday, a river of rain fell on Kingsbridge Cathedral

On Whit Sunday, a river of rain fell on Kingsbridge Cathedral. Great globules of water bounced off the slate roof; streams flooded the gutters, fountains gushed from the mouths of gargoyles; sheets of water unfolded down the buttresses, and torrents ran over the arches and down the columns, soaking the statues of the saints. The sky, the great church and the town round about all the shades of wet grey paint.
On the broad green to the west of the church hundreds of traders had set out theirs stalls – then hastily covered them with sheets of oiled sacking or felted cloth to keep the rain off. Wool traders were the key figures in the fair, from the small operators who collected the produce of a few scattered villagers, to the big dealers such as Edmund who had a warehouse full of wool sacks to sell. Around clustered subsidiary stalls selling about everything money could buy, sweet wine from Rhineland, silver brocade threaded with gold from Lucca, glass bowls from Venice, ginger and pepper from places in the East that few people could even name. And finally there were the workday trades people, who supplied visitors and stallholders with their commonplace needs. Bakers, brewers, confectioners, fortune tellers and prostitutes.
The stall holders responded bravely to the rain, joking with one another, trying to create the carnival atmosphere, but the weather would be bad for their profits. Some people had to do business, rain or shine: Italian and Flemish buyers needed soft English wool for thousands of busy looms in Florence and Bruges. But more casual costumers would stay at home: a knight’s wife would decided she could manage without nutmeg and cinnamon, a prosperous peasant would make his old coat last another winter, a lawyer would judge that his mistress did not really need a gold bangle.
From the book ‘World without end’ by Ken Follet

Caris flushed not knowing what was so funny.

Caris flushed not knowing what was so funny.
Papa took pity and said ’Only men can be doctors. Didn’t you know that buttercup ?’
Caris was bewildered. She turned to Cecilia. ‘But what about you ?’
‘I’m not a physician,’ Cecilia said. ‘We nuns care for the sick, of course, but we follow the instructions of trained men. The monks who had studied under the masters understand the humours of the body, the way they go out of the balance in sickness, and how to bring them back to their correct proportions for good health. They know which vein to bleed for migraine, leprosy, or breathlessness: where to cup or cauterise, whether to poultice or bathe.’
‘Couldn’t a woman learn those things ?’
‘Perhaps, but God has ordained it otherwise.’
Caris felt frustrated with the way adults trotted out this truism every time they were stuck for an answer. Before she could say anything. Brother Saul came downstairs with a bowl of blood, and went through the kitchen to the back yard to get rid of it. The sight made Caris feel weepy. All doctors used bloodletting as a cure, so it must be effective, she supposed, but all the same she hated to see mother’s life force in a bowl to be thrown away.
Saul returned to the sick room, and a few moments later he and Joseph came down. ‘I’ve done what I can for her,’ Joseph said solemnly to Papa. ‘And she has confessed her sins.’
Confessed her sins! Caris knew what that meant. She began to cry.
Papa took six silver pennies from his purse and gave them to the monk. ‘Thank you, brother,’ he said, His voice was hoarse.
As the monks left, the two nuns went back upstairs. Alice sat on Papa’s lap and buried her face in his neck, Caris cried and hugged Scrap. Petronilla ordered Tutty to clear the table. Gwenda watched everything with wide eyes. They sat around the table in silence, waiting.
From the book ‘World without end’ by Ken Follet