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 centred 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 non-stop 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, neighbours 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 realized 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 clean-up 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.”
“And five hundred lucky ones,” Merthin said.
“We could have been on the bridge, or near it. You and I might be lying on the floor of the chancel, now, cold and still. But we’ve been given a gift – the rest of our lives. And we mustn’t waste that gift because of one mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake,” he said sharply. “It’s a baby – a person, with a soul.”
“You’re a person with a soul, too – an exceptional one. Look at what you’ve been doing just now. Three people are in charge down there at the river. One is the town’s most prosperous builder. Another is the matricularius at the priory. And the third is… a mere apprentice, not yet twenty-one. Yet the townsmen obey you as readily as they obey Elfric and Thomas.”
“That doesn’t mean I can shirk my responsibilities.”
They turned into the priory close. The green in front of the cathedral was rutted and trampled by the fair, and there were boggy patches and wide puddles. In the three great west windows of the church Caris could see the reflection of a watery sun and ripped clouds, a picture divided, like a three-sided altarpiece. A bell began to ring for Evensong.
Caris said: “Think how often you’ve talked of going to see the buildings of Paris and Florence. Will you give all that up?”
“I suppose so. A man can’t abandon his wife and child.”
“So you’re already thinking of her as your wife.”
He rounded on her. “I’ll never think of her as my wife,” he said bitterly. “You know who I love.”
For once she could not think of a clever answer. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Instead, she felt a constriction in her throat. She blinked away tears, and looked down to hide her emotions.
He grasped her arms and pulled her close to him. “You know, don’t you?”
She forced herself to meet his eye. “Do I?” Her vision blurred.
He kissed her mouth. It was a new kind of kiss, different from anything she had experienced before. His lips moved gently but insistently against hers, as if he was determined to remember the moment; and she realized, with dread, that he was thinking this would be their last kiss.
She clung to him, wanting it to go on for ever, but all too soon he drew away.
“I love you,” he said. “But I’m going to marry Griselda.”
Life and death went on. Children were born and old people died. On Sunday Emma Butcher attacked her adulterous husband Edward with his largest cleaver in a fit of jealous rage. On Monday one of Bess Hampton’s chickens went missing, and was found boiling in a pot over Glynnie Thompson’s kitchen fire, whereupon Glynnie was stripped and flogged by Tohn Constable. On Tuesday Howell Tyler was working on the roof of St Mark’s church when a rotten beam gave way beneath him and he fell, crashing through the ceiling to the floor below, and died immediately.
By Wednesday the wreckage of the bridge had been cleared, all but the stumps of two of the main piers, and the timber was stacked on the bank. The waterway was open, and barges and rafts were able to leave Kingsbridge for Melcombe with wool and other goods from the Fleece Fair consigned to Flanders and Italy.
When Caris and Edmund went to the riverside to check on progress, Merthin was using the salvaged timbers to build a raft to ferry people across the river. “It’s better than a boat,” he explained. “Livestock can walk on and off, and carts can be driven on, too.”
Edmund nodded gloomily. “It will have to do, for the weekly market. Fortunately, we should have a new bridge by the time of the next Fleece Fair.”
“I don’t think so,” Merthin said.
“But you told me it would take nearly a year to build a new bridge!”
“A wooden bridge, yes. But if we build another wooden one it, too, will fall down.”
“Why?”
“Let me show you.” Merthin took them to a pile of timber. He pointed to a group of mighty posts. “These formed the piers – they’re probably the famous twenty-four best oak trees in the land, given to the priory by the king. Notice the ends.”
Caris could see that the huge posts had originally been sharpened into points, though their outlines had been softened by years under water.
Merthin said: “A timber bridge has no foundations. The posts are simply driven into the river bed. That’s not good enough.”
“But this bridge has stood for hundreds of years!” Edmund said indignantly. He always sounded quarrelsome when he argued.
Merthin was used to him, and paid no attention to his tone of voice. “And now it has fallen down,” he said patiently. “Something has changed. Wooden piers were once firm enough, but no longer.”
“What can have changed? The river is the river.”
“Well, for one thing you built a barn and a jetty on the bank, and protected the property with a wall. Several other merchants did the same. The old mud beach where I used to play on the south shore has mostly gone. So the river can no longer spread itself into the fields. As a result, the water flows faster than it used to – especially after the kind of heavy rain we’ve had this year.”
“So it will have to be a stone bridge?”
“Yes.”
Edmund looked up and saw Elfric standing by, listening. “Merthin says a stone bridge will take three years.”
Elfric nodded. “Three building seasons.”
Most building was done in the warmer months, Caris knew. Merthin had explained to her that stone walls could not be constructed when there was a risk that the mortar might freeze before it had begun to set.
Elfric went on: “One season for the foundations, one for the arches, and one for the roadbed. After each stage, the mortar must be left for three or four months to set hard before the next stage can be laid on top of it.”
“Three years with no bridge,” Edmund said gloomily.
“Four years, unless you get started right away.”
“You’d better prepare an estimate of the cost for the priory.”
“I’ve already started, but it’s a long job. It will take me another two or three days.”
“Quick as you can.”
Edmund and Caris left the riverside and walked up the main street, Edmund with his energetically lopsided stride. He would never lean on anyone’s arm, despite his withered leg. To keep his balance, he swung his arms as if he were sprinting. The townspeople knew to give him plenty of room, especially when he was in a hurry. “Three years!” he said as they walked. “It will do terrible damage to the Fleece Fair. I don’t know how long it will take us to get back to normal. Three years!”
When they got home they found Caris’s sister Alice there. Her hair was tied up in her hat in an elaborate new style copied from Lady Philippa. She was sitting at the table with Aunt Petranilla. Caris knew immediately, from the looks on their faces, that they had been talking about her.
Petranilla went to the kitchen and came back with ale, bread and fresh butter. She filled a cup for Edmund.
Petranilla had cried on Sunday, but since then she had shown little sign of bereavement for her dead brother, Anthony. Surprisingly Edmund, who had never liked Anthony, seemed to grieve more: tears would come to his eyes at unexpected moments during the day, though they would disappear just as quickly.
Now he was full of news of the bridge. Alice was inclined to question Merthin’s judgement, but Edmund dismissed that notion impatiently. “The boy’s a genius,” he said. “He knows more than many master builders, yet he isn’t out of his apprenticeship.”
Caris said bitterly: “All the more shame that he’s going to spend his life with Griselda.”
Alice leaped to the defence of her stepdaughter. “There’s nothing wrong with Griselda.”
“Yes, there is,” Caris said. “She doesn’t love him. She seduced him because her boyfriend left town, that’s all.”
“Is that the story Merthin’s telling you?” Alice laughed sarcastically. “If a man doesn’t want to do it, he doesn’t do it – take my word.”
Edmund grunted. “Men can be tempted,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re siding with Caris, are you, Papa?” Alice said. “I shouldn’t be surprised, you usually do.”
“It’s not a question of taking sides,” Edmund replied. “A man may not want to do a thing beforehand, and he may regret it afterwards, yet for a brief moment his wishes may change – especially when a woman uses her wiles.”
“Wiles? Why do you assume that she threw herself at him?”
“I didn’t say that. But I understand it began when she cried, and he comforted her.”
Caris herself had told him this.
Alice made a disgusted sound. “You’ve always had a soft spot for that insubordinate apprentice.”
Caris ate some bread with butter, but she had no appetite. She said: “I suppose they’ll have half a dozen fat children, and Merthin will inherit Elfric’s business, and become just another town tradesman, building houses for merchants and fawning on clergymen for contracts, just like his father-in-law.”
Petranilla said: “And very lucky so to do! He’ll be one of the leading men of the town.”
“He’s worthy of a better destiny.”
“Is he, really?” Petranilla said in mock amazement. “And him the son of a knight who fell from grace and hasn’t a shilling to buy shoes for his wife! What exactly do you believe him to be destined for?”
Caris was stung by this mockery. It was true that Merthin’s parents were poor corrodiaries, dependent on the priory for their food and drink. For him to inherit a successful building business would indeed mean a jump up the social ladder. Yet she still felt he deserved better. She could not say exactly what future she had in mind for him. She just knew that he was different from everyone else in town, and she could not bear the thought of his becoming like the rest.
On Friday, Caris took Gwenda to see Mattie Wise.
Gwenda was still in town because Wulfric was there, attending to the burial of his family. Elaine, Edmund’s housemaid, had dried Gwenda’s dress in front of the fire, and Caris had bandaged her feet and given her an old pair of shoes.
Caris felt that Gwenda was not telling the full truth about her adventure in the forest. She said that Sim had taken her to the outlaws, and she had escaped; he had chased after her, and he had died in the bridge collapse. John Constable was satisfied with that story: outlaws were outside the law, as their name indicated, so there was no question of Sim bequeathing his property. Gwenda was free. But something else had happened in the forest, Caris felt sure; something Gwenda did not want to talk about. Caris did not press her friend. Some things were best buried.
Funerals were the business of the town this week. The extraordinary manner of the deaths made little difference to the rituals of interment. The bodies had to be washed, the shrouds sewn for the poor, the coffins nailed lor the rich, the graves dug and the priests paid. Not all the monks were qualified as priests, but several were, and they worked in shifts, all day, every day, conducting obsequies in the cemetery on the north side of the cathedral. There were half a dozen small parish churches in Kingsbridge, and their priests were also busy.
Gwenda was helping Wulfric with the arrangements, performing the traditional woman’s tasks, washing the bodies and making the shrouds, doing what she could to comfort him. He was in a kind of daze. He managed the details of the burial well enough, but spent hours gazing into space, with a slightly puzzled frown, as if trying to make sense of a massive conundrum.
By Friday the funerals were over, but the acting prior, Carlus, had announced a special service on Sunday for the souls of all those killed, so Wulfric was staying until Monday. Gwenda reported to Caris that he seemed grateful for the company of someone from his own village, but showed animation only when talking about Annet. Caris offered to buy her another love potion.
They found Mattie Wise in her kitchen, brewing medicines. The little house smelled of herbs, oil and wine. “I used just about everything I had on Saturday and Sunday,” she said. “I need to restock.”
“You must have made some money, anyway,” Gwenda said.
“Yes – if I can collect it.”
Caris was shocked. “Do people welsh on you?”
“Some do. I always try to collect the fee in advance, while they’re still in pain. But if they haven’t got the money there and then, it’s hard to refuse them treatment. Most pay up afterwards, but not all.”
Caris felt indignant on behalf of her friend. “What do they say?”
“All sons of things. They can’t afford it, the potion did them no good, they were given it against their will, anything. But don’t worry. There are enough honest people for me to continue. What’s on your mind?”
“Gwenda lost her love potion in the accident.”
“That’s easily remedied. Why don’t you prepare it for her?”
While Caris was making up the mixture she asked Mattie: “How many pregnancies end in a miscarriage?”
Gwenda knew why she was asking. Caris had told her all about Merthin’s dilemma. The two girls had spent most of their time together discussing either Wulfric’s indifference or Merthin’s high principles. Caris had even been tempted to buy a love potion herself, and use it on Merthin; though something held her back.
Mattie gave her a sharp look, but answered noncommittally. “No one knows. Many times, a woman misses one month but comes on again the next. Did she get pregnant and lose the baby, or was there some other reason? It’s impossible to tell.”
“Oh.”
“Neither of you is pregnant, though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Gwenda said quickly: “How do you know?”
“By looking at you. A woman changes almost immediately. Not just her belly and her breasts, but her complexion, her way of moving, her mood. I see these things better than most people – that’s why they call me wise. So who is pregnant?”
“Griselda, Elfric’s daughter.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen her. She’s three months gone.”
Caris was astonished. “How long?”
“Three months, or very nearly. Take a look at her. She was never a thin girl, but she’s even more voluptuous now. So why are you so shocked? I suppose it’s Merthin’s baby, is it?”
Mattie always guessed these things.
Gwenda said to Caris: “I thought you told me it happened recently.”
“Merthin didn’t say exactly when, but he gave me the impression it was not long ago, and it only happened once. Now it seems he’s been doing it to her for months!”
Mattie frowned. “Why would he lie?”
“To make himself look not so bad?” Gwenda suggested.
“How could it be worse?”
“Men are peculiar, the way they think.”
“I’m going to ask him,” Caris said. “Right now.” She put down the jar and the measuring spoon.
Gwenda said: “What about my love potion?”
“I’ll finish making it,” Mattie said. “Caris is in too much of a hurry.”
“Thank you,” Caris said, and she went out.
She marched down to the riverside, but for once Merthin was not there. She failed to find him at Elfric’s house either. She decided he must be in the mason’s loft.
In the west front of the cathedral, neatly fitted into one of the towers, was a work room for the master mason. Caris reached it by climbing a narrow spiral staircase in a buttress of the tower. It was a wide room, well lit by tall lancet windows. All along one wall were stacked the beautifully shaped wooden templates used by the original cathedral stone carvers, carefully preserved and used now for repairs.
Underfoot was the tracing floor. The floorboards were covered with a layer of plaster, and the original master mason, Jack Builder, had scratched his plans in the mortar with iron drawing instruments. The marks thus made were white at first, but they faded over time, and new drawings could be scratched on top of the old. When there were so many designs that it became hard to tell the new from the old, a fresh layer of plaster was laid on top, and the process began again.
Parchment, the thin leather on which monks copied out the books of the Bible, was much too expensive to be used for drawings. In Caris’s lifetime a new writing material had appeared, paper, but it came from the Arabs, so monks rejected it as a heathen Muslim invention. Anyway, it had to be imported from Italy and was no cheaper than parchment. And the tracing floor had another advantage: a carpenter could lay a piece of wood on the floor, on top of the drawing, and carve his template exactly to the lines drawn by the master mason.
Merthin was kneeling on the floor, carving a piece of oak in accordance with a drawing, but he was not making a template. He was carving a cog wheel with sixteen teeth. On the floor close by was another, smaller wheel, and Merthin stopped carving for a moment to put the two together and see how well they fitted. Caris had seen such cogs, or gears, in water mills, connecting the mill paddle to the grindstone.
He must have heard her footsteps on the stone staircase, but he was too absorbed in his work to glance up. She regarded him for a second, anger competing with love in her heart. He had the look of total concentration that she knew so well: his slight body bent over his work, his strong hands and dextrous fingers making fine adjustments, his face immobile, his gaze unwavering. He had the perfect grace of a young deer bending its head to drink from a stream. This was what a man looked like, she thought, when he was doing what he was born to do. He was in a state like happiness, but more profound. He was fulfilling his destiny.
She burst out: “Why did you lie to me?”
His chisel slipped. He cried out in pain and looked at his finger. “Christ,” he said, and put his finger in his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Caris said. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing much. When did I lie to you?”
“You gave me the impression that Griselda seduced you one time. The truth is that the two of you have been at it for months.”
“No, we haven’t.” He sucked his bleeding finger.
“She’s three months pregnant.”
“She can’t be, it happened two weeks ago.”
“She is, you can tell by her figure.”
“Can you?”
“Mattie Wise told me. Why did you lie?”
He looked her in the eye. “But I didn’t lie,” he said. “It happened on the Sunday of Fleece Fair week. That was the first and only time.”
“Then how could she be sure she’s pregnant, after only two weeks?”
“I don’t know. How soon can women tell, anyway?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’ve never asked. Anyway, three months ago Griselda was still with…”
“Oh, God!” Caris said. A spark of hope flared in her breast. “She was still with her old boyfriend – Thurstan.” The spark blazed into a flame. “It must be his baby, Thurstan’s – not yours. You’re not the father!”
“Is it possible?” Merthin seemed hardly to dare to hope.
“Of course – it explains everything. If she had suddenly fallen in love with you, she’d be after you every chance she gets. But you said she hardly speaks to you.”
“I thought that was because I was reluctant to marry her.”
“She’s never liked you. She just needed a father for her baby. Thurstan ran away – probably when she told him she was pregnant – and you were right there in the house, and stupid enough to fall for her trick. Oh, thank God!”
“Thank Mattie Wise,” said Merthin.
She caught sight of his left hand. Blood was welling from a finger. “Oh, I made you hurt yourself!” she cried. She took his hand and examined the cut. It was small, but deep. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“But it is,” she said, not knowing whether she was talking about the cut or something else. She kissed his hand, feeling his hot blood on her lips. She put his finger in her mouth, sucking the wound clean. It was so intimate that it felt like a sexual act, and she closed her eyes, feeling ecstatic. She swallowed, tasting his blood, and shuddered with pleasure.
A week after the bridge collapsed, Merthin had built a ferry.
It was ready at dawn on Saturday morning, in time for the weekly Kingsbridge market. He had worked on it by lamplight all Friday night, and Caris guessed he had not had time to speak to Griselda and tell her he knew the baby was Thurstan’s. Caris and her father came down to the riverside to see the new sensation as the first traders arrived – women from the surrounding villages with baskets of eggs, peasants with cartloads of butter and cheese, and shepherds with flocks of lambs.
Caris admired Merthin’s work. The raft was large enough to carry a horse and cart without taking the beast out of the shafts, and it had a firm wooden railing to keep sheep from falling overboard. New wooden platforms at water level on both banks made it easy for carts to roll on and off. Passengers paid a penny, collected by a monk – the ferry, like the bridge, belonged to the priory.
Most ingenious was the system Merthin had devised for moving the raft from one bank to the other. A long rope ran from the south end of the raft across the river, around a post, back across the river, around a drum and back to the raft, where it was attached again at the north end. The drum was connected by wooden gears to a wheel turned by a pacing ox: Caris had seen Merthin carving the gears yesterday. A lever altered the gears so that the drum turned in either direction, depending on whether the raft was going or coming back – and there was no need to take the ox out of its traces and turn it around.
“It’s quite simple,” Merthin said when she marvelled at it – and it was, when she looked closely. The lever simply lifted one large cog wheel up out of the chain and moved into its place two smaller wheels, the effect being to reverse the direction in which the drum turned. All the same, no one in Kingsbridge had seen anything like it.
During the course of the morning, half the town came to look at Merthin’s amazing new machine. Caris was bursting with pride in him. Elfric stood by, explaining the mechanism to anyone who asked, taking the credit for Merthin’s work.
Caris wondered where Elfric got the nerve. He had destroyed Merthin’s door – an act of violence that would have scandalized the town, had it not been overtaken by the greater tragedy of the bridge collapse. He had beaten Merthin with a stick, and Merthin still had the bruise on his face. And he had colluded in a deception intended to make Merthin marry Griselda and raise another man’s child. Merthin had continued to work with him, feeling that the emergency outweighed their quarrel. But Caris did not know how Elfric could continue to hold his head up.
The ferry was brilliant – but inadequate.
Edmund pointed this out. On the far side of the river, carts and traders were queuing all along the road through the suburbs as far as the eye could see.
“It would go faster with two oxen,” Merthin said.
“Twice as fast?”
“Not quite, no. I could build another ferry.”
“There’s already a second one,” Edmund said, pointing. He was right: Ian Boatman was rowing foot passengers across. Ian could not take carts, he refused livestock and he charged two pence. Normally he had trouble scraping a living: he took a monk across to Leper Island twice a day and found little other business. But today he, too, had a queue.
Merthin said: “Well, you’re right. In the end, a ferry is not a bridge.”
“This is a catastrophe,” Edmund said. “Buonaventura’s news was bad enough. But this – this could kill the town.”
“Then you must have a new bridge.”
“It’s not me, it’s the priory. The prior is dead, and there’s no telling how long they will take to elect a new one. We’ll just have to pressure the acting prior to make a decision. I’ll go and see Carlus now. Come with me, Caris.”
They walked up the street and entered the priory. Most visitors had to go to the hospital and tell one of the servants that they wanted to speak to a monk; but Edmund was too important a personage, and too proud, to beg the favour of an audience in that way. The prior was lord of Kingsbridge, but Edmund was alderman of the guild, leader of the merchants who made the town what it was, and he treated the prior as a partner in the governance of the town. Besides, for the last thirteen years the prior had been his younger brother. So he went straight to the prior’s house on the north side of the cathedral.
It was a timber-framed house like Edmund’s, with a hall and a parlour on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There was no kitchen, for the prior’s meals were prepared in the monastery kitchen. Many bishops and priors lived in palaces – and the bishop of Kingsbridge had a fine place in Shiring – but the prior of Kingsbridge lived modestly. However, the chairs were comfortable, the wall was hung with tapestries of Bible scenes, and there was a big fireplace to keep the house cosy in winter.
Caris and Edmund arrived mid-morning, the time when younger monks were supposed to labour, and their elders to read. Edmund and Caris found Blind Carlus in the hall of the prior’s house, deep in conversation with Simeon, the treasurer. “We must talk about the new bridge,” Edmund said immediately.
“Very well, Edmund,” Carlus said, recognizing him by his voice. The welcome was not warm, Caris noted, and she wondered if they had come at a bad time.
Edmund was just as sensitive as she to atmosphere, but he always blustered through. Now he took a chair and said: “When do you think you’ll hold the election for the new prior?”
“You can sit down too, Caris,” said Carlus. She had no idea how he knew she was there. “No date has been set for the election,” he went on. “Earl Roland has the right to nominate a candidate, but he has not yet recovered consciousness.”
“We can’t wait,” Edmund said. Caris thought he was being too abrupt, but this was his way, so she said nothing. “We have to start work on the new bridge right away,” her father continued. “Timber’s no good, we have to build in stone. It’s going to take three years – four, if we delay.”
“A stone bridge?”
“It’s essential. I’ve been talking to Elfric and Merthin. Another wooden bridge would fall down like the old.”
“But the cost!”
“About two hundred and fifty pounds, depending on the design. That’s Elfric’s calculation.”
Brother Simeon said: “A new wooden bridge would cost fifty pounds, and Prior Anthony rejected that a week ago because of the price.”
“And look at the result! A hundred people dead, many more injured, livestock and carts lost, the prior dead and the earl at death’s door.”
Carlus said stiffly: “I hope you don’t mean to blame all that on the late Prior Anthony.”
“We can’t pretend his decision worked out well.”
“God has punished us for sin.”
Edmund sighed. Caris felt frustrated. Whenever they were in the wrong, monks would bring God into the argument. Edmund said: “It is hard for us mere men to know God’s intentions. But one thing we do know is that, without a bridge, this town will die. We’re already losing out to Shiring. Unless we build a new stone bridge as fast as we possibly can, Kingsbridge will soon become a small village.”
“That may be God’s plan for us.”
Edmund began to show his exasperation. “Is it possible that God is so displeased with you monks? For, believe me, if the Fleece Fair and the Kingsbridge market die, there will not be a priory here with twenty-five monks and forty nuns and fifty employees, and a hospital and a choir and a school. There may not be a cathedral, either. The bishop of Kingsbridge has always lived in Shiring – what if the prosperous merchants there offer to build him a splendid new cathedral in their own town, out of the profits from their ever-growing market? No Kingsbridge market, no town, no cathedral, no priory – is that what you want?”
Carlus looked dismayed. Clearly it had not occurred to him that the long-term consequences of the bridge collapse could actually affect the status of the priory.
But Simeon said: “If the priory can’t afford to build a wooden bridge, there’s certainly no prospect of a stone one.”
“But you must!”
“Will the masons work free?”
“Certainly not. They have to feed their families. But we’ve already explained how the townspeople could raise the money and lend it to the priory against the security of the bridge tolls.”
“And take away our income from the bridge!” Simeon said indignantly. “You’re back to that swindle, are you?”
Caris put in: “You’ve got no bridge tolls at all, now.”
“On the contrary, we’re collecting fares on the ferry.”
“You found the money to pay Elfric for that.”
“A lot less than a bridge – and even so it emptied our coffers.”
“The fares will never amount to much – the ferry is too slow.”
“The time may come, in the future, when the priory is able to build a new bridge. God will send the means, if he wishes it. And then we will still have the tolls.”
Edmund said: “God has already sent the means. He inspired my daughter to dream up a way of raising the money that has never been thought of before.”
Carlus said primly: “Please leave it to us to decide what God has done.”
“Very well.” Edmund stood up, and Caris did the same. “I’m very sorry you’re taking this attitude. It’s a catastrophe for Kingsbridge and everyone who lives here, including the monks.”
“I must be guided by God, not you.”
Edmund and Caris turned to leave.
“One more thing, if I may,” said Carlus.
Edmund turned at the door. “Of course.”
“It’s not acceptable for lay people to enter priory buildings at will. Next time you wish to see me, please come to the hospital, and send a novice or a priory servant to seek me out, in the usual way.”
“I’m alderman of the parish guild!” Edmund protested. “I’ve always had direct access to the prior.”
“No doubt the fact that Prior Anthony was your brother made him reluctant to impose the usual rules. But those days are over.”
Caris looked at her father’s face. He was repressing fury. “Very well,” he said tightly.
“God bless you.”
Edmund went out, and Caris followed.
They walked across the muddy green together, passing a pitifully small cluster of market stalls. Caris felt the weight of her father’s obligations. Most people just worried about feeding their families. Edmund worried about the entire town. She glanced at him and saw that his expression was twisted into an anxious frown. Unlike Carlus, Edmund would not throw his hands in the air and say that God’s will would be done. He was racking his brains for a solution to the problem. She felt a surge of compassion for him, straining to do the right thing with no help from the powerful priory. He never complained of the responsibility, he just took it on. It made her want to weep.
They left the precincts and crossed the main street. As they came to their front door, Caris said: “What are we going to do?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said her father. “We’ve got to make sure Carlus doesn’t get elected prior.”
Godwyn wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge. He longed for it with all his heart. He itched to reform the priory’s finances, tightening up the management of its lands and other assets, so that the monks no longer had to go to Mother Cecilia for money. He yearned for the stricter separation of monks from nuns, and both from townspeople, so that they might all breathe the pure air of sanctity. But as well as these irreproachable motives, there was something else. He lusted for the authority and distinction of the title. At night, in his imagination, he was already prior.
“Clean up that mess in the cloister!” he would say to a monk.
“Yes, Father Prior, right away.”
Godwyn loved the sound of Father Prior.
“Good day, Bishop Richard,” he would say, not obsequiously, but with friendly courtesy.
And Bishop Richard would reply, as one distinguished clergyman to another: “And a good day to you, too, Prior Godwyn.”
“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, archbishop?” he might say, more deferentially this time, but still as a junior colleague of the great man, rather than as an underling.
“Oh, yes, Godwyn, you’ve done extraordinarily well here.”
“Your reverence is very kind.”
And perhaps, one day, strolling in the cloister side by side with a richly dressed potentate: “Your majesty does us great honour to visit our humble priory.”
“Thank you, Father Godwyn, but I come to ask your advice.”
He wanted this position – but he was not sure how to get it. He pondered the question all week, as he supervised a hundred burials, and planned the big Sunday service that would be both Anthony’s funeral and a remembrance for the souls of all the Kingsbridge dead.
Meanwhile, he spoke to no one of his hopes. It was only ten days ago that he had learned the price of being guileless. He had gone to the chapter with Timothy’s Book and a strong argument for reform – and the old guard had turned on him with perfect coordination, as if they had rehearsed it, and squashed him like a frog under a cartwheel.
He would not let that happen again.
On Sunday morning, as the monks were filing into the refectory for breakfast, a novice whispered to Godwyn that his mother would like to see him in the north porch of the cathedral. He slipped away discreetly.
He felt apprehensive as he passed quietly through the cloisters and the church. He could guess what had happened. Something had occurred yesterday to trouble Petranilla. She had lain awake half the night worrying about it. This morning she had woken up at dawn with a plan of action – and he was part of it. She would be at her most impatient and domineering. Her plan would probably be good – but even if it was not she would insist he carried it out.
She stood in the gloom of the porch in a wet cloak – it was raining again. “My brother Edmund came to see Blind Carlus yesterday,” she said. “He tells me Carlus is acting as ii he is already prior, and the election is a mere formality.”
There was an accusing note in her voice as if this was Godwyn’s fault, and he answered defensively. “The old guard swung behind Carlus before Uncle Anthony’s body was cold. They won’t hear talk of rival candidates.”
“Hm. And the youngsters?”
“They want me to run, of course. They liked the way I stood up to Prior Anthony over Timothy’s Book – even though I was overruled. But I’ve said nothing.”
“Any other candidates?”
“Thomas Langley is the outsider. Some disapprove of him because he used to be a knight, and has killed people, by his own admission. But he’s capable, does his job with quiet efficiency, never bullies the novices…”
His mother looked thoughtful. “What’s his story? Why did he become a monk?”
Godwyn’s apprehension began to ease. It seemed she was not going to berate him for inaction. “Thomas just says he always hankered for the sanctified life and, when he came here to get a sword wound attended to, he resolved never to leave.”
“I remember that. It was ten years ago. But I never did hear how he got the wound.”
“Nor I. He doesn’t like to talk about his violent past.”
“Who paid for his admission to the priory?”
“Oddly enough, I don’t know.” Godwyn often marvelled at his mother’s ability to ask the revealing question. She might be tyrannical, but he had to admire her. “It might have been Bishop Richard – I recall him promising the usual gift. But he wouldn’t have had the resources personally – he wasn’t a bishop, then, just a priest. Perhaps he was speaking for Earl Roland.”
“Find out.”
Godwyn hesitated. He would have to look through all the charters in the priory’s library. The librarian, Brother Augustine, would not presume to question the sacrist, but someone else might. Then Godwyn would have the awkwardness of inventing a plausible story to explain what he was doing. If the gift had been cash, rather than land or other property – unusual, but possible – he would have to go through the account rolls…
“What’s the matter?” his mother said sharply.
“Nothing. You’re right.” He reminded himself that her domineering attitude was a sign of her love for him, perhaps the only way she knew how to express it. “There must be a record. Come to think of it…”
“What?”
“A gift like that is usually trumpeted. The prior announces it in church, and calls down blessings on the head of the donor, then preaches a sermon on how people who give lands to the priory are rewarded in heaven. But I don’t remember anything like that happening at the time Thomas came to us.”
“All the more reason to seek out the charter. I think Thomas is a man with a secret. And a secret is always a weakness.”
“I’ll look into it. What do you think I should say to people who want me to stand for election?”
Petranilla smiled slyly. “I think you should tell them you’re not going to be a candidate.”
Breakfast was over by the time Godwyn left his mother.
Latecomers were not allowed to eat, by a longstanding rule. But the kitchener, Brother Reynard, could always find a morsel for someone he liked. Godwyn went to the kitchen and got a slice of cheese and a heel of bread. He ate it standing up, while around him the priory servants brought the breakfast bowls back from the refectory and scrubbed out the iron pot in which the porridge had been cooked.
As he ate he mulled over his mother’s advice. The more he thought about it, the cleverer it seemed. Once he had announced he would not stand for election, everything else he said would carry the authority of a disinterested commentator. He could manipulate the election without being suspected of selfish motives. Then he could make his move at the last moment. He felt a warm glow of loving gratitude for the shrewdness of his mother’s restless brain, and the loyalty of her indomitable heart.
Brother Theodoric found him there. Theodoric’s fair complexion was flushed with indignation. “Brother Simeon spoke to us at breakfast about Carlus becoming prior,” he said. “It was all about continuing the wise traditions of Anthony. He’s not going to change anything!”
That was sly, Godwyn thought. Simeon had taken advantage of Godwyn’s absence to say, with authority, things that Godwyn would have challenged if he had been present. He said sympathetically: “That’s disgraceful.”
“I asked whether the other candidates would be permitted to address the monks at breakfast in the same way.”
Godwyn grinned. “Good for you!”
“Simeon said there was no need for other candidates. ‘We’re not holding an archery contest,’ he said. In his view, the decision has already been made: Prior Anthony chose Carlus as his successor by making him sub-prior.”
“That’s complete rubbish.”
“Exactly. The monks are furious.”
This was very good, Godwyn thought. Carlus had offended even his supporters by trying to take away their right to vote. He was undermining his own candidacy.
Theodoric went on: “I think we should press Carlus to withdraw himself from the contest.”
Godwyn wanted to say: Are you mad? He bit his tongue and tried to look as if he were mulling over what Theodoric had said. “Is that the best way to deal with it?” he asked, as if genuinely unsure.
Theodoric was surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”
“You say the brothers are all furious with Carlus and Simeon. If this goes on, they won’t vote for Carlus. But if Carlus withdraws, the old guard will come up with another candidate. They could make a better choice the second time. It might be someone popular – Brother Joseph, for example.”
Theodoric was thunderstruck. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Perhaps we should hope that Carlus remains the choice of the old guard. Everyone knows he’s against any kind of change. The reason he’s a monk is that he likes to know that every day will be the same: he’ll walk the same paths, sit in the same seats, eat and pray and sleep in the same places. Perhaps it’s because of his blindness, though I suspect he might have been like that anyway. The cause doesn’t matter. He believes that nothing here needs changing. Now, there aren’t many monks who are that contented – which makes Carlus relatively easy to beat. A candidate who represented the old guard but advocated a few minor reforms would be much more likely to win.” Godwyn realized he had forgotten to seem tentative and had started laying down the law. Backtracking quickly, he added: “I don’t know – what do you think?”
“I think you’re a genius,” said Theodoric.
I’m not a genius, Godwyn thought, but I learn fast.
He went to the hospital, where he found Philemon sweeping out the private guest rooms upstairs. Lord William was still here, watching over his father, waiting for him to wake up or die. Lady Philippa was with him. Bishop Richard had returned to his palace in Shiring, but was expected back today for the big funeral service.
Godwyn took Philemon to the library. Philemon could barely read, but he would be useful for getting out the charters.
The priory had more than a hundred charters. Most were deeds to landholdings, the majority near Kingsbridge, some scattered around far parts of England and Wales. Other charters entitled the monks to establish their priory, to build a church, to take stone from a quarry on the earl of Shiring’s land without payment, to parcel the land around the priory into house plots and rent them out, to hold courts, to have a weekly market, to charge a toll for crossing the bridge, to have an annual Fleece Fair, and to ship goods by river to Melcombe without paying taxes to the lords of any of the lands through which the river passed.
The documents were written with pen and ink on parchment, thin leather painstakingly cleaned and scraped and bleached and stretched to form a writing surface. Longer ones were rolled up and tied with a fine leather thong. They were kept in an ironbound chest. The chest was locked, but the key was in the library, in a small carved box.
Godwyn frowned with disapproval when he opened the chest. The charters were not lined up in neat stacks, but tumbled in the box in no apparent order. Some had small rips and frayed edges, and all were covered with dust. They should be kept in date sequence, he thought, each one numbered, and the numbered list fixed to the inside of the lid, so that any particular charter could be quickly located. If I become prior…
Philemon took the charters out one by one, blew off the dust, and laid them on a table for Godwyn. Most people disliked Philemon. One or two of the older monks mistrusted him, but Godwyn did not: it was hard to mistrust someone who treated you like a god. Most of the monks were just used to him – he had been around for so long. Godwyn remembered him as a boy, tall and awkward, always hanging around the priory, asking the monks which saint was best to pray to, and had they ever witnessed a miracle.
Most of the charters had originally been written out twice on a single sheet. The word ‘chirograph’ had been written in large letters between the two copies, then the sheet had been cut in half with a zigzag line through the word. Each of the parties kept half the sheet, and the match between the zigzags was taken as proof that both documents were genuine.
Some of the sheets had holes, probably where the living sheep had been bitten by an insect. Others appeared to have been nibbled, at some point in their history, presumably by mice.
They were written in Latin, of course. The more recent ones were easier to read, but the older style of handwriting was sometimes hard for Godwyn to decipher. He scanned each until he came to a date. He was looking for something written soon after All Hallows’ Day ten years ago.
He examined every sheet and found nothing.
The nearest was a deed dated some weeks later in which Earl Roland gave permission to Sir Gerald to transfer his lands to the ownership of the priory, in exchange for which the priory would forgive Gerald’s debts and support him and his wife for the rest of their lives.
Godwyn was not really disappointed. Rather the contrary. Either Thomas had been admitted without the usual gift – which would in itself be curious – or the charter was kept somewhere else, away from prying eyes. Either way, it seemed increasingly likely that Petranilla’s instinct was right, and Thomas had a secret.
There were not many private places in a monastery. Monks were supposed to have no personal property and no secrets. Although some wealthy monasteries had built private cells for the senior monks, at Kingsbridge they slept in one big room – all except the prior himself. Almost certainly, the charter that had secured Thomas’s admission was in the prior’s house.
Which was now occupied by Carlus.
That made things difficult. Carlus would not let Godwyn search the place. Searching might hardly be necessary: there was probably a box or satchel somewhere in plain sight containing the late Prior Anthony’s personal documents: a notebook from his novice days, a friendly letter from the archbishop, some sermons. Carlus had probably had the contents examined after Anthony died. But he had no reason to permit Godwyn to do the same.
Godwyn frowned, thinking. Could someone else search? Edmund or Petranilla might ask to see their late brother’s possessions, and it would be hard for Carlus to deny such a request. But he might remove any priory documents beforehand. No, the search had to be clandestine.
The bell rang for Terce, the morning office. Godwyn realized that the only time he could be certain Carlus would not be in the prior’s house was during a service in the cathedral.
He would have to skip Terce. He could think up a plausible excuse. It would not be easy – he was the sacrist, the one person who should never skip services. But there was no alternative.
“I want you to come to me in the church,” he said to Philemon.
“All right,” said Philemon, though he looked worried: priory employees were not supposed to enter the chancel during worship.
“Come right after the verse. Whisper in my ear. It doesn’t matter what you say. Take no notice of my reaction, just continue.”
Philemon frowned anxiously, but he nodded assent. He would do anything for Godwyn.
Godwyn left the library and joined the procession into the church. There was only a handful of people standing in the nave: most of the town would come later in the day to attend the mass for the victims or the bridge collapse. The monks took their places in the chancel, and the ritual began. “O God, incline unto mine aid,” Godwyn said along with the rest.
They finished the verse and began the first hymn, and Philemon appeared. All the monks stared at him, as people always did stare at anything out of the ordinary that occurred during a familiar rite. Brother Simeon frowned disapprovingly. Carlus, conducting the singing, sensed a disturbance and looked puzzled. Philemon came to Godwyn’s seat and bent over. “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,” he whispered.
Godwyn pretended to be surprised, and continued to listen while Philemon recited psalm number one. After a few moments he shook his head vigorously, as if denying a request. Then he listened some more. He was going to have to think up an elaborate story to account for this pantomime. Perhaps he would say that his mother had insisted on speaking to him immediately about the funeral of her brother, Prior Anthony, and that she was threatening to come into the chancel herself unless Philemon took a message to Godwyn. Petranilla’s overbearing personality, combined with family grief, made the story just about credible. As Philemon finished the psalm, Godwyn made a resigned face, and got up and followed Philemon out of the chancel.
They hurried around the cathedral to the prior’s house. A young employee was sweeping the floor. He would not dare to question a monk. He might tell Carlus that Godwyn and Philemon had been here – but it would be too late then.
Godwyn thought the prior’s house was a disgrace. It was smaller than Uncle Edmund’s home in the main street. A prior should have a palace befitting his station, as the bishop did. There was nothing glorious about this building. A few tapestries covered the walls, depicting biblical scenes and keeping out the draughts, but overall the decor was dull and unimaginative – rather like the late Anthony.
They searched the place quickly and soon found what they were looking for. Upstairs in the bedroom, in a chest beside the prie-dieu, was a large wallet. It was made of soft ginger-brown goatskin and beautifully sewn with scarlet thread: Godwyn felt sure it had been a pious gift from one of the town’s leather workers.
Watched intently by Philemon, he opened it.
Inside were about thirty sheets of parchment, laid flat and interleaved with protective linen cloths. Godwyn examined them quickly.
Several bore study notes on the Psalms: Anthony must at some time have contemplated writing a book of commentaries, but the work appeared to have been abandoned. The most surprising was a love poem, in Latin. Headed Virent Oculi, it was addressed to a man with green eyes. Uncle Anthony had green eyes flecked with gold, like all his family.
Godwyn wondered who had written it. Not many women could write Latin well enough to compose a poem. Had a nun loved Anthony? Or was the poem from a man? The parchment was old and yellowing: the love affair, if such it was, had happened in Anthony’s youth. But he had kept the poem. Perhaps he had not been quite as dull as Godwyn had imagined.
Philemon said: “What is it?”
Godwyn felt guilty. He had peeped into a deeply private corner of his uncle’s life, and he wished he had not. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a poem.” He picked up the next sheet – and struck gold.
It was a charter dated Christmas ten years ago. It concerned a landholding of five hundred acres near Lynn, in Norfolk. The lord had recently died. The deed assigned the vacant lordship to Kingsbridge Priory, and specified the annual dues – grain, fleeces, calves and chickens – payable to the priory by the serfs and tenants who farmed the land. It nominated one of the peasants to be a bailiff with the responsibility of delivering the produce to the priory annually. It also assigned money payments that could be offered instead of the actual produce – a practice that was now predominant, especially where the land was many miles from the residence of the lord.
It was a typical charter. Every year, after the harvest, representatives of dozens of similar communities made the pilgrimage to the priory to deliver what they owed. Those from nearby showed up early in the autumn; others came at intervals through the winter, with a few from long distances not arriving until after Christmas.
The deed also specified that the gift was given in consideration of the priory’s accepting Sir Thomas Langley as a monk. That, too, was routine.
But one feature of this document was not commonplace. It was signed by Queen Isabella.
That was interesting. Isabella was the unfaithful wife of King Edward II. She had rebelled against her royal husband and installed, in his place, their fourteen-year-old son. Shortly afterwards the deposed king had died, and Prior Anthony had been present at his burial in Gloucester. Thomas had come to Kingsbridge at around the same time.
For a few years the queen and her lover, Roger Mortimer, had ruled England; but, before long, Edward III had asserted his authority, despite his youth. The new king was now twenty-four and firmly in control. Mortimer was dead and Isabella, now forty-two, lived in opulent retirement at Castle Rising in Norfolk, not far from Lynn.
“This is it!” Godwyn said to Philemon. “It was Queen Isabella who arranged for Thomas to become a monk.”
Philemon frowned. “But why?”
Though uneducated, Philemon was shrewd. “Why indeed?” Godwyn answered. “Presumably she wanted to reward him, or silence him, or perhaps both. And this happened in the year of her coup.”
“He must have performed some service for her.”
Godwyn nodded. “He carried a message, or opened the gates of a castle, or betrayed the king’s plans to her, or secured for her the support of some important baron. But why is it a secret?”
“It’s not,” said Philemon. “The treasurer must know about it. And everyone in Lynn. The bailiff must talk to a few people when he comes here.”
“But no one knows that the whole arrangement was made for the benefit of Thomas – unless they have seen this charter.”
“So that’s the secret – that Queen Isabella made this gift for Thomas’s sake.”
“Exactly.” Godwyn packed up the documents, carefully interleaving the sheets of parchment with linen cloths, and replaced the wallet in the chest.
Philemon asked: “But why is it a secret? There’s nothing dishonest or shameful about such an arrangement – it happens all the time.”
“I don’t know why it’s a secret, and perhaps we don’t need to know. The fact that people want to keep it hidden may be sufficient for our purpose. Let’s get out of this house.”
Godwyn felt satisfied. Thomas had a secret and Godwyn knew about it. That gave Godwyn power. Now he felt confident enough to risk putting Thomas forward as a candidate for prior. He also felt apprehensive: Thomas was no fool.
They returned to the cathedral. The office of Terce ended a few moments later, and Godwyn began to prepare the church for the big funeral service. On his instructions, six monks lifted Anthony’s coffin and placed it on a stand in front of the altar, then surrounded it with candles. Townspeople began to gather in the nave. Godwyn nodded to his cousin Caris, who had covered her everyday headgear in black silk. Then he spotted Thomas, carrying in a large, ornate chair, with the help of a novice. This was the bishop’s throne, or cathedra, that gave the church its special cathedral status.
Godwyn touched Thomas’s arm. “Let Philemon do that.”
Thomas bristled, thinking that Godwyn was offering help because of his missing arm. “I can manage.”
“I know you can. I want a word.”
Thomas was older – he was thirty-four, Godwyn thirty-one – but Godwyn was his superior in the monastic hierarchy. All the same, Godwyn was always a little afraid of Thomas. The matricularius usually showed the appropriate deference to the sacrist, but all the same Godwyn felt he was getting just as much respect as Thomas thought he merited, and no more. Though Thomas conformed in every way to the discipline of St Benedict’s Rule, nevertheless he seemed to have brought into the priory with him a quality of independence and self-sufficiency that he never lost.
It would not be easy to deceive Thomas – but that was exactly what Godwyn planned to do.
Thomas allowed Philemon to take his side of the throne, and Godwyn drew him into the aisle. “They’re talking about you as possibly the next prior,” Godwyn said.
“They’re saying the same about you,” Thomas rejoined.
“I shall refuse to stand.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “You surprise me, brother.”
“Two reasons,” Godwyn said. “One, I think you would do a better job.”
Thomas looked more surprised. He probably had not suspected Godwyn of such modesty. He was right: Godwyn was lying.
“Two,” Godwyn continued, “you’re more likely to win.” Now Godwyn was telling the truth. “The youngsters like me, but you’re popular across the range of all ages.”
Thomas’s handsome face looked quizzical. He was waiting for the catch.
“I want to help you,” Godwyn said. “I believe the only important thing is to have a prior who will reform the monastery and improve its finances.”
“I think I could do that. But what do you want in return for your support?”
Godwyn knew better than to ask for nothing. Thomas would not believe that. He invented a plausible lie. “I’d like to be your sub-prior.”
Thomas nodded, but did not immediately consent. “How would you help me?”
“First, by gaining you the support of the townspeople.”
“Just because Edmund Wooler is your uncle?”
“It’s not that simple. The townspeople are worried about the bridge. Carlus won’t say when he’ll begin building, if ever. They’re desperate to stop him becoming prior. If I tell Edmund that you’ll start work on the bridge as soon as you’re elected, you’ll have the whole town behind you.”
“That won’t win me the votes of many monks.”
“Don’t be so sure. Remember, the monks’ choice has to be ratified by the bishop. Most bishops are prudent enough to consult local opinion – and Richard is as keen as anyone to avoid trouble. If the townspeople come out for you, it will make a difference.”
Godwyn could see that Thomas did not trust him. The matricularius studied him, and Godwyn felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as he fought to remain expressionless under that keen gaze. But Thomas was listening to his arguments. “There’s no doubt we need a new bridge,” he said. “Carlus is foolish to prevaricate.”
“So you would be promising something you intend to do anyway.”
“You’re very persuasive.”
Godwyn held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I don’t mean to be. You must do what you feel is God’s will.”
Thomas looked sceptical. He did not believe that Godwyn was so dispassionate. But he said: “All right.” Then he added: “I’ll pray about it.”
Godwyn sensed he would get no stronger commitment out of Thomas today, and it might be counterproductive to push any harder. “So will I,” he said, and he turned away.
Thomas would do exactly what he had promised, and pray about it. He had little in the way of personal desires. If he thought it was God’s will he would stand as prior and, if not, not. Godwyn could do no more with him, for the moment.
There was now a blaze of candles around Anthony’s coffin. The nave was filling with townspeople and peasants from the surrounding villages. Godwyn raked the crowd for the face of Caris, which he had spotted a few minutes earlier. He located her in the south transept, looking at Merthin’s scaffolding in the aisle. He had affectionate memories of Caris as a child, when he had been her all-knowing grown-up cousin.
She had been looking glum since the bridge collapse, he had noticed, but today she seemed cheerful. He was glad: he had a soft spot for her. He touched her elbow. “You look happy.”
“I am.” She smiled. “A romantic knot just came untangled. But you wouldn’t understand.”
“Of course not.” You have no idea, he thought, how many romantic tangles there are among monks. But he said nothing: lay people were best left in ignorance of sins that took place in the priory. He said: “Your father should speak to Bishop Richard about rebuilding the bridge.”
“Really?” she said sceptically. As a child she had hero-worshipped him, but nowadays she was less in awe. “What’s the point? It’s not his bridge.”
“The monks’ choice for prior has to be approved by the bishop. Richard could let it be known that he won’t approve anyone who refuses to rebuild the bridge. Some monks might be defiant, but others will say there’s no point in voting for someone who isn’t going to be ratified.”
“I see. You really think my father could help?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’ll suggest it.”
“Thank you.”
The bell rang. Godwyn slipped out of the church and again joined the procession forming up in the cloisters. It was midday.
He had done a good morning’s work.
Wulfric and Gwenda left Kingsbridge early on Monday morning to walk the long road back to their village of Wigleigh.
Caris and Merthin watched them cross the river on Merthin’s new ferry. Merthin was pleased by how well it was working. The wooden gears would wear out quite quickly, he knew. Iron gears would be better, but-
Caris had other thoughts. “Gwenda is so much in love,” she sighed.
“She has no chance with Wulfric,” Merthin said.
“You never know. She’s a determined girl. Look how she escaped from Sim Chapman.”
“But Wulfric’s engaged to that Annet – who is much prettier.”
“Good looks aren’t everything in a romance.”
“For which I thank God every day.”
She laughed. “I love your funny face.”
“But Wulfric fought my brother over Annet. He must love her.”
“Gwenda’s got a love potion.”
Merthin gave her a disapproving look. “So you think it’s all right for a girl to manoeuvre a man into marrying her when he loves someone else?”
She was struck silent for a moment. The soft skin of her throat turned pink. “I never thought of it that way,” she said. “Is it really the same thing?”
“It’s similar.”
“But she’s not coercing him – she just wants to make him love her.”
“She should try to do that without a potion.”
“Now I feel ashamed of helping her.”
“Too late.” Wulfric and Gwenda were getting off the ferry on the far side. They turned to wave, then headed along the road through the suburbs with Skip, the dog, at their heels.
Merthin and Caris walked back up the main street. Caris said: “You haven’t spoken to Griselda yet.”
“I’m going to do it now. I don’t know whether I’m looking forward to it or dreading it.”
“You’ve got nothing to fear. She’s the one who lied.”
“That’s true.” He touched his face. The bruise had almost healed. “I just hope her father doesn’t get violent again.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
He would have been glad of her support, but he shook his head. “I made this mess, and I have to straighten it out.”
They stopped outside Elfric’s house. Caris said: “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Merthin kissed her lips briefly, resisted the temptation to kiss her again, and walked in.
Elfric was sitting at the table eating bread and cheese. A cup of ale stood in front of him. Beyond him, Merthin could see Alice and the maid in the kitchen. There was no sign of Griselda.
Elfric said: “Where have you been?”
Merthin decided that if he had nothing to fear he had better act fearlessly. He ignored Elfric’s question. “Where’s Griselda?”
“Still in bed.”
Merthin shouted up the stairs: “Griselda! I want to talk to you.”
Elfric said: “No time for that. We’ve got work to do.”
Again Merthin ignored him. “Griselda! You’d better get up now.”
“Hey!” Elfric said. “Who do you think you are, to give orders?”
“You want me to marry her, don’t you?”
“So what?”
“So she’d better get used to doing what her husband tells her.” He raised his voice again. “Get down here now, or you’ll just have to hear what I’ve got to say from someone else.”
She appeared at the top of the stairs. “I’m coming!” she said irritably. “What’s all the fuss about?”
Merthin waited for her to come down, then said: “I’ve found out who the father of the baby is.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, it’s you.”
“No, it’s Thurstan.”
“I never lay with Thurstan!” She looked at her father. “Honestly I didn’t.”
Elfric said: “She doesn’t lie.”
Alice came out of the kitchen. “That’s right,” she said.
Merthin said: “I lay with Griselda on the Sunday of Fleece Fair week – fifteen days ago. Griselda is three months pregnant.”
“I’m not!”
Merthin looked hard at Alice. “You knew, didn’t you?” Alice looked away. Merthin went on: “And yet you lied – even to Caris, your own sister.”
Elfric said: “You don’t know how long pregnant she is.”
“Look at her,” Merthin replied. “You can see the bulge in her belly. Not much, but it’s there.”
“What do you know of such things? You’re just a boy.”
“Yes – you were all relying on my ignorance, weren’t you? And it almost worked.”
Elfric wagged his finger. “You lay with Griselda, and now you’ll marry Griselda.”
“Oh no I won’t. She doesn’t love me. She lay with me to get a father for her baby, after Thurstan ran away. I know I did wrong, but I’m not going to punish myself for the rest of my life by marrying her.”
Elfric stood up. “You are, you know.”
“No.”
“You’ve got to.”
“No.”
Elfric’s face turned red, and he shouted: “You will marry her!”
Merthin said: “How long do you want me to keep on saying no?”
Elfric realized he was serious. “In that case, you’re dismissed,” he said. “Get out of my house and never come back.”
Merthin had been expecting this, and it came as a relief. It meant the argument was over. “All right.” He tried to step past Elfric.
Elfric blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the kitchen, to get my things.”
“Your tools, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“They’re not yours. I paid for them.”
“An apprentice is always given his tools at the end of his…” Merthin tailed off.
“You haven’t finished your apprenticeship, so you don’t get your tools.”
Merthin had not expected this. “I’ve done six and a half years!”
“You’re supposed to do seven.”
Without tools Merthin could not earn his living. “That’s unfair. I’ll appeal to the carpenters’ guild.”
“I look forward to it,” Elfric said smugly. “It will be interesting to hear you argue that an apprentice who is sacked for lying with his master’s daughter should be rewarded with a free set of tools. The carpenters in the guild have all got apprentices, and most of them have daughters.
They’ll throw you out on your arse.”
Merthin realized he was right.
Alice said: “There you are, you’re in real trouble now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Merthin said. “But whatever happens, it won’t be as bad as life with Griselda and her family.”
Later that morning, Merthin went to St Mark’s church for the funeral of Howell Tyler. He attended because he hoped someone there would give him a job.
Looking up at the timber ceiling – the church did not have a stone vault – Merthin could see a man-shaped hole in the painted wood, grim testament to the manner of Howell’s death. Everything up there was rotten, the builders at the funeral said knowingly; but they said it after the accident, their sagacity coming too late to save Howell. It was now clear that the roof was too weak to be repaired, but must be demolished completely and rebuilt from scratch. That meant closing the church.
St Mark’s was a poor church. It had a pitiful endowment, a single farm ten miles away that was kept by the priest’s brother and just about managed to feed the family. The priest, Father Joffroi, had to get his income from the eight or nine hundred citizens of his parish in the poorer north end of town. Those who were not actually destitute generally pretended to be, so their tithes brought in only a modest sum. He made his living by christening, marrying and burying them, charging a lot less than the monks at the cathedral. His parishioners married early, had many children and died young, so there was plenty of work for him, and in the end he did well enough. But if he closed the church his income would dry up – and he would not be able to pay the builders.
Consequently the work on the roof had stopped.
All the town’s builders came to the funeral, including Elfric. Merthin tried to look unashamed as he stood in the church, but it was difficult: most of them knew he had been dismissed. He had been unjustly treated but, unfortunately, he was not completely innocent.
Howell had had a young wife who was friendly with Caris, and now Caris walked in with the widow and the bereaved family. Merthin moved next to Caris and told her what had happened with Elfric.
Father Joffroi conducted the service dressed in an old robe. Merthin thought about the roof. It seemed to him there must be a way to dismantle it without closing the church. The standard approach, when repairs had been postponed too long and the timbers were too badly rotted to bear the weight of workmen, was to build scaffolding around the church and knock the timbers down into the nave. The building was then open to the elements until the new roof was finished and tiled. But it should be possible to build a swivelling hoist, supported by the thick side wall of the church, which would lift the roof timbers up one by one, instead of pushing them down, and swing them across the wall and down into the graveyard. That way, the wooden ceiling could be left intact, and replaced only after the roof had been rebuilt.
At the graveside, he looked at the men one by one, wondering which of them was most likely to employ him. He decided to approach Bill Watkin, the town’s second largest builder and no admirer of Elfric’s. Bill had a bald dome with a fringe of black hair, a natural version of the monkish tonsure. He did most of the house building in Kingsbridge. Like Elfric, he employed a stonemason and a carpenter, a handful of labourers and one or two apprentices.
Howell had not been prosperous, and his body was lowered into the grave in a shroud, without a coffin.
When Father Joffroi had departed, Merthin approached Bill Watkin. “Good day, Master Watkin,” he said formally.
Bill’s response was not warm. “Well, young Merthin?”
“I’ve parted company with Elfric.”
“I know that,” said Bill. “And I know why.”
“You’ve heard Elfric’s side of the story.”
“I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
Elfric had been talking to people before and during the service, Merthin realized. He was sure Elfric had left out of his account the fact that Griselda had tried to make Merthin the substitute father for Thurstan’s baby. But he felt he would do himself no good by making excuses. Better to admit his fault. “I realize I did wrong, and I’m sorry, but I’m still a good carpenter.”
Bill nodded agreement. “The new ferry testifies to that.”
Merthin was encouraged. “Will you hire me?”
“As what?”
“As a carpenter. You said I was a good one.”
“But where are your tools?”
“Elfric wouldn’t give them to me.”
“And he was right – because you haven’t finished your apprenticeship.”
“Then take me on as an apprentice for six months.”
“And give you a new set of tools for nothing at the end of it? I can’t afford that kind of generosity.” Tools were expensive because iron and steel were costly.
“I’ll work as a labourer, and save up to buy my own tools.” It would take a long time, but he was desperate.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got a daughter too.”
This was outrageous. “I’m not a menace to maidens, you know.”
“You’re an example to apprentices. If you get away with this, what’s to stop the others trying their luck?”
“That is so unjust!”
Bill shrugged. “You might think so. But ask any other master carpenter in town. I think you’ll find they feel as I do.”
“But what am I to do?”
“I don’t know. You should have thought of that before you shagged her.”
“You don’t care about losing a good carpenter?”
Bill shrugged again. “All the more work for the rest of us.”
Merthin turned away. That was the trouble with guilds, he thought bitterly: it was in their interest to exclude people, for good or bad reasons. A shortage of carpenters would just drive up their wages. They had no incentive to be fair.
Howell’s widow left, accompanied by her mother. Caris, liberated from her duty of commiseration, came over to Merthin. “Why do you look unhappy?” she said. “You hardly knew Howell.”
“I may have to leave Kingsbridge,” he said.
She went pale. “Why on earth would you do that?”
He told her what Bill Watkin had said. “So, you see, no one in Kingsbridge will hire me, and I can’t work on my own account for I’ve no tools. I could live with my parents, but I can’t take the food from their mouths. So I’ll have to seek work some place where no one knows about Griselda. In time, perhaps I can save up enough money to buy a hammer and chisel and then move to another town and try to gain admittance to the carpenters’ guild.”
As he explained this to Caris, he began to appreciate the full misery of the situation. He saw her familiar features as if for the first time, and he was enchanted again by her sparkling green eyes, her small, neat nose and the determined set of her jaw. Her mouth, he realized, did not quite fit the rest of her face: it was too wide, and the lips were too full. It unbalanced the regularity of her physiognomy the way her sensual nature subverted her tidy mind. It was a mouth made for sex, and the thought that he might have to go away and never kiss it again filled him with despair.
Caris was furious. “This is iniquitous! They have no right.”
“That’s what I think. But there seems to be nothing I can do about it. I just have to accept it.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s think about this. You can live with your parents, and have your dinner at my house.”
“I don’t want to become a dependant, like my father.”
“Nor should you. You can buy Howell Tyler’s tools – his widow was just telling me she’s asking a pound for them.”
“I haven’t any money.”
“Ask my father for a loan. He’s always liked you, I’m sure he’ll do it.”
“But it’s against the rules for anyone to employ a carpenter who isn’t in the guild.”
“Rules can be broken. There must be someone in town desperate enough to defy the guild.”
Merthin realized he had allowed the old men to quench his spirit, and he was grateful to Caris for refusing to accept defeat. She was right, of course: he should stay in Kingsbridge and fight this unjust ruling. And he knew someone who was in desperate need of his talents. “Father Joffroi,” he said.
“Is he desperate? Why?”
Merthin explained about the roof.
“Let’s go and see him,” Caris said.
The priest lived in a small house next to the church. They found him preparing a dinner of salt fish in a stew with spring greens. Joffroi was in his thirties, built like a soldier, tall with broad shoulders. His manner was brusque, but he had a reputation for sticking up for the poor.
Merthin said: “I can repair your roof without closing your church.”
Joffroi looked wary. “You’re an answer to prayer if you can.”
“I’ll build a hoist that will lift the roof timbers and deposit them in the graveyard.”
“Elfric sacked you.” The priest shot an embarrassed look in Caris’s direction.
She said: “I know what happened, Father.”
Merthin said: “He dismissed me because I would not marry his daughter. But the child she is bearing is not mine.”
Joffroi nodded. “Some say you were treated unjustly. I can believe it. I have no great love for the guilds – their decisions are rarely unselfish. All the same, you haven’t completed your apprenticeship.”
“Can any member of the carpenters’ guild repair your roof without closing your church?”
“I heard you haven’t even got any tools.”
“Leave that problem to me to solve.”
Joffroi looked thoughtful. “How much do you want to be paid?”
Merthin stuck his neck out. “Four pence a day, plus the cost of materials.”
“That’s a journeyman carpenter’s wage.”
“If I don’t have the skill of a qualified carpenter, you shouldn’t hire me.”
“You’re cocky.”
“I’m just saying what I can do.”
“Arrogance is not the worst sin in the world. And I can afford four pence a day if I can keep my church open. How long will it take you to build your hoist?”
“Two weeks at the most.”
“I’m not going to pay you until I can be sure it will work.”
Merthin breathed in. He would be penniless, but he could cope with that. He could live with his parents and eat at Edmund Wooler’s table. He would get by. “Pay for the materials, and save my wages up until the first roof timber is removed and safely brought to ground.”
Joffroi hesitated. “I’ll be unpopular… but I have no choice.” He held out his hand.
Merthin shook it.
All the way from Kingsbridge to Wigleigh – a distance of twenty miles, a full day’s walk – Gwenda was hoping for a chance to use the love potion; but she was disappointed.
It was not that Wulfric was wary. On the contrary, he was open and friendly. He talked about his family, and told her how he wept every morning when he woke up and realized their deaths were not a dream. He was considerate, asking whether she was tired and needed to rest. He told her that he felt land was a trust, something a man held for a lifetime then passed to his heirs, and that when he improved his land – by weeding fields, fencing sheepfolds or clearing stones from pasture – he was fulfilling his destiny.
He even patted Skip.
By the end of the day she was more in love with him than ever. Unfortunately, he showed no sign of feeling anything for her more than a kind of camaraderie, caring but not passionate. In the forest with Sim Chapman, she had wished with all her heart that men were not so much like wild beasts; but now she wanted Wulfric to have a bit more of the beast in him. All day she did little things to arouse his interest. As if by accident, she let him see her legs, which were firm and shapely. When the terrain was hilly, she made it an excuse to take deep breaths and stick out her chest. At every opportunity she brushed against him, touched his arm or put a hand on his shoulder. None of it had the least effect. She was not pretty, she knew, but there was something about her that often made men look hard at her and breathe through their mouths – but it was not working on Wulfric.
They stopped for a rest at noon, and ate the bread and cheese they carried with them; but they drank water from a clear stream, using their hands as cups, and she had no opportunity to give him the potion.
All the same, she was happy. She had him all to herself for a whole day. She could look at him, talk to him, make him laugh, sympathize with him, and occasionally touch him. She pretended to herself that she could kiss him any time she liked, but that at the moment she was not so disposed. It was almost like being married. And it was over too soon.
They arrived in Wigleigh early in the evening. The village stood on a rise, its fields sloping away to all sides, and it was always windy. After two weeks in the bustle of Kingsbridge, the familiar place seemed small and quiet, just a scatter of rough dwellings along the road that led to the manor house and the church. The manor was as large as a Kingsbridge merchant’s home, with bedrooms on an upper floor. The priest’s house was also a fine dwelling, and a few of the peasant houses were substantial. But most of the homes were two-room hovels, one room normally being occupied by livestock and the other serving as kitchen and bedroom for all the family. Only the church was built of stone.
The first of the more substantial houses belonged to Wulfric’s family. Its doors and shutters were closed, giving it a desolate look. He walked past it to the second big house, which was where Annet lived with her parents. He gave Gwenda a casual wave of farewell and went inside, smiling in anticipation.
She felt the sharp tug of loss, as if she had just woken out of a delightful dream. She swallowed her discontent and set out across the fields. The early-June rain had been good for the crops, and the wheat and barley were green, but now they needed sunshine to ripen them. Village women were moving along the rows of grain, bent double, pulling up weeds. Some waved to her.
As she approached her home, Gwenda felt a mixture of apprehension and anger. She had not seen her parents since the day her father had sold her to Sim Chapman for a cow. Almost certainly, Pa thought she was still with Sim. Her appearance would come as a shock. What would he say when he saw her? And what was she going to say to the father who had betrayed her trust?
She felt sure her mother knew nothing of the sale. Pa had probably told Ma some story about Gwenda running off with a boy. Ma was going to fly into a fearsome rage.
She felt happy at the prospect of seeing the little ones – Cath, Joanie and Eric. She realized now how much she had missed them.
On the far side of the hundred-acre field, half hidden in the trees at the edge of the forest, was her home. It was even smaller than the peasants’ hovels, having only one room, which was shared with the cow at night. It was made of wattle-and-daub: tree branches stuck upright in the ground, with twigs interwoven basket-fashion, the gaps plugged with a sticky mixture of mud, straw and cow dung. There was a hole in the thatched roof to let out the smoke of the fire in the middle of the earth floor. Such houses lasted only a few years then had to be rebuilt. It now seemed meaner than ever to Gwenda. She was determined not to spend her life in such a place, having babies every year or two, most of whom died for lack of food. She would not live like her mother. She would rather die.
When she was still a hundred yards from the house, she saw her father coming towards her. He was carrying a jug, probably going to buy ale from Peg Perkins, Annet’s mother, who was the village brewster. Pa always had money at this time of year, for there was plenty of work to be had in the fields.
At first he did not see her.
She studied his thin figure as he walked along the narrow gap between two field strips. He wore a long smock that came to his knees, a battered cap and home-made sandals tied to his feet with straw. His gait managed to be both furtive and jaunty: he always looked like a nervous foreigner defiantly pretending to be at home. His eyes were set closely either side of a big nose, and he had a wide jaw with a knob of a chin, so that his face looked like a lumpy triangle: Gwenda knew that she resembled him in that. He glanced sidelong at the women he passed in the field, as if he did not want them to know he was observing them.
As he came close, he threw her one of his sneaky looks, up from under his lowered eyelids. He looked down instantly, then looked up again. She lifted her chin and stared back at him haughtily.
Astonishment spread across his face. “You!” he said. “What happened?”
“Sim Chapman wasn’t a tinker, he was an outlaw.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s in hell, Pa. You’ll meet him there.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.” She had long ago decided to lie about this. “God killed him. The bridge at Kingsbridge collapsed while Sim was crossing it. God punished him for his sin. Has he punished you yet?”
“God forgives good Christians.”
“Is that all you have to say to me? That God forgives good Christians?”
“How did you escape?”
“I used my wits.”
A crafty look came over his face. “You’re a good girl,” he said.
She stared at him suspiciously. “What mischief are you planning now?”
“You’re a good girl,” he repeated. “Go in to your mother now. You shall have a cup of ale with your supper.” He walked on.
Gwenda frowned. Pa did not seem afraid of what Ma would say when she learned the truth. Perhaps he thought Gwenda would not tell her, out of shame. Well, he was wrong.
Cath and Joanie were outside the house, playing in the dirt. When they saw Gwenda they jumped up and ran to her. Skip barked hysterically. Gwenda hugged her sisters, remembering how she had thought she would never see them again; and at that moment she was fiercely glad she had stuck a long knife into Alwyn’s head.
She went inside. Ma was sitting on a stool, giving little Eric some milk, helping him hold the cup steady so that he did not spill any. She gave a cry of joy when she saw Gwenda. She put down the cup, stood up and embraced her. Gwenda began to weep.
Once she had started crying it was hard to stop. She cried because Sim had led her out of town on a rope, and because she had let Alwyn fuck her, and for all the people who had died when the bridge collapsed, and because Wulfric loved Annet.
When her sobs subsided enough for her to speak again, she said: “Pa sold me, Ma. He sold me for a cow, and I had to go with outlaws.”
“That was wrong,” her mother said.
“It was worse than wrong! He’s wicked, evil – he’s a devil.”
Ma withdrew from the embrace. “Don’t say such things.”
“They’re true!”
“He’s your father.”
“A father doesn’t sell his children like livestock. I have no father.”
“He’s fed you for eighteen years.”
Gwenda stared uncomprehendingly. “How can you be so hard? He sold me to outlaws!”
“And he got us a cow. So there’s milk for Eric, even though my breasts have dried up. And you’re here, aren’t you?”
Gwenda was shocked. “You’re defending him!”
“He’s all I’ve got, Gwenda. He’s not a prince. He’s not even a peasant. He’s a landless labourer. But he’s done everything he can for this family for almost twenty-five years. He worked when he could and thieved when he had to. He kept you alive, and your brother, and with a fair wind he’ll do the same for Cath and Joanie and Eric. Whatever his faults, we’d be worse off without him. So don’t you call him a devil.”
Gwenda was struck dumb. She had hardly got used to the idea that her father had betrayed her. Now she had to face the fact that her mother was as bad. She felt disoriented. It was like when the bridge had moved under her feet: she could hardly understand what was happening to her.
Her father came into the house carrying the jug of ale. He seemed not to notice the atmosphere. He took three wooden cups from the shelf over the fireplace. “Now, then,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s drink to the return of our big girl.”
Gwenda was hungry and thirsty after walking all day. She took the cup and drank deeply. But she knew her father in this mood. “What are you planning?” she said.
“Well, now,” he said. “It’s the Shiring Fair next week, isn’t it?”
“So what?”
“Well… we could do it again.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Do what again?”
“I sell you, you go with the buyer, then you escape and come home. You’re none the worse.”
“None the worse?”
“And we’ve got a cow worth twelve shillings! Why, it takes me near half a year of labouring to earn twelve shillings.”
“And after that? What then?”
“Well, there’s other fairs – Winchester, Gloucester, I don’t know how many.” He refilled her cup from the ale jug. “Why – this could be better than the year you stole Sir Gerald’s purse!”
She did not drink. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, as if she had eaten something corrupt. She thought of arguing with him. Harsh words came to her lips, angry accusations, curses – but she did not speak them. The way she felt was beyond rage. What was the point of having a row? She could never trust her father again. And, because Ma refused to be disloyal to him, Gwenda could not trust her either.
“What am I to do?” she said aloud, but she did not want an answer from anyone in the room: the question was to herself. In this family she had become a commodity, to be sold at city fairs. If she was not prepared to accept that, what could she do?
She could leave.
She realized with a shock that this house was no longer a home to her. The blow shook the foundations of her existence. She had lived here since before she could remember. Now she did not feel safe here. She had to get out.
Not next week, she realized; not even tomorrow morning – she had to go now.
She had nowhere to go, but that made no difference. To stay here, and eat the bread her father put on the table, would be to yield to his authority. She would be accepting his evaluation of her, as a commodity to be sold. She was sorry she had drunk the first cup of ale. Her only chance was to reject him immediately and get out from under his roof.
Gwenda looked at her mother. “You’re wrong,” she said. “He is a devil. And the old stories are right: when you make a bargain with the devil, you end up paying more than you thought.”
Ma looked away.
Gwenda stood up. The refilled cup was still in her hand. She tipped it, pouring the ale on the floor. Skip immediately started to lick it up.
Her father said angrily: “I paid a farthing for this jug of ale!”
“Goodbye,” said Gwenda, and she walked out.
On the following Sunday, Gwenda attended the court hearing that would decide the fate of the man she loved.
The manorial court was held in the church after the service. It was the forum in which the village took collective action. Some of the questions it addressed were disputes – arguments over field boundaries, accusations of theft or rape, quarrels about debts – but more often it made pragmatic decisions, such as when to begin ploughing with the communal eight-ox team.
In theory, the lord of the manor sat in judgement over his serfs. But Norman law – brought to England by invaders from France almost three centuries earlier – compelled lords to follow the customs of their predecessors; and, in order to find out what those customs were, they had to formally consult twelve men of good standing in the village – a jury. So, in practice, the proceedings often became a negotiation between lord and villagers.
On this particular Sunday, Wigleigh had no lord. Sir Stephen had been killed in the collapse of the bridge. Gwenda had brought this news to the village. She also reported that Earl Roland, who had the task of appointing Stephen’s replacement, had been gravely injured. On the day before she left Kingsbridge, the earl had recovered consciousness for the first time – but he had woken into a fever so violent that he was unable to speak a coherent sentence. So there was no prospect of a new lord of Wigleigh yet.
This was not an unusual circumstance. Lords were frequently away: at war, in Parliament, fighting lawsuits, or just attending on their earl or the king. Earl Roland always appointed a deputy, usually one of his sons – but, in this case, he had not been able to do so. In the absence of an overlord, the bailiff had to manage the landholding as best he could.
The job of a bailiff or reeve was, in theory, to carry out the lord’s decisions, but this inevitably gave him a degree of power over his fellows. Exactly how much power depended on the lord’s personal preference: some held tight control, others were lax. Sir Stephen had kept a loose rein, but Earl Roland was notoriously strict.
Nate Reeve had been bailiff to Sir Stephen and to Sir Henry before him, and would presumably be bailiff to whoever came next. He was a hunchback, a small, bent figure, thin and energetic. He was shrewd and greedy, careful to make the most of his limited power by demanding bribes from the villagers at every opportunity.
Gwenda disliked Nate. It was not his greed she objected to: all bailiffs had that vice. But Nate was a man twisted by resentment as much as by his physical defect. His father had been bailiff to the earl of Shiring, but Nate had not inherited that grand position, and he blamed his hump for the fact that he had ended up in the small village of Wigleigh. He seemed to hate all young, strong, handsome people. In his leisure hours he liked to drink wine with Perkin, Annet’s father – who always paid for the liquor.
The question before the court today was what to do about Wulfric’s family’s land.
It was a large holding. Peasants were not all equal, and they did not have equal lands. The standard was a virgate, which was thirty acres in this part of England. In theory a virgate was the area of land one man could farm, and normally yielded enough to feed one family. However, most Wigleigh peasants had a half-virgate, fifteen acres, or thereabouts. They were obliged to find additional means of support for their families: netting birds in the woods, trapping fish in the stream that ran through Brookfield, making belts or sandals from cheap leather offcuts, weaving cloth from yarn for Kingsbridge merchants, or poaching the king’s deer in the forest. A few had more than a virgate. Perkin had a hundred acres, and Wulfric’s father, Samuel, had had ninety. Such wealthy peasants needed help to farm their land, either from their sons and other relatives, or from hired labourers such as Gwenda’s father.
When a serf died, his land might be inherited by his widow, his sons or a married daughter. In any event, the handover had to be licensed by the lord, and a stiff tax, called a heriot, was due. In normal circumstances Samuel’s land would automatically have been inherited by his two sons, and there would have been no need for a court hearing. They would have clubbed together to pay the heriot, then either divided up the land or farmed it together, and made some arrangement for their mother. But one of Samuel’s sons had died with him, which complicated matters.
Every adult in the village attended the court, in general. Gwenda had a particular interest today. Wulfric’s future would be decided, and the fact that he planned to spend that future with another woman did not dampen Gwenda’s concern. Perhaps she should have wished him a miserable life with Annet, she sometimes thought; but she could not. She wanted him to be happy.
When the service was over, a large wooden chair and two benches were brought in from the manor house. Nate took the chair and the jurymen sat on the benches. Everyone else stood.
Wulfric spoke simply. “My father held ninety acres of the lord of Wigleigh,” he said. “Fifty acres were held by his father before him, and forty by his uncle who died ten years ago. As my mother is dead, and so is my brother, and I have no sisters, I am the sole heir.”
“How old are you?” said Nate.
“Sixteen years.”
“You can’t even call yourself a man, yet.”
It seemed Nate was going to make things difficult. Gwenda knew why. He wanted a bribe. But Wulfric had no money.
“Years aren’t everything,” Wulfric said. “I’m taller and stronger than most grown men.”
Aaron Appletree, one of the jurors, said: “David Johns inherited from his father when he was eighteen.”
Nate said: “Eighteen isn’t sixteen. I don’t recall an instance where a sixteen-year-old was allowed to inherit.”
David Johns was not a juror, and he was standing next to Gwenda. “I didn’t have no ninety acres, neither,” he said, and there was a ripple of laughter. David had a half-virgate, like most of them.
Another juror spoke. “Ninety acres is too much for one man, let alone a boy. Why, it was farmed by three until now.” The speaker was Billy Howard, a man in his middle twenties who had wooed Annet unsuccessfully – which might be why he wanted to side with Nate in putting obstacles in Wulfric’s way. “I’ve got forty acres, and I have to hire labourers at harvest time.”
Several of the men nodded agreement. Gwenda began to feel pessimistic. It was not going Wulfric’s way.
“I can get help,” Wulfric said.
Nate said: “Have you got money to pay labourers?”
Wulfric looked a bit desperate, and Gwenda’s heart went out to him. “My father’s purse was lost when the bridge collapsed, and I spent what money I had on the funeral,” he said. “But I can offer my labourers a share of the harvest.”
Nate shook his head. “Everyone in the village is already working full time on their own lands, and those who have no land are already employed. And no one is likely to give up a job that pays cash for one that offers a share of an uncertain crop.”
“I will get the harvest in,” Wulfric said with passionate determination. “I can work day and night, if I have to. I’ll prove to you all that I can handle it.”
There was so much yearning on his handsome face that Gwenda wanted to jump up and shout her support for him. But the men were shaking their heads. Everyone knew that one man could not harvest ninety acres on his own.
Nate turned to Perkin. “He’s engaged to your daughter. Can’t you do something for him?”
Perkin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you should transfer the land to me, for the time being. I could pay the heriot. Then, when he marries Annet, he could take over his land.”
“No!” Wulfric said immediately.
Gwenda knew why he was so against the idea. Perkin was nothing if not sly. He would spend every waking minute between now and the wedding trying to figure out a way of keeping Wulfric’s land for himself.
Nate said to Wulfric: “If you have no money, how will you pay the heriot?”
“I’ll have money when I get the harvest in.”
“If you get the harvest in. And then it may not be enough. Your father paid three pounds for his father’s lands and two pounds for his uncle’s.”
Gwenda gasped. Five pounds was a fortune. It seemed impossible that Wulfric could raise so much money. It would probably have taken all his family’s savings.
Nate went on: “Besides, the heriot is normally paid before the inheritor takes possession – not after the harvest.”
Aaron Appletree said: “In the circumstances, Nate, you might show leniency on that point.”
“Might I? A lord may show leniency, for he holds sway over his own possessions. But if a bailiff shows leniency, he’s giving away someone else’s gold.”
“But we will only be making a recommendation, in any case. Nothing will be final until approved by the new lord of Wigleigh, whoever he may be.”
That was true, strictly speaking, Gwenda thought; but in practice it was unlikely a new lord would overturn an inheritance from father to son.
Wulfric said: “Sir, my father’s heriot was not so much as five pounds.”
“We must check the rolls.” Nate’s response was so quick that Gwenda guessed he had been waiting for Wulfric to challenge the amount. Nate often engineered a pause of some kind in the middle of a hearing, she reflected. She presumed it was to give the parties an opportunity to offer him a bribe. Perhaps he thought Wulfric was concealing some money.
Two jurors brought from the vestry the chest containing the manorial rolls, the record of the manor court’s decisions, written on long strips of parchment rolled into cylinders. Nate could read and write – a bailiff had to be literate, in order to compile accounts for the lord. He searched through the box for the right one.
Gwenda felt that Wulfric was doing badly. His plain speaking and evident honesty were not enough. Nate wanted above all else to make sure he collected the lord’s heriot. Perkin was manoeuvring to get the land for himself. Billy Howard wanted to do Wulfric down out of sheer malice. And Wulfric had no money for a bribe.
He was also guileless. He believed that if he stated his case he would get justice. He had no sense of managing the situation.
Perhaps she could help him. A child of Joby’s could not grow up without learning something about guile.
Wulfric had not appealed to the villagers’ self-interest in his arguments. She would do so for him. She turned to David Johns, standing beside her. “I’m surprised you men aren’t more worried about this,” she said.
He gave her a shrewd look. “What are you getting at, lass?”
“Despite the sudden deaths, this is an inheritance from father to son. If you let Nate quibble about this one, he’ll question them all. He can always dream up some reason for arguing about a legacy. Aren’t you afraid he’ll interfere with your own sons’ rights?”
David looked worried. “You might have a point, there, girl,” he said, and he turned to talk to his neighbour on the other side.
Gwenda also felt it was a mistake for Wulfric to demand a final ruling today. Better to ask for a temporary judgement, which the jurymen would grant more readily. She went to speak to Wulfric. He was arguing with Perkin and Annet. When Gwenda appeared Perkin looked suspicious, and Annet put her nose in the air, but Wulfric was as courteous as ever. “Hello, my travelling companion,” he said. “I heard you left your father’s house.”
“He threatened to sell me.”
“A second time?”
“As many times as I could escape. He thinks he’s found a bottomless purse.”
“Where are you living?”
“Widow Huberts took me in. And I’ve been working for the bailiff, on the lord’s lands. A penny a day, sunrise to sunset – Nate likes his labourers to go home tired. Do you think he’ll give you what you want?”
Wulfric made a face. “He seems reluctant.”
“A woman would handle it so differently.”
He looked surprised. “How so?”
Annet glared at her, but Gwenda ignored the look. “A woman would not demand a ruling, especially when everyone knows that today’s decision isn’t final. She would not risk a No for the chance of a Maybe.”
Wulfric looked thoughtful. “What would she do?”
“She would just ask to be allowed to continue working the land, for now. She would let the binding decision wait until the new lord is appointed. She would know that in the interim everyone would get used to her being in possession, so that when the new lord showed up his approval would seem like a formality. She would gain her objective without giving people much chance to argue about it.”
Wulfric was not sure. “Well…”
“It’s not what you want, but it’s the most you can get today. And how can Nate refuse you, when he has no one else to bring in the harvest?”
Wulfric nodded. He was working out the possibilities. “People would see me reaping the crop, and become accustomed to the idea. After that, it would seem unjust to deny me the inheritance. And I’d be able to pay the heriot, or some of it.”
“You’d be a lot closer to your goal than you are now.”
“Thank you. You’re very wise.” He touched her arm, then turned back to Annet. She said something sharp to him in an undertone. Her father looked annoyed.
Gwenda turned away. Don’t tell me I’m wise, she thought. Tell me I’m… what? Beautiful? Never. The love of your life? That’s Annet. A true friend? To hell with that. So what do I want? Why am I desperate to help you?
She had no answer.
She noticed David Johns speaking emphatically to one of the jurors, Aaron Appletree.
Nate flourished the manor roll. “Wulfric’s father, Samuel, paid thirty shillings to inherit from his father, and a pound to inherit from his uncle.” A shilling was twelve pennies. There was no shilling coin, but everyone talked about shillings just the same. Twenty shillings made a pound. The sum Nate had announced was exactly half what he had originally said.
David Johns spoke up. “A man’s lands should go to his son,” he said. “We don’t want to give our new lord, whoever he may be, the impression that he can pick and choose who shall inherit.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
Wulfric stepped forward. “Bailiff, I know you can’t make a final decision today, and I’m content to wait until the new lord is appointed. All I ask is that I should be allowed to continue to work the land. I will bring in the harvest, I swear it. But nothing is lost to you if I fail. And nothing is promised to me if I succeed. When the new lord comes, I will throw myself on his mercy.”
Nate looked cornered. Gwenda felt sure he had been hoping for some way of making money out of this. Perhaps he had expected a bribe from Perkin, Wulfric’s prospective father-in-law. She watched Nate’s face as he tried to think of a way to refuse Wulfric’s more modest request. As he hesitated, one or two villagers began to mutter, and he realized he was doing himself no good by revealing his reluctance. “Very well,” he said with a show of grace that was not very convincing. “What does the jury say?”
Aaron Appletree conferred briefly with his fellow jurors, then said: “Wulfric’s request is modest and reasonable. He should occupy the lands of his father until the new lord of Wigleigh is appointed.”
Gwenda sighed with relief.
Nate said: “Thank you, jurymen.”
The court broke up and people began to head home for dinner. Most of the villagers could afford to eat meat once a week, and Sunday was the usual day they chose. Even Joby and Ethna could generally manage a stew of squirrel or hedgehog, and at this time of year there were plenty of young rabbits to be caught. Widow Huberts had a neck of mutton in a pot on the fire.
Gwenda caught Wulfric’s eye as they were leaving the church. “Well done,” she said as they strolled out together. “He couldn’t refuse you, though he seemed to want to.”
“It was your idea,” he said admiringly. “You knew exactly what I needed to say. I don’t know how to thank you.”
She resisted the temptation to tell him. They walked through the graveyard. She said: “How will you manage the harvest?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you let me come and labour for you?”
“I’ve no money.”
“I don’t care, I’ll work for food.”
He stopped at the gate, turned and gave her a candid look. “No, Gwenda. I don’t think that would be a good plan. Annet wouldn’t like it and, to be frank, she’d be right.”
Gwenda found herself blushing. There was no doubt what he meant. If he had wanted to reject her because she might be too weak, or something, there would have been no need for the direct look, nor for the mention of his fiancee’s name. He knew, she realized with mortification, that she was in love with him, and he was refusing her offer of help because he did not want to encourage her hopeless passion. “All right,” she whispered, looking down. “Whatever you say.”
He smiled warmly. “But thank you for the offer.”
She made no reply and, after a moment, he turned and walked away.
Gwenda got up while it was still dark.
She slept in the straw on the floor of Widow Huberts’s house. Somehow her sleeping mind knew the time, and woke her just before dawn. The widow, lying next to her, did not stir when Gwenda unwrapped her blanket and stood up. Finding her way by touch, she opened the back door and stepped into the yard. Skip followed her, shaking himself.
She stood still for a moment. There was a fresh breeze, as always in Wigleigh. The night was not totally black, and she could make out vague shapes: the duck house, the privy, the pear tree. She could not see the neighbouring house, which was Wulfric’s; but she heard a low growl from his dog, tethered outside the small sheepfold, and she murmured a quiet phrase so that it would recognize her voice and be reassured.
It was a peaceful time – but nowadays there were too many such moments in her day. All her life she had lived in a tiny house full of babies and children, and at any instant at least one of them was clamouring for food, crying because of a minor hurt, shouting a protest or screaming with helpless infantile rage. She would never have guessed she might miss that. But she did, living with the quiet widow, who chatted amiably enough but was equally comfortable with silence. Sometimes Gwenda longed to hear a child cry, just so that she could pick it up and comfort it.
She found the old wooden bucket and washed her hands and face, then went back inside. She located the table in the dark, opened the bread box and cut a thick slice from the week-old loaf. Then she set out, eating the bread as she walked.
The village was silent: she was the first up. Peasants worked from sunup to sundown, and at this time of year it was a long, weary day. They treasured every moment of rest. Only Gwenda also used the hour between dawn and sunrise, and the hour of twilight at the end of the day.
Dawn broke as she left the houses behind and set out across the fields. Wigleigh had three great fields: Hundredacre, Brookfield and Longfield. Different crops were grown on each in a three-year cycle. Wheat and rye, the most valuable grains, were sown in the first year; then lesser crops such as oats, barley, peas and beans in the second year; and in the third year the field was left fallow. This year, Hundredacre was in wheat and rye, Brookfield in various secondary crops, and Longfield was fallow. Each field was divided into strips of about one acre; and each serf’s land consisted of a number of strips scattered across all three fields.
Gwenda went to Hundredacre and began weeding one of Wulfric’s strips, pulling up the persistent new growth of dockweed, marigolds and dogfennel from between his stalks of wheat. She was happy working on his land, helping him, whether he knew about it or not. Every time she bent down, she was saving his back the same effort; every time she pulled a weed she made his crop greater. It was like giving him presents. As she worked she thought of him, picturing his face when he laughed, hearing his voice, the deep voice of a man yet with the eagerness of a boy. She touched the green shoots of his wheat and imagined she was stroking his hair.
She weeded until sunrise then moved to the demesne lands – those strips farmed by the lord, or his labourers – and worked for pay. Although Sir Stephen was dead, his crops still had to be reaped, and his successor would demand a strict account of what had been done with the proceeds. At sundown, having earned her daily bread, Gwenda would move to another part of Wulfric’s holding and work there until dark – longer, if there was a moon.
She had said nothing to Wulfric. But, in a village of only two hundred people, few things remained secret for long. Widow Huberts had asked her, with gentle curiosity, what she hoped to achieve. “He’s going to marry Perkin’s girl, you know – you can’t prevent that.”
“I just want him to succeed,” Gwenda had replied. “He deserves it. He’s an honest man with a good heart, and he’s willing to work until he drops. I want him to be happy, even if he does marry that bitch.”
Today the demesne workers were in Brookfield, harvesting the lord’s early peas and beans, and Wulfric was nearby, digging a drainage ditch: the land was swampy after the heavy rain of early June. Gwenda watched him working, wearing only his drawers and boots, his broad back bending over the spade. He moved as tirelessly as a millwheel. Only the sweat glistening on his skin betrayed the effort he was making. At midday Annet came to him, looking pretty with a green ribbon in her hair, carrying a jug of ale and some bread and cheese wrapped in a piece of sacking.
Nate Reeve rang a bell, and everyone stopped work and retreated to the fringe of trees at the north end of the field. Nate gave out cider, bread and onions to the demesne workers: dinner was included in their remuneration. Gwenda sat with her back against a hornbeam tree and studied Wulfric and Annet with the fascination of a condemned man watching the carpenter build the gallows.
At first, Annet was her usual flirtatious self, tilting her head, batting her eyelids, playfully striking Wulfric in mock punishment for something he said. Then she became serious, speaking to him insistently while he seemed to protest innocence. They both looked at Gwenda, and she guessed they were talking about her. She presumed Annet had found out about her working on Wulfric’s strips in the mornings and evenings. Eventually Annet left, looking petulant, and Wulfric finished his dinner in thoughtful solitude.
After eating, everyone rested for the remainder of the dinner hour. The older people lay full length on the ground and dozed while the youngsters chatted. Wulfric came to where Gwenda sat and crouched beside her. “You’ve been weeding my strips,” he said.
Gwenda was not going to apologize. “I suppose Annet scolded you.”
“She doesn’t want you working for me.”
“What would she like me to do, put the weeds back in the earth?”
He glanced around and lowered his voice, not wanting others to hear – although everyone could surely guess what he and Gwenda were saying to one another. “I know you mean well, and I’m grateful, but it’s causing trouble.”
She enjoyed being this close to him. He smelled of earth and sweat. “You need help,” she said. “And Annet isn’t much use.”
“Please don’t criticize her. In fact, don’t speak of her at all.”
“All right, but you can’t get the harvest in alone.”
He sighed. “If only the sun would shine.” Automatically, he looked up at the sky, a peasant reflex. There was thick cloud from horizon to horizon. All the grain crops were struggling in the cool, damp weather.
“Let me work for you,” Gwenda begged. “Tell Annet you need me. A man is supposed to be master of his wife, not the other way around.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
But the next day he hired a labourer.
He was a travelling man who showed up at the end of the afternoon. The villagers gathered around him in the twilight to hear his story. His name was Gram and he came from Salisbury. He said his wife and children had been killed when his house burned down. He was on his way to Kingsbridge, where he hoped to get employment, perhaps at the priory. His brother was a monk there.
Gwenda said: “I probably know him. My brother, Philemon, has worked at the priory for years. What’s your brother’s name?”
“John.” There were two monks called John but, before Gwenda could ask which was Gram’s brother, he went on: “When I started out, I had a little money to buy food along the way. Then I was robbed by outlaws, and now I’m penniless.”
There was a lot of sympathy for the man. Wulfric invited him to sleep at his house. The next day, Saturday, he started to work for Wulfric, accepting board and lodging and a share of the harvest as his remuneration.
Gram worked hard all day Saturday. Wulfric was shallow-ploughing his fallow land in Longfield to destroy thistles. It was a two-man job: Gram led the horse, whipping it on when it flagged, while Wulfric guided the plough. On Sunday they rested.
In church on Sunday, Gwenda burst into tears when she saw Cath, Joanie and Eric. She had not realized how badly she missed them. She held Eric through the service. Afterwards, her mother spoke harshly to her. “You’re breaking your heart for that Wulfric. Weeding his strips won’t make him love you. He’s cross-eyed for that worthless Annet.”
“I know,” Gwenda said. “But I want to help him anyway.”
“You should leave the village. There’s nothing for you here.”
She knew her mother was right. “I will,” she said. “I’ll leave the day after their wedding.”
Ma lowered her voice. “If you must stay, watch out for your father. He hasn’t given up hope of another twelve shillings.”
“What do you mean?” Gwenda asked.
Ma just shook her head.
“He can’t sell me now,” Gwenda said. “I’ve left his house. He doesn’t feed or shelter me. I work for the lord of Wigleigh. I’m not Pa’s to dispose of any longer.”
“Just watch out,” said Ma, and she would say no more.
Outside the church the travelling man, Gram, talked to Gwenda, asking her questions about herself, and suggested they take a stroll together after dinner. She guessed what he meant by a ‘stroll’ and turned him down flat, but later she saw him with yellow-haired Joanna, the daughter of David Johns, who was only fifteen and stupid enough to fall for the blandishments of a travelling man.
On Monday, Gwenda was weeding Wulfric’s wheat on Hundredacre in the half-light before sunrise when Wulfric came across the field towards her at a run. His face was grim with fury.
She had continued to defy his wishes, working on his lands every morning and evening, and it looked as if she had driven him too far. What would he do – beat her up? After the way she had provoked him, he could probably do violence to her with impunity – people would say she had asked for it, and she had no one to stick up for her now that she had left her parents’ home. She felt scared. She had seen Wulfric break Ralph Fitzgerald’s nose.
Then she told herself not to be foolish. Although he had been in many fights, she had never known him to strike a woman or a child. All the same, his anger made her tremble.
But it was nothing like that. As soon as he got within hailing distance he shouted: “Have you seen Gram?”
“No, why?”
He came closer and stopped, breathing hard. “How long have you been here?”
“I got up before dawn.”
Wulfric’s shoulders slumped. “Then, if he came this way, he’s out of reach by now.”
“What’s happened?”
“He’s disappeared – and so has my horse.”
That explained Wulfric’s rage. A horse was a valuable asset – only wealthy peasants such as his father could afford one. Gwenda recalled how quickly Gram had changed the subject when she said she might know his brother. He did not have a brother at the priory, of course, nor had he lost his wife and child in a fire. He was a liar who had wormed his way into the confidence of the villagers with the intention of stealing. “What fools we were to listen to his story,” she said.
“And I the biggest fool of all, to take him into my house,” Wulfric said bitterly. “He stayed just long enough for the animals to get to know him, so that the horse was willing to go with him, and the dog didn’t bark when he left.”
Gwenda’s heart ached for Wulfric, losing the horse at a time when he needed it most. “I don’t think he came this way,” she said thoughtfully. “He can’t have left before me – the night was too dark. And if he had followed me I would have seen him.” There was only one road into and out of the village, and it dead-ended at the manor house. But there were numerous pathways across the fields. “He probably took the lane between Brookfield and Longfield – it’s the quickest way into the forest.”
“The horse can’t move very fast in the woods. I might catch him yet.” Wulfric turned and ran back the way he had come.
“Good luck,” Gwenda called after him, and he waved acknowledgement without turning his head.
However, he did not have good luck.
Late that afternoon, as Gwenda was carrying a sack of peas from Brookfield to the lord’s barn, she walked past Longfield and saw Wulfric again. He was digging over his fallow land with a spade. Obviously he had not caught up with Gram, nor retrieved his horse.
She put down the sack and crossed the field to speak to him. “You can’t do this,” she said. “You’ve got thirty acres here, and you’ve ploughed, what, ten? No man can dig over twenty acres.”
He did not meet her eye. He carried on digging, his face set. “I can’t plough,” he said. “I’ve no horse.”
“Put yourself in harness,” she said. “You’re strong, and it’s a light plough – you’re only killing thistles.”
“I’ve no one to guide the plough.”
“Yes, you have.”
He stared at her.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
He shook his head.
She said: “You’ve lost your family, and now you’ve lost your horse. You can’t manage on your own. You have no choice. You have to let me help you.”
He looked away, across the fields, towards the village, and she knew he was thinking about Annet.
“I’ll be ready first thing tomorrow morning,” Gwenda said.
His gaze returned to her. His face worked with emotion. He was torn between love of the land and a desire to please Annet.
“I’ll knock on your door,” Gwenda said. “We’ll plough the rest together.” She turned and walked away, then stopped and looked back.
He did not say Yes.
But he did not say No.
They ploughed for two days, then made hay, then picked spring vegetables.
Now that Gwenda was no longer earning money to pay Widow Huberts for bed and board, she needed somewhere else to sleep, so she moved into Wulfric’s cowshed. She explained the reason, and he made no objection.
After the first day, Annet ceased to bring Wulfric’s dinner at midday, so Gwenda would prepare food for them both from his cupboard: bread, ale in a jug, boiled eggs or cold bacon, and spring onions or beets. Once again, Wulfric accepted the change without comment.
She still had the love potion. The little pottery vial was in a tiny leather bag attached to a thong around her neck. It hung between her breasts, hidden from view. She could have dosed his ale at any dinner time, but she would not be able to take advantage of its effects out in the fields in the middle of the day.
Every evening he went to Perkin’s house and had supper with Annet and her family, so Gwenda sat alone in his kitchen. When he returned he often looked grim, but he said nothing to Gwenda, so she assumed he must have overruled Annet’s objections. He went to bed without taking anything more to eat or drink, so she was not able to use the potion.
On the Saturday after Gram ran off, Gwenda made herself a supper of greens boiled with salt pork. Wulfric’s house was stocked with food for four adults, so there was plenty to eat. The evenings were cool, even though it was now July, and after she had eaten she put another log on the kitchen fire and sat watching it catch alight, thinking of the simple, predictable life she had led until a few short weeks ago, marvelling at how that life had collapsed as completely as the bridge at Kingsbridge.
When the door opened, she thought it was Wulfric coming home. She always retired to the cowshed when he came back, but she enjoyed the few friendly words they exchanged before going to bed. She looked up eagerly, expecting to see his handsome face; but she suffered an unpleasant shock.
It was not Wulfric, but her father.
With him was a rough-looking stranger.
She leaped to her feet, full of fear. “What do you want?”
Skip gave a hostile bark, but retreated from Joby in fear.
Joby said: “Now, then, my little girl, no need to be afraid, I’m your pa.”
She recalled, with dismay, her mother’s vague warning in church. “Who is he?” she said, pointing at the stranger.
“This here is Jonah from Abingdon, a dealer in hides.”
Jonah might once have been a merchant, Gwenda thought grimly, and he might even come from Abingdon, but his boots were worn, his clothes were filthy, and his matted hair and straggly beard showed that he had not visited a city barber for some years.
Showing more courage than she felt, Gwenda said: “Get away from me.”
“I told you she was feisty,” Joby said to Jonah. “But she’s a good girl, and strong.”
Jonah spoke for the first time. “Not to worry,” he said. He licked his lips as he studied Gwenda, and she wished she were wearing more than her light wool dress. “I’ve broken in a few fillies in my time,” he added.
Gwenda had no doubt that her father had carried out his threat and sold her again. She had thought that leaving his house would make her safe. Surely the villagers would not permit the abduction of a labourer employed by one of their number? But it was dark, now, and she might be far away before anyone realized what had happened.
There was no one to help her.
All the same, she was not going without a fight.
She looked around desperately, searching for a weapon. The log she had put on a few minutes ago was blazing at one end, but it was about eighteen inches long, and the other end stuck out invitingly. She bent quickly and snatched it up.
“Now, then, no need for that sort of thing,” said Joby. “You don’t want to hurt your old pa, do you?” He stepped closer.
A rush of rage overwhelmed her. How dare he speak of himself as her old pa when he was trying to sell her? Suddenly she did want to hurt him. She leaped at him, screaming with rage, thrusting the burning log at his face.
He jumped back, but she kept coming, mad with fury. Skip yapped frantically. Joby lifted his arms to protect himself, trying to knock the brand away, but she was strong, too. His flailing arms failed to stop her rush, and she pushed the red-hot end of the log into his face. He screamed in pain as it scorched his cheek. His dirty beard caught fire, and there was a sickening smell of roasting flesh.
Then Gwenda was grabbed from behind. Jonah’s arms encircled her, pinning her own arms to her side. She dropped the burning log. Plames leaped up immediately from the straw on the floor. Skip, terrified of fire, ran out of the house. Gwenda struggled, wriggling in Jonah’s grasp, throwing herself from side to side, but he was surprisingly strong. He lifted her off her feet.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway. Gwenda saw only the shape, then it disappeared again. Gwenda felt herself thrown to the ground. For a moment she was stunned. When she came to her senses, Jonah was kneeling on her, tying her hands with a rope.
The tall figure reappeared, and Gwenda recognized Wulfric. This time he was carrying a big oak bucket. Swiftly, he emptied the bucket on to the burning straw, putting out the flames. Then he changed his grip, swung the bucket and hit the kneeling Jonah a mighty blow on top of the head.
Jonah’s grip on Gwenda relaxed. She pulled her wrists apart and felt the rope loosen. Wulfric swung the bucket and hit Jonah a second time, even harder. Jonah’s eyes closed and he slumped to the floor.
Joby put out the flames of his burning beard by pressing his sleeve against it, then sank to his knees, moaning in agony.
Wulfric picked up the unconscious Jonah by his tunic front. “Who on earth is this?”
“His name is Jonah. My father wanted to sell me to him.”
Wulfric lifted the man by the belt, carried him to the front door, and threw him out into the road.
Joby groaned. “Help me, my face is burned.”
“Help you?” said Wulfric. “You’ve set fire to my house and attacked my labourer, and you want me to help you? Get out!”
Joby got to his feet, moaning piteously, and staggered to the front door. Gwenda searched her heart and found no compassion. What little love she might have had left for him had been destroyed tonight. As he went out through the door, she hoped he would never speak to her again.
Perkin came to the back door, carrying a rush light. “What happened?” he said. “I thought I heard a scream.” Gwenda saw Annet hovering behind him.
Wulfric answered the question. “Joby came here with another ruffian. They tried to take Gwenda away.”
Perkin grunted. “You seem to have dealt with the problem.”
“Without difficulty.” Wulfric realized he still had the bucket in his hand and he put it down.
Annet said: “Are you hurt?”
“Not in the least.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I just want to go to sleep.”
Perkin and Annet took the hint and went away. No one else seemed to have heard the commotion. Wulfric closed the doors.
He looked at Gwenda in the firelight. “How do you feel?”
“Shaky.” She sat on the bench and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table.
He went to the cupboard. “Drink a little wine to steady yourself.” He took out a small barrel, put it on the table and got two cups off the shelf.
Gwenda was suddenly alert. Could this be her chance? She tried to pull herself together. She would have to act quickly.
Wulfric poured wine into the cups, then returned the barrel to the cupboard.
Gwenda had only a second or two. While his back was turned, she reached into her bosom and pulled out the bag that hung around her neck on its leather thong. She fumbled the vial from the bag. With a trembling hand she unstoppered it and emptied it into his cup.
He turned around as she was pushing the bag back into her neckline. She patted herself as if she had merely been straightening her clothing. Typical man, he noticed nothing amiss, and sat opposite her at the table.
She picked up her cup and raised it in a toast. “You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Your hand is shaking,” he said. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”
They both drank.
Gwenda wondered how long the potion would take to have its effect.
Wulfric said: “You saved me, by helping me in the fields. Thank you.”
They drank again.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Gwenda said. “To have a father like mine, or to be like you and have no father at all.”
“I feel sorry for you,” Wulfric said thoughtfully. “At least I have good memories of my parents.” He emptied his cup. “I don’t usually drink wine – I don’t like that woozy feeling – but this is great.”
She watched him carefully. Mattie Wise had said that he would become amorous. Gwenda looked for the signs. Sure enough, he soon began to stare as if seeing her for the first time. After a while he said: “You know, you’ve got such a nice face. There’s a lot of kindness in it.”
Now she was supposed to use her feminine wiles to seduce him. But, she realized with a panicky feeling, she had had no practice at this. Women such as Annet did it all the time. However, when she thought of the things Annet did – smilingly coyly, touching her hair, fluttering her eyelashes – she could not bring herself even to try. She would just feel stupid.
“You’re kind,” she said, talking to gain time. “But your face shows something else.”
“What?”
“Strength. The kind that comes, not from big muscles, but from determination.”
“I feel strong tonight.” He grinned. “You said no man could dig over twenty acres – but I feel as if I could, right now.”
She put her hand over his on the table. “Enjoy your rest,” she said. “There’s plenty of time for digging.”
He looked at her small hand on his large one. “We’ve got different colour skin,” he said, as if discovering an amazing fact. “Look: yours is brown, mine’s pink.”
“Different skin, different hair, different eyes. I wonder what our babies would be like?”
He smiled at the thought. Then his expression changed as he realized something was wrong with what she had said. Abruptly, his face became grave. The change might have been comical if she had not cared so much about his feelings for her. He said solemnly: “We’re not going to have babies.” He took his hand away.
“Let’s not think about that,” she said desperately.
“Don’t you sometimes wish…” He tailed off.
“What?”
“Don’t you sometimes wish the world could be different from the way it is?”
She got up, walked around the table and sat close to him. “Don’t wish,” she said. “We’re alone, and it’s night. You can do anything you want.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Anything.”
He stared back at her. She saw the yearning in his face, and realized with a thrill of triumph that he desired her. It had required a potion to bring it out, but it was unmistakably genuine. Right now he wanted nothing in the world other than to make love to her.
Still he made no move.
She took his hand. He did not resist as she drew it to her lips. She held the big, rough fingers, then pressed the palm to her mouth. She kissed it, then licked it with the tip of her tongue. Then she pressed his hand to one breast.
His hand closed over it, making it seem very small. His mouth opened a fraction, and she could see that he was breathing hard. She tilted her head back, ready to be kissed, but he did nothing.
She stood up and quickly pulled her dress up over her head and threw it to the floor. She stood naked in front of him in the firelight. He gazed at her, eyes wide, mouth open, as if he were witnessing a miracle.
She took his hand again. This time, she touched it to the soft place between her thighs. It covered the triangle of hair there. She was so wet that his finger slipped inside her, and she gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.
But he did nothing of his own volition, and she understood that he was paralysed by indecision. He wanted her, but he had not forgotten Annet. Gwenda could move him like a puppet all night, perhaps even have sex with his inert body, but that would change nothing. She needed him to take the initiative.
She leaned forward, still holding his hand against her groin. “Kiss me,” she said. She moved her face closer to his. “Please,” she said. She was an inch away from his mouth. She would not get nearer: he had to close the gap.
Suddenly, he moved.
He withdrew his hand, turned away from her and stood up. “This is wrong,” he said.
And she knew that she had lost.
Tears came to her eyes. She picked up her dress from the floor and held it in front of her, covering her nakedness.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done any of those things. I Misled you. I’ve been cruel.”
No, you haven’t, she thought. I’ve been cruel. I’ve misled you. But you were too strong. You’re too loyal, too faithful. You’re too good for me.
But she said nothing.
He kept his gaze steadfastly away from her. “You must go to the cowshed,” he said. “Go to sleep. We’ll feel differently in the morning. It might be all right then.”
She ran out through the back door, not bothering to get dressed. It was moonlight, but there was no one to see her, and she would not have cared anyway. She was inside the cowshed in seconds.
At one end of the wooden building was a raised loft where clean straw was kept. That was where she made her bed each night. She climbed the ladder and threw herself down, too miserable to care about the sharp prickle of straw on her bare skin. She wept with disappointment and shame.
When eventually she calmed down, she stood up and put her dress on, then wrapped a blanket around her. As she did so, she thought she heard a step outside. She looked through a gap in the rough wattle-and-daub of the wall.
The moon was almost full, and she could see clearly. Wulfric was outside. He walked towards the door of the cowshed. Gwenda’s heart leaped. Perhaps it was not all over yet. But he hesitated at the door, then walked away. He returned to the house, turned at the kitchen door, came back to the cowshed and turned again.
She watched him pace up and down, her heart thudding, but she did not move. She had done all she could to encourage him. He had to take the last step himself.
He stopped at the kitchen door. His body was profiled by the moonlight, a silver line running from his forelock to his boots. She saw clearly as he reached into his drawers. She knew what he was going to do: she had seen her older brother do the same thing. She heard Wulfric groan as he began to rub himself with the motion that caricatured lovemaking. She stared at him, beautiful in the moonlight, wasting his desire, and she felt as if her heart would break.
Godwyn moved against Blind Carlus on the Sunday before the birthday of St Adolphus.
On that Sunday every year, a special service was held in Kingsbridge Cathedral. The bones of the saint were carried around the church by the prior, followed by the monks in procession; and they prayed for good harvest weather.
As always, it was Godwyn’s job to prepare the church for the service – placing candles, getting incense ready and moving furniture – helped by novices and employees such as Philemon. The Feast of St Adolphus required a secondary altar, an elaborately carved wooden table set on a platform that could be moved about the church as required. Godwyn placed this altar on the eastern edge of the crossing and put on it a pair of silver-gilt candlesticks. As he did so he anxiously mulled over his position.
Now that he had persuaded Thomas to stand for election as prior, his next step was to eliminate the opposition. Carlus ought to be an easy target – but in a way that was a disadvantage, for Godwyn did not want to appear callous.
He placed in the centre of the altar a reliquary cross, a bejewelled gold crucifix with a core of wood from the True Cross. This, the actual timber upon which Christ was killed, had been miraculously found a thousand years ago by Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, and pieces of it had found their way to churches all over Europe.
As Godwyn was arranging the ornaments on the altar he saw Mother Cecilia nearby, and broke off from his work to speak to her. “I understand that Earl Roland has recovered his mind,” he said. “Praise God.”
“Amen,” she said. “The fever was on him so long that we feared for his life. Some evil humour must have entered his brain after his skull was fractured. Nothing he said made sense. Then, this morning, he woke up and spoke normally.”
“You cured him.”
“God cured him.”
“Still, he should be grateful to you.”
She smiled. “You’re young, Brother Godwyn. You’ll learn that men of power never show gratitude. Whatever we give them, they accept as their right.”
Her condescension annoyed Godwyn, but he concealed his irritation. “At any rate, we can now hold the election for prior, at last.”
“Who will win?”
“Ten monks have promised firmly to vote for Carlus, and only seven for Thomas. With the candidates’ own votes, that makes the score eleven to eight, with six uncommitted.”
“So it could go either way.”
“But Carlus is in the lead. Thomas could do with your support, Mother Cecilia.”
“I don’t have a vote.”
“But you have influence. If you were to say that the monastery needs stricter control and a measure of reform, and you felt Thomas was more likely to deliver such a programme, it would sway some of the waverers.”
“I ought not to take sides.”
“Perhaps not, but you could say that you will not continue to subsidize the monks unless they manage their money better. What could be wrong with that?”
Her bright eyes glittered with amusement: she was not so easily persuaded. “That would be a coded message of support for Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“I am strictly neutral. I will happily work with whomever the monks choose. And that’s my last word, brother.”
He bowed his head deferentially. “I respect your decision, of course.”
She nodded and moved away.
Godwyn was pleased. He had never expected her to endorse Thomas. She was conservative. Everyone assumed she favoured Carlus. But Godwyn could now spread the word that she would be content with either candidate. In effect, he had undermined her implicit support for Carlus. She might even be cross when she heard what use he was making of her words, but she would not withdraw her statement of neutrality.
I am so clever, he thought; I really deserve to be prior.
Neutralizing Cecilia was helpful, but it would not be enough to crush Carlus. Godwyn needed to give the monks a vivid demonstration of how incompetent Carlus was to lead them. He was hoping anxiously for such an opportunity today.
Carlus and Simeon were in the church now, rehearsing the service. Carlus was the acting prior, so he had to lead the procession, carrying the ivory-and-gold reliquary that contained the bones of the saint. Simeon, the treasurer and Carlus’s crony, was walking him through it, and Godwyn could see Carlus counting his paces, so that he would be able to do it on his own. The congregation was impressed when Carlus moved around confidently despite his blindness: it seemed like a minor miracle.
The procession always began at the east end of the church, where the relics were stored under the high altar. The prior would unlock the cupboard and remove the reliquary. He would carry it along the north aisle of the chancel, around the north transept, down the north aisle of the nave, across the west end, and back up the centre of the nave and into the crossing. There he would climb two steps to place it on the second altar that Godwyn had put in position ready. The holy relics would remain there, for the congregation to stare at, throughout the service.
Looking around the church, Godwyn’s eye fell on the repairs in the south aisle of the chancel, and he stepped closer to see how they were coming along. Merthin was no longer involved, having been sacked by Elfric, but his startlingly simple method was still being operated. Instead of expensive wooden formwork supporting the new masonry while the mortar set, each stone was held in place by a simple rope, draped over the long edge of the stone and weighted with a rock. The system could not be used to build the ribs of the vault, which were composed of long, slender stones laid end to end, so formwork had to be made for those elements; but, all the same, Merthin had saved the priory a small fortune in carpentry.
Godwyn recognized Merthin’s genius, but still felt uneasy with him, and preferred to work with Elfric. Elfric could be trusted always to be a willing tool, never to make trouble; whereas Merthin was all too likely to walk his own road.
Carlus and Simeon left. The church was ready for the service. Godwyn sent away the men who had been helping him, all but Philemon, who was sweeping the floor of the crossing.
For a moment, the great cathedral was empty but for the two of them.
This was Godwyn’s chance. The plan he had half formulated now appeared complete in his mind. He hesitated, for it was dreadfully risky. But he decided to gamble.
He beckoned to Philemon. “Now,” he said. “Quickly – move the platform forward a yard.”
Much of the time, the cathedral was no more than a place of work to Godwyn. It was a space to be used, a building to be repaired, a source of income and at the same time a financial burden. But, on an occasion such as this, its majesty was renewed. The candle flames flickered, their reflections glinting on the gold of the candlesticks; the robed monks and nuns glided between the ancient stone pillars; and the voices of the choir soared to the high vault. No wonder the crowd of hundreds of townspeople were hushed as they stood watching.
Carlus led the procession. As the monks and nuns sang, he opened the compartment under the high altar – working by touch – and took out the ivory-and-gold reliquary. Holding it high, he began to process around the church. He was the picture of a holy innocent, with his white beard and unseeing eyes.
Would he fall into Godwyn’s trap? It was so simple – it seemed too easy. Godwyn, following a few paces behind Carlus, bit his lip and tried to remain calm.
The congregation was awestruck. Godwyn never failed to marvel at how willing they were to be manipulated. They could not see the bones and, if they had, they could not have distinguished them from any other human remains. But, because of the costly extravagance of the box, the eerie beauty of the singing, the uniform robes of the monks and nuns, and the towering architecture that dwarfed them all, they felt the presence of something holy.
Godwyn watched Carlus carefully. As he reached the precise midpoint of the westernmost bay of the north aisle, he turned sharply left. Simeon stood ready to correct him if he misjudged, but it was not necessary. Good: the more confident Carlus was, the more likely he was to stumble at the crucial moment.
Counting his paces, Carlus marched to the exact centre of the nave then turned again, heading straight for the altar. On cue, the singing stopped, and the procession carried on in a reverent hush.
It must be a bit like finding your way to the latrine in the middle of the night, Godwyn thought. Carlus had followed this route several times a year for most of his life. He was now doing it as leader of the procession, which must make him tense; but he appeared calm, only the slight movement of his lips betraying the fact that he was counting. But Godwyn had ensured that his count would be wrong. Would he make a fool of himself? Or would he somehow recover?
The congregation fell back fearfully as the sacred bones went by. Touching the casket could work miracles, they knew, but they also believed that any disrespect shown to the relics would have disastrous consequences. The spirits of the dead were ever present, watching over their remains while they waited for the day of judgement; and those who had led holy lives enjoyed almost unlimited powers to reward or punish the living.
The thought crossed Godwyn’s mind that St Adolphus might be displeased with him for what was about to happen in Kingsbridge Cathedral. He shivered with momentary terror. Then he reassured himself that he was acting for the good of the priory that housed the sacred bones, and that the all-wise saint, who could see into men’s hearts, would understand that this was for the best.
Carlus slowed as he approached the altar, but his paces were the same measured length. Godwyn stopped breathing. Carlus seemed to hesitate as he took the step that should, by his own calculations, bring him just short of the platform on which the altar stood. Godwyn watched helplessly, dreading some last-moment change of routine.
Then, confidently, Carlus walked on.
His foot struck the edge of the platform a yard sooner than expected. In the silence, the sound of his sandal on the hollow wood resounded loudly. He let out a cry of shock and fear. His momentum carried him forward.
Godwyn’s heart was lifted by a surge of triumph – but it lasted only an instant, then disaster struck.
Simeon reached out to grab Carlus’s arm, but he was too late. The casket flew from Carlus’s hands. The congregation gave a collective gasp of horror. The precious box hit the stone floor and burst open, scattering the bones of the saint. Carlus crashed into the heavy carved-wood altar, pushing it back off the platform, sending its ornaments and candles tumbling to the floor.
Godwyn was horrified. This was much worse than he had intended.
The skull of the saint rolled across the floor and came to rest at Godwyn’s feet.
His plan had worked – but too well. He had wanted Carlus to fall, and appear helpless, but he had not intended the holy remains to be desecrated. He stared, horrified, at the skull on the ground, and its empty eyes seemed to look back at him accusingly. What dreadful punishment would befall him?
Could he ever make restitution for such a crime?
Because he had been expecting an incident, he was slightly less shocked than everyone else, and he regained his composure first. Standing over the bones, he raised both arms in the air and shouted over the hubbub: “Everyone – on your knees! We must pray!”
Those at the front knelt down, and the rest quickly followed suit. Godwyn began a familiar prayer, and the monks and nuns joined in. As the chanting filled the church, he righted the reliquary, which seemed undamaged. Then, moving with theatrical slowness, he picked up the skull in both hands. He was shaking with superstitious dread, but he managed to hold it. Speaking the Latin words of the prayer, he carried the skull to the casket and placed it inside.
He saw that Carlus was struggling to his feet. He pointed at two nuns. “Help the sub-prior to the hospital,” he said. “Brother Simeon, Mother Cecilia, will you go with him?”
He picked up another bone. He was frightened, knowing that he more than Carlus was to blame for what had happened; but his intentions had been pure, and he still hoped to mollify the saint. At the same time, he was aware that his actions must look good in the eyes of everyone present: he was taking charge in a crisis, like a true leader.
However, this moment of awe and horror could not be allowed to last too long. He needed to gather up the bones more quickly. “Brother Thomas,” he said. “Brother Theodoric. Come and help me.” Philemon stepped forward, but Godwyn waved him back: he was not a monk, and only men of God should touch the bones.
Carlus limped out of the church, helped by Simeon and Cecilia, leaving Godwyn the undisputed master of the occasion.
Godwyn beckoned Philemon and another employee, Otho, and told them to right the altar. They set it straight on the platform. Otho picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the jewelled crucifix. They placed them reverently on the altar then retrieved the scattered candles.
All the bones were picked up. Godwyn tried to close the lid of the reliquary, but it had buckled and did not quite fit. Making the best of it, he ceremoniously placed the casket on the altar.
Godwyn remembered, just in time, that he was seeking to show Thomas, not himself, in the light of leader of the priory – for the present. He picked up the book Simeon had been carrying and handed it to Thomas. Thomas did not need to be told what to do. He opened the book, found the correct page and read the verse. The monks and nuns formed lines either side of the altar, then Thomas led them in singing the psalm.
Somehow, they got through the service.
Godwyn began to tremble again as soon as he got out of the church. It had been a near-disaster, but he seemed to have got away with it.
The monks burst into excited chatter as the procession reached the cloisters and broke up. Godwyn leaned against a pillar, struggling to regain his composure. He listened to the comments of the monks. Some felt the desecration of the relics was a sign that God did not want Carlus to be prior – the reaction Godwyn had intended. But, to his dismay, most expressed compassion for Carlus. That was not what Godwyn wanted. He realized he might have given Carlus the benefit of a sympathetic backlash.
He pulled himself together and hurried to the hospital. He needed to get to Carlus while the man was still demoralized, and before he got wind of the monks’ understanding.
The sub-prior was sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head. He was pale and looked shaken, and every few moments his face would twitch nervously. Simeon was sitting beside him.
Simeon gave Godwyn a filthy look. “I suppose you’re pleased,” he said.
Godwyn ignored him. “Brother Carlus, you’ll be glad to know that the relics of the saint have been restored to their usual place with hymns and prayers. The saint will surely forgive us all for this tragic accident.”
Carlus shook his head. “There are no accidents,” he said. “Everything is ordained by God.”
Godwyn’s hopes lifted. This was promising.
Simeon’s thoughts followed the same lines, and he tried to restrain Carlus. “Don’t say anything hasty, brother.”
“It’s a sign,” Carlus said. “God is telling us he does not want me to be prior.”
This was what Godwyn had been hoping for.
Simeon said: “Nonsense.” He picked up a cup from a table beside the bed. Godwyn guessed it contained warm wine and honey, Mother Cecilia’s prescription for most ills. Simeon put the cup into Carlus’s hand. “Drink.”
Carlus drank, but he was not to be diverted from his theme. “It would be a sin to ignore such a portent.”
“Portents are not so easily interpreted,” Simeon protested.
“Perhaps not. But even if you’re right, will the brothers vote for a prior who can’t carry the relics of the saint without falling over?”
Godwyn said: “Some of them might, in fact, be drawn to you in commiseration, rather than repelled.”
Simeon shot him a puzzled look, wondering what he was up to.
Simeon was right to be suspicious. Godwyn was playing devil’s advocate because he wanted more than vague expressions of doubt from Carlus. Could he possibly extract a definite withdrawal?
As he hoped, Carlus argued with him. “A man should be made prior because the brothers respect him and believe he can lead them wisely – not out of pity.” He spoke with the bitter conviction of a lifetime of disability.
“I suppose that’s true,” Godwyn said with feigned reluctance, as if the admission had been wrung from him against his will. Taking a risk, he added: “But perhaps Simeon is right, and you should postpone any final decision until you feel more yourself.”
“I’m as well as I’m ever going to be,” Carlus retorted, refusing to admit to weakness in front of young Godwyn. “Nothing is going to change. I’ll feel tomorrow the way I feel today. I will not stand for election as prior.”
Those were the words Godwyn had been waiting for. He stood up abruptly and bowed his head as if in acknowledgement, hiding his face for fear he might reveal his sense of triumph. “You are as clear as always, Brother Carlus,” he said. “I will convey your wishes to the rest of the monks.”
Simeon opened his mouth to protest, but he was forestalled by Mother Cecilia, coming into the room from the stairwell. She looked flustered. “Earl Roland is demanding to see the sub-prior,” she said. “He’s threatening to get out of bed, but he must not move, for his skull may not yet be fully healed. But Brother Carlus should not move either.”
Godwyn looked at Simeon. “We’ll go,” he said.
They went together up the stairs.
Godwyn was feeling good. Carlus did not even know that he had been routed. Of his own accord, he had withdrawn himself from the contest, leaving only Thomas. And Godwyn could eliminate Thomas any time he liked.
The plan had been astonishingly successful – so far.
Earl Roland was lying on his back, and his head was thickly bandaged, but all the same he managed to look like a man in power. The barber must have visited him, for his face was shaved and his black hair – as much of it as was not covered by the bandage – had been neatly trimmed. He wore a short purple tunic and new hose, the two legs fashionably dyed different colours, one red and one yellow. Despite lying in bed he wore a belt with a dagger and short leather boots. His elder son, William, and William’s wife, Philippa, stood by the bed. His young secretary, Father Jerome, in priestly robes, sat at a nearby writing desk with pens and sealing wax ready.
The message was clear: the earl was back in charge.
“Is the sub-prior there?” he said in a clear, strong voice.
Godwyn was quicker-thinking than Simeon, and he replied first. “Sub-prior Carlus has suffered a fall and is himself lying here in this hospital, lord,” he said. “I am the sacrist, Godwyn, and with me is the treasurer, Simeon. We thank God for your miraculous recovery, for He guided the hands of the physician-monks who have been attending you.”
“It was the barber who mended my broken head,” said Roland. “Thank him.”
Because the earl was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Godwyn could not see his face well; but he had the impression that the earl’s expression was curiously blank, and he wondered whether the injury had done some permanent damage. He said: “Do you have everything you need to make you comfortable?”
“If I don’t, you’ll soon know. Now, listen. My niece, Margery, is to marry Monmouth’s younger son, Roger. I presume you know this.”
“Yes.” Godwyn had a sudden flash of memory: Margery lying on her back in this very room, her white legs in the air, fornicating with her cousin Richard, the bishop of Kingsbridge.
“The wedding has been unduly delayed by my injuries.”
That was not true, Godwyn reflected. The collapse of the bridge had taken place only a month ago. The truth was probably that the earl needed to prove that the injury had not diminished him, and he was still a power worthy of an alliance with the earl of Monmouth.
Roland went on: “The wedding will take place in Kingsbridge Cathedral three weeks from today.”
Strictly speaking the earl should have made a request, not issued a command, and an elected prior might have bristled at his high-handedness; but, of course, there was no prior. Anyway, Godwyn could think of no reason why Roland should not have his wish. “Very well, my lord,” he said. “I will make the necessary preparations.”
“I want the new prior installed in time for the service,” Roland went on.
Simeon grunted in surprise.
Godwyn quickly calculated that haste would suit his plans remarkably well. “Very good,” he replied. “There were two candidates, but today sub-prior Carlus withdrew his name, leaving only Brother Thomas, the matricularius. We can hold the election as soon as you like.” He could hardly believe his luck.
Simeon knew he was looking defeat in the face. “Wait a minute,” he said.
But Roland was not listening. “I don’t want Thomas,” he said.
Godwyn had not been expecting that.
Simeon grinned, pleased at this last-minute reprieve.
Shocked, Godwyn said: “But, my lord-”
Roland did not permit him to interrupt. “Summon my nephew, Saul Whitehead, from St-John-in-the-Forest,” he said.
Godwyn’s heart filled with foreboding. Saul was his contemporary. As novices, they had been friends. They had gone to Oxford together – but there they had grown apart, Saul becoming more devout and Godwyn more worldly. Saul was now the competent prior of the remote cell of St John. He took very seriously the monastic virtue of humility, and he would never have put forward his own name. But he was bright, devout, and liked by everyone.
“Get him here as soon as possible,” said Roland. “I shall nominate him as the next prior of Kingsbridge.”
Merthin sat on the roof of St Mark’s church, at the north end of Kingsbridge. From here he could see the whole town. To the south-east, a bend in the river cradled the priory in the crook of its elbow. A quarter of the town was taken up by the priory buildings and the grounds around them – cemetery, market place, orchard and vegetable garden – with the cathedral rising from its surroundings like an oak in a field of nettles. He could see priory employees picking vegetables in the garden, mucking out a stable and unloading barrels from a cart.
The centre of town was the wealthy neighbourhood, especially the main street, climbing the slope from the river as the first monks must have climbed it hundreds of years ago. Several wealthy merchants, identifiable by the glowing colours of their fine wool coats, walked purposefully along the street: merchants were always busy. Another wide thoroughfare, the high street, ran west to east through the middle of the town, bisecting the main street at right angles near the north-west corner of the priory. On the same corner he could see the broad roof of the guild hall, the largest building in town outside the priory.
On the main street next to the Bell were the priory gates, with Caris’s house opposite, taller than most of the other buildings. Outside the Bell Merthin could see a crowd gathered around Friar Murdo. The friar, who did not seem to be attached to any particular fraternal order, had stayed in Kingsbridge after the bridge collapse. Shocked and bereaved people were particularly susceptible to his emotional roadside sermons, and he was raking in the silver halfpennies and farthings. Merthin thought he was a fraud, his holy anger faked and his tears a cover for cynicism and greed – but Merthin was in a minority.
At the bottom of the main street, the stumps of the bridge still stuck up out of the water, and next to them Merthin’s ferry was crossing the water bearing a cart loaded with tree trunks. To the south-west was the industrial sector, where large houses on broad plots encompassed abattoirs, tanneries, breweries, bakeries and workshops of all kinds – too smelly and dirty for the town’s leading citizens, but nevertheless a district where plenty of money was made. The river widened there, dividing into two channels either side of Leper Island. Merthin could see Ian Boatman rowing his small craft to the island, his passenger a monk, probably carrying food to the one remaining leper. The south bank of the river was lined with wharves and warehouses, and rafts and barges were being unloaded at several of them. Beyond was the suburb of Newtown, where rows of poor houses ran between orchards, pastures and gardens in which priory employees produced food for the monks and nuns.
The north end of town, where St Mark’s stood, was the poor quarter, and the church was surrounded by the huddled homes of labourers, widows, the unsuccessful and the old. It was a poor church – luckily for Merthin.
Four weeks ago, a desperate Father Joffroi had hired Merthin to build a hoist and repair his roof. Caris had persuaded Edmund to lend Merthin the money to buy tools. Merthin had hired a fourteen-year-old boy, Jimmie, to labour for a halfpenny a day. And today the hoist was finished.
Somehow, word had got around that Merthin was about to try out a new machine. Everyone had been impressed by his ferry, and people were fascinated to see what he had come up with now. Down in the graveyard a small crowd had gathered, mostly idlers but including Father Joffroi, Edmund and Caris, and some of the town’s builders, notably Elfric. If Merthin failed today, he would fail in front of his friends and enemies.
That was not the worst of it. This job had saved him from the need to leave town in search of work. But such a fate still hung over him. If the hoist went wrong, people would conclude that hiring Merthin brought bad luck. They would say that the spirits did not want him in town. He would be under greater pressure to leave. He would have to say goodbye to Kingsbridge – and to Caris.
Over the last four weeks, as he had shaped the wood and joined the pieces of his hoist, he had for the first time seriously thought about losing her; and it dismayed him. He had realized that she was all the joy in his world. If the weather was fine, he wanted to walk in the sunshine with her; if he saw something beautiful, he wanted to show it to her; if he heard something funny, his first thought was to tell her, and see her smile. His work gave him pleasure, especially when he came up with clever solutions to intractable problems; but it was a cold, cerebral satisfaction, and he knew that his life would be a long winter without Caris.
He stood up. It was time to put his skill to the test.
He had built a normal hoist with one innovative feature. Like all hoists, it had a rope that ran through a series of pulleys. On top of the church wall, at the edge of the roof, Merthin had built a timber structure like a gallows, with an arm that reached across the roof. The rope ran out to the end of the arm. At the other end of the rope, on the ground in the graveyard, was a treadwheel, which wound up the rope when operated by the boy, Jimmie. All this was standard. The innovation was that the gallows incorporated a swivel, so that the arm could swing.
To save himself from the fate of Howell Tyler, Merthin had a belt under his arms that was tied to a sturdy stone pinnacle: if he fell, he would not fall far. So protected, he had removed the slates from a section of the roof then tied the rope of the hoist to a timber. Now he called down to Jimmie: “Turn the wheel!”
Then he held his breath. He was sure it would work – it had to – but, all the same, this was a moment of high anxiety.
Jimmie, inside the great treadmill on the ground, began to walk. The wheel could move only one way. It had a brake pressing on its asymmetric teeth: one side of each tooth was gently angled, so that the brake moved gradually along the slope; but the other side was vertical, so that any reverse movement was immediately arrested.
As the wheel turned, the roof timber rose.
When the timber was clear of the roof structure, Merthin shouted: “Whoa!”
Jimmie stopped, the brake engaged, and the timber hung in the air, swinging gently. So far, so good. The next part was where things might go wrong.
Merthin turned the hoist, so that its arm began to swing. He watched it, holding his breath. New strains were brought to bear on the structure as the weight of the load moved its position. The wood of the hoist creaked. The arm swung through half a circle, bringing the timber from its original location over the roof to a new point over the graveyard. There was a collective murmur of wonder from the crowd: they had never seen a hoist that could swivel.
“Let it down!” Merthin called.
Jimmie operated the brake, allowing the load to fall jerkily, a foot at a time, as the wheel turned and the rope unwound.
Everyone watched in silence. When the timber touched the ground there was a round of applause.
Jimmie detached the timber from the rope.
Merthin permitted himself a moment of triumph. It had worked.
He climbed down the ladder. The crowd cheered. Caris kissed him. Father Joffroi shook his hand. “It’s a marvel,” the priest said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“No one has,” Merthin said proudly. “I invented it.”
Several more men congratulated him. Everyone was pleased to have been among the first to witness the phenomenon – all but Elfric, looking cross at the back of the crowd.
Merthin ignored him. He said to Father Joffroi: “Our agreement was that you would pay me if it worked.”
“Gladly,” said Joffroi. “I owe you eight shillings so far, and the sooner I have to pay you for removing the rest of the timbers and rebuilding the roof, the happier I’ll be.” He opened the wallet at his waist and took out some coins tied up in a rag.
Elfric said loudly: “Wait a moment!”
Everyone looked at him.
“You can’t pay this boy, Father Joffroi,” he said. “He’s not a qualified carpenter.”
Surely this could not happen, Merthin thought. He had done the work – it was too late now to deny him the wages. But Elfric cared nothing for fairness.
“Nonsense!” said Joffroi. “He’s done what no other carpenter in town could do.”
“All the same, he’s not in the guild.”
“I wanted to join,” Merthin put in. “You would not admit me.”
“That’s the prerogative of the guild.”
Joffroi said: “I say that’s unjust – and many people in town would agree. He’s done six and a half years of his apprenticeship, with no wages but his food and a bed on the kitchen floor, and everyone knows he’s been doing the work of a qualified carpenter for years. You should not have turned him out without his tools.”
There was a murmur of assent from the men gathered around. Elfric was generally thought to have gone a bit too far.
Elfric said: “With due respect to your reverence, that is for the guild to decide, not you.”
“All right.” Joffroi folded his arms. “You tell me not to pay Merthin – even though he is the only man in town who can repair my church without closing it. I defy you.” He handed the coins to Merthin. “Now you can take the case to court.”
“The prior’s court.” Elfric’s face twisted in spite. “When a man has a grievance against a priest, is he likely to get a fair hearing in a court run by monks?”
There was some sympathy in the crowd for this. They knew of too many instances where the prior’s court had unjustly favoured the clergy.
But Joffroi shot back: “Can an apprentice get a fair hearing in a guild run by masters?”
The crowd laughed at that: they appreciated clever arguments.
Elfric looked crushed. Whatever the court, he could win a dispute between himself and Merthin, but he could not so easily prevail against a priest. Resentfully, he said: “It’s a bad day for the town when apprentices defy their masters and priests support the boys.” But he sensed he had lost, and he turned away.
Merthin felt the weight of the coins in his hand: eight shillings, ninety-six silver pennies, two-fifths of a pound. He knew he should count them, but he was too happy to bother. He had earned his first wages.
He turned to Edmund. “This is your money,” he said.
“Pay me five shillings now, the rest later,” Edmund said generously. “Keep some money for yourself – you deserve it.”
Merthin smiled. That would leave him three shillings to spend – more money than he had ever had in his life. He did not know what to do with it. Perhaps he would buy his mother a chicken.
It was midday, and the crowd began to disperse, heading home for dinner. Merthin went with Caris and Edmund. He felt his future was secure. He had proved himself as a carpenter, and few people would hesitate to employ him now that Father Joffroi had set the precedent. He could earn a living. He could have a house of his own.
He could get married.
Petranilla was waiting for them. As Merthin counted out five shillings tor Edmund, she put on the table a fragrant dish of fish baked with herbs. In celebration of Merthin’s triumph, Edmund poured sweet Rhenish wine into cups for all of them.
But Edmund was not a man to linger over the past. “We must get on with the new bridge,” he said impatiently. “Five weeks have gone by and nothing has been done!”
Petranilla said: “I hear the earl’s health is rapidly returning to normal, so perhaps the monks will hold the election soon. I must ask Godwyn – but I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when Blind Carlus fell over during the service.”
“I’d like to have a bridge design ready,” Edmund said. “Then work could begin as soon as the new prior is elected.”
Merthin’s ears pricked up. “What have you got in mind?”
“We know it has to be a stone bridge. I want it wide enough for two carts to pass.”
Merthin nodded. “And it should be ramped at both ends, so that people will step off the bridge on to dry ground, not a muddy beach.”
“Yes – excellent.”
Caris said: “But how do you build stone walls in the middle of a river?”
Edmund said: “I’ve no idea, but it must be possible. There are lots of stone bridges.”
Merthin said: “I’ve heard men talk about this. You have to build a special structure called a coffer dam to keep the water out of the area where you’re building. It’s quite simple, but they say you have to be very careful to make sure it’s watertight.”
Godwyn came in, looking anxious. He was not supposed to make social calls in the town – in theory, he could leave the priory only on a specific errand. Merthin wondered what had happened.
“Carlus withdrew his name from the election,” he said.
“Good news!” Edmund said. “Have a cup of this wine.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Godwyn said.
“Why not? That leaves Thomas as the only candidate – and Thomas wants to build the new bridge. Our problem is solved.”
“Thomas is no longer the only candidate. The earl is nominating Saul Whitehead.”
“Oh.” Edmund was thoughtful. “Is that necessarily bad?”
“Yes. Saul is well liked and has shown himself a competent prior of St-John-in-the-Forest. If he accepts the nomination, he’s likely to get the votes of former supporters of Carlus – which means he could win. Then, as the earl’s nominee, and his cousin too, Saul is likely to do his sponsor’s bidding – and the earl may oppose the building of the new bridge, on the grounds that it might take business away from Shiring market.”
Edmund looked worried. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I hope so. Someone has to go to St John to tell Saul the news and bring him to Kingsbridge. I’ve volunteered for that job, and I’m hoping there’s some way I can persuade him to refuse.”
Petranilla spoke. “That may not solve the problem,” she said. Merthin listened carefully to her: he did not like her, but she was clever. She went on: “The earl might nominate another candidate. Any nominee of his could oppose the bridge.”
Godwyn nodded agreement. “So, assuming I can keep Saul out of the contest, we must make sure the earl’s second choice is someone who can’t possibly get elected.”
“Who do you have in mind?” his mother asked.
“Friar Murdo.”
“Excellent.”
Caris said: “But he’s awful!”
“Exactly,” Godwyn said. “Greedy, drunken, a sponger, a self-righteous rabble-rouser. The monks will never vote for him. That’s why we want him to be the earl’s candidate.”
Godwyn was like his mother, Merthin realized, in having a talent for this kind of plotting.
Petranilla said: “How shall we proceed?”
“First, we need to persuade Murdo to put his name forward.”
“That won’t be hard. Just tell him he’s in with a chance. He’d love to be prior.”
“Agreed. But I can’t do it. Murdo would immediately suspect my motives. Everyone knows I’m backing Thomas.”
“I’ll speak to him,” said Petranilla. “I’ll tell him you and I are at odds, and I don’t want Thomas. I’ll say the earl is looking for someone to nominate, and Murdo could be the right man. He’s popular in the town, especially among the poor and ignorant, who labour under the delusion that he’s one of them. All he needs to do, to get the nomination, is make it clear that he’s willing to be the earl’s pawn.”
“Good.” Godwyn stood up. “I’ll try to be present when Murdo speaks to Earl Roland.” He kissed his mother’s cheek and went out.
The fish was all gone. Merthin ate his bread trencher, rich with juices. Edmund offered him more wine, but he declined: he was afraid he might fall off the roof of St Mark’s this afternoon if he drank too much. Petranilla went into the kitchen and Edmund retired to the parlour to sleep. Merthin and Caris were left alone.
He moved to sit on the bench next to her, and kissed her.
She said: “I’m so proud of you.”
He glowed. He was proud of himself. He kissed her again, this time with a long, moist kiss that gave him an erection. He touched her breast through the linen of her robe, squeezing her nipple gently with his fingertips.
She touched his erection and giggled. “Do you want me to bring you off?” she whispered.
She did that sometimes late in the evening, when her father and Petranilla were asleep, and Merthin and she were alone on the ground floor of the house. But this was broad daylight, and someone could walk in at any moment. “No!” he said.
“I could do it quickly.” She tightened her grasp.
“I’m too embarrassed.” He stood up and moved to the other side of the table.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, maybe we won’t have to do this much longer.”
“Do what?”
“Hide, and worry about people walking in.”
She looked hurt. “Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I do! But it would be nicer for us to be alone. I could take a house, now that I’m getting paid.”
“You’ve only been paid once.”
“That’s true… but you seem very pessimistic all of a sudden. Have I said something wrong?”
“No, but… why do you want to change the way things are?”
He was baffled by this question. “I just want more of the same, in private.”
She looked defiant. “I’m happy now.”
“Well, so am I… but nothing goes on for ever.”
“Why not?”
He felt as if he were explaining something to a child. “Because we can’t spend the rest of our lives living with our parents and stealing kisses when no one’s looking. We have to get a home of our own, and live as man and wife, and sleep together every night, and have real sex instead of bringing each other off, and raise a family.”
“Why?” she said.
“I don’t know why,” he said in exasperation. “That’s the way it is, and I’m not going to try to explain any more, because I think you’re determined not to understand; or, at least, to pretend you don’t understand.”
“All right.”
“And besides, I have to go back to work.”
“Go on, then.”
This was incomprehensible. He had been frustrated, during the last half year, by not being able to marry Caris, and he had assumed she felt the same. Now it seemed she did not. Indeed, she resented his assumption. But did she really believe that they could continue this adolescent relationship indefinitely?
He looked at her, trying to read her face, and saw only a sulky obstinacy there. He turned away and went out through the door.
He hesitated on the street outside. Perhaps he should go back in and make her say what was on her mind. But, remembering the look on her face, he knew this was not the moment to try to make her do anything. So he walked on, heading for St Mark’s, thinking: How did such a wonderful day turn so bad?
Godwyn was preparing Kingsbridge Cathedral for the big wedding. The church had to look its best. In addition to the earl of Monmouth and the earl of Shiring, there would be several barons and hundreds of knights in attendance. Broken flagstones had to be replaced, chipped masonry repaired, crumbling mouldings carved anew, walls whitewashed, pillars painted and everything scrubbed clean.
“And I want the repairs to the south aisle of the chancel finished,” Godwyn said to Elfric as they walked through the church.
“I’m not sure that’s possible-”
“It must be done. We can’t have scaffolding in the chancel during a wedding of this importance.” He saw Philemon waving urgently at him from the south transept door. “Excuse me.”
“I haven’t got the men!” Elfric called after him.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to sack them,” Godwyn said over his shoulder.
Philemon was looking excited. “Friar Murdo is asking to see the earl,” he said.
“Good!” Petranilla had spoken to the friar last night, and this morning Godwyn had instructed Philemon to lurk near the hospital and watch out for Murdo. He had been expecting an early visit.
He hurried to the hospital, with Philemon in tow. He was relieved to see that Murdo was still waiting in the big room on the ground floor. The fat friar had smartened up his appearance: his face and hands were clean, the fringe of hair around his tonsure was combed, and he had sponged the worst of the stains off his robe. He did not look like a prior, but he almost looked like a monk.
Godwyn ignored him and went up the stairs. Standing guard outside the earl’s room he saw Merthin’s brother, Ralph, who was one of the earl’s squires. Ralph was handsome, except for a broken nose, a recent injury. Squires were always breaking bones. “Hello, Ralph,” Godwyn said amiably. “What happened to your nose?”
“I had a fight with a peasant bastard.”
“You should have got it set properly. Did that friar come up here?”
“Yes. They asked him to wait.”
“Who’s with the earl?”
“Lady Philippa and the clerk, Father Jerome.”
“Ask if they’ll see me.”
“Lady Philippa says the earl must not see anyone.”
Godwyn gave Ralph a man-to-man grin. “But she’s only a woman.”
Ralph grinned back, then opened the door and put his head inside. “Brother Godwyn, the sacrist?” he said.
There was a pause, and then Lady Philippa stepped out and closed the door behind her. “I told you no visitors,” she said angrily. “Earl Roland is not getting the rest he needs.”
Ralph said: “I know, my lady, but Brother Godwyn wouldn’t bother the earl unnecessarily.”
Something in Ralph’s tone made Godwyn look at him. Although Ralph’s words were mundane, the expression on his face was adoring. Godwyn noticed, then, how voluptuous Philippa was. She wore a dark-red dress belted at the waist, and the fine wool clung to her breasts and hips. She looked like a statue representing Temptation, Godwyn thought, and he wished, yet again, that he could find a way to ban women from the priory. It was bad enough if a squire fell in love with a married woman, but for a monk to do the same would be a catastrophe.
“I regret the need to trouble the earl,” Godwyn said. “But there’s a friar waiting downstairs to see him.”
“I know – Murdo. Is his business so urgent?”
“On the contrary. But I need to forewarn the earl what to expect.”
“So you know what the friar is going to say?”
“I believe I do.”
“Well, I think it’s best if the two of you see the earl together.”
Godwyn said: “But-” then pretended to stifle a protest.
Philippa looked at Ralph. “Get the friar up here, please.”
Ralph summoned Murdo, and Philippa ushered him and Godwyn into the room. Earl Roland was on the bed, fully dressed as before, but this time he was sitting up, his bandaged head cushioned with feather pillows. “What’s this?” he said with his usual bad temper. “A meeting of the chapter? What do you monks want?”
Looking at his visage directly for the first time since the bridge collapse, Godwyn was shocked to see that the entire right side of his face was paralysed: the eyelid drooped, the cheek hardly moved and the mouth was slack. What made it so startling was that the left side was animated. When Roland spoke the left side of his forehead frowned, his left eye opened wide and seemed to blaze with authority, and he spoke vehemently out of the left side of his mouth. The doctor in Godwyn was fascinated. He knew that head injuries could have unpredictable effects, but he had never heard of this particular manifestation.
“Don’t gawk at me,” the earl said impatiently. “You look like a pair of cows staring over a hedge. State your business.”
Godwyn pulled himself together. He had to tread carefully over the next few minutes. He knew that Roland would reject Murdo’s application to be nominated as prior. All the same, he wanted to plant in Roland’s mind the idea of Murdo as a possible alternative to Saul Whitehead. Therefore Godwyn’s job was to strengthen Murdo’s application. He would do this, paradoxically, by objecting to Murdo, thereby showing Roland that Murdo would owe no allegiance to the monks – for Roland wanted a prior who served him alone. But, on the other hand, Godwyn must not protest too strongly, for he did not want the earl to realize what a truly hopeless candidate Murdo actually was. It was a tortuous path to walk.
Murdo spoke first, in his sonorous pulpit voice. “My lord, I come to ask you to consider me for the position of prior of Kingsbridge. I believe-”
“Not so loud, for the love of the saints,” Roland protested.
Murdo lowered his voice. “My lord, I believe that I-”
“Why do you want to be prior?” Roland said, interrupting him again. “I thought a friar was a monk without a church – by definition.” This point of view was old-fashioned. Friars originally were travellers who held no property, but nowadays some of the fraternal orders were as wealthy as traditional monks. Roland knew this, and was just being provocative.
Murdo gave the standard answer. “I believe that God accepts both forms of sacrifice.”
“So you’re willing to turn your coat.”
“I have come to think that the talents he gave me could be put to better use in a priory, so yes, I would be happy to embrace the Rule of St Benedict.”
“But why should I consider you?”
“I am also an ordained priest.”
“No shortage of those.”
“And I have a following in Kingsbridge and the surrounding countryside such that, if I may be allowed to boast, I must be the most influential man of God in the area.”
Father Jerome spoke for the first time. He was a confident young man with an intelligent face, and Godwyn sensed that he was ambitious. “It’s true,” he said. “The friar is extraordinarily popular.”
He was not popular with the monks, of course – but neither Roland nor Jerome knew that, and Godwyn was not about to enlighten them.
Nor was Murdo. He bowed his head and said unctuously: “I thank you from my heart, Father Jerome.”
Godwyn said: “He is popular with the ignorant multitude.”
“As was our Saviour,” Murdo shot back.
“Monks should lead lives of poverty and self-denial,” Godwyn said.
Roland put in: “The friar’s clothes look poor enough. And as for self-denial, it seems to me that Kingsbridge monks eat better than many peasants.”
“Friar Murdo has been seen drunk in taverns!” Godwyn protested.
Murdo said: “St Benedict’s Rule permits monks to drink wine.”
“Only if they are sick, or labouring in the fields.”
“I preach in the fields.”
Murdo was a formidable opponent in an argument, Godwyn noted. He was glad that he did not actually want to win this one. He turned to Roland. “All I can say is that as the sacrist here I strongly counsel your lordship against nominating Murdo as prior of Kingsbridge.”
“Noted,” Roland said coldly.
Philippa gave Godwyn a look of mild surprise, and he realized he had yielded a little too easily. But Roland had not noticed: he did not deal in nuances.
Murdo had not finished. “The prior of Kingsbridge must serve God, of course; but, in all things temporal, he should be guided by the king, and the king’s earls and barons.”
That was about as plain as could be, Godwyn thought. Murdo might as well have said: “I will be your man.” It was an outrageous declaration. The monks would be horrified. It would wipe out any support there might have been among them for Murdo’s candidacy.
Godwyn made no comment, but Roland looked inquiringly at him. “Anything to say to that, sacrist?”
“I’m sure the friar did not mean to say that the priory of Kingsbridge should be in subjection to the earl of Shiring in any matter, temporal or otherwise – did you, Murdo?”
“I have said what I have said,” Murdo replied in his pulpit voice.
“Enough,” said Roland, bored now with the game. “You’re wasting your time, both of you. I shall nominate Saul Whitehead. Off you go.”
St-John-in-the-Forest was a miniature version of Kingsbridge Priory. The church was small, as were the stone-built cloisters and dormitory; the rest of the buildings were simple wood-frame structures. There were eight monks and no nuns. In addition to their lives of prayer and meditation, they grew most of their own food and made a goat’s cheese that was famous throughout south-west England.
Godwyn and Philemon had been riding for two days, and it was early evening when the road emerged from the forest and they saw a wide acreage of cleared land with the church in the middle. Godwyn knew at once that his fears were true, and reports that Saul Whitehead was doing a good job as prior of this cell were, if anything, understated. There was a look of order and neatness about everything: the hedges trimmed, the ditches straight, the trees planted at measured intervals in the orchard, the fields of ripening grain free of weeds. He felt sure he would find that the services were held at the correct times and conducted reverently. He had to hope that Saul’s evident fitness for leadership had not made him ambitious.
As they rode along the path through the fields, Philemon said: “Why is the earl so keen to make his cousin prior of Kingsbridge?”
“For the same reason that he had his younger son made bishop of Kingsbridge,” Godwyn replied. “Bishops and priors are powerful. The earl wants to make sure that any influential man in his neighbourhood is an ally, not an enemy.”
“What might they quarrel about?”
Godwyn was interested to see that young Philemon was beginning to be intrigued by the chess game of power politics. “Land, taxes, rights, privileges… for example, the prior might want to build a new bridge at Kingsbridge, to bring more business to the Fleece Fair; and the earl might oppose such a scheme, on the grounds that it would take business away from his own fair at Shiring.”
“But I don’t really see how the prior could fight against the earl. A prior has no soldiers…”
“A clergyman can influence the mass of the people. If he preaches a sermon against the earl, or calls upon the saints to bring misfortune to the earl, people will begin to believe that the earl is cursed. Then they will discount his power, mistrust him, and expect all his projects to be doomed. It can be very hard for a nobleman to oppose a truly determined cleric. Look what happened to King Henry II after the murder of Thomas Becket.”
They rode into the farmyard and dismounted. The horses immediately drank from the trough. There was no one about but a monk with his robe hitched up mucking out a pigsty behind the stables. He was sure to be a youngster, doing a job like that. Godwyn called to him. “Hey, you, lad! Come and help us with our horses.”
“Righto!” the monk called back. He finished cleaning out the sty with a few more passes of his rake, then leaned the tool up against the stable wall and walked towards the newcomers. Godwyn was about to tell him to get a move on when he recognized the blond fringe of Saul.
Godwyn disapproved. A prior should not muck out a pigsty. Ostentatious humility was, after all, ostentation. However, in this case Saul’s meekness might suit Godwyn’s purpose.
He gave Saul a friendly smile. “Hello, brother. I didn’t mean to order the prior to unsaddle my horse.”
“Why not?” said Saul. “Someone must do it, and you’ve been travelling all day.” Saul led the horses into the stable. “The brothers are in the fields,” he called out. “But they’ll be back soon for Evensong.” He re-emerged. “Come into the kitchen.”
They had never been close. Godwyn could not help feeling criticized by Saul’s piety. Saul was never unfriendly, but with quiet determination he simply did things differently. Godwyn had to take care not to become irritated. He felt stressed enough already.
Godwyn and Philemon followed Saul across the farmyard and into a one-storey building with a high roof. Although made of wood, it had a stone fireplace and chimney. They sat gratefully on a rough bench at a scrubbed table. Saul drew two generous cups of ale from a large barrel.
He sat opposite them. Philemon drank thirstily, but Godwyn just sipped. Saul offered no food, and Godwyn guessed they would get nothing more until after Evensong. He felt too tense to eat, anyway.
This was another delicate moment, he reflected anxiously. He had had to protest against Murdo’s nomination in such a way as not to dissuade Roland. Now he had to invite Saul to stand in a way that he could not possibly accept. He knew what he was going to say, but he had to say it right. If he made a false step, Saul would become suspicious, and then anything could happen.
Saul gave him no time for further worry. “What brings you here, brother?” he said.
“Earl Roland has recovered his wits.”
“I thank God.”
“This means we can hold the election for prior.”
“Good. We should not go too long without one.”
“But who should it be?”
Saul sidestepped the question. “Have any names been put forward?”
“Brother Thomas, the matricularius.”
“He’d be a good manager. No one else?”
Godwyn told a half-truth. “Not formally.”
“What about Carlus? When I came to Kingsbridge for Prior Anthony’s funeral, the sub-prior was the leading candidate.”
“He feels he is not capable of the job.”
“Because of his blindness?”
“Perhaps.” Saul did not know about Carlus falling over during the service for St Adolphus’s birthday. Godwyn decided not to tell him. “At any rate, he has thought and prayed about it, and made his decision.”
“Has the earl not made a nomination?”
“He’s thinking about it.” Godwyn hesitated. “That’s why we’re here. The earl is… considering nominating you.” This was not really a lie, Godwyn told himself; just a misleading emphasis.
“I’m honoured.”
Godwyn studied him. “But not completely surprised, perhaps?”
Saul flushed. “Forgive me. The great Philip was in charge here at St John and then became prior of Kingsbridge, and others have followed the same route. That is not to say that I’m worthy as they were, of course. But the thought had crossed my mind, I confess.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of. How would you feel about being nominated?”
“How would I feel?” Saul seemed mystified. “Why ask that? If the earl wishes, he will nominate me; and if my brethren want me, they’ll vote for me; and I will consider myself called by God. It makes no difference how I feel about it.”
This was not the answer Godwyn wanted. He needed Saul to make up his own mind. Talk of God’s will was counterproductive. “It’s not quite so simple,” he said. “You don’t have to accept the nomination. That’s why the earl sent me here.”
“It’s not like Roland to ask where he might command.”
Godwyn almost winced. Never forget how shrewd Saul is, he told himself. He backpedalled hastily. “No, indeed. However, if you think you might refuse, he needs to know as soon as possible, so that he can nominate someone else.” That was probably true, though Roland had not said it.
“I didn’t realize it was done this way.”
It was not done this way, Godwyn thought. But he said: “Last time it happened, when Prior Anthony was elected, you and I were both novices, so we didn’t know what went on.”
“True.”
“Do you feel you have the ability to fill the role of prior of Kingsbridge?”
“Certainly not.”
“Ah.” Godwyn pretended disappointment, though he had been relying on Saul’s humility to produce that answer.
“However…”
“What?”
“With God’s help, who knows what might be accomplished?”
“How true.” Godwyn concealed his annoyance. The humble answer had just been a formality. The truth was that Saul thought he could do the job. “Of course, you should reflect and pray about it tonight.”
“I’m sure I’ll think of little else.” They heard distant voices. “The brothers are returning from their work.”
“We can talk again in the morning,” Godwyn said. “If you decide to be a candidate, you must come back to Kingsbridge with us.”
“Very well.”
There was a serious danger of Saul’s accepting, Godwyn feared. But he had one more arrow to shoot. “Something else you might bear in mind in your prayers,” he said. “A nobleman never offers a free gift.”
Saul looked worried. “What do you mean?”
“Earls and barons dispense titles, land, positions, monopolies – but these things always have a price.”
“And in this case?”
“If you are elected, Roland will expect you to make recompense. You are his cousin, anyway; and you’ll owe your position to him. You will be his voice in chapter, making sure the priory’s actions don’t interfere with his interests.”
“Will he make that an explicit condition of the nomination?”
“Explicit? No. But, when you return with me to Kingsbridge, he will question you, and the questions will be designed to reveal your intentions. If you insist that you will be an independent prior, showing no special favour to your cousin and sponsor, he will nominate someone else.”
“I had not thought of that.”
“Of course, you may simply give him the answers he wants to hear and then change your mind after the election.”
“But that would be dishonest.”
“Some would think so.”
“God would think so.”
“That’s something for you to pray about tonight.”
A group of young monks came into the kitchen, muddy from the fields, talking loudly; Saul got up to serve them ale, but the worried look remained on his face. It stayed there when they went into the little church, with its wall painting of the Day of Judgement over the altar, for Evensong. It was still there when at last the evening meal was served and Godwyn’s hunger was assuaged by the delicious cheese the monks made.
Godwyn lay awake that night, although he ached from two days on horseback. He had confronted Saul with an ethical dilemma. Most monks would have been willing to shade their position while talking to Roland, and speak words which promised a degree of subservience to the earl much greater than they really intended. But not Saul. He was driven by moral imperatives. Would he find a way through the dilemma, and accept the nomination? Godwyn did not see how he could.
Saul still wore the worried look when the monks got up, at first light, for the service of Lauds.
After breakfast, he told Godwyn he could not accept the nomination.
Godwyn could not get used to Earl Roland’s face. It was the strangest thing to look at. The earl was now wearing a hat to cover the bandages on his head; but, by making his appearance more normal, the hat emphasized the paralysis of the right side of his face. Roland also seemed even more bad-tempered than usual, and Godwyn guessed he was still suffering severe headaches.
“Where is my cousin Saul?” he said as soon as Godwyn walked into the room.
“Still at St John, my lord. I gave him your message-”
“Message? It was a command!”
Lady Philippa, standing beside the bed, said softly: “Don’t excite yourself, lord – you know it makes you feel ill.”
Godwyn said: “Brother Saul simply said that he cannot accept the nomination.”
“Why the devil not?”
“He thought and prayed-”
“Of course he prayed, that’s what monks do. What reason did he give for defying me?”
“He does not feel himself capable of such a challenging role.”
“Nonsense. What challenge? He’s not being asked to lead a thousand knights into battle – just make sure a handful of monks sing their hymns at the right times of day.”
That was rubbish, so Godwyn bowed his head and said nothing.
The earl’s tone changed suddenly. “I’ve just realized who you are. You’re the son of Petranilla, aren’t you?”
“Yes, lord.” That Petranilla whom you jilted, Godwyn thought.
“She was sly, and I’ll bet you are too. How do I know you didn’t talk Saul out of accepting? You want Thomas Langley to be prior, don’t you?”
My plan is a lot more devious than that, you fool, Godwyn thought. He said: “Saul did ask me what you might want in return for nominating him.”
“Ah, now we come to it. What did you tell him?”
“That you would expect him to listen to one who was his cousin, his sponsor and his earl.”
“And he was too pig-headed to accept that, I suppose. Right. That settles it. I shall nominate that fat friar. Now get out of my sight.”
Godwyn had to hide his elation as he bowed out of the room. The penultimate stage of his plan had worked perfectly. Earl Roland had not the least suspicion of how he had been nudged into nominating the most hopeless candidate Godwyn could think of.
Now for the final step.
He left the hospital and entered the cloisters. It was the hour of study before the midday service of Sext, and most of the monks were standing or sitting around reading, being read to or meditating. Godwyn spotted Theodoric, his young ally, and summoned him with a jerk of the head.
In a low voice, he said: “Earl Roland has nominated Friar Murdo as prior.”
Theodoric said loudly: “What?”
“Hush.”
“It’s impossible!”
“Of course it is.”
“No one will vote for him.”
“That’s why I’m pleased.”
Understanding dawned on Theodoric’s face. “Oh… I see. So it’s good for us, really.”
Godwyn wondered why he always had to explain these things, even to intelligent men. No one saw below the surface, except him and his mother. “Go around telling everyone – quietly. No need to show your outrage. They’ll get angry enough without encouragement.”
“Should I say that this is good for Thomas?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Right,” said Theodoric. “I understand.”
He evidently did not, but Godwyn felt he could be trusted to follow instructions.
Godwyn left him and went in search of Philemon. He found him sweeping out the refectory. “Do you know where Murdo is?” he asked.
“Probably in the kitchen.”
“Find him and ask him to meet you in the prior’s house when all the monks are in church for Sext. I don’t want anyone to see you there with him.”
“All right. What do I tell him?”
“First of all, you say: ‘Brother Murdo, no one must ever know that I told you this.’ Is that clear?”
“No one must ever know that I told you this. All right.”
“Then show him the charter we found. You remember where it is – in the bedroom beside the prie-dieu, there’s a chest with a ginger-coloured leather wallet inside.”
“Is that all?”
“Point out that the land Thomas brought to the priory belonged originally to Queen Isabella, and that this fact has been kept secret for ten years.”
Philemon looked puzzled. “But we don’t know what Thomas is trying to hide.”
“No. But there’s always a reason for a secret.”
“Don’t you think Murdo will try to use this information against Thomas?”
“Of course.”
“What will Murdo do?”
“I don’t know but, whatever it is, it’s sure to be bad for Thomas.”
Philemon frowned. “I thought we were supposed to be helping Thomas.”
Godwyn smiled. “That’s what everyone thinks.”
The bell rang for Sext.
Philemon went off in search of Murdo, and Godwyn joined the rest of the monks in church. In unison with the others he said: “O God, incline unto mine aid.” On this occasion he prayed with unusual earnestness. Despite the confidence he had shown Philemon, he knew he was gambling. He had staked everything on Thomas’s secret, but he did not know what the face of the card would show when he turned it up.
However, it was clear he had succeeded in stirring up the monks. They were restless and talkative, and Carlus had to call for quiet twice during the psalms. They disliked friars in general, for taking an attitude of moral superiority on the question of earthly possessions while, at the same time, sponging off those they condemned. And they disliked Murdo in particular for being pompous, greedy and drunk. They would have anyone rather than him.
As they left the church after the service, Simeon spoke to Godwyn. “We cannot have the friar,” he said.
“I agree.”
“Carlus and I will not be putting forward another name. If the monks appear divided, the earl will be able to present his candidate as a necessary compromise. We must sink our differences and rally round Thomas. If we show the world a united front, it will be difficult for the earl to oppose us.”
Godwyn stopped and faced Simeon. “Thank you, brother,” he said, forcing himself to look humble and hide the exultation he felt.
“We’re doing it for the good of the priory.”
“I know. But I appreciate your generosity of spirit.”
Simeon nodded and walked away.
Godwyn smelled victory.
The monks went into the refectory for dinner. Murdo joined them. He missed services, but not meals. All monasteries had a general rule that any monk or friar was welcome at the table – though few people exploited the practice as thoroughly as Murdo. Godwyn studied his face. The friar looked excited, as if he had news he was bursting to share. However, he contained himself while dinner was served, and remained silent throughout the meal, listening to a novice read.
The passage chosen was the story of Susanna and the Elders. Godwyn disapproved: the story was too sexy to be read aloud in a celibate community. But today even the attempts of two lascivious old men to blackmail a woman into having sex with them failed to capture the monks’ attention. They kept whispering among themselves, looking sidelong at Murdo.
When the food was finished, and the prophet Daniel had saved Susanna from execution by interrogating the elders separately and showing that they told inconsistent stories, the monks got ready to leave. At that moment, Murdo spoke to Thomas.
“When you came here, Brother Thomas, you had a sword wound, I believe.”
He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the other monks stopped to listen.
Thomas looked at him stonily. “Yes.”
“The wound that eventually caused you to lose your left arm. I wonder, did you receive that wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”
Thomas turned pale. “I’ve been a monk of Kingsbridge for ten years. My previous life is forgotten.”
Murdo carried on unperturbed. “I ask because of the parcel of land that you brought with you when you joined the priory. A very productive little village in Norfolk. Five hundred acres. Near Lynn – where the queen lives.”
Godwyn interrupted, pretending to be indignant. “What does an outsider know of our property?”
“Oh, I’ve read the charter,” Murdo said. “These things aren’t secret.”
Godwyn looked at Carlus and Simeon, sitting side by side. Both men looked startled. As sub-prior and treasurer, they knew already. They must be wondering how Murdo had got sight of the deed. Simeon opened his mouth to speak.
Murdo said: “Or, at least, they’re not supposed to be secret.”
Simeon closed his mouth again. If he demanded to know how Murdo had found out, he would himself face questions about why he had kept the secret.
Murdo went on: “And the farm at Lynn was donated to the priory by…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Queen Isabella,” he finished.
Godwyn looked around. There was consternation among the monks, all but Carlus and Simeon, who both looked stone-faced.
Friar Murdo leaned across the table. Green herbs from the dinnertime stew adhered to his teeth. “I ask you again,” he said aggressively. “Did you receive your wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”
Thomas said: “Everyone knows what I did before I was a monk. I was a knight, I fought battles, I killed men. I have confessed and received absolution.”
“A monk may put his past behind him – but the prior of Kingsbridge carries a heavier burden. He may be asked who he killed, and why, and – most importantly – what reward he received.”
Thomas stared back at Murdo without speaking. Godwyn tried to read Thomas’s face. It was rigidly set in an expression of some strong emotion – but what? There was no sign of guilt, or even embarrassment: whatever the secret was, Thomas did not feel he had done something shameful. The look was not rage, either. Murdo’s sneering tone might have provoked many men to violence, but Thomas did not look as if he were about to lash out. No, what Thomas seemed to be feeling was something different, colder than embarrassment, quieter than rage. It was, Godwyn realized at last, fear. Thomas was afraid. Of Murdo? Hardly. No, he feared something that might happen because of Murdo, some consequence of Murdo’s having discovered the secret.
Murdo continued like a dog with a bone. “If you don’t answer the question here in this room, it will be asked elsewhere.”
Godwyn’s calculations called for Thomas to give up at this point. But it was not a certainty. Thomas was tough. For ten years he had shown himself to be quiet, patient and resilient. When approached by Godwyn to stand as prior, he must have decided that the past could be buried. He must now realize he had been wrong. But how would he react to that realization? Would he see his mistake and back away? Or would he grit his teeth and see it through? Godwyn bit his lip and waited.
Thomas spoke at last. “I think you may be right about the question being asked elsewhere,” he said. “Or, at least, I think you will do everything in your power, no matter how unbrotherly or dangerous, to make your forecast come true.”
“I don’t know if you’re implying-”
“You need say no more!” Thomas said, rising abruptly to his feet. Murdo recoiled. Thomas’s height and soldierly physique, combined with a sharp rise in his voice, achieved the rare result of silencing the friar.
“I have never answered questions about my past,” Thomas said. His voice was quiet again, and every monk in the room was still and silent, straining to hear. “I never will.” He pointed at Murdo. “But this… slug… makes me realize that, if I became your prior, such questions would never cease. A monk may keep his past to himself, but a prior is different, I now see. A prior may have enemies, and any mystery is a weakness. And then, of course, by the leader’s vulnerability the institution itself is threatened. My brain should have led me where Friar Murdo’s malice led him – to the conclusion that a man who does not want to answer questions about his past cannot be a prior. Therefore-”
Young Theodoric said: “No!”
“Therefore I now withdraw my candidacy in the coming election.”
Godwyn breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. He had achieved his object.
Thomas sat down; Murdo looked smug; and everyone else tried to speak at the same time.
Carlus banged the table, and slowly they quietened down. He said: “Friar Murdo, as you don’t have a vote in this election, I must ask you to leave us now.”
Murdo slowly walked out, looking triumphant.
When he had gone, Carlus said: “This is a catastrophe – Murdo the only candidate!”
Theodoric said: “Thomas cannot be allowed to withdraw.”
“But he has!”
Simeon said: “There must be another candidate.”
“Yes,” said Carlus. “And I propose Simeon.”
“No!” said Theodoric.
“Let me speak,” said Simeon. “We must choose the one among us who is most certain to unite the brethren against Murdo. That is not myself. I know I don’t have enough backing among the youngsters. I think we all know who would gather most support from all sections.”
He turned and looked at Godwyn.
“Yes!” Theodoric said. “Godwyn!”
The younger monks cheered, and the older ones looked resigned. Godwyn shook his head, as if reluctant even to respond to them. They began to bang the tables and chant his name: “God-wyn! God-wyn!”
At last he stood up. His heart was full of elation, but he kept his face straight. He held up his hands for quiet. Then, when the room was silent, he said in a low, modest voice: “I shall obey the will of my brethren.”
The room erupted in cheering.
Godwyn delayed the election. Earl Roland was going to be angry at the result, and Godwyn wanted to give him as little time as possible to fight the decision before the wedding.
The truth was that Godwyn was frightened. He was going up against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. There were only thirteen earls. Together with about forty lesser barons, twenty-one bishops and a handful of others, they governed England. When the king summoned Parliament, they were the Lords, the aristocratic group, by contrast with the Commons, who were knights, gentry and merchants. The earl of Shiring was one of the more powerful and prominent men of his class. And yet Brother Godwyn, age thirty-one, son of the widow Petranilla, who had risen no higher than sacrist of Kingsbridge Priory, was in conflict with the earl – and, what was even more dangerous, he was winning.
So he dithered – but, six days before the wedding, Roland put his foot down and said: “Tomorrow!”
Guests were already arriving for the nuptials. The earl of Monmouth had moved into the hospital, using the private room next to Roland’s. Lord William and Lady Philippa had had to remove to the Bell inn. Bishop Richard was sharing the prior’s house with Carlus. Lesser barons and knights filled the taverns, along with their wives and children, squires and servants and horses. The town enjoyed a surge of spending, much needed after the disappointing profits from the rain-drenched Fleece Fair.
On the morning of the election, Godwyn and Simeon went to the treasury, a small windowless room behind a heavy oak door off the library. The precious ornaments used for special services were there, locked in an ironbound chest. Simeon as treasurer held the keys.
The election was a foregone conclusion, or so thought everyone except Earl Roland. No one suspected Godwyn’s hidden hand. He had suffered one tense moment, when Thomas had wondered aloud how Friar Murdo got to know about the Isabella charter. “He can’t have discovered it accidentally – he’s never been seen reading in the library, and anyway that deed isn’t kept with the others,” Thomas had said to Godwyn. “Someone must have told him about it. But who? Only Carlus and Simeon knew of it. Why would they have let the secret out? They didn’t want to help Murdo.” Godwyn had said nothing, and Thomas had remained baffled.
Godwyn and Simeon dragged the treasure chest into the light of the library. The cathedral jewels were wrapped in blue cloth and cushioned in protective sheets of leather. As they sorted through the box, Simeon unwrapped some of the items, admiring them and checking that they were undamaged. There was a plaque a few inches wide made of ivory, delicately carved, showing the crucifixion of St Adolphus, at which the saint had asked God to grant good health and long life to all those who venerated his memory. There were numerous candlesticks and crucifixes, all of gold or silver, most decorated with precious stones. In the strong light from the tall library windows the gems glittered and the gold glowed. These things had been given to the priory, over the centuries, by devout worshippers. Their combined value was awesome: there was more wealth here than most people ever saw in one place.
Godwyn had come for a ceremonial crosier, or shepherd’s crook, made of wood encased in gold, with an elaborately jewelled handle. This was ritually handed to the new prior at the end of the election process. The crook was at the bottom of the chest, not having been used for thirteen years. As Godwyn drew it out, Simeon let out an exclamation.
Godwyn looked up sharply. Simeon was holding a large crucifix on a stand, intended to be placed on an altar. “What’s the matter?” Godwyn said.
Simeon showed him the back of the cross and pointed to a shallow cup-shaped indentation just below the crosspiece. Godwyn immediately saw that a ruby was missing. “It must have fallen out,” he said. He glanced around the library: they were alone.
They were both worried. As treasurer and sacrist they shared responsibility. They would be blamed for any loss.
Together they examined every item in the chest. They unwrapped each one and shook out every blue cloth. They looked at all the leather sheets. Frantically, they scrutinized the empty box and the floor all around. The ruby was nowhere to be seen.
Simeon said: “When was the crucifix last used?”
“At the feast of St Adolphus, when Carlus fell. He knocked it off the table.”
“Perhaps the ruby fell out then. But how is it possible that no one noticed?”
“The stone was on the back of the cross. But surely someone would have seen it on the floor?”
“Who picked up the crucifix?”
“I don’t remember,” Godwyn said quickly. “The situation was confused.” In fact he remembered perfectly well.
It was Philemon.
Godwyn could picture the scene. Philemon and Otho together had righted the altar, setting it squarely on its platform. Then Otho had picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the cross.
With a growing feeling of dismay, Godwyn recalled the disappearance of Lady Philippa’s bracelet. Had Philemon stolen again? He trembled to think how it might affect him. Everyone knew that Philemon was Godwyn’s unofficial acolyte. Such a dreadful sin – stealing a jewel from a sacred ornament – would bring shame on everyone associated with the perpetrator. It could easily upset the election.
Simeon obviously did not recollect the scene exactly, and he accepted without question Godwyn’s feigned inability to remember who had picked up the cross. But others among the monks would surely recall seeing it in Philemon’s hands. Godwyn had to put this right quickly, before suspicion could fall on Philemon. But first he had to get Simeon out of the way.
“We must search for the ruby in the church,” Simeon said.
“But the service was two weeks ago,” Godwyn protested. “A ruby can’t have lain on the floor unnoticed for that length of time.”
“It’s unlikely, but we must check.”
Godwyn saw that he had to go with Simeon, and wait for an opportunity to get away from him and seek out Philemon. “Of course,” he said.
They put the ornaments away and locked the treasury door. As they left the library, Godwyn said: “I suggest we say nothing about this until we’re sure the jewel has been lost. No point in bringing blame on our heads prematurely.”
“Agreed.”
They hurried around the cloisters and entered the church. They stood in the centre of the crossing and scanned the ground all around them. A month ago, the idea that a ruby could lie hidden somewhere on the church floor would have been more plausible; but recently the flagstones had been repaired, and the cracks and chips had disappeared. A ruby would have stood out.
Simeon said: “Now that I come to think of it, wasn’t it Philemon who picked up the crucifix?”
Godwyn looked at Simeon’s face. Was there accusation in the expression? He could not tell. “It may have been Philemon,” Godwyn said. Then he saw a chance to get away. “I’ll go and fetch him,” he suggested. “Perhaps he will be able to recall exactly where he was standing at the time.”
“Good idea. I’ll wait here.” Simeon got down on his knees and began to pat the floor with his hands, as if the ruby might be found by touch more easily than by sight.
Godwyn hurried out. He went first to the dormitory. The blanket cupboard was in the same place. He pulled it away from the wall, found the loose stone, and removed it. He put his hand into the hidey-hole where Philemon had stashed Lady Philippa’s bracelet.
He found nothing there.
He cursed. It was not going to be that easy.
I’ll have to dismiss Philemon from the monastery, he thought as he strode through the priory buildings looking for him. If he has stolen this ruby, I can’t cover up for him again. He’s out.
Then he realized, with a shock of dismay, that he could not dismiss Philemon – not now, perhaps not ever. It was Philemon who had told Friar Murdo about the Isabella charter. If dismissed, Philemon could confess what he had done, and reveal that he had done it at Godwyn’s instigation. And he would be believed. Godwyn recalled Thomas’s puzzling over who had told Murdo the secret, and why. Philemon’s revelation would gain conviction by answering that question.
There would be an outcry at such underhand work. Even if the disclosure were made after the election, it would undermine Godwyn’s authority and cripple his ability to lead the monks. The ominous truth dawned on him that he now had to protect Philemon in order to protect himself.
He found Philemon sweeping the hospital floor. He beckoned him outside and led him around to the back of the kitchen, where it was unlikely that anyone would see them.
He looked Philemon in the eye and said: “There’s a ruby missing.”
Philemon looked away. “How terrible.”
“It’s from the altar crucifix that was knocked to the floor when Carlus fell over.”
Philemon pretended innocence. “How could it have gone missing?”
“The ruby may have become dislodged when the crucifix hit the floor. But it’s not on the floor now – I’ve just looked. Someone found it – and kept it.”
“Surely not.”
Godwyn felt angered by Philemon’s false air of innocence. “You fool, everyone saw you pick up that crucifix!”
Philemon’s voice rose to a higher pitch. “I know nothing about it!”
“Don’t waste time lying to me! We have to put this right. I could lose the election on your account.” Godwyn pushed Philemon up against the wall of the bakehouse. “Where is it?”
To his astonishment, Philemon began to cry.
“For the love of the saints,” Godwyn said disgustedly. “Stop this nonsense – you’re a grown man!”
Philemon continued to sob. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“If you don’t stop that-” Godwyn checked himself. Nothing was to be gained by berating Philemon. The man was truly pathetic. Speaking more gently, he said: “Try to pull yourself together. Where is the ruby?”
“I hid it.”
“Yes…”
“In the refectory chimney.”
Godwyn immediately turned away, heading for the refectory. “Mary save us, it could fall into the fire!”
Philemon followed, his tears drying. “There’s no fire in August. I would have moved it before the cold weather.”
They entered the refectory. At one end of the long room was a wide fireplace. Philemon put his arm up the chimney and fumbled for a moment. Then he produced a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg, covered with soot. He wiped it clean on his sleeve.
Godwyn took it. “Now come with me,” he said.
“What are we going to do?”
“Simeon is going to find this.”
They went to the church. Simeon was still searching on hands and knees. “Now,” Godwyn said to Philemon. “Try to remember exactly where you were when you picked up the crucifix.”
Simeon looked at Philemon and, seeing signs of emotion on his face, spoke kindly to him. “Don’t be afraid, lad, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
Philemon positioned himself on the east side of the crossing, close to the steps leading up to the chancel. “I think it was here,” he said.
Godwyn climbed the two steps and looked under the choir stalls, pretending to search. Surreptitiously, he placed the ruby under one of the rows of seats, close to the near end, where it was not visible to a casual glance. Then, as if changing his mind about the likeliest place to look, he moved to the south side of the chancel. “Come and search under here, Philemon,” he said.
As he had hoped, Simeon then moved to the north side and got down on his knees to look under the stalls, murmuring a prayer as he did so.
Godwyn expected Simeon to see the ruby immediately. He pretended to search the south aisle, waiting for Simeon to find it. He began to think there must be something wrong with Simeon’s eyesight. He might have to go over there and ‘find’ it himself. Then at last Simeon called out: “Oh! Here!”
Godwyn pretended to be excited. “Have you found it?”
“Yes! Hallelujah!”
“Where was it?”
“Here – under the choir stalls!”
“Praise be to God,” said Godwyn.
Godwyn told himself not to be frightened of Earl Roland. As he climbed the stone stairs of the hospital to the guest rooms, he asked himself what the earl could do to him. Even if Roland had been capable of getting out of his bed and drawing a sword, he would not be foolish enough to attack a monk within the precincts of a monastery – even a king would hardly get away with that.
Ralph Fitzgerald announced him, and he went into the room.
The earl’s sons stood either side of the bed: tall William, in soldierly brown hose and muddy boots, his hair already receding from his forehead; and Richard, in bishop’s purple, his growing roundness of figure evidence of a sybaritic nature and the means to indulge it. William was thirty, a year younger than Godwyn; he had his father’s strength of will, but it was sometimes softened by the influence of his wife, Philippa. Richard was twenty-eight, and presumably took after his late mother, for he had little of the earl’s imposing bearing and forcefulness.
“Well, monk?” said the earl, speaking out of the left side of his mouth. “Have you held your little election?”
Godwyn suffered a moment of resentment for this discourteous form of address. One day, he vowed silently, Roland would call him Father Prior. Indignation gave him the courage he needed to tell the earl the news. “We have, lord,” he said. “I have the honour to tell you that the monks of Kingsbridge have chosen me as their prior.”
“What?” the earl bellowed. “You?”
Godwyn bowed his head in an affectation of humility. “No one could be more surprised than I.”
“You’re nothing but a boy!”
The insult stung Godwyn into a rejoinder. “I’m older than your son, the bishop of Kingsbridge.”
“How many votes did you get?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And how many for Friar Murdo?”
“None. The monks were unanimous-”
“None?” Roland roared. “There must have been a conspiracy – this is treason!”
“The election was held in strict accordance with the rules.”
“I don’t care a pig’s prick for your rules. I won’t be ignored by a bunch of effeminate monks.”
“I am the choice of my brothers, my lord. The inauguration ceremony will be held this coming Sunday, before the wedding.”
“The monks’ choice must be ratified by the bishop of Kingsbridge. And I can tell you he will not ratify you. Rerun the election, and this time bring me the result I want.”
“Very good, Earl Roland.” Godwyn went to the door. He had several more cards in his hand, but he was not going to lay them on the table all at once. He turned and addressed Richard. “My lord bishop, when you wish to speak to me about this, you will find me in the prior’s house.”
He stepped outside. “You’re not the prior!” Roland shouted as he shut the door.
Godwyn was trembling. Roland was formidable, especially when angry, and he was often angry. But Godwyn had stood his ground. Petranilla would be proud of him.
He went down the stairs on shaky legs and made his way to the prior’s house. Carlus had already moved out. For the first time in fifteen years, Godwyn would have a bedroom to himself. His pleasure was only slightly damped by having to share the place with the bishop, who traditionally stayed there while visiting. The bishop was, technically, the abbot of Kingsbridge ex officio and, though his power was limited, his status was above that of the prior. Richard was rarely in the house during the day, but returned every night to sleep in the best bedroom.
Godwyn entered the ground-floor hall and sat in the big chair, waiting. It would not be long before Bishop Richard appeared, his ears burning with his father’s scorching instructions. Richard was a rich and powerful man, but not frightening in the way the earl was. All the same, it was a bold monk who defied his bishop. However, Godwyn had an advantage in this confrontation, for he knew something shameful about Richard, and that was as good as a knife up his sleeve.
Richard bustled in a few minutes later, showing a confidence that Godwyn knew to be faked. “I’ve struck a bargain for you,” he said without preamble. “You can be sub-prior under Murdo. You’ll be in charge of day-to-day management of the priory. Murdo doesn’t want to be an administrator, anyway – he just wants the prestige. You’ll have all the power, but my father will be satisfied.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Godwyn. “Murdo agrees to make me his sub-prior. Then we tell the rest of the monks that he is the only one you’ll ratify. And you think they will accept that.”
“They have no choice!”
“I have an alternative suggestion. Tell the earl that the monks will not have anyone but me – and that I must be ratified before the wedding, otherwise the monks will not take part in the nuptials. The nuns, too, will refuse.” Godwyn did not know whether the monks would go along with this – let alone Mother Cecilia and the nuns – but he was too far gone for caution.
“They wouldn’t dare!”
“I’m afraid they would.”
Richard looked panicky. “My father won’t be bullied!”
Godwyn laughed. “Small chance of that. But I hope he may be made to see reason.”
“He’ll say the wedding must go ahead anyway. I’m the bishop, I can marry the couple, I don’t need monks to help me.”
“Of course. But there will be no singing, no candles, no psalms, no incense – just you and Archdeacon Lloyd.”
“They will still be married.”
“How will the earl of Monmouth feel about such a mean wedding for his son?”
“He’ll be furious, but he’ll accept it. The alliance is the important thing.”
That was probably right, Godwyn thought, and he felt the cold draught of imminent failure.
It was time to draw his concealed knife.
“You owe me a kindness,” he said.
At first, Richard pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Do I?”
“I concealed a sin you committed. Don’t pretend to have forgotten, it was only a couple of months ago.”
“Ah, yes, that was generous of you.”
“I saw, with my own eyes, you and Margery on the bed in the guest room.”
“Hush, for pity’s sake!”
“Now is your chance to repay me that kindness. Intercede with your father. Tell him to give in. Argue that the wedding is more important. Insist on ratifying me.”
Richard’s face showed desperation. He looked crushed by opposing forces. “I can’t!” he said, and there was panic in his voice. “My father won’t be defied. You know what he’s like.”
“Try.”
“I’ve already tried! I forced him to concede that you could be sub-prior.”
Godwyn doubted that Roland had conceded any such thing. Richard had almost certainly made it up, knowing that such a promise could easily be broken. All the same, Godwyn said: “I thank you for that.” Then he added: “But it’s not enough.”
“Just think about it,” Richard pleaded. “That’s all I ask.”
“I will. And I suggest you ask your father to do the same.”
“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. “This is going to be a catastrophe.”
The wedding was scheduled for Sunday. On the Saturday, in place of the service of Sext, Godwyn ordered a rehearsal, beginning with the ceremony of inauguration of the new prior and continuing with the marriage service. Outside it was another sunless day, the sky full of low grey cloud heavy with rain, and the inside of the cathedral was gloomy. After the rehearsal, as the monks and nuns headed off for dinner and the novices began to tidy up the church, Godwyn was approached by Carlus and Simeon, both looking solemn.
“I think that went very smoothly, don’t you?” Godwyn said brightly.
Simeon said: “Is there actually going to be an inauguration for you?”
“Absolutely.”
“We hear the earl has ordered the election to be rerun.”
“Do you think he has the right to do that?”
“Indeed not,” said Simeon. “He has the power of nomination, that’s all. But he says Bishop Richard will not ratify you as prior.”
“Has Richard told you that?”
“Not himself, no.”
“I thought not. Trust me, the bishop will ratify me.” Godwyn heard his own voice sounding sincere and confident, and wished his feelings matched it.
Carlus said anxiously, “Did you tell Richard the monks would refuse to take part in the wedding?”
“I did.”
“That’s very hazardous. We’re not here to oppose the will of noblemen.”
Godwyn could have predicted that Carlus would weaken at the first sign of serious opposition. Fortunately, he was not planning to test the monks’ resolve. “We won’t have to do it, don’t worry. It’s just an empty threat. But don’t tell the bishop I said so.”
“So you’re not planning to ask the monks to boycott the wedding?”
“No.”
Simeon said: “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Perhaps – but I trust no one is in danger except me.”
“You did not even want to be prior. You would not allow your name to be put forward. You only accepted when all else failed.”
“I don’t want to be prior,” Godwyn lied. “But the earl of Shiring must not be allowed to choose for us, and that’s more important than my personal feelings.”
Simeon looked at him with respect. “You’re being very honourable.”
“Like you, brother, I’m just trying to do the will of God.”
“May He bless your efforts.”
The two old monks left him. He felt a twinge of conscience for allowing them to believe that he was acting unselfishly. They saw him as some kind of martyr. But it was true, he told himself, that he was only trying to do the will of God.
He looked around: the church was back to normal. He was about to go to the prior’s house for dinner when his cousin Caris appeared, her blue dress a startling splash of colour in the dim grey church. “Are you going to be inaugurated tomorrow?” she said.
He smiled. “Everyone’s asking the same question. The answer is yes.”
“We hear the earl is putting up a fight.”
“He’s going to lose it.”
Her shrewd green eyes gave him a penetrating stare. “I’ve known you since you were a child, and I can tell when you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re pretending to be more certain than you actually feel.”
“That’s not a sin.”
“My father is worried about the bridge. Friar Murdo is even more likely to obey the earl’s will than Saul Whitehead was.”
“Murdo is not going to be prior of Kingsbridge.”
“There you go again.”
Godwyn was annoyed by her perspicacity. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he snapped. “I’ve been elected, and I mean to take the post. Earl Roland would like to stop me, but he doesn’t have the right, and I’m fighting him with all the means at my disposal. Am I scared? Yes. But I still intend to beat him.”
She grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” She punched his shoulder. “Go and see your mother. She’s in your house, waiting for you. That’s what I came to tell you.” With that she turned and left.
Godwyn went out through the north transept. Caris was clever, he thought with a mixture of admiration and irritation. She had cajoled him into giving her an assessment of the situation more candid than anything he had said to anyone else.
But he was glad of the chance to talk to his mother. Everyone else doubted his power to win this fight. She would have confidence – and perhaps some strategic ideas.
He found Petranilla in the hall, sitting at the table, which was laid for two with bread, ale and a platter of salted fish. He kissed her forehead, said grace and sat down to eat. He allowed himself a moment of triumphant pleasure. “Well,” he said. “I’m the prior-elect, at least, and here we are having dinner in the prior’s house.”
“But Roland is still fighting you,” she said.
“Harder than I expected. After all, he has the right of nomination, not selection. It’s inherent in his position that his choice will not always be elected.”
“Most earls would accept that, but not him,” Petranilla said. “He’s felt superior to everyone he’s ever met.” There was a bitterness in her tone which, Godwyn guessed, sprang from memories of their aborted engagement more than thirty years ago. She smiled vengefully. “Soon he will realize how badly he’s underestimated us.”
“He knows I’m your son.”
“Then that will be a factor. You probably remind him of the dishonourable way he behaved to me. That’s enough to make him hate you.”
“It’s a shame.” Godwyn lowered his voice in case a servant might be listening outside the door. “Until this point, your plan has worked perfectly. Withdrawing myself from the contest, then discrediting everyone else, was brilliant.”
“Perhaps. But we may be about to lose everything. Have you said any more to the bishop?”
“No. I’ve reminded him that we know about Margery. He was scared, but not scared enough to defy his father, it seems.”
“He should be. If this comes out, he won’t be forgiven. He could end up a lowly knight on the level of Sir Gerald, wasting his days as a pensioner. Doesn’t he realize that?”
“Perhaps he thinks I don’t have the courage to reveal what I know.”
“Then you’ll have to go to the earl with the information.”
“Heavens! He’ll explode!”
“Steel your nerve.”
She always said this kind of thing. It was why he looked forward with such apprehension to meetings with her. She always wanted him to be a little more daring, and take greater risks, than was his inclination. But he could never refuse her.
She went on: “If it came out that Margery’s not a virgin, the marriage would be called off. Roland doesn’t want that. He’ll accept the lesser evil of you as prior.”
“But he’ll be my enemy for the rest of his life.”
“He’ll be that whatever happens.”
Small consolation, Godwyn thought; but he did not argue, for he could see that his mother was right.
There was a tap at the door, and Lady Philippa walked in.
Godwyn and Petranilla stood up.
“I need to talk to you,” Philippa said to Godwyn.
He said: “May I present my mother, Petranilla?”
Petranilla curtsied, then said: “I’d better leave. You’re obviously here to broker a deal, my lady.”
Philippa gave her an amused look. “If you know that much, you know everything of importance. Perhaps you should stay.”
As the two women stood facing one another, Godwyn noticed that they were similar: same height, same statuesque build and the same imperious air. Philippa was younger, of course, by something like twenty years; and she had a relaxed authority, and a touch of humour, that contrasted with Petranilla’s tight-wound determination – perhaps because Philippa had a husband and Petranilla had lost hers. But Philippa was a strong-willed woman who exercised power through a man – Lord William – and, Godwyn now realized, Petranilla also wielded influence through a man – himself.
“Let’s sit down,” Philippa said.
Petranilla said: “Has the earl approved whatever you’re about to propose?”
“No.” Philippa made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Roland is too proud to agree in advance to something that might then be rejected by the other side. If I can get Godwyn’s agreement to what I’m about to suggest, then I’ve got a chance of persuading Roland to compromise.”
“I thought as much.”
Godwyn said: “Would you like something to eat, my lady?”
Philippa dismissed the offer with an impatient wave. “As things stand, everyone is going to lose,” she began. “The wedding will take place, but without the proper pomp and ceremony; so that Roland’s alliance with the earl of Monmouth will be blighted from the start. The bishop will refuse to ratify you as prior, Godwyn, so the archbishop will be called in to resolve the dispute; and he will dismiss both you and Murdo, and nominate someone new, probably a member of his staff whom he wants to be rid of. No one will get what they want. Am I right?”
She directed the question at Petranilla, who made a noncommittal sound.
“So why not anticipate the archbishop’s compromise?” Philippa went on. “Bring forward the third candidate now. Only -” she pointed a finger at Godwyn – “the candidate is chosen by you – and he promises to make you sub-prior.”
Godwyn considered. This would relieve him of the need to confront the earl eyeball-to-eyeball and threaten him with the revelation of his son’s behaviour. But the compromise would doom him to be sub-prior for an indefinite period – and then, when the new prior died, he would have to fight the battle all over again. He was inclined to refuse, despite his apprehension.
He glanced at his mother. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She did not like it either.
“I’m sorry,” Godwyn said to Philippa. “The monks have held an election, and the result must stand.”
Philippa stood up. “In that case, I must give you the message that is my official reason for coming here. Tomorrow morning the earl will rise from his sick bed. He wishes to inspect the cathedral and make sure all is ready in plenty of time for the wedding. You are to meet him in the church at eight o’clock. All the monks and nuns must be robed ready, and the church dressed with the usual ornaments.”
Godwyn bowed his head in acknowledgement, and she went out.
At the appointed hour Godwyn stood in a bare, silent church.
He was alone: there were no monks or nuns with him. No furniture was to be seen, except for the fixed choir stalls. There were no candles, no crucifixes, no chalices, no flowers. The watery sun that had shone fitfully through rain clouds much of this summer now cast a weak, cold light into the nave. Godwyn held his hands tightly together behind his back to keep them from shaking.
On time, the earl walked in.
With him were Lord William, Lady Philippa, Bishop Richard, Richard’s assistant Archdeacon Lloyd, and the earl’s clerk Father Jerome. Godwyn would have liked to surround himself with an entourage, but none of the monks knew quite how risky his scheme was, and if they had known they might not have had the nerve to back him up; so he had decided to face the earl alone.
The bandages had been removed from Roland’s head. He walked slowly but steadily. He must surely feel shaky after so many weeks in bed, Godwyn thought, but he seemed determined not to show it. He looked normal apart from the paralysis of half his face. His message to the world today would be that he was fully recovered and back in charge. And Godwyn was threatening to spoil that design.
The others looked with incredulity at the empty church, but the earl showed no surprise. “You’re an arrogant monk,” he said to Godwyn, speaking as always out of the left side of his mouth.
Godwyn was risking everything, and had nothing further to lose by being defiant, so he said: “You’re an obstinate earl.”
Roland put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I ought to run you through for that.”
“Go ahead.” Godwyn held his arms out sideways, ready to be crucified. “Murder the prior of Kingsbridge, here in the cathedral, just as King Henry’s knights murdered Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury. Send me to heaven and yourself to eternal damnation.”
Philippa gasped with shock at Godwyn’s disrespect. William moved as if to silence Godwyn. Roland restrained him with a gesture, and said to Godwyn: “Your bishop orders you to ready the church for the wedding. Don’t monks take a vow of obedience?”
“The lady Margery cannot be married here.”
“Why not – because you want to be prior?”
“Because she is not a virgin.”
Philippa’s hand flew to her mouth. Richard groaned. William drew his sword. Roland said: “This is treason!”
Godwyn said: “Put away your sword, Lord William – you can’t restore her maidenhead with that.”
Roland said: “What do you know of such things, monk?”
“Two men of this priory witnessed the act, which took place in a private room of the hospital, the very room where you, my lord, are staying.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“The earl of Monmouth will.”
“You would not dare to tell him.”
“I must explain to him why his son cannot marry Margery in Kingsbridge Cathedral – at least until she has confessed her sin and received absolution.”
“You have no proof of this slander.”
“I have two witnesses. But ask the girl. I believe she will confess. I imagine she favours the lover who took her virginity over the political match chosen by her uncle.” Once again Godwyn was going out on a limb. But he had seen Margery’s face when Richard was kissing her, and at that moment he had felt sure she was in love. Having to marry the earl’s son must be breaking her heart. It would be very difficult for such a young woman to lie convincingly if her emotions were as turbulent as Godwyn guessed.
The animated half of Roland’s face was working with fury. “And who is this man who you claim committed this crime? For, if you can prove what you allege, the villain will hang, I swear. And, if not, you will. So let him be sent for, and we’ll see what he has to say.”
“He’s already here.”
Roland looked with incredulity at the four men with him – his two sons, William and Richard, plus two priests, Lloyd and Jerome.
Godwyn stared at Richard.
Roland followed the direction of Godwyn’s stare. In a moment, they were all looking at Richard.
Godwyn held his breath. What would Richard say? Would he bluster? Would he accuse Godwyn of lying? Would he fly into a rage and attack his accuser?
But his face showed defeat, not anger, and after a moment he bowed his head and said: “It’s no good. The damned monk is right – she will not withstand interrogation.”
Earl Roland went white. “You did this?” he said. For once he was not shouting, but that seemed to make him more terrifying. “The girl I betrothed to an earl’s son – you fucked her?”
Richard made no reply, but looked down at the ground.
“You fool,” the earl said. “You traitor. You-”
Philippa interrupted him. “Who else knows?”
That stopped the tirade. They all looked at her.
“Perhaps the wedding may still take place,” she said. “Thank God, the earl of Monmouth isn’t here.” She looked at Godwyn. “Who knows about this, other than the people here now, and the two men of the priory who witnessed the act?”
Godwyn tried to calm his thudding heart. He was so close to success that he seemed to taste it. “No one else knows, my lady,” he said.
“All of us on the earl’s side can keep the secret,” she said. “What about your men?”
“They will obey their elected prior,” he said, with the slightest emphasis on the word ‘elected’.
Philippa turned to Roland. “Then the wedding can take place.”
Godwyn added: “Provided the inauguration ceremony is held first.”
Everyone looked at the earl.
He took a step forward and suddenly hit Richard in the face. It was a powerful blow struck by a soldier who knew how to put all his weight into it. Although he used his open hand, Richard was knocked to the ground.
Richard lay still, looking terrified, blood trickling from his mouth.
Earl Roland’s face was white and sweating: the blow had used up all his reserves, and he now looked shaky. Several silent seconds passed. At last he seemed to recover his strength. With a contemptuous glance at the purple-robed figure cowering on the floor, he turned on his heel and walked, slowly but steadily, out of the church.
Caris stood on the green in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral, along with at least half the population of the town, waiting for the bride and groom to emerge from the great west door of the church.
Caris was not sure why she was here. She had been feeling negative about marriage ever since the day Merthin had finished his hoist and they had had an abrasive conversation about their future. She felt angry with him, even though everything he had said made perfect sense. Of course he wanted to have his own house and live with her in it; of course he wanted to sleep with her every night and have children. That was what everyone wanted – everyone, it seemed, except Caris.
And in fact she wanted all those things too, in a way. She would have liked to lie down beside him every evening, and put her arms around his slim body any time she wanted, and feel his clever hands on her skin when she woke up in the morning, and give birth to a miniature version of him that they could both love and care for. But she did not want the things that went with marriage. She wanted a lover, not a master; she wanted to live with him, not dedicate her life to him. And she was angry with Merthin for forcing her to face up to the dilemma. Why could they not go on just as they were?
For three weeks she had hardly spoken to him. She pretended to have a summer cold, and in fact she developed a painful sore on her lip that gave her an excuse not to kiss him. He still took his meals at her house, and talked amiably with her father; but he did not linger after Edmund and Petranilla went to bed.
Now Caris’s sore had healed and her anger had cooled. She still did not want to become Merthin’s property, but she wished he would start kissing her again. However, he was not with her now. He was in the crowd, some distance away, talking to Bessie Bell, daughter of the landlord of the Bell inn. She was a small girl with a curvy body and the kind of grin that men called saucy and women called tarty. Merthin was making her laugh. Caris looked away.
The big wooden church door opened. A cheer went up from the crowd, and the bride emerged. Margery was a pretty girl of sixteen, dressed in white, with flowers in her hair. The groom followed her out, a tall, serious-looking man about ten years older than she.
They both looked completely miserable.
They hardly knew each other. Until this week, they had met only once, six months ago, when the two earls had arranged the marriage. There was a rumour that Margery loved someone else, but of course there was no question of her disobeying Earl Roland. And her new husband had a studious air, as if he would prefer to be in a library somewhere, reading a book about geometry. What would their life together be like? It was hard to imagine their developing the kind of passion for one another that Caris and Merthin enjoyed.
She saw Merthin coming towards her through the crowd, and suddenly she was struck by the thought that she was ungrateful. How lucky she was not to be the niece of an earl! No one was going to force her into an arranged marriage. She was free to marry the man she loved – and all she could do was find reasons not to.
She greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the lips. He looked surprised, but made no comment. Some men would have been unnerved by her change of mood, but Merthin had a bedrock equanimity that was hard to shake.
They stood together and watched as Earl Roland came out of the church, followed by the earl and countess of Monmouth, then Bishop Richard and Prior Godwyn. Caris noticed that her cousin Godwyn looked both pleased and apprehensive – almost as if he were the groom. The reason, no doubt, was that he had just been inaugurated as prior.
An escort of knights formed up, the Shiring men in Roland’s red-and-black livery, the Monmouth men in yellow and green. The procession moved off, heading for the guild hall. There Earl Roland was giving a banquet for the wedding guests. Edmund was going, but Caris had managed to get out of it, and Petranilla was to accompany him.
As the bridal party left the precincts, a light shower of rain began to fall. Caris and Merthin took shelter in the cathedral porch. “Come with me to the chancel,” Merthin said. “I want to look at Elfric’s repairs.”
The wedding guests were still leaving the church. Moving against the flow, Merthin and Caris pushed through the crowd in the nave and went to the south aisle of the chancel. This part of the church was reserved for the clergy, and they would have disapproved of Caris’s being there, but the monks and nuns had already left. Caris glanced around, but there was no one to see her except one unfamiliar woman, a well-dressed redhead of about thirty, presumably a wedding guest, apparently waiting for someone.
Merthin craned his neck to look up at the vaulted ceiling over the aisle. The repairs were not quite finished: a small section of the vault was still open, and a sheet of canvas, painted white, was stretched across the gap, so that the ceiling looked complete to a casual glance.
“He’s doing a decent job,” Merthin said. “I wonder how long it will last?”
“Why wouldn’t it last indefinitely?” Caris asked.
“Because we don’t know why the vault crumbled. These things don’t happen for no reason – they’re not acts of God, regardless of what the priests may say. Whatever caused the stonework to collapse once will, presumably, do so again.”
“Is it possible to discover the cause?”
“It’s not easy. Elfric certainly can’t do it. I might.”
“But you’ve been sacked.”
“Exactly.” He stood there for a few moments, head tilted back, then said: “I want to see this from above. I’m going into the loft.”
“I’ll come with you,”
They both looked around, but there was no one nearby except for the red-haired wedding guest, who was still loitering in the south transept. Merthin led Caris to a small door that opened on a narrow spiral staircase. She followed him up, wondering what the monks would think if they knew a woman was exploring their secret passageways. The staircase emerged into an attic over the south aisle.
Caris was intrigued to see the vault from the other side. “What you’re looking at is called the extrados,” Merthin said. She liked the casual way he gave her architectural information, assuming she would be interested and knowing she would understand. He never made stupid jokes about women not grasping technicalities.
He moved along the narrow walkway then lay down to examine the new stonework closely. Mischievously, she lay beside him and put her arm around him, as if they were in bed. Merthin touched the mortar between the new stones then put his finger on his tongue. “It’s drying out quite quickly,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s very dangerous if there’s moisture in the cleft.”
He looked at her. “I’ll give you moisture in the cleft.”
“You already have.”
He kissed her. She closed her eyes to enjoy it more.
After a minute she said: “Let’s go to my house. We’ll have it to ourselves – my father and my aunt are both at the wedding banquet.”
They were about to get up when they heard voices. A man and a woman had come into the south aisle, immediately below the repair work. What they said was only a little muffled by the canvas sheet covering the hole in the ceiling. “Your son is thirteen now,” the woman said. “He wants to be a knight.”
“All boys do,” came the reply.
Merthin whispered: “Don’t move – they’ll hear us.”
Caris presumed the female voice to be that of the wedding guest. The male voice was familiar, and she had the feeling the speaker was a monk – but a monk could not have a son.
“And your daughter is twelve. She’s going to be beautiful.”
“Like her mother.”
“A little.” There was a pause, then the woman went on: “I can’t stay long – the countess may look for me.”
So she was in the entourage of the countess of Monmouth. She might be a lady-in-waiting, Caris guessed. She seemed to be giving news of children to a father who had not seen them for years. Who could it be?
He said: “Why did you want to meet me, Loreen?”
“Just to look at you. I’m sorry you lost your arm.”
Caris gasped, then covered her mouth, hoping she had not been heard. There was only one monk who had lost an arm: Thomas. Now that the name had come into her mind, she knew that the voice was his. Could it be that he had a wife? And two children? Caris looked at Merthin and saw that his face was a mask of incredulity.
“What do you tell the children of me?” Thomas asked.
“That their father is dead,” Loreen replied harshly. Then she began to cry. “Why did you do it?”
“I had no choice. If I had not come here, I would have been killed. Even now, I almost never leave the precincts.”
“Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“To protect a secret.”
“I’d be better off if you’d died. As a widow, I could find a husband, someone to be a father to my children. But this way I have all the burdens of a wife and mother but no one to help me… no one to put his arms around me in the night.”
“I’m sorry I’m still alive.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t wish you dead. I loved you once.”
“And I loved you as much as a man of my kind can love a woman.”
Caris frowned. What did he mean by ‘a man of my kind’? Was he one of those men who loved other men? Monks often were.
Whatever he meant, Loreen seemed to understand, for she said gently: “I know you did.”
There was a long silence. Caris knew she and Merthin should not be eavesdropping on such an intimate conversation – but it was now too late to reveal themselves.
Loreen said: “Are you happy?”
“Yes. I was not made to be a husband, or a knight. I pray for my children every day – and for you. I ask God to wash from my hands the blood of all the men I killed. This is the life I always wanted.”
“In that case, I wish you well.”
“You’re very generous.”
“You’ll probably never see me again.”
“I know.”
“Kiss me, and say goodbye.”
There was a long silence, then light footsteps receded. Caris lay still, hardly daring to breathe. After another pause, she heard Thomas crying. His sobs were muffled, but seemed to come from deep inside. Tears came to her own eyes as she listened.
Eventually Thomas got himself under control. He sniffed, coughed, and muttered something that might have been a prayer; then she heard his steps as he walked away.
At last she and Merthin could move. They stood up and walked back along the loft and down the spiral stairs. Neither spoke as they went down the nave of the great church. Caris felt as if she had been staring at a painting of high tragedy, the figures frozen in their dramatic attitudes of the moment, their past and future only to be guessed at.
Like a painting, the scene aroused different emotions in different People, and Merthin’s reaction was not the same as hers. As they emerged into a damp summer afternoon, he said: “What a sad story.”
“It makes me angry,” Caris said. “That woman has been ruined by Thomas.”
“You can hardly blame him. He had to save his life.”
“And now her life is over. She has no husband, but she can’t marry again. She’s forced to raise two children alone. At least Thomas has the monastery.”
“She has the court of the countess.”
“How can you compare the two?” Caris said irritably. “She’s probably a distant relation, kept on as an act of charity, asked to perform menial tasks, helping the countess dress her hair and choose her clothes. She’s got no choice – she’s trapped.”
“So is he. You heard him say he can’t leave the precincts.”
“But Thomas has a role, he’s the matricularius, he makes decisions, he does something.”
“Loreen has her children.”
“Exactly! The man takes care of the most important building for miles around, and the woman is stuck with her children.”
“Queen Isabella had four children, and for a while she was one of the most powerful people in Europe.”
“But she had to get rid of her husband first.”
They went on in silence, walking out of the priory grounds into the main street, and stopped in front of Caris’s house. She realized that this was another quarrel, and it was on the same subject as last time: marriage.
Merthin said: “I’m going to the Bell for dinner.”
That was Bessie’s father’s inn. “All right,” Caris said despondently.
As Merthin walked away, she called after him: “Loreen would be better off if she’d never married.”
He spoke over his shoulder. “What else would she do?”
That was the problem, Caris thought resentfully as she entered her house. What else was a woman to do?
The place was empty. Edmund and Petranilla were at the banquet, and the servants had the afternoon off. Only Scrap the dog was there to welcome Caris with a lazy wag of her tail. Caris patted her black head absent-mindedly, then sat at the table in the hall, brooding.
Every other young woman in Christendom wanted nothing more than to marry the man she loved – why was Caris so horrified by the prospect? From where had she got such unconventional feelings? Certainly not from her own mother. Rose had wanted only to be a good wife to Edmund. She had believed what men said about the inferiority of women. Her subordination had embarrassed Caris and, though Edmund never complained, Caris suspected that he had been bored by it. Caris had more respect for her forceful, unlovable Aunt Petranilla than for her compliant mother.
Even Petranilla had allowed her life to be shaped by men. For years she had worked to manoeuvre her father up the social ladder until he became alderman of Kingsbridge. Her strongest emotion was resentment: towards Earl Roland because he had jilted her, and towards her husband because he had died. As a widow she had dedicated herself to Godwyn’s career.
Queen Isabella had been similar. She had deposed her husband, King Edward II; but the result had been that her lover, Roger Mortimer, had effectively ruled England until her son grew old enough and confident enough to oust him.
Was that what Caris should do – live her life through men? Her father wanted her to work with him in the wool business. Or she could manage Merthin’s career, helping him secure contracts to construct churches and bridges, expanding his business until he was the richest and most important builder in England.
She was roused from her thoughts by a tap at the door, and the bird-like figure of Mother Cecilia walked briskly in.
“Good afternoon!” Caris said in surprise. “I was just asking myself whether all women are doomed to live their lives through men – and here you are, an obvious counter-example.”
“You’re not quite right,” Cecilia said with a friendly smile. “I live through Jesus Christ, who was a man, though he is God too.”
Caris was not sure whether that counted. She opened the cupboard and took out a small barrel of the best wine. “Would you like a cup of my father’s Rhenish?”
“Just a little, mixed with water.”
Caris half filled two cups with wine then topped up the drinks with water from a jug. “You know that my father and aunt are at the banquet.”
“Yes. I came to see you.”
Caris had guessed as much. The prioress did not wander around the town making social calls without a purpose.
Cecilia sipped, then went on: “I’ve been thinking about you, and the way you acted on the day the bridge collapsed.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“On the contrary. You did everything perfectly. You were gentle but firm with the injured, and you obeyed my orders but at the same time used your initiative. I was impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“And you seemed… not to enjoy it, exactly, but at least to find satisfaction in the work.”
“People were in distress, and we brought them relief – what could be more satisfying?”
“That’s how I feel, and it’s why I’m a nun.”
Caris saw where this was going. “I couldn’t spend my life in the priory.”
“The natural aptitude you showed for looking after the sick is only part of what I noticed. When people first started to walk into the cathedral carrying the injured and dead, I asked who had told them what to do. The answer was Caris Wooler.”
“It was obvious what should be done.”
“Yes – to you.” Cecilia leaned forward earnestly. “The talent for organization is given to few people. I know – I have it, and I recognize it in others. When everyone around us is baffled, or panicked, or terrified, you and I take charge.”
Caris felt this was true. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.
“I’ve watched you for ten years – since the day your mother died.”
“You brought her relief in her distress.”
“I knew then, just by talking to you, that you were going to grow up into an exceptional woman. My feeling was confirmed when you attended the nuns’ school. You’re twenty now. You must be thinking about what to do with your life. I believe that God has work for you.”
“How do you know what God thinks?”
Cecilia bristled. “If anyone else in town asked me that question, I’d order them down on their knees to pray for forgiveness. But you’re sincere, so I’ll answer. I know what God thinks because I accept the teachings of His church. And I’m convinced he wants you to be a nun.”
“I like men too much.”
“Always a problem for me, as a youngster – but, I can assure you, a problem that diminishes with every passing year.”
“I can’t be told how to live.”
“Don’t be a Beguine.”
“What’s that?”
“Beguines are nuns who accept no rules and consider their vows to be temporary. They live together, cultivate their lands and graze their cattle, and refuse to be governed by men.”
Caris was always intrigued to hear of women who defied the rules. “Where are they to be found?”
“Mostly in the Netherlands. They had a leader, Marguerite Porete, who wrote a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls.”
“I’d like to read it.”
“Out of the question. The Beguines have been condemned by the Church for the heresy of the Free Spirit – the belief that we can attain spiritual perfection here on earth.”
“Spiritual perfection? What does that mean? It’s just a phrase.”
“If you’re determined to close your mind to God, you’ll never understand it.”
“I’m sorry, Mother Cecilia, but every time I’m told something about God by a mere human, I think: ‘But humans are fallible, so the truth might be different.’ ”
“How could the church be wrong?”
“Well, the Muslims have different beliefs.”
“They’re heathens!”
“They call us infidels – it’s the same thing. And Buonaventura Caroli says there are more Muslims than Christians in the world. So somebody’s church is wrong.”
“Be careful,” Cecilia said severely. “Don’t allow your passion for argument to lead you into blasphemy.”
“Sorry, mother.” Caris knew that Cecilia enjoyed sparring with her, but there always came a moment when the prioress stopped arguing and started preaching, and Caris had to back down. It left her feeling slightly cheated.
Cecilia stood up. “I know I can’t persuade you against your will, but I wanted you to know the tendency of my thoughts. You could do nothing better than to join our nunnery and dedicate your life to the sacrament of healing. Thank you for the wine.”
As Cecilia was leaving, Caris said: “What happened to Marguerite Porete? Is she still alive?”
“No,” said the prioress. “She was burned at the stake.” She went out into the street, shutting the door behind her.
Caris stared at the closed door. A woman’s life was a house of closed doors: she could not be an apprentice, she could not study at the university, she could not be a priest or a physician, nor shoot a bow nor fight with a sword, and she could not marry without submitting herself to the tyranny of her husband.
She wondered what Merthin was doing now. Was Bessie sitting at his table at the Bell inn, watching him drink her father’s best ale, giving him that inviting smile, pulling the front of her dress tight to make sure he could see what nice breasts she had? Was he being charming and amusing to her, making her laugh? Was she parting her lips to show him her even teeth, and throwing back her head so that he could appreciate the soft skin of her white throat? Was he talking to her father, Paul Bell, asking respectful and interested questions about his business, so that later Paul would tell his daughter that Merthin was a good sort, a fine young man? Would Merthin get drunk and put his arm around Bessie’s waist, resting his hand on her hip then slyly inching his fingertips towards that sensitive place between her thighs that was already itching for his touch – just as he once had with Caris?
Tears came to her eyes. She felt she was a fool. She had the best man in town and here she was handing him over to a barmaid. Why did she do these things to herself?
At that moment he walked in.
She looked at him through a mist of tears. Her vision was so blurred that she could not read his expression. Had he come to make friends again – or to berate her, venting his anger with the courage of several tankards of ale?
She stood up. For a moment she was held in suspense, as he closed the door behind him and came slowly to stand in front of her. Then he said: “No matter what you do or say, I still love you.”
She threw her arms around him and burst out crying.
He stroked her hair and said nothing, which was just right.
After a while they started to kiss. She felt the familiar hunger, but stronger than ever: she wanted his hands all over her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers inside her. She felt differently and she wanted their love to find a new expression. “Let’s take off all our clothes,” she said. They had never done that before.
He smiled with pleasure. “All right, but what if someone comes in?”
“They’ll be at the banquet for hours. And anyway we can go upstairs.”
They went to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes. Suddenly she felt shy. What would he think when he saw her naked? She knew he loved her body bit by bit: her breasts, her legs, her throat, her cunt – he always told her how beautiful they were as he kissed and caressed them. But would he now notice that her hips were too wide, her legs a little short, her breasts quite small?
He seemed to have no such inhibitions. He threw off his shirt, pulled down his underdrawers, and stood unselfconsciously before her. His body was slight but strong, and he seemed full of pent-up energy, like a young deer. She noticed for the first time that the hair at his groin was the colour of autumn leaves. His cock stood up eagerly. Desire overcame her shyness, and she pulled her dress quickly over her head.
He stared at her bare body, but she no longer felt embarrassed – his look inflamed her like an intimate caress. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“So are you.”
They lay side by side on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. As they kissed and touched one another, she realized that today she was not going to be satisfied with the games they usually played. “I want to do it properly,” she said.
“You mean go the whole way?”
The thought of pregnancy surfaced in her mind, but she pushed it back down. She was too heated to think of consequences. “Yes,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
He lay on top of her. Half her life she had wondered what this moment would be like. She looked up at his face. It wore the concentrated expression that she loved so much, the look he had when he was working, his small hands shaping wood with tenderness and skill. His fingertips softly spread the petals of her sex. She was slippery and yearning for him.
He said: “Are you sure?”
Once again she suppressed the thought of pregnancy. “I’m sure.”
She felt a moment of fear when he entered her. She tightened involuntarily, and he hesitated, feeling her body resisting him. “It’s all right,” she said. “You can push harder. You won’t hurt me.” She was wrong about that, and there was a sudden sharp pain as he thrust. She could not help crying out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Just wait a minute,” she said.
They lay still. He kissed her eyelids and her forehead and the tip of her nose. She stroked his face and looked into his golden-brown eyes. Then the pain was gone and the desire came back, and she began to move, rejoicing in the feeling of having the man she loved deep inside her body for the first time. She thrilled to see the intensity of his pleasure. He stared at her, a faint smile on his lips, a deep hunger in his eyes, as they moved faster.
“I can’t stop,” he said breathlessly.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
She watched him intently. In a few moments he was overwhelmed by pleasure, his eyes shut tight and his mouth open and his whole body as taut as a bowstring. She felt his spasms inside her, and the jet of his ejaculation, and she thought that nothing in life had prepared her for such happiness. A moment later she herself was convulsed with ecstasy. She had had this sensation before, but not so powerfully, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, pulling his body hard against her own as she shook like a tree in the wind.
When it was over they lay still for a long while. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt his panting breath on her skin. She stroked his back. His skin was damp with perspiration. Gradually her heartbeat slowed, and a deep contentment stole over her like twilight on a summer evening.
“So,” she said after a while, “that’s what all the fuss is about.”
The day after Godwyn was confirmed as prior of Kingsbridge, Edmund Wooler came to Merthin’s parents’ house early in the morning.
Merthin tended to forget what an important personage Edmund was, for Edmund treated him as a member of the family; but Gerald and Maud acted as if receiving an unexpected royal visitation. They were embarrassed that Edmund should see how poor their house was. There was only one room. Merthin and his parents slept on straw mattresses on the floor. There was a fireplace and a table and a small yard at the back.
Fortunately, the family had been up since sunrise, and had washed and dressed and tidied the place. All the same, when Edmund came stomping into the house with his uneven gait, Merthin’s mother dusted a stool, patted her hair, closed the back door then opened it again, and put a log on the fire. His father bowed several times, put on a surcoat and offered Edmund a cup of ale.
“No, thank you, Sir Gerald,” said Edmund, no doubt knowing that the family had none to spare. “However, I’ll take a small bowl of your pottage, Lady Maud, if I may.” Every family kept a pot of oats on the fire to which they added bones, apple cores, pea pods and other scraps, to be slow-cooked for days. Flavoured with salt and herbs, the result was a soup that never tasted the same twice. It was the cheapest food.
Pleased, Maud ladled some pottage into a bowl and put it on the table with a spoon and a plate of bread.
Merthin was still feeling the euphoria of the previous afternoon. It was like being slightly drunk. He had gone to sleep thinking of Caris’s naked body and woken up smiling. But he was suddenly reminded of his confrontation with Elfric over Griselda. A false instinct told him that Edmund was going to scream “You defiled my daughter!” and hit him across the face with a length of timber.
It was only a momentary vision, and it vanished as Edmund sat at the table. He picked up the spoon but, before he began to eat, he said to Merthin: “Now that we’ve got a prior, I want to start work on the new bridge as soon as possible.”
“Good,” said Merthin.
Edmund swallowed a spoonful and smacked his lips. “This is the best pottage I’ve ever tasted, Lady Maud.” Merthin’s mother looked pleased.
Merthin was grateful to Edmund for being charming to his parents. They felt the humiliation of their reduced status, and it was balm to the wound to have the town’s alderman eating at their table and calling them Sir Gerald and Lady Maud.
Now his father said: “I almost didn’t marry her, Edmund – did you know that?”
Merthin was sure Edmund had heard the story before, but he replied: “Good lord, no – how did that happen?”
“I saw her in church on Easter Sunday, and fell in love with her instantly. There must have been a thousand people in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and she was the most beautiful woman there.”
“Now, Gerald, no need to exaggerate,” Maud said crisply.
“Then she disappeared into the crowd, and I couldn’t find her! I didn’t know her name. I asked people who was the pretty girl with the fair hair, and they said all the girls were pretty and fair.”
Maud said: “I hurried away after the service. We were staying at the Holly Bush inn, and my mother was unwell, so I went back to take care of her.”
Gerald said: “I looked all over town, but I couldn’t find her. After Easter, everyone went home. I was living in Shiring, and she in Casterham, though I didn’t know that. I thought I’d never see her again. I imagined she might have been an angel, come to earth to make sure everyone was attending the service.”
She said: “Gerald, please.”
“But my heart was lost. I took no interest in other women. I expected to spend my life longing for the Angel of Kingsbridge. This went on for two years. Then I saw her at a tournament in Winchester.”
She said: “This complete stranger came up to me and said: ‘It’s you I after all this time! You must marry me before you disappear again.’ I thought he was mad.”
“Amazing,” said Edmund.
Merthin thought Edmund’s goodwill had been stretched far enough. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve drawn some designs on the tracing floor in the mason’s loft at the cathedral.”
Edmund nodded. “A stone bridge wide enough for two carts?”
“As you specified – and ramped at both ends. And I’ve found a way to reduce the price by about a third.”
“That’s astonishing! How?”
“I’ll show you, as soon as you’ve finished eating.”
Edmund spooned up the last of the pottage and stood. “I’m done. Let’s go.” He turned to Gerald and inclined his head in a slight bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, alderman.”
Merthin and Edmund stepped out into a light drizzle. Instead of heading for the cathedral, Merthin led Edmund towards the river. Edmund’s lopsided stride was instantly recognizable, and every second person on the street greeted him with a friendly word or a respectful bow.
Merthin suddenly felt nervous. He had been thinking about the bridge design for months. While he worked at St Mark’s, supervising the carpenters who were constructing the new roof as the old was demolished, he mulled over the greater challenge of the bridge. Now for the first time his ideas would come under scrutiny by someone else.
As yet, Edmund had no idea how radical Merthin’s plan was.
The muddy street wound downhill through houses and workshops. The city ramparts had fallen into disrepair during two centuries of civil peace, and in some places all that remained were humps of earth that now formed parts of garden walls. At the river’s edge were industries that used large quantities of water, especially wool dyers and leather tanners.
Merthin and Edmund emerged on to the muddy foreshore between a slaughterhouse that gave off a strong smell of blood and a smithy where hammers clanged on iron. Directly in front of them, across a narrow stretch of water, was Leper Island. Edmund said: “Why are we here? The bridge is a quarter of a mile upstream.”
“It was,” said Merthin. He took a breath and said: “I think we should build the new one here.”
“A bridge to the island?”
“And another from the island to the far shore. Two small bridges instead of one big one. Much cheaper.”
“But people will have to walk across the island from one bridge to the other.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a leper colony!”
“There’s only one leper left. He can be moved elsewhere. The disease seems to be dying out.”
Edmund looked thoughtful. “So everyone who comes to Kingsbridge will arrive at this spot, where we’re standing.”
“We’ll have to build a new street, and knock down some of these buildings – but the cost will be small by comparison with the money saved on the bridge.”
“And on the other side…”
“A pasture that belongs to the priory. I can see the whole layout when I’m on the roof of St Mark’s. That’s how come I thought of it.”
Edmund was impressed. “That’s very clever. I wonder why the bridge wasn’t put here originally.”
“The first bridge was erected hundreds of years ago. The river probably had a different shape then. River banks must move their position as the centuries go by. The channel between the island and the pasture could have been wider at one time. Then there would have been no advantage in building here.”
Edmund peered across the water, and Merthin followed his gaze. The leper colony was a scatter of tumbledown wooden buildings spread over three or four acres. The island was too rocky for cultivation, but there were some trees and scrubby grass. The place was infested with rabbits, which the townspeople would not eat because of a superstition that they were the souls of dead lepers. At one time the ostracized inhabitants had kept their own chickens and pigs. Now, however, it was simpler for the priory to supply food to the last remaining inhabitant. “You’re right,” Edmund said. “There hasn’t been a new case of leprosy in the town for at least ten years.”
“I’ve never seen a leper,” Merthin said. “As a child, I thought people were saying ‘leopard’. I imagined that island to be occupied by spotted lions.”
Edmund laughed. Turning his back on the river, he looked at the buildings around. “There will be some political work to do,” he mused. “The people whose homes must be demolished will have to be convinced that they’re the lucky ones, being moved to new and better houses while their neighbours missed out. And the island may have to be cleansed with holy water to convince people that it’s safe. But we can handle all that.”
“I’ve drawn both bridges with pointed arches, like the cathedral,” Merthin said. “They will be beautiful.”
“Show me.”
They left the riverside and walked uphill through the town to the priory. The cathedral dripped with rain under a layer of low cloud like smoke from a damp fire. Merthin was looking forward to seeing his drawings again – he had not been to the loft for a week or so – and to explaining them to Edmund. He had thought a great deal about the way the current had undermined the old bridge, and how he could protect the new one from the same fate.
He led Edmund through the north porch and up the spiral staircase. His wet shoes slipped on the worn stone steps. Edmund energetically hauled his withered leg up behind him.
Several lamps were burning in the mason’s loft. At first Merthin was pleased, for that meant they would be able to see his drawings more clearly. Then he saw Elfric working on the tracing floor.
He felt momentarily frustrated. The enmity between himself and his former master was as great as ever. Elfric had failed to prevent townspeople from employing Merthin, but he continued to block Merthin’s application to join the carpenters’ guild – leaving Merthin in an anomalous position, illegitimate but accepted. Elfric’s attitude was pointless, but spiteful.
Elfric’s presence here would put a damper on Merthin’s conversation with Edmund. He told himself not to be so sensitive. Why should it not be Elfric who was made uncomfortable?
He held the door for Edmund, and together they crossed the room to the tracing floor. Then he suffered a shock.
Elfric was bent over the tracing floor, drawing with a pair of compasses – on a fresh layer of plaster. He had re-covered the floor, totally obliterating Merthin’s drawings.
Merthin said incredulously: “What have you done?”
Elfric looked contemptuously at him and went on with his drawing, saying nothing.
“He’s wiped out my work,” Merthin said to Edmund.
“What’s your explanation, man?” Edmund demanded.
Elfric could not ignore his father-in-law. “There’s nothing to explain,” he said. “A tracing floor has to be renewed at intervals.”
“But you’ve covered over important designs!”
“Have I? The prior has not commissioned this boy to make any drawings, and the boy has not asked permission to use the tracing floor.”
Edmund was never slow to anger, and Elfric’s cool insolence was getting under his skin. “Don’t act stupid,” he said. “I asked Merthin to prepare drawings for the new bridge.”
“I’m sorry, but only the prior has authority to do that.”
“Damn it, the guild is providing the money.”
“A loan, to be repaid.”
“It still gives us the right to a say on the design.”
“Does it? You’ll have to speak to the prior about that. I don’t think he’ll be impressed by your choice of an inexperienced apprentice as your designer, though.”
Merthin was looking at the drawings Elfric had scratched in the new plaster. “I suppose this is your bridge design,” he said.
“Prior Godwyn has commissioned me to build it,” Elfric said.
Edmund was shocked. “Without asking us?”
Elfric said resentfully: “What’s the matter – don’t you want the work to go to your own daughter’s husband?”
“Round arches,” Merthin said, still studying Elfric’s drawing. “And narrow openings. How many piers will you have?”
Elfric was reluctant to answer, but Edmund was staring expectantly at him. “Seven,” he said.
“The wooden bridge only had five!” Merthin said. “Why are they so thick, and the openings so narrow?”
“To bear the weight of a stone-paved roadway.”
“You don’t need thick piers for that. Look at this cathedral – its columns bear the entire weight of the roof, but they’re slim and widely spaced.”
Elfric sneered. “No one’s going to drive a cart across the roof of a church.”
“That’s true, but-” Merthin stopped. The rain on the cathedral’s vast expanse of roof probably weighed more than an ox-cart loaded with stone, but why should he explain this to Elfric? It was not his role to educate an incompetent builder. Elfric’s design was poor, but Merthin did not want to improve it, he wanted to replace it with his own, so he shut up.
Edmund also realized he was wasting his breath. “This decision is not going to be made by you two,” he said, and he stomped off.
John Constable’s baby daughter was christened in the cathedral by Prior Godwyn. This honour was granted because he was an important employee of the priory. All the leading townspeople attended. Although John was neither wealthy nor well connected – his father had worked in the priory stables – Petranilla said that respectable people should take care to show friendship towards him and support for him. Caris thought they condescended to John because they needed him to protect their property.
It was raining again, and the people grouped around the font were wetter than the infant who was sprinkled with holy water. Strange feelings stirred in Caris as she looked at the tiny, helpless child. Since lying with Merthin she had simply refused to let herself think about pregnancy but, all the same, she felt a warm surge of protective emotion when she saw the baby.
She was named Jesca, after Abraham’s niece.
Caris’s cousin Godwyn had never been comfortable with babies and, as soon as the brief rite was over, he turned to leave. But Petranilla grabbed the sleeve of his Benedictine robe. “What about this bridge?” she said.
She spoke in a low voice, but Caris heard, and made up her mind to listen to the rest.
Godwyn said: “I’ve asked Elfric to prepare drawings and estimates.”
“Good. We should keep it in the family.”
“Elfric is the priory’s builder.”
“Other people may want to horn in.”
“I shall decide who builds the bridge.”
Caris was annoyed enough to intervene. “How dare you?” she said to Petranilla.
“I was not speaking to you,” her aunt said.
Caris ignored that. “Why should Merthin’s design not be considered?”
“Because he isn’t family.”
“He practically lives with us!”
“But you’re not married to him. If you were, it might be different.”
Caris knew she was at a disadvantage there, so she shifted her ground. “You’ve always been prejudiced against Merthin,” she said. “But everyone knows he’s a better builder than Elfric.”
Her sister Alice heard that and joined in the argument. “Elfric taught Merthin everything, and now Merthin pretends he knows better!”
That was dishonest, Caris knew, and she felt angry. “Who built the ferry?” she said, raising her voice. “Who repaired the roof of St Mark’s?”
“Merthin was working with Elfric when he built the ferry. And no one asked Elfric about St Mark’s.”
“Because they knew he wouldn’t be able to solve the problem!”
Godwyn interrupted. “Please!” he said, with his hands raised in front of himself protectively. “I know you’re my family, but I’m the prior and this is the cathedral. I can’t be harangued by womenfolk in public.”
Edmund joined the circle. “Just what I was going to say. Keep your voices down.”
Alice said accusingly: “You should be supporting your son-in-law.”
It occurred to Caris that Alice was getting more like Petranilla. Although she was only twenty-one, and Petranilla was more than twice that age, Alice had the same purse-mouthed look of disapproval. She was also becoming more stout, her bosom filling out the front of her dress like wind in a sail.
Edmund looked sternly at Alice. “This decision will not be made on the basis of family relationships,” he said. “The fact that Elfric is married to my daughter won’t help his bridge stay upright.”
He had strong views on this subject, Caris knew. He believed you should always do business with the most reliable supplier, always hire the best man for the job, regardless of friendship or family ties. Any man who needs to surround himself with loyal acolytes doesn’t really believe in himself, he would say – and if he doesn’t believe in himself, why should I?
Petranilla said: “So how will the choice be made?” She gave him a shrewd look. “You’ve obviously got a plan.”
“The priory and the guild will consider Elfric’s design and Merthin’s – and any others that may be put forward,” Edmund said decisively. “All designs must be drawn and costed. The costing must be independently checked by other builders.”
Alice muttered: “I’ve never heard of such goings-on. It’s like an archery contest. Elfric is the priory’s builder, he should do the job.”
Her father ignored her. “Finally, the designers will be questioned by the leading citizens of the town at a meeting of the parish guild. And then -” he looked at Godwyn, who was pretending not to be bewildered by the way the decision process had been taken out of his hands – “and then Prior Godwyn will make his choice.”
The meeting took place in the guild hall on the main street. It had a stone undercroft below and a timber superstructure, topped by a tiled roof and two stone chimneys. In the basement were the large kitchen that prepared food for the banquets, a jail and an office for the constable. The main floor was as spacious as a church, a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. At one end was a chapel. Because it was so wide, and because timbers long enough to span a thirty-foot roof were rare and expensive, the main room was divided by a row of wooden pillars supporting the joists.
It appeared an unpretentious building, made of the materials used in the humblest dwellings, glorifying nobody. But, as Edmund often said, the money made by the people here paid for the limestone-and-stained-glass majesty of the cathedral. And the guild hall was comfortable in its unostentatious way. There were tapestries on the walls and glass in the windows, and two huge fireplaces kept it warm in winter. When business was booming, the food served here was fit for royalty.
The parish guild had been formed hundreds of years ago, when Kingsbridge was a small town. A few merchants had got together to raise money to buy ornaments for the cathedral. But when wealthy men eat and drink in a group they inevitably discuss their common concerns, and fund-raising soon became secondary to politics. From the start the guild was dominated by wool merchants, which was why a huge pair of scales and a standard weight for a woolsack – 364 pounds – stood at one end of the hall. As Kingsbridge grew, other guilds had been formed, representing crafts – carpenters, masons, brewers, goldsmiths – but their leading members also belonged to the parish guild, which retained its primacy. It was a less powerful version of the guild merchant that ruled most English towns, but was prohibited here by the town’s landlord, Kingsbridge Priory.
Merthin had never attended a meeting or banquet here, but he had been inside several times on more mundane business. He liked to crane back his neck and study the complex geometry of the roof timbers, a lesson in how the weight of a broad expanse of roof could be funnelled down to a few slender wooden pillars. Most of the elements made sense, but one or two pieces of wood seemed to him to be superfluous, or even detrimental, transferring weight to weaker zones. That was because no one really knew what made buildings stand up. Builders went by instinct and experience, and sometimes got it wrong.
This evening Merthin was in a state of high anxiety, too nervous to really appreciate the woodwork. The guild was about to pass judgement on his bridge design. It was far superior to Elfric’s – but would they see that?
Elfric had had the benefit of the tracing floor. Merthin might have asked Godwyn for permission to use it, but he had been afraid of further sabotage by Elfric, so he had devised an alternative. He had stretched a large piece of parchment across a wooden frame, and had drawn his design on the skin with a pen and ink. Tonight this might work to his advantage, for he had brought his design with him to the guild hall, so that members would have it in front of them, whereas Elfric’s would only be in their memories.
He placed his framed drawing at the front of the hall on a three-legged stand he had devised for the purpose. Everyone came and looked at it as they arrived, although they had all seen it at least once over the last few days. They had also climbed the spiral staircase to the loft and looked at Elfric’s drawings. Merthin thought most people preferred his design, but some were wary of backing a youngster against an experienced man. Many had kept their opinions to themselves.
The noise level rose as the hall filled up with men and a few women. They dressed up for the guild, as they did for church, the men in expensive wool coats despite the mild summer weather, the women in elaborate headdresses. Although everyone paid lip service to the untrustworthiness and general inferiority of women, in practice several of the town’s wealthiest and most important citizens were female. There was Mother Cecilia, sitting now at the front with her personal assistant, the nun known as Old Julie. Caris was here – everyone acknowledged that she was Edmund’s right hand. Merthin experienced a jolt of desire as she sat on the bench next to him, her thigh warm against his own. Anyone carrying on a trade in the town had to belong to a guild – outsiders could do business only on market days. Even monks and priests were compelled to join if they wanted to trade, which they often did. When a man died, it was common for his widow to continue his enterprise. Betty Baxter was the town’s most prosperous baker; Sarah Taverner kept the Holly Bush inn. It would have been difficult and cruel to prevent such women earning a living. Much easier to include them in the guild.
Edmund normally chaired these meetings, sitting on a big wooden throne on a raised platform at the front. Today, however, there were two chairs on the platform. Edmund sat in one and, when Prior Godwyn arrived, Edmund invited him to take the other. Godwyn was accompanied by all the senior monks, and Merthin was pleased to see Thomas among them. Philemon was also in the entourage, lanky and awkward, and Merthin wondered briefly what on earth Godwyn had brought him for.
Godwyn was looking pained. Opening the proceedings, Edmund was careful to acknowledge that the prior was in charge of the bridge, and the choice of design was ultimately his. But everyone knew that, in fact, Edmund had taken the decision out of Godwyn’s hands by calling this meeting. Provided there was a clear consensus tonight, Godwyn would have great difficulty in going against the expressed will of the merchants in a matter of commerce rather than religion. Edmund asked Godwyn to begin with a prayer, and Godwyn obliged, but he knew he had been outmanoeuvred, and that was why he looked as if there was a bad smell.
Edmund stood up and said: “These two designs have been costed by Elfric and Merthin, who have used the same methods of calculation.”
Elfric interjected: “Of course we have – he learned them from me.” There was a ripple of laughter from the older men.
It was true. There were formulae for calculating costs per square foot of wall, per cubic yard of infill, per foot of a roof span, and for more intricate work such as arches and vaulting. All builders used the same methods, though with their individual variations. The bridge calculations had been complex, but easier than for a building such as a church.
Edmund went on: “Each man has checked the other’s calculations, so there is no room for dispute.”
Edward Butcher called out: “Yes – all builders overcharge by the same amount!” That got a big laugh. Edward was popular with the men for his quick wit, and with the women for his good looks and brown bedroom eyes. He was not so popular with his wife, who knew about his infidelities, and had recently attacked him with one of his own heavy knives: he still had a bandage on his left arm.
“Elfric’s bridge will cost two hundred and eighty-five pounds,” Edmund said as the laughter died away. “Merthin’s comes out at three hundred and seven. The difference is twenty-two pounds, as most of you will have worked out faster than me.” There was a quiet chuckle at that: Edmund was often teased for having his daughter do his arithmetic for him. He still used the old Latin numerals, because he could not get used to the new Arabic digits that made calculation so much easier.
A new voice said: “Twenty-two pounds is a lot of money.” It was Bill Watkin, the builder who had refused to hire Merthin, looking like one of the monks with his bald dome.
Dick Brewer said: “Yes, but Merthin’s bridge is twice as wide. It ought to cost twice as much – but it doesn’t, because it’s a cleverer design.” Dick was fond of his own product, ale, and in consequence had a protruding round belly like a pregnant woman.
Bill rejoined: “How many days a year do we need a bridge wide enough for two carts?”
“Every market day and all of Fleece Fair week.”
“Not so,” said Bill. “It’s only for an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon.”
“I’ve waited two hours with a cartload of barley before now.”
“You should have the sense to bring your barley in on quiet days.”
“I bring barley in every day.” Dick was the largest brewer in the county. He owned a huge copper kettle that held five hundred gallons, in consequence of which his tavern was called the Copper.
Edmund interrupted this spat. “There are other problems caused by delays on the bridge,” he said. “Some traders go to Shiring, where there’s no bridge and no queue. Others do their business while waiting in line, then go home without ever entering the town, and save themselves the bridge toll and the market taxes. It’s forestalling, and it’s illegal, but we’ve never succeeded in stopping it. And then there’s the question of how people think of Kingsbridge. Right now we’re the town whose bridge collapsed. If we’re going to attract back all the business we’re losing, we need to change that. I’d like us to become known as the town with the best bridge in England.”
Edmund was hugely influential, and Merthin began to scent victory.
Betty Baxter, an enormously fat woman in her forties, stood up and pointed to something on Merthin’s drawing. “What’s this, here in the middle of the bridge parapet, over the pier?” she said. “There’s a little pointed bit that sticks out over the water, like a viewing platform. What is it for, fishing?” The others laughed.
“It’s a pedestrian refuge,” Merthin answered. “If you’re walking over the bridge, and suddenly the earl of Shiring rides across with twenty mounted knights, you can step out of their way.”
Edward Butcher said: “I hope it’s big enough to fit Betty in.”
Everyone laughed, but Betty persisted with her questioning. “Why is the pier underneath it pointed like that all the way down to the water? Elfric’s piers aren’t pointed.”
“To deflect debris. Look at any river bridge – you’ll see the piers are chipped and cracked. What do you think causes that damage? It must be the large pieces of wood – tree trunks, or timbers from demolished buildings – that you see floating downstream and crashing into piers.”
“Or Ian Boatman when he’s drunk,” said Edward.
“Boats or debris, they will cause less damage to my pointed piers. Elfric’s will suffer the full impact.”
Elfric said: “My walls are too strong to be knocked down by bits of wood.”
“On the contrary,” said Merthin. “Your arches are narrower than mine, therefore the water will be drawn through them faster, and the debris will strike the piers with greater force, causing more damage.”
He could see from Elfric’s face that the older man had not even thought of that. But the audience were not builders – how could they judge what was right?
Around the base of each pier, Merthin had drawn a pile of rough stones, known to builders as riprap. This would prevent the current undermining his piers the way it had those of the old wooden bridge. But no one asked him about the riprap, so he did not explain it.
Betty had more questions. “Why is your bridge so long? Elfric’s begins at the water’s edge. Yours starts several yards inland. Isn’t that unnecessary expense?”
“My bridge is ramped at both ends,” Merthin explained. “That’s so that you step off the bridge on to dry land, instead of a swamp. No more ox-carts getting bogged down on the beach and blocking the bridge for an hour.”
“Cheaper to put down a paved road,” said Elfric.
Elfric was beginning to sound desperate. Then Bill Watkin stood up. “I’m having trouble deciding who’s right and who’s wrong,” he said. “When these two argue, it’s difficult to make up your mind. And I’m a builder – it must be worse for those who aren’t.” There was a murmur of agreement. Bill went on: “So I think we should look at the men, not the designs.”
Merthin had been afraid of this. He listened with increasing despair.
“Which of the two do you know best?” said Bill. “Which can you rely on? Elfric has been a builder in this town, man and boy, for twenty years. We can look at houses he’s put up and see they’re still standing. We can see the repairs he’s done on the cathedral. On the other hand, here’s Merthin – a clever lad, we know, but a bit of a tearaway, and never finished his apprenticeship. There’s not a lot to indicate that he’s capable of taking charge of the largest building project Kingsbridge has seen since the construction of the cathedral. I know which one I trust.” He sat down.
Several men voiced their approval. They would not judge the designs – they would decide on personalities. It was maddeningly unfair.
Then Brother Thomas spoke up. “Has anyone in Kingsbridge ever been involved in a project that involved building below water level?”
Merthin knew the answer was No. He felt a surge of hope. This could rescue it for him.
Thomas went on: “I would like to know how both men would handle that problem.”
Merthin was ready with his solution – but he was afraid that if he spoke first Elfric would simply echo him. He compressed his lips, hoping that Thomas – who usually helped him – would get the message.
Thomas caught Merthin’s eye, and said: “Elfric, what would you do?”
“The answer is simpler than you think,” Elfric said. “You just have to drop loose rubble into the river at the point where your pier will stand. The rubble rests on the river bottom. You put more and more in until the pile is visible above water level. Then you build your pier on that foundation.”
As Merthin had expected, Elfric had come up with the crudest solution to the problem. Now Merthin said: “There are two snags with Elfric’s method. One is that a pile of rubble is no more stable under water than on land. Over time, it will shift and drop, and when that happens the bridge will subside. If you want a bridge to last only a few years, fine. But I think we should build for the long term.”
He heard a quiet rumble of concurrence.
“The second problem is the shape of the pile. It will naturally slope outwards below the water line, restricting the passage of boats, especially when the river is low. And Elfric’s arches are already narrow.”
Elfric said irritably: “What would you do instead?”
Merthin suppressed a smile. That was what he had wanted to hear – Elfric admitting that he did not know a better answer. “I’ll tell you,” he said. And I’ll show everyone that I know better than the idiot who chopped my door to pieces, he thought. He looked around. They were all listening. Their decision hung on what he would say next.
He took a deep breath. “First, I would take a pointed wooden stake and piledrive it into the river bed. Then I would bang in another next to it, touching; then another. In that way I would build a ring of stakes around the place in the river where I want to put my pier.”
“A ring of stakes?” Elfric jeered. “That will never keep the water out.”
Brother Thomas, who had asked the question, said: “Listen to him, please. He listened to you.”
Merthin said: “Next, I would build a second ring inside the first, with a gap between them of half a foot.” He sensed that he had his audience’s attention now.
“It still won’t be waterproof,” said Elfric.
Edmund said: “Shut up, Elfric, this is interesting.”
Merthin went on: “Then I would pour a clay mortar into the gap between the two rings. The mixture would displace the water, being heavier. And it would plug any chinks between the wood stakes, making the ring watertight. This is called a coffer dam.”
The room was quiet.
“Finally, I would remove the water from inside by bucket, exposing the river bed, and build a mortared stone foundation.”
Elfric was dumbstruck. Both Edmund and Godwyn were staring at Merthin.
Thomas said: “Thank you both. Speaking for myself, that makes the decision an easy one.”
“Yes,” said Edmund. “I rather think it does.”
Caris was surprised that Godwyn had wanted Elfric to design the bridge. She understood that Elfric would seem a safer choice – but Godwyn was a reformer, not a conservative, and she had expected him to be enthusiastic about Merthin’s clever, radical design. Instead he had timidly favoured the cautious option.
Fortunately, Edmund had been able to outmanoeuvre Godwyn, and now Kingsbridge would have a well-built, beautiful bridge that would allow two carts to cross at the same time. But Godwyn’s eagerness to appoint the unimaginative sycophant rather than the bold man of talent was an ominous sign for the future.
And Godwyn had never been a good loser. When he was a boy Petranilla had taught him to play chess, letting him win to encourage him, and he had challenged his uncle Edmund; but after being beaten twice he had sulked and refused to play again. He was in the same mood after the meeting in the guild hall, she could tell. It was probably not that he was particularly attracted to Elfric’s design. But he undoubtedly resented having the decision taken out of his hands. Next day, when she and her father went to the prior’s house, she anticipated trouble.
Godwyn greeted them coolly and did not offer any refreshment. As always, Edmund pretended not to notice slights. “I want Merthin to start work on the bridge immediately,” he said as he sat down at the table in the hall. “I have pledges of money for the full amount of Merthin’s budget-”
“From whom?” Godwyn interrupted.
“The town’s wealthiest traders.”
Godwyn continued to look inquiringly at Edmund.
Edmund shrugged and said: “Fifty pounds from Betty Baxter, eighty from Dick Brewer, seventy from myself, and ten pounds each from eleven others.”
“I didn’t know our citizens possessed such riches,” Godwyn said. He seemed both awestruck and envious. “God has been kind.”
Edmund added: “Kind enough to reward people for a lifetime’s hard work and worry.”
“No doubt.”
“Which is why I need to give them reassurances about the return of their money. When the bridge is built, the tolls will come to the parish guild, which will use them to repay loans – but who will collect the pennies as the passengers cross the bridge? I think it has to be a servant of the guild.”
“I never agreed to this,” Godwyn said.
“I know, that’s why I’m raising it now.”
“I mean, I never agreed to pay the tolls to the parish guild.”
“What?”
Caris stared at Godwyn, flabbergasted. Of course he had agreed to it – what was he talking about? He had spoken to her as well as to Edmund and assured them that Brother Thomas-
“Oh,” she said. “You promised that Thomas would build the bridge, if he was elected prior. Then, when Thomas withdrew and you became the candidate, we assumed…”
“You assumed,” Godwyn said. A smirk of triumph played about his lips.
Edmund could barely contain himself. “This is not square dealing, Godwyn!” he said in a choked voice. “You knew what the understanding was!”
“I knew no such thing, and you should call me Father Prior.”
Edmund’s voice got louder. “Then we’re back where we were with Prior Anthony three months ago! Except that now, instead of an inadequate bridge, we have no bridge at all. Don’t imagine it will be built at no cost to you. Citizens may lend their life savings to the priory, on the security of income from the bridge tolls, but they will not give their money away… Father Prior.”
“Then they must manage without a bridge. I have only just become prior – how can I start by alienating a right that has belonged to my priory for hundreds of years?”
“But it’s only temporary!” Edmund exploded. “And if you don’t do this no one will gain any money from bridge tolls because there will be no cursed bridge!”
Caris was furious, but she bit her tongue and tried to figure out what Godwyn was up to. He was getting his revenge for last night, but did he really mean it? “What do you want?” she said to him.
Edmund looked surprised by the question, but he said nothing: the reason he brought Caris with him to meetings was that she often saw things he missed, and asked questions he had not thought of.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Godwyn replied.
“You’ve pulled a surprise,” she said. “You’ve caught us wrong-footed. Very well. We admit we made an assumption that may have been unwarranted. But what’s your purpose? Just to make us feel stupid?”
“You asked for this meeting, not I.”
Edmund burst out: “What kind of way is that to talk to your uncle and your cousin?”
“Just a minute, Papa,” Caris said. Godwyn did have a secret agenda, she felt sure, but he did not want to admit it. All right, she thought, I’ll have to guess it. “Give me a minute to think,” she said. Godwyn still wanted the bridge – he had to, nothing else made sense. The business about alienating the priory’s ancient rights was rhetoric, the kind of pompous prating that all students were taught at Oxford. Did he want Edmund to break down and agree to Elfric’s design? She did not think so. Godwyn clearly resented the way Edmund had appealed over his head to the citizenry, but he must see that Merthin was offering twice as much bridge for almost the same money. So what else could it be?
Perhaps he just wanted a better deal.
He had looked hard at the priory’s finances, she guessed. Having railed comfortably against Anthony’s inefficiency for many years he was now confronted with the reality of having to do the job better himself. Perhaps it was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. Perhaps he was not as clever about money and management as he had thought. In desperation, he wanted the bridge and the money from tolls. But how did he think that could happen?
She said: “What could we offer you that would make you change your mind?”
“Build the bridge without keeping the tolls,” he said instantly.
So that was his agenda. You always were a bit sneaky, Godwyn, she thought.
A flash of inspiration struck her, and she said: “How much money are we talking about?”
Godwyn looked suspicious. “Why do you want to know that?”
Edmund said: “We can work it out. Not counting citizens, who don’t pay the toll, about a hundred people cross the bridge every market day, and carts pay two pence. It’s much less now, with the ferry, of course.”
Caris said: “Say a hundred and twenty pennies a week, or ten shillings, which comes to twenty-six pounds a year.”
Edmund said: “Then, during Fleece Fair week, about a thousand on the first day, and another two hundred each subsequent day.”
“That’s two thousand two hundred, plus carts, call it two thousand four hundred pennies, which is ten pounds. Total, thirty-six pounds a year.” Caris looked at Godwyn. “Is that about right?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged grudgingly.
“So, what you want from us is thirty-six pounds a year.”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!” said Edmund.
“Not necessarily,” Caris said. “Suppose the priory were to grant the parish guild a lease on the bridge.” Thinking on her feet, she added: “Plus an acre of ground at either end, and the island in the middle – for thirty-six pounds a year, in perpetuity.” Once the bridge was built, that land would be priceless, she knew. “Would that give you what you want, Father Prior?”
“Yes.”
Godwyn clearly thought he was getting thirty-six pounds a year for something worthless. He had no idea how much rent could be charged for a plot of land at the end of a bridge. The worst negotiator in the world is a man who believes he’s clever, Caris thought.
Edmund said: “But how would the guild recoup the cost of construction?”
“With Merthin’s design, the number of people and carts crossing should rise. Theoretically it could double. Everything over thirty-six pounds is the guild’s. Then we could put up buildings either side to service travellers – taverns, stables, cook shops. They should be profitable – we could charge a good rent.”
“I don’t know,” said Edmund. “It seems very risky to me.”
For a moment, Caris felt furious with her father. She had come up with a brilliant solution, and he seemed to be finding unnecessary fault with it. Then she realized he was faking. She could see the light of enthusiasm in his eyes, not quite concealed. He loved the idea, but he did not want Godwyn to know how keen he was. He was hiding his feelings, for fear the prior would try to negotiate a better bargain. It was a ploy father and daughter had used before, when bargaining over wool.
Having figured out what he was up to, Caris played along, pretending to share his misgivings. “I know it’s hazardous,” she said gloomily. “We could lose everything. But what alternative do we have? We’ve got our backs to the wall. If we don’t build the bridge we’ll go out of business.”
Edmund shook his head dubiously. “All the same, I can’t agree to this on behalf of the guild. I’ll have to talk to the people who are putting up the money. I can’t say what their reply will be.” He looked Godwyn in the eye. “But I’ll do my best to persuade them, if this is your best offer.”
Godwyn had not actually made an offer, Caris reflected; but he had forgotten that. “It is,” he said firmly.
Got you, Caris thought triumphantly.
“You’re really very shrewd,” Merthin said.
He was lying between Caris’s legs, his head on her thigh, toying with her pubic hair. They had just made love for the second time ever, and he had found it even more joyous than the first. As they dozed in the pleasant daydream of satisfied lovers, she had told him about her negotiation with Godwyn. He was impressed.
Caris said: “The best of it is, he thinks he’s driven a hard bargain. In fact, a perpetual lease on the bridge and the land around it is priceless.”
“All the same, it’s a bit dismaying if he’s going to be no better at managing the priory’s money than your uncle Anthony was.”
They were in the forest, in a clearing hidden by brambles and shaded by a stand of tall beech trees, where a stream ran over rocks to form a pool. It had probably been used by lovers for hundreds of years. They had stripped naked and bathed in the pool before making love on the grassy bank. Anyone travelling clandestinely through the woods would skirt the thicket, so they were not likely to be discovered, unless by children picking blackberries – which was how Caris had originally discovered the glade, she told Merthin.
Now he said idly: “Why did you ask for that island?”
“I’m not sure. It’s obviously not as valuable as the land at either end of the bridge, and it’s no good for cultivation, but it could still be developed. The truth is, I guessed he wouldn’t object, so I just threw it in.”
“Will you take over your father’s wool business one day?”
“No.”
“So definite? Why?”
“It’s too easy for the king to tax the wool trade. He has just imposed an extra duty of a pound per sack of wool – that’s on top of the existing tax of two-thirds of a pound. The price of wool is now so high that the Italians are looking for wool from other countries, such as Spain. The business is too much at the mercy of the monarch.”
“Still, it’s a living. What else would you do?” Merthin was edging the conversation towards marriage, a subject she never raised.
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “When I was ten, I wanted to be a doctor. I thought that if I had known about medicine I could have saved my mother’s life. They all laughed at me. I didn’t realize only men could be physicians.”
“You could be a wise woman, like Mattie.”
“That would shock the family. Imagine what Petranilla would say! Mother Cecilia thinks it’s my destiny to be a nun.”
He laughed. “If she could see you now!” He kissed the soft inside of her thigh.
“She’d probably want to do what you’re doing,” Caris said. “You know what people say about nuns.”
“Why would she think you wanted to join the convent?”
“It’s because of what we did after the bridge collapsed. I helped her take care of the injured. She said I had a natural gift for it.”
“You have. Even I could see it.”
“I just did what Cecilia said.”
“But people seemed to feel better as soon as you spoke to them. And then you always listened to what they had to say before telling them what they should do.”
She stroked his cheek. “I couldn’t be a nun. I’m too fond of you.”
Her triangle of hair was reddish-brown with golden lights. “You’ve got a little mole,” he said. “Right here, on the left, beside the cleft.”
“I know. It’s been there since I was a little girl. I used to think it was ugly. I was so pleased when my hair grew, because I thought that meant my husband wouldn’t see it. I never imagined anyone would look as closely as you.”
“Friar Murdo would call you a witch – you’d better not let him see it.”
“Not if he were the last man on earth.”
“This is the blemish that saves you from blasphemy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In the Arab world, every work of art has a tiny flaw, so that it doesn’t sacrilegiously compete with the perfection of God.”
“How do you know that?”
“One of the Florentines told me. Listen, do you think the parish guild will want the island?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’d like to own it.”
“Four acres of rock and rabbits. Why?”
“I’d build a dock and a builder’s yard. Stone and timber coming by river could be delivered directly to my dock. When the bridge is finished, I’d build a house on the island.”
“Nice idea. But they wouldn’t give it to you free.”
“How about as part payment for building the bridge? I could take, say, half wages for two years.”
“You charge four pence a day… so the price of the island would be just over five pounds. I should think the guild would be pleased to get that much for barren land.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“I think you could build houses there and rent them, as soon as the bridge is finished and people can travel to and from the island easily.”
“Yes,” said Merthin thoughtfully. “I’d better talk to your father about it.”
Returning to Earlscastle at the end of a day’s hunting, when all the men in Earl Roland’s entourage were in a good mood, Ralph Fitzgerald was happy.
They crossed the drawbridge like an invading army, knights and squires and dogs. Rain was falling in a light drizzle, coolly welcome to the men and animals, who were hot and tired and content. They had taken several summer-fat hinds that would make good eating, plus a big old stag, too tough for anything but dog meat, killed for its magnificent antlers.
They dismounted in the outer compound, within the lower circle of the figure-eight moat. Ralph unsaddled Griff, murmured a few words of thanks in his ear, fed him a carrot and handed him to a groom to be rubbed down. Kitchen boys dragged away the bloody carcasses of the deer. The men were noisily recalling the day’s incidents, boasting and jeering and laughing, remembering remarkable jumps and dangerous falls and hair’s-breadth escapes. Ralph’s nostrils filled with a smell he loved, a mixture of sweating horses, wet dogs, leather and blood.
Ralph found himself next to Lord William of Caster, the earl’s elder son. “A great day’s sport,” he said.
“Tremendous,” William agreed. He pulled off his cap and scratched his balding head. “I’m sorry to lose old Bruno, though.”
Bruno, the leader of the dog pack, had gone in for the kill a few moments too early. When the stag was too exhausted to run any farther and turned to face the hounds, its heaving shoulders covered with blood, Bruno had leaped for its throat – but, with a last burst of defiance, the deer had dipped its head and swung its muscular neck and impaled the soft belly of the dog on the points of its antlers. The effort finished the beast off, and a moment later the other dogs were tearing it apart; but, as it thrashed its life away, Bruno’s guts unravelled across the antlers like a tangled rope, and William had had to put him out of his misery, slashing his throat with a long dagger. “He was a brave dog,” Ralph said, and put a hand on William’s shoulder in commiseration.
“Like a lion,” William agreed.
On the spur of the moment, Ralph decided to speak about his prospects. There would never be a better moment. He had been Roland’s man for seven years; he was brave and strong; and he had saved his lord’s life after the bridge collapsed – yet he had been given no promotion, and was still a squire. What more could be asked of him?
Yesterday he had met his brother, by chance, at a tavern on the road from Kingsbridge to Shiring. Merthin, on his way to the priory’s quarry, had been full of news. He was going to build the most beautiful bridge in England. He would be rich and famous. Their parents were thrilled. It had made Ralph feel even more frustrated.
Now, speaking to Lord William, he could not think of a neat way to introduce the subject that was on his mind, so he just plunged in. “It’s three months since I saved your father’s life at Kingsbridge.”
“Several people claim that honour,” William said. The harsh look that came over his face reminded Ralph strongly of Roland.
“I pulled him out of the water.”
“And Matthew Barber mended his head, and the nuns changed his bandages, and the monks prayed for him. God saved his life, though.”
“Amen,” Ralph said. “All the same, I was hoping for some sign of favour.”
“My father’s a hard man to please.”
William’s brother, Richard, was standing nearby, red-faced and sweating, and he overheard the remark. “That’s as true as the Bible,” he said.
“Don’t complain,” William said. “Our father’s hardness made us strong.”
“As I recall, it made us miserable.”
William turned away, probably not wanting to argue the point in front of an underling.
When the horses were stabled, the men drifted across the compound, past the kitchens and barracks and chapel, to a second drawbridge that led to a small inner compound, the top loop of the figure eight. Here the earl lived in a traditional keep, with ground-floor storerooms, a great hall above, and a small upper storey for the earl’s private bedchamber. A colony of rooks inhabited the high trees around the keep, and strutted on the battlements like sergeants, cawing their dissatisfaction. Roland was in the great hall, having changed out of his dirty hunting clothes into a purple robe. Ralph stood near the earl, determined to raise the question of his promotion at the first opportunity.
Roland was arguing good-naturedly with William’s wife, Lady Philippa – one of the few people who could contradict him and get away with it. They were talking about the castle. “I don’t think it’s changed for a hundred years,” Philippa said.
“That’s because it’s such a good design,” Roland said, speaking out of the left side of his mouth. “The enemy expends most of his strength getting into the lower compound, then he faces a whole new battle to reach the keep.”
“Exactly!” said Philippa. “It was built for defence, not comfort. But when was the last time a castle in this part of England came under attack? Not in my lifetime.”
“Nor in mine.” He grinned with the mobile half of his face. “Probably because our defences are so strong.”
“There was a bishop who scattered acorns on the road wherever he travelled, to protect him from lions,” Philippe said. “When they told him there were no lions in all England, he said: ‘It’s more effective than I thought.’ ”
Roland laughed.
Philippa added: “Most noble families nowadays live in more comfortable homes.”
Ralph did not care for luxury, but he cared for Philippa. He gazed at her voluptuous figure as she talked, unaware of him. He imagined her lying beneath him, twisting her naked body, crying out in pleasure, or pain, or both. If he were a knight he could have a woman like that.
“You should knock down this old keep and build a modern house,” she was saying to her father-in-law. “One with big windows and lots of fireplaces. You could have the hall at ground level, with the family apartments at one end, so that we could all have somewhere private to sleep when we come to visit you; and the kitchens at the other end, so that the food is still hot when it reaches the table.”
Suddenly Ralph realized he could make a contribution to this conversation. “I know who could design such a house for you,” he said.
They turned to him in surprise. What would a squire know of house design? “Who?” said Philippa.
“My brother, Merthin.”
She looked thoughtful. “The funny-faced boy who tells me to buy green silk to match my eyes?”
“He meant no disrespect.”
“I’m not sure what he meant. Is he a builder?”
“He’s the best,” Ralph said proudly. “He devised the new ferry at Kingsbridge, then he figured out how to repair the roof of St Mark’s when no one else could, and now he’s been commissioned to build the most beautiful bridge in England.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised,” she said.
“What bridge?” said Roland.
“The new one at Kingsbridge. It will have pointed arches, like a church, and be wide enough for two carts!”
“I’ve heard nothing of this,” Roland said.
Ralph realized the earl was displeased. What had annoyed him? “The bridge must be rebuilt, mustn’t it?” Ralph said.
“I’m not so sure,” Roland replied. “Nowadays there’s hardly enough business for two markets as close together as Kingsbridge and Shiring. But, if we must accept the Kingsbridge market, that doesn’t mean we have to countenance a blatant attempt by the priory to steal customers from Shiring.” Bishop Richard had come in, and now Roland rounded on him. “You didn’t tell me about the new bridge at Kingsbridge.”
“Because I don’t know about it,” Richard answered.
“You ought to, you’re the bishop.”
Richard flushed at the reproof. “The bishop of Kingsbridge has lived in or near Shiring ever since the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Maud, two centuries ago. The monks prefer it that way, and so do most bishops.”
“That doesn’t prevent you keeping your ear to the ground. You should have some idea of what’s happening there.”
“Since I don’t, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me what you’ve learned.”
That kind of cool insolence passed over Roland’s head. “It’s going to be wide enough for two carts. It will take business away from my market at Shiring.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why not? You’re the abbot, ex officio. The monks are supposed to do what you say.”
“They don’t, though.”
“Perhaps they will if we take away their builder. Ralph, can you persuade your brother to give up the project?”
“I can try.”
“Offer him a better prospect. Tell him I want him to build a new palace for me here at Earlscastle.”
Ralph was excited to get a special commission from the earl, but he was daunted too. He had never been able to talk Merthin into anything – it was always the other way around. “All right,” he said.
“Will they be able to go ahead without him?”
“He got the job because no one else in Kingsbridge knew how to build under water.”
Richard said: “He’s not the only man in England who can design a bridge, obviously.”
William said: “Still, taking away their builder would surely delay them. They probably couldn’t start for another year.”
“Then it’s worth doing,” Roland said decisively. A look of hatred came over the animated half of his face, and he added: “That arrogant prior has to be put in his place.”
Things had changed in the life of Gerald and Maud, Ralph discovered. His mother wore a new green dress to church, and his father had leather shoes. Back at home there was a goose stuffed with apples roasting over the fire, filling the little house with a mouth-watering smell, and a loaf of wheat bread, the most expensive kind, standing on the table.
The money came from Merthin, Ralph soon learned. “He gets paid four pence a day every day he works on St Mark’s,” Maud said proudly. “And he’s building a new house for Dick Brewer. That’s as well as getting ready to build the new bridge.”
Merthin received a lower wage for working on the bridge, he explained while his father carved the goose, because he had been given Leper Island in part payment. The last remaining leper, old and bedridden, had been moved to a small house in the monks’ orchard on the far side of the river.
Ralph found that his mother’s evident happiness left a sour taste in his mouth. He had believed, since he was a boy, that the destiny of the family lay in his hands. He had been sent away, at the age of fourteen, to join the household of the earl of Shiring, and he had known even then that it was up to him to wipe out his father’s humiliation by becoming a knight, perhaps a baron, even an earl. Merthin, by contrast, had been apprenticed to a carpenter, and set on a road that could only lead farther down the social hill. Builders were never made knights.
It was some consolation that their father was unimpressed by Merthin’s success. He showed signs of impatience when Maud talked about building projects. “My elder son seems to have inherited the blood of Jack Builder, my only low-born ancestor,” he said, and his tone was amazed rather than proud. “But, Ralph, tell us how you’re getting on at the court of Earl Roland.”
Unfortunately, Ralph had so far mysteriously failed to rise in the nobility, whereas Merthin was buying his parents new clothes and expensive dinners. Ralph knew he should just be grateful that one of them had won success, and that even if his parents remained humble they could at least be comfortable. But, though his mind told him to rejoice, his heart seethed with resentment.
And now he had to persuade his brother to give up the bridge. The trouble with Merthin was that he would never see anything simply. He was not like the knights and squires with whom Ralph had spent the last seven years. They were fighting men. In their world loyalties were clear, bravery was the virtue, and the issue was life or death. There was never much need for deep thought. But Menhin thought about everything. He could not play a game of chequers without suggesting a change in the rules.
He was explaining to their parents why he had accepted four acres of barren rock in part payment for his work on the bridge. “Everyone thinks the land is worthless because it’s an island,” he said. “What they don’t realize is that when the bridge is built the island will become part of the city. Townspeople will walk across the bridge just as they walk along the main street. And four acres of city land is very valuable. If I build houses on it, the rents will be worth a fortune.”
Gerald said: “You’ve a few years to wait before then.”
“I’m getting some income from it already. Jake Chepstow is renting half an acre to use as a timber yard. He’s bringing logs from Wales.”
“Why from Wales?” Gerald asked. “The New Forest is nearer – their wood should be cheaper.”
“It should be, but the earl of Shaftesbury charges a toll or a tax at every river ford and bridge in his territory.”
It was a familiar gripe. Many lords found ways to tax goods that passed through their territories.
As they started to eat, Ralph said to Merthin: “I bring you news of another opportunity. The earl wants to build a new palace at Earlscastle.”
Merthin looked suspicious. “He sent you to ask me to design it?”
“I suggested you. Lady Philippa was berating him about how old-fashioned the keep is, and I said I knew the right person to talk to.”
Maud was thrilled. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Merthin remained sceptical. “And the earl said he wanted me?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing. A few months ago I couldn’t get a job. Now I’ve got too much to do. And Earlscastle is two days away. I don’t see how I could build a palace there and a bridge here at the same time.”
“Oh, you’ll have to give up the bridge,” Ralph said.
“What?”
“Work for the earl has to take precedence over everything else, naturally.”
“I’m not sure that’s right.”
“Take it from me.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”
Their father joined in. “This is a marvellous opportunity, Merthin,” he said. “To build a palace for an earl!”
“Of course it is,” Merthin replied. “But a bridge for this town is at least as important.”
“Don’t be stupid,” his father said.
“I do my best not to be,” Merthin said sarcastically.
“The earl of Shiring is one of the great men of the land. The prior of Kingsbridge is a nobody, by comparison.”
Ralph cut a slice of goose thigh and put it in his mouth, but he could hardly swallow. He had been afraid of this. Merthin was going to be difficult. He would not take orders from their father, either. He had never been obedient, even as a child.
Ralph felt desperate. “Listen,” he said. “The earl doesn’t want the new bridge to be built. He thinks it will take business away from Shiring.”
“Aha,” said Gerald. “You don’t want to go up against the earl, Merthin.”
“Is that what’s behind this, Ralph?” Merthin asked. “Is Roland offering me this job just to prevent the building of the bridge?”
“Not just for that reason.”
“But it’s a condition. If I want to build his palace, I must abandon the bridge.”
Gerald said with exasperation: “You don’t have a choice, Merthin! The earl doesn’t request, he commands.”
Ralph could have told him that an argument based on authority was not the way to persuade Merthin.
Merthin said: “I don’t think he can command the prior of Kingsbridge, who has commissioned me to build this bridge.”
“But he can command you.”
“Can he? He’s not my lord.”
“Don’t be foolish, son. You can’t win a fight with an earl.”
“I don’t think Roland’s quarrel is with me, Father. This is between the earl and the prior. Roland wants to use me, as a hunter uses a dog, but I think I’d do better to stay out of the fight.”
“I think you should do what the earl says. Don’t forget, he’s your kinsman, too.”
Merthin tried a different argument. “Has it occurred to you what a betrayal this would be of Prior Godwyn?”
Gerald made a disgusted noise. “What loyalty do we owe the priory? It was the monks who forced us into penury.”
“And your neighbours? The people of Kingsbridge, among whom you’ve lived for ten years? They need the bridge – it’s their lifeline.”
“We are of the nobility,” his father said. “We’re not required to take into account the needs of mere merchants.”
Merthin nodded. “You may feel that way, but as a mere carpenter I can’t share your view.”
“This isn’t just about you!” Ralph burst out. He had to come clean, he realized. “The earl has given me a mission. If I succeed, he may make me a knight, or at least a minor lord. If I fail, I could remain a squire.”
Maud said: “It’s very important that we all try to please the earl.”
Merthin looked troubled. He was always willing to go head-to-head with their father, but he did not like to argue with Mother. “I’ve agreed to build the bridge,” he said. “The town is counting on me. I can’t give it up.”
“Of course you can,” Maud said.
“I don’t want to get a reputation for unreliability.”
“Everyone would understand if you gave the earl precedence.”
“They might understand, but they wouldn’t respect me for it.”
“You should put your family first.”
“I fought for this bridge, Mother,” Merthin said stubbornly. “I made a beautiful design, and I persuaded the whole town to have faith in me. No one else can build it – not the way it should be done.”
“If you defy the earl, it will affect Ralph’s whole life!” she said. “Don’t you see that?”
“His whole life shouldn’t depend on something like this.”
“But it does. Are you willing to sacrifice your brother, just for the sake of a bridge?”
Merthin said: “I suppose it’s a bit like my asking him to save men’s lives by not going to war.”
Gerald said: “Come, now, you can’t compare a carpenter to a soldier.”
That was tactless, Ralph thought. It showed Gerald’s preference for the younger son. Merthin felt the sting, Ralph could tell. His brother’s faced reddened and he bit his lip as if to restrain himself from a combative reply.
After a pause, Merthin spoke in a quiet voice that Ralph knew to be a sign that he had made up his mind irrevocably. “I didn’t ask to be a carpenter,” he said. “Like Ralph, I wanted to be a knight. A foolish aspiration for me, I know that now. All the same, it was your decision that I should be what I am. As things have turned out, I’m good at it. I’m going to make a success of what you forced me into. One day I’d like to build the tallest building in England. This is what you made me – so you’d better learn to live with it.”
Before Ralph went back to Earlscastle with the bad news, he racked his brains for a way to turn defeat into victory. If he could not talk his brother into abandoning the bridge, was there some other way he could get the project cancelled or delayed?
There was no point talking to Prior Godwyn or Edmund Wooler, he was sure. They would be more committed to the bridge even than Merthin, and anyway they would not be persuaded by a mere squire. What could the earl do? He might send a troop of knights to kill the construction workers, but that could cause more problems than it solved.
It was Merthin who gave him the idea. He had said that Jake Chepstow, the timber merchant who was using Leper Island as a store yard, was buying trees from Wales to avoid the taxes charged by the earl of Shaftesbury.
“My brother feels he must accept the authority of the prior of Kingsbridge,” Ralph said to Earl Roland on his return. Before the earl had time to get angry, he added: “But there may be a better way to delay the building of the bridge. The priory’s quarry is in the heart of your earldom, between Shiring and Earlscastle.”
“But it belongs to the monks,” Roland growled. “The king gave it to them centuries ago. We can’t stop them taking stone.”
“You could tax them, though,” Ralph said. He felt guilty: he was sabotaging a project dear to his brother’s heart. But it had to be done, and he quelled his conscience. They will be transporting their stone through your earldom. Their heavy carts will wear away your roads and churn up your river fords. They ought to pay.”
“They’ll squeal like pigs. They’ll go to the king.”
“Let them,” Ralph said, sounding more confident than he felt. “It will take time. There are only two months left of this year’s building season – they have to stop work before the first frost. With luck, you could delay the start of the bridge until next year.”
Roland gave Ralph a hard look. “I may have underestimated you,” he said. “Perhaps you’re good for more than pulling drowning earls out of rivers.”
Ralph concealed a triumphant smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
“But how shall we enforce this tax? Usually there’s a crossroads, a ford in a river, some place every cart has to pass through.”
“Since we’re only interested in blocks of stone, we could simply camp a troop of men outside the quarry.”
“Excellent,” said the earl. “And you can lead them.”
Two days later Ralph was approaching the quarry with four men-at-arms on horseback and two boys leading a string of packhorses carrying tents and food for a week. He was pleased with himself, so far. He had been given an impossible task and turned it around. The earl thought he was good for more than river rescue work. Things were looking up.
He was deeply uncomfortable about what he was doing to Merthin. He had lain awake much of the night recalling their childhood together. He had always revered his clever older brother. They had often fought, and Ralph had felt worse when he won than when he lost. They had always made friends afterwards, in those days. But grown-up fights were harder to forget.
He was not very anxious about the coming confrontation with the monks’ quarrymen. It should not prove too challenging for a group oi military men. He had no knights with him – such work was beneath their dignity – but he had Joseph Woodstock, whom he knew to be a hard man, and three others. All the same, he would be glad when it was over and he had achieved his aim.
It was just after dawn. They had camped the night before in the forest a few miles from the quarry. Ralph planned to get there in time to challenge the first cart that attempted to leave this morning.
The horses stepped daintily along a road muddied by the hooves of oxen and deeply rutted by the wheels of heavy carts. The sun rose into a sky of rain clouds broken by scraps of blue. Ralph’s group were in a good mood, looking forward to exercising their power over unarmed men, with no serious risk to themselves.
Ralph smelled wood burning, then saw the smoke of several fires rising over the trees. A few moments later, the road widened into a muddy clearing in front of the largest hole in the ground he had ever seen. It was a hundred yards wide and stretched for at least a quarter of a mile. A mud ramp led down to the tents and wooden huts of the quarrymen, who were clustered around their fires cooking breakfast. A few were already at work, farther along the site, and Ralph could hear the dull thud of hammers driving wedges into cracks in the rock, splitting great slabs from the mass of stone.
The quarry was a day’s journey from Kingsbridge, so most carters arrived in the evening and left the following morning. Ralph could see several carts dotted about the quarry, some being loaded with stone, and one already making its slow way along the track through the diggings towards the exit ramp.
The men in the quarry looked up, alerted by the sound of horses, but no one approached. Workers were never in a hurry to converse with men-at-arms. Ralph waited patiently. There appeared to be only one way out of the quarry, the long slope of mud that led to where he was.
The first cart lumbered slowly up the ramp, the carter urging the ox on with a long-tailed whip, the ox putting one foot in front of the other with mute resentment. Four huge stones were piled on its flatbed, rough-hewn and incised with the mark of the man who had quarried them. Each man’s output was counted once at the quarry and again at the building site, and he was paid per stone.
As the cart came closer, Ralph saw that the carter was a Kingsbridge man, Ben Wheeler. He looked a bit like his ox, with a thick neck and massive shoulders. His face wore a similar expression of dull hostility. He might try to make trouble, Ralph guessed. However, he could be subdued.
Ben drove his ox towards the line of horses blocking the road. Instead of halting at a distance, he let the beast come closer and closer. The horses were not combat-trained destriers but everyday hacks, and they snorted nervously and backed. The ox stopped of its own accord.
Ben’s attitude angered Ralph, who called out: “You’re a cocksure oaf.”
Ben said: “Why do you stand in my way?”
“To collect the tax.”
“There’s no tax.”
“To carry stone across the territory of the earl of Shiring, you must pay a penny per cartload.”
“I have no money.”
“Then you must get some.”
“Do you bar my passage?”
The fool was not as scared as he should have been, which infuriated Ralph. “Don’t presume to question me,” Ralph said. “The stone stays here until someone has paid tax for it.”
Ben glared back at him for a long moment, and Ralph had the strongest feeling that the man was wondering whether to knock him off his horse. “But I have no money,” he said eventually.
Ralph wanted to run him through with his sword, but he reined in his temper. “Don’t pretend to be even more stupid than you are,” he said contemptuously. “Just go to the master quarryman and tell him the earl’s men will not let you leave.”
Ben stared at him a little longer, mulling this over; then, without speaking, he turned and walked back down the ramp, leaving his cart.
Ralph waited, fuming, staring at the ox.
Ben entered a wooden hut half way along the quarry. He emerged a few minutes later accompanied by a slight man in a brown tunic. At first, Ralph presumed the second man was the quarrymaster. However, the figure looked familiar and, as the two came closer, Ralph recognized his brother, Merthin.
“Oh, no,” he said aloud.
He was not prepared for this. He felt tortured by shame as he watched Merthin walk up the long ramp. He knew he was here to betray his brother, but he had not expected Merthin to be here to see it.
“Hello, Ralph,” said Merthin as he came closer. “Ben says you won’t let him pass.”
Merthin had always been able to overcome him in an argument, Ralph recalled dismally. He decided to be formal. It would hide his emotions, and he could hardly get into trouble if he simply repeated his instructions. He said stiffly: “The earl has decided to exercise his right to collect taxes from consignments of stone using his roads.”
Merthin ignored that. “Aren’t you going to get down off your horse to talk to your brother?”
Ralph would have preferred to stay mounted, but he did not want to refuse what seemed like some kind of challenge, so he got down. Then he felt as if he had already been bested.
“There’s no tax on stone from here,” Merthin said.
“There is now.”
“The monks have been working this quarry for hundreds of years. Kingsbridge Cathedral is build of this stone. It has never been taxed.”
“Perhaps the earl forgave the tax for the sake of the church,” Ralph said, improvising. “But he won’t do it for a bridge.”
“He just doesn’t want the town to have a new bridge. That’s the reason for this. First he sends you to bribe me, then when that fails he invents a new tax.” Merthin looked thoughtfully at Ralph. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”
Ralph was mortified. How had he guessed? “No!” he said, but he felt himself redden.
“I can see from your face that it was. I gave you the notion, I’m sure, when I spoke of Jake Chepstow importing logs from Wales to avoid the earl of Shaftesbury’s tax.”
Ralph was feeling more foolish and angry with every moment. “There’s no connection,” he said stubbornly.
“You berated me for putting my bridge before my brother, but you’re happy to wreck my hopes for the sake of your earl.”
“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was, the earl has decided to tax the stone.”
“But he doesn’t have the right.”
Ben Wheeler was following the conversation intently, standing beside Merthin with his legs apart and his hands on his hips. Now he said to Merthin: “Are you saying these men don’t have the right to stop me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Merthin.
Ralph could have told Merthin it was a mistake to treat such a man as if he was intelligent. Ben now took Merthin’s words for permission to leave. He flicked his whip over his ox’s shoulders. The beast leaned into its wooden collar and took the strain.
Ralph shouted angrily: “Halt!”
Ben whipped the ox again and called: “Hup!”
The ox pulled harder and the cart started forward with a jerk that startled the horses. Joseph Woodstock’s mount whinnied and reared up, eyes rolling.
Joseph sawed at the reins and got the horse under control. Then he pulled from his saddlebag a long wooden club. “You keep still when you’re told,” he said to Ben. He urged his horse forward and lashed out with the club.
Ben dodged the blow, grabbed the club and pulled.
Joseph was already leaning out from his saddle. The sudden jerk unbalanced him, and he fell off his horse.
Merthin cried: “Oh, no!”
Ralph knew why Merthin was dismayed. A man-at-arms could not overlook such humiliation. There was no avoiding violence now. But Ralph himself was not sorry. His brother had failed to treat the earl’s men with the deference they merited, and now he would see the consequences.
Ben was holding Joseph’s club in a two-handed grip. Joseph leaped to his feet. Seeing Ben brandishing the club, he reached for his dagger. But Ben was quicker – the carter must have fought in battle at some time, Ralph realized. Ben swung the club and landed a mighty blow on the top of Joseph’s head. Joseph fell to the ground and lay motionless.
Ralph roared with rage. He drew his sword and ran at the carter.
Merthin shouted: “No!”
Ralph stabbed Ben in the chest, thrusting the sword between his ribs as forcefully as he could. It passed through Ben’s thick body and came out the other side. Ben fell back and Ralph pulled the sword out. Blood spurted from the carter in a fountain. Ralph felt a jolt of triumphant satisfaction. There would be no more insolence from Ben Wheeler.
He knelt beside Joseph. The man’s eyes stared sightlessly. There was no heartbeat. He was dead.
In a way that was good. It simplified the explanations. Ben Wheeler had murdered one of the earl’s men, and had died for it. No one would see any injustice in that – least of all Earl Roland, who had no mercy for those who defied his authority.
Merthin did not see it the same way. His face was twisted as if in pain. “What have you done?” he said incredulously. “Ben Wheeler has a two-year-old son! They call him Bennie!”
“The widow had better look for another husband, then,” said Ralph. “This time, she should choose a man who knows his place.”
It was a poor harvest. There was so little sunshine in August that the grain had barely ripened by September. In the village of Wigleigh, spirits were low. There was none of the usual euphoria of harvest time: the dances, the drinking, the sudden romances. Wet crops were liable to rot. Many villagers would go hungry before spring.
Wulfric reaped his barley in the driving rain, scything the wet stalks while Gwenda followed behind binding the sheaves. On the first sunny day of September they started to harvest the wheat, the most valuable crop, in the hope that the fine weather would last long enough to dry it.
At some point Gwenda realized that Wulfric was powered by fury. The sudden loss of his entire family had enraged him. He would have blamed someone for his bereavement, if he could; but the collapse of the bridge seemed a random event, an act of evil spirits or a punishment by God; so he had no outlet for his passion except work. She herself was driven by love, which was just as potent.
They were in the fields before the crack of dawn, and they did not stop until it was too dark to see. Gwenda went to sleep with an aching back every night and woke when she heard Wulfric bang the kitchen door before dawn. Still they lagged behind everyone else.
Gradually, she sensed a change in the attitude of the village towards her and Wulfric. All her life, she had been looked down upon as the daughter of the disreputable Joby; and the women had disapproved of her even more when they realized she wanted to snatch Wulfric away from Annet. Wulfric was hard to dislike, but some felt that his desire to inherit such a big landholding was greedy and impractical. However, people could hardly fail to be impressed by their efforts to get the harvest in. A boy and a girl were trying to do the work of three men, and they were getting on better than anyone had expected. Men began to look at Wulfric with admiration, and women at Gwenda with sympathy.
In the end the villagers rallied around to help them. The priest, Father Gaspard, turned a blind eye to their working on Sundays. When Annet’s family had got their harvest in, her father, Perkin, and her brother, Rob, joined Gwenda on Wulfric’s land. Even Gwenda’s mother, Ethna, showed up. As they carted the last of the sheaves to Wulfric’s barn, there was a hint of the traditional harvest spirit, with everyone singing the old songs as they walked home behind the cart.
Annet was there, in violation of the saying that you should first follow the plough if you want to dance the harvest jig. She walked by Wulfric’s side, as was her right, being his acknowledged fiancee. Gwenda watched her from behind, noting sourly how she swayed her hips, tossed her head and laughed prettily at everything he said. How could he be so stupid as to fall for that? Had he not noticed that Annet had done no work on his land?
No day had yet been fixed for the wedding. Perkin was nothing if not shrewd, and he would not let his daughter commit herself until the question of the inheritance was settled.
Wulfric had proved his ability to farm the land. No one would question that now. His age had come to seem irrelevant. The only remaining obstacle was the heriot. Would he be able to raise the money to pay the inheritance tax? It would depend how much he got for his cash crops. The harvest was poor but, if the bad weather had been widespread, the price of wheat would probably be high. In normal circumstances, a prosperous peasant family would have money saved up for the heriot; but Wulfric’s family’s savings were at the bottom of the river in Kingsbridge. So nothing was settled. And Gwenda could continue to dream that Wulfric would inherit the land and, somehow, transfer his affections to her. Anything was possible.
As they were unloading the cart into the barn, Nathan Reeve arrived. The hunchbacked bailiff was in a state of high excitement. “Come to the church, quickly,” he said. “Everybody! Stop what you’re doing.”
Wulfric said: “I’m not leaving my crops out in the open – it might rain.”
Gwenda said: “We’ll just drag the cart inside. What’s the emergency, Nate?”
The bailiff was already hurrying to the next house. “The new lord is arriving!” he said.
“Wait!” Wulfric ran after him. “Will you recommend that I inherit?”
Everyone stood still, watching, waiting for the answer.
Nathan turned reluctantly and faced Wulfric. He had to look up, for Wulfric was taller by a foot. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.
“I’ve proved I can farm the land – you can see that. Just look in the barn!”
“You’ve done well, no question. But can you pay the heriot?”
“It depends on the price of wheat.”
Annet spoke. “Father?” she said.
Gwenda wondered what was coming.
Perkin looked hesitant.
Annet prompted him again. “You remember what you promised me.”
“Yes, I remember,” Perkin said at last.
“Tell Nate, then.”
Perkin turned to the bailiff. “I’ll guarantee the heriot, if the lord will let Wulfric inherit.”
Gwenda’s hand flew to her mouth.
Nathan said: “You’ll pay it for him? It’s two pounds and ten shillings.”
“If he’s short, I’ll lend him what he needs. Of course, they’ll have to be married first.”
Nathan lowered his voice. “And, in addition…?”
Perkin said something so quietly that Gwenda could not hear it, but she could guess what it was. Perkin was offering Nathan a bribe, probably a tenth of the tax, which would be five shillings.
“Very well,” Nathan said. “I’ll make the recommendation. Now get yourselves to the church, quickly!” He ran off.
Wulfric smiled broadly and kissed Annet. Everyone shook his hand.
Gwenda was heartsick. Her hopes were dashed. Annet had been too clever. She had persuaded her father to lend Wulfric the money he needed. He would inherit his land – and he would marry Annet.
Gwenda forced herself to help push the cart into the barn. Then she followed the happy couple as they walked through the village to the church. It was all over. A new lord, not knowing the village or the people, was unlikely to go against his bailiff’s advice on a question such as this. The fact that Nathan had gone to the trouble of negotiating a bribe indicated his confidence.
It was partly her fault, of course. She had broken her back to make sure Wulfric got his harvest in, in the vain hope that somehow he would realize how much better a wife she would make than Annet. All summer long she had been digging her own grave, she thought as she walked through the cemetery to the church door. But she would do the same again. She could not have borne to see him struggle alone. Whatever happens, she thought, he’ll always know I was the one who stuck it out with him. It was small consolation.
Most of the villagers were already in the church. They had not needed much urging from Nathan. They were eager to be among the first to pay their respects to their new lord, and curious to see what he was like: young or old, ugly or handsome, cheerful or dyspeptic, clever or stupid, and – most important of all – cruel or kind. Everything about him would affect their lives for as long as he remained lord, which might be years or decades. If he were reasonable, he could do a lot to make Wigleigh a happy and prosperous village. If he were a fool, they would have unwise decisions and unjust rulings, oppressive taxes and harsh punishments. And one of his first decisions would be whether to let Wulfric inherit.
The rumble of conversation died away, and a jingle of harness was heard. Gwenda heard Nathan’s voice, low and obsequious, then the authoritative tone of a lord – a big man, she thought, confident, but young. Everyone looked at the church door. It flew open.
Gwenda gasped with shock.
The man who strode in was no more than twenty. He was well dressed in an expensive wool surcoat, and armed with sword and dagger. He was tall, and his expression was proud. He seemed pleased to be lord of Wigleigh, though there was a hint of insecurity in the haughty look. He had wavy dark hair and a handsome face disfigured by a broken nose.
He was Ralph Fitzgerald.
Ralph’s first manorial court was held the following Sunday.
In the interim, Wulfric was depressed. Gwenda wanted to weep every time she looked at him. He walked around with his eyes cast down, his broad shoulders slumped. All summer he had seemed tireless, working in the fields with the uncomplaining dependability of a plough horse; but now he looked weary. He had done all a man could do, but his fate had been given into the hands of one who hated him.
She would have liked to say something hopeful, in an attempt to cheer him up, but the truth was that she shared his pessimism. Lords were often petty and vindictive, and nothing about Ralph encouraged her to believe that he would be magnanimous. As a child, he had been stupid and brutal. She would never forget the day he had killed her dog with Merthin’s bow and arrow.
There was no sign that he had improved since then. He had moved into the manor house with his sidekick, a beefy young squire called Alan Fernhill, and the two of them were drinking the best wine, eating the chickens and squeezing the breasts of the female servants with the carelessness typical of their class.
Nathan Reeve’s attitude confirmed her fears. The bailiff was not bothering to negotiate an increased bribe – a sure sign that he expected failure.
Annet, too, seemed to have a poor view of Wulfric’s prospects. Gwenda saw an unmistakable change in her. She did not toss her hair so gaily, nor walk with that swish of her hips, and the waterfall tinkle of her laughter was not heard so often. Gwenda hoped Wulfric would not see the difference in Annet: he had enough to be gloomy about. But it seemed to her that he did not stay so late at Perkin’s house in the evenings, and when he returned home he was taciturn.
She was surprised to learn, on Sunday morning, that Wulfric still harboured the ghost of a hope. When the service ended, and Father Gaspard gave place to Lord Ralph, she saw that Wulfric’s eyes were closed and his lips were moving, presumably in a prayer to his favourite saint, the Virgin Mary.
All the villagers were in church, of course, including Joby and Ethna. Gwenda did not stand with her parents. She talked to her mother sometimes, but only when her father was not around. Joby had an angry red patch on his cheek where she had burned him with the blazing log. He never met her eye. She was still afraid of him, but she sensed that he was now also afraid of her.
Ralph sat on the big wooden chair, staring at his serfs with the appraising look of a buyer at a cattle market. The court proceedings on this day consisted of a series of announcements. Nathan proclaimed the arrangements for getting the harvest in from the lord’s fields, stating on which days of the coming week different villagers would be required to perform their customary duty on the lord’s lands. No discussion was invited. Clearly Ralph did not intend to govern by consensus.
There were other details of the kind Nathan dealt with every week: gleaning should be completed in Hundredacre by Monday night so that livestock could graze the stubble from Tuesday morning, and autumn ploughing of Long Field would begin on Wednesday. Normally there would have been minor disputes about these plans, with the more argumentative villagers finding reasons to propose different arrangements, but today they were all quiet, waiting to get the measure of the new lord.
When the decision came, it seemed curiously low-key. As if he were simply stating another schedule of work, Nathan said: “Wulfric will not be permitted to inherit his father’s landholding, because he is only sixteen.”
Gwenda looked at Ralph. He was trying to smother a triumphant grin. His hand went to his face – unconsciously, she thought – and he touched his broken nose.
Nathan went on: “Lord Ralph will consider what to do with the lands and give his judgement later.”
Wulfric groaned loud enough for everyone to hear. It was the decision he had been expecting, but its confirmation was bitter. She watched as he turned his back on the crowd in the church, hiding his face, and leaned against the wall as if to stop himself falling.
“That’s all for today,” said Nathan.
Ralph stood up. He walked down the aisle slowly, his eyes continually turning to the distraught Wulfric. What kind of lord would he be, Gwenda thought, if his first instinct was to use his power for revenge? Nathan followed Ralph, looking at the floor: he knew that an injustice had been done. As they left the church, a buzz of comment arose. Gwenda spoke to no one, but watched Wulfric.
He turned from the wall, his face a picture of misery. His eyes raked the crowd and found Annet. She looked furious. Gwenda waited for her to meet Wulfric’s eye, but she seemed determined not to look at him. Gwenda wondered what was going through her mind.
Annet walked towards the door, head held high. Her father, Perkin, and the family followed. Would she not even speak to Wulfric?
The same thought must have occurred to him, for he went after her. “Annet!” he said. “Wait.”
The place went quiet.
Annet turned. Wulfric stood before her. “We’ll still get married, won’t we?” he said. Gwenda winced to hear the undignified note of pleading in his voice. Annet stared at him, apparently about to speak, but she said nothing for a long moment, and Wulfric spoke again. “Lords need good serfs to farm the land. Perhaps Ralph will give me a smaller holding-”
“You broke his nose,” she said harshly. “He will never give you anything.”
Gwenda recalled how pleased Annet had been, at the time, to have two men fighting over her.
Wulfric said: “Then I’ll be a labourer. I’m strong, I’ll never lack for work.”
“But you’ll be poor all your life. Is that what you’re offering me?”
“We’ll be together – just as we dreamed, that day in the forest, when you told me you loved me, don’t you remember?”
“And what would life be like for me, married to a landless labourer?” Annet demanded angrily. “I’ll tell you.” She lifted her arm and pointed at Gwenda’s mother, Ethna, standing with Joby and the three little ones. “I would be like her – grim-faced with worry and as thin as a broom handle.”
Joby was stung by this. He waved the stump of his severed hand at Annet. “You watch your mouth, you haughty minx.”
Perkin stepped in front of his daughter and made a patting gesture with both hands. “Forgive her, Joby, she’s overwrought, she means no harm.”
Wulfric said: “No disrespect to Joby, but I’m not like him, Annet.”
“But you are!” she said. “You’ve got no land. It’s why he’s poor, and it’s why you’ll be poor, and your children will be hungry and your wife will be drab.”
It was true. In hard times the landless were the first to suffer. Dismissing your employees was the quickest way to save money. All the same, Gwenda found it hard to believe that a woman would turn down the chance of spending her life with Wulfric.
Yet that seemed to be what Annet was doing.
Wulfric thought so, too. Plaintively, he said: “Don’t you love me any more?”
He had lost all his dignity and he looked pathetic; yet, at that moment, Gwenda felt more passion for him than ever before.
“I can’t eat love,” Annet said, and she walked out of the church.
Two weeks later, she married Billy Howard.
Gwenda went to the wedding, as did everyone in the village except Wulfric. Despite the poor harvest, there was a good feast. By this marriage two large landholdings were united: Perkin’s hundred acres with Billy’s forty. Furthermore, Perkin had asked Ralph to give him Wulfric’s family’s lands. If Ralph agreed, Annet’s children could be heirs to almost half the village. But Ralph had gone to Kingsbridge, promising a decision as soon as he returned.
Perkin broached a barrel of his wife’s strongest ale and slaughtered a cow. Gwenda ate and drank heartily. Her future was too uncertain for her to turn down good food.
She played with her little sisters, Cathie and Joanie, throwing and catching a wooden ball; then she took baby Eric on her knee and sang to him. After a while her mother sat beside her and said: “What will you do now?”
In her heart Gwenda was not completely reconciled with Ethna. They talked, and Ma asked concerned questions. Gwenda still resented her mother for forgiving Joby, but she answered the questions. “I’ll live in Wulfric’s barn as long as I can,” she said. “Perhaps I can stay there indefinitely.”
“And if Wulfric moves out – leaves the village, say?”
“I don’t know.”
For now, Wulfric was still working in the fields, ploughing in the stubble and harrowing the fallow on the land that had been his family’s, and Gwenda was helping him. They were paid the daily labourer’s rate by Nathan, as they would have no part of the next harvest. Nathan was keen for them to stay, otherwise the land would deteriorate rapidly. They would continue until Ralph announced who the new tenant would be. At that point, they would have to offer themselves for hire.
“Where is Wulfric now?” Ethna asked.
“I assume he’s not disposed to celebrate this wedding.”
“How does he feel about you?”
Gwenda gave her mother a candid look. “He tells me I’m the best friend he’s ever had.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t mean ‘I love you,’ does it?”
“No,” said her mother. “No, it doesn’t mean that.”
Gwenda heard music. Aaron Appletree was playing a bagpipe, running up and down the scale in preparation for a tune. She saw Perkin coming out of his house with a pair of small drums attached to his belt. The dancing was about to begin.
She was in no mood to dance. She could have talked to the old women, but they would only ask the same questions as her mother, and she did not want to spend the rest of the day explaining her predicament. She recalled the last village wedding, and Wulfric slightly drunk, dancing around with great leaps, embracing all the women, though still favouring Annet. Without him there was no festival for Gwenda. She gave Eric back to her mother and drifted away. Her dog, Skip, stayed behind, knowing that such parties provided a banquet of dropped food and discarded scraps.
She went into Wulfric’s house, half hoping he might be there, but the place was empty. It was a sturdy timber house, of post-and-beam construction, but with no chimney – such luxuries were for the rich. She looked in both ground-floor rooms and the upstairs bedroom. The place was as tidy and clean as it had been when his mother was alive, but that was because he used only one room. He ate and slept in the kitchen. The place was cold and unhomely. It was a family house with no family.
She went to the barn. It was full of bundled hay, for winter fodder, and sheaves of barley and wheat waiting to be threshed. She climbed the ladder to the loft and lay down in the hay. After a while she fell asleep.
When she woke up it was dark. She had no idea what time it was. She stepped outside to look at the sky. There was a low moon behind streaks of cloud, and she calculated that it was only an hour or two after nightfall. As she stood by the barn door, still half asleep, she heard weeping.
She knew instantly that it was Wulfric. She had heard him cry once before, when he saw the bodies of his parents and his brother lying on the floor of Kingsbridge Cathedral. He cried with great sobs that seemed torn from the depths of his chest. Tears came to her own eyes as she listened to his grief.
After a while, she went into the house.
She could see him by the light of the moon. He lay face down in the straw, his back heaving as he sobbed. He must have heard her lift the latch, but he was too distraught to care, and he did not look up.
Gwenda knelt beside him and tentatively touched his mane of hair. He made no response. She rarely touched him, and to stroke his hair was an unknown delight. Her caress seemed to soothe him, for his weeping subsided.
After a while, she dared to lie down beside him. She expected him to push her away, but he did not. He turned his face to her, eyes closed. She dabbed at his cheeks with her sleeve, wiping away the tears. She was thrilled to be this close to him, and to be permitted these small intimacies. She longed to kiss his closed eyelids, but she was afraid that would be a step too far, and she restrained herself.
A few moments later, she realized he was asleep.
She was pleased. It was a sign of how comfortable he felt with her, and it meant she could stay with him, at least until he woke up.
It was autumn, and the night was cold. As Wulfric’s breathing became slower and steadier, she got up stealthily and took his blanket from its hook on the wall. She draped it over him. He slept on undisturbed.
Despite the chill in the air, she slipped her dress over her head and lay beside him naked, arranging the blanket so that it covered them both.
She moved close to him and laid her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat and feel the breeze of his breath on the top of her head. The heat of his big body warmed her. In time, the moon went down, and the room became pitch dark. She felt she could have stayed like this for ever.
She did not sleep. She had no intention of wasting any of this precious time. She savoured every moment, knowing it might never happen again. She touched him cautiously, careful not to wake him. Through his light wool shift, her fingertips explored the muscles of his chest and back, the bones of his ribs and hips, the turn of his shoulder and the knob of his elbow.
He moved in his sleep several times. He turned and lay flat on his back, whereupon she put her head on his shoulder and her arm across his flat belly. Later he turned away, and then she moved really close, fitting herself into the S-shape of his body, pressing her breasts against his broad back, her hips into his, her knees into the backs of his knees. Then he turned back to her, flinging one arm across her shoulders and one leg over her thighs. His leg was painfully heavy, but she relished the ache as proof that she was not dreaming.
He dreamed, though. In the middle of the night he suddenly kissed her, thrusting his tongue roughly into her mouth, grasping her breast with one big hand. She felt his erection as he rubbed up against her clumsily. For a moment she was bewildered. He could have her whatever way he wanted, but it was unlike him to be anything but gentle. She put her hand to his groin and grasped his penis, which was sticking out through the slit in his underdrawers. Then, just as suddenly, he turned away and lay on his back, breathing rhythmically, and she realized that he had never woken up, but had touched her in a dream. He was undoubtedly dreaming of Annet, she realized ruefully.
She did not sleep, but she daydreamed. She imagined him introducing her to a stranger, saying: “This is my wife, Gwenda.” She saw herself pregnant, but still working in the fields, and fainting in the middle of the day; and in her fantasy he picked her up and carried her home, and bathed her face with cold water. She saw him as an old man, playing with their grandchildren, indulging them, giving them apples and honeycombs.
Grandchildren? she thought wryly. It was a big edifice to build on the strength of his allowing her to put her arm around him while he cried himself to sleep.
When she was thinking that it must be almost dawn, and her stay in paradise might soon be over, he begin to stir. His breathing changed. He rolled on to his back. Her arm fell across his chest and she left it there, tucking her hand under his arm. After a few moments she sensed that he was awake, thinking. She lay still, afraid that if she spoke or moved she would break the spell.
Eventually he rolled back towards her. He put his arm around her, and she felt his hand on the bare skin of her back. He stroked her there, but she did not know what the caress meant: he seemed to be exploring, surprised to find that she was naked. His hand went up to her neck and all the way down to the curve of her hip.
At last he spoke. As if afraid of being overheard, he whispered: “She married him.”
Gwenda whispered back: “Yes.”
“Her love is weak.”
“True love is never weak.”
His hand remained on her hip, maddeningly close to the places where she wanted him to touch her.
He said: “Will I ever stop loving her?”
Gwenda took his hand and moved it. “She has two breasts, like these,” she said, still whispering. She did not know why she did it: intuition was guiding her, and she followed it for good or ill.
He groaned, and she felt his hand close gently over one, then the other.
“And she has hair down here, like this,” she said, moving his hand again. His breathing became faster. Leaving his hand there, she explored his body beneath his wool shift, and found that he had an erection. She grasped it and said: “Her hand feels just like this.” He began to move his hips rhythmically.
She suddenly felt afraid that the act would be over before it was fully consummated. She did not want that. It was all or nothing now. She pushed him gently on to his back, then quickly raised herself and straddled him. “Inside, she’s hot and wet,” she said, and she lowered herself on to him. Although she had done it before, it had not been anything like this; she felt filled up and yet she wanted more. She moved down against the thrust of his hips, then up as he withdrew. She lowered her face to his and kissed his bearded mouth.
He held her head in his hands and kissed her back.
“She loves you,” Gwenda whispered to him. “She loves you so much.”
He cried out with passion, and she was rocked up and down, riding his hips like a wild pony, until at last she felt him come inside her, and he gave one last cry, then said: “Oh, I love you too! I love you, Annet!”
Wulfric went back to sleep, but Gwenda lay awake. She was too excited to sleep. She had won his love – she knew it. It hardly mattered that she had had to half pretend to be Annet. He had made love to her with such hunger, and had kissed her afterwards with such tenderness and gratitude, that she felt he was hers for ever.
When her heart stopped racing and her mind calmed down, she thought about his inheritance. She was not willing to give up on it, especially now. As dawn broke outside, she racked her brains for some way to save it. When Wulfric woke up, she said: “I’m going to Kingsbridge.”
He was startled. “Why?”
“To find out whether there’s some way you can still inherit.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But Ralph hasn’t given the land to anyone else yet, so there’s still a chance. And you deserve it – you’ve worked so hard and suffered so much.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll see my brother Philemon. He understands these things better than we do. He’ll know what we need to do.”
Wulfric looked at her strangely.
She said: “What is it?”
He said: “You really love me, don’t you?”
She smiled, full of happiness, and said: “Let’s do it again, shall we?”
On the following morning she was at Kingsbridge Priory, sitting on the stone bench by the vegetable garden, waiting for Philemon. During the long walk from Wigleigh she had gone over every second of Sunday night in her mind, relishing the physical pleasures, puzzling over the words spoken. Wulfric still had not said that he loved her, but he had said: “You really love me.” And he had seemed pleased that she loved him, albeit a bit bewildered by the strength of her passion.
She longed to win back his birthright. She yearned for it almost as much as she had yearned for him. She wanted it for both of them. Even if he were a landless labourer like her father she would marry him, given the chance; but she wanted better for them both, and she was determined to get it.
When Philemon came out of the priory into the garden to greet her, she saw immediately that he was wearing the robes of a novice monk. “Holger!” she said, using his real name in her shock. “You’re a novice – what you’ve always wanted!”
He smiled proudly, and benignly overlooked the use of his old name. “It was one of Godwyn’s first acts as prior,” he said. “He is a wonderful man. It’s such an honour to serve him.” He sat beside her on the bench. It was a mild autumn day, cloudy but dry.
“And how are you getting on with your lessons?”
“Slowly. It’s hard to learn to read and write when you’re grown up.” He grimaced. “The small boys progress faster than I do. But I can copy out the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.”
She envied him. She could not even write her name. “That’s wonderful!” she said. Her brother was on his way to achieving his life’s dream, and becoming a monk. Perhaps the status of novice might ameliorate the feelings of worthlessness that, she felt sure, accounted for his sometimes being sly and deceitful.
“But what about you?” he said. “Why have you come to Kingsbridge?”
“Did you know that Ralph Fitzgerald has become lord of Wigleigh?”
“Yes. He’s here in town, staying at the Bell, living it up.”
“He has refused to let Wulfric inherit his father’s land.” She told Philemon the story. “I want to know whether the decision can be contested.”
Philemon shook his head. “The short answer is No. Wulfric could appeal to the earl of Shiring, of course, asking him to overturn Ralph’s decision, but the earl won’t intervene unless he has a personal stake. Even if he thinks the decision unjust – which it obviously is – he won’t undermine the authority of a new appointee. But what’s your interest? I thought Wulfric was going to marry Annet.”
“When Ralph announced his decision, Annet jilted Wulfric and married Billy Howard.”
“And now you have a chance with Wulfric.”
“I think so.” She felt herself blush.
“How do you know?” he asked shrewdly.
“I took advantage of him,” she confessed. “When he was distraught over the wedding, I went to his bed.”
“Don’t worry. We who are born poor have to use cunning to get what we want. Scruples are for the privileged.”
She did not really like to hear him talk that way. Sometimes he seemed to think that any behaviour could be excused by their difficult childhood. But she was too disappointed to worry about that. “Is there really nothing I can do?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. It can’t be contested, I said. But Ralph might be talked round.”
“Not by me, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go and see Godwyn’s cousin Caris? You’ve been friends with her since you were girls. She’ll help you if she can. And she’s close to Ralph’s brother, Merthin. Perhaps he can think of something.”
Any hope was better than none. Gwenda stood up to go. “I’ll see her right away.” She leaned forward to kiss her brother goodbye, then realized that he was forbidden such contact now. Instead, she clasped his hand, which seemed peculiar.
“I’ll pray for you,” he said.
Caris’s house was opposite the priory gates. When Gwenda went in, there was no one in the dining hall, but she heard voices in the parlour, where Edmund usually did business. The cook, Tutty, told her Caris was with her father. Gwenda sat down to wait, tapping her foot impatiently, but after a few minutes the door opened.
Edmund came out accompanied by a man she did not recognize. He was tall, and had flared nostrils that gave his face a supercilious look. He wore the black robe of a priest, but no cross or other sacred symbol. Edmund nodded amiably to Gwenda and said to the stranger: “I’ll walk you back to the priory.”
Caris followed the two men out of the parlour and embraced Gwenda. “Who was that man?” Gwenda asked as soon as he had left.
“His name is Gregory Longfellow. He’s the lawyer hired by Prior Godwyn.”
“Hired for what?”
“Earl Roland has stopped the priory taking stone from its quarry. He’s trying to charge a penny a cartload. Godwyn is going to appeal to the king.”
“Are you involved?”
“Gregory thinks we must argue that the town will be unable to pay its taxes without a bridge. That’s the best way to persuade the king, he says. So my father will go with Godwyn to testify at the royal court.”
“Will you go too?”
“Yes. But tell me why you’re here?”
“I lay with Wulfric.”
Caris smiled. “Really? At last! How was it?”
“It was wonderful. I lay beside him all night while he slept, then when he woke up I… persuaded him.”
“Tell me more, I want all the details.”
Gwenda told Caris the story. At the end, even though she was impatient to get on to the real purpose of her visit, she said: “But something tells me you have news of the same kind.”
Caris nodded. “I lay with Merthin. I told him I didn’t want to get married, and he went off to see that fat sow Bessie Bell, and I got upset at the thought of her sticking out her big tits at him – then he came back, and I was so pleased I just had to do it with him.”
“Did you like it?”
“I loved it. It’s the best thing ever. And it gets better. We do it whenever we get the chance.”
“What if you get pregnant?”
“I’m not even thinking about that. I don’t care if I die. One time -” she lowered her voice – “one time, we bathed in a pool in the forest, and afterwards he licked me… down there.”
“Oh, disgusting! What was it like?”
“Nice. He liked it, too.”
“You didn’t do the same to him.”
“Yes.”
“But did he…?”
Caris nodded. “In my mouth.”
“Wasn’t it foul?”
Caris shrugged. “It tastes funny… but it’s so exciting to feel that happen. And he enjoyed it so much.”
Gwenda was shocked but intrigued. Perhaps she should do that to Wulfric. She knew a place where they could bathe, a stream in the forest far from any roads…
Caris said: “But you didn’t come all this way just to tell me about Wulfric.”
“No. It’s about his inheritance.” Gwenda explained Ralph’s decision. “Philemon thought perhaps Merthin could persuade Ralph to change his mind.”
Caris shook her head pessimistically. “I doubt it. They’ve quarrelled.”
“Oh, no!”
“It was Ralph who stopped the carts leaving the quarry. Unfortunately, Merthin was there at the time. There was a fight. Ben Wheeler killed one of the earl’s ruffians, and Ralph killed Ben.”
Gwenda gasped. “But Lib Wheeler has a two-year-old!”
“And now little Bennie has no father.”
Gwenda was dismayed for herself as well as for Lib. “So a brother’s influence won’t help.”
“Let’s go and see Merthin anyway. He’s working on Leper Island today.”
They left the house and walked down the main street to the riverside. Gwenda was discouraged. Everyone believed her chances were slender. It was so unfair.
They got Ian Boatman to row them across to the island. Caris explained that the old bridge was to be replaced by two new ones which would use the island as a stepping stone.
They found Merthin with his boy assistant, fourteen-year-old Jimmie, laying out the abutments of the new bridge. His measuring stick was an iron pole more than twice the height of a man, and he was hammering pointed stakes into the rocky ground to mark where the foundations must be dug.
Gwenda watched the way Caris and Merthin kissed. It was different. There was a cosy relish in one another’s bodies that seemed new. It matched how Gwenda herself felt about Wulfric. His body was not just desirable, it was hers to enjoy. It seemed to belong to her the way her own body did.
She and Caris watched while Merthin finished what he was doing, tying a length of twine between two stakes. Then he told Jimmie to pack up the tools.
Gwenda said: “I suppose there’s not much you can do without stone.”
“There are some preparations we can make. But I’ve sent all the masons to the quarry. They’re dressing the stones there, instead of here on site. We’re building a stockpile.”
“So, if you win your case in the royal court, you can start building right away.”
“I hope so. It depends on how long the case takes – and the weather. We can’t build in deepest winter, in case the frost freezes the mortar. It’s October already. We normally stop around the middle of November.” He looked up at the sky. “We might have a bit longer, this year – rain clouds keep the earth warm.”
Gwenda told him what she wanted.
“I wish I could help you,” Merthin said. “Wulfric is a decent man, and that fight was entirely Ralph’s fault. But I’ve quarrelled with my brother. Before asking him a favour, I’d have to make friends. And I can’t forgive him for killing Ben Wheeler.”
It was the third negative response in a row, Gwenda thought glumly. Perhaps this was a foolish errand.
Caris said: “You may have to do this on your own.”
“Yes, I will,” Gwenda said decisively. It was time to stop asking for other people’s help, and start relying on herself – the way she had all her life. “Ralph is here in town, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Merthin said. “He came to tell our parents the good news about his promotion. They’re the only people in the county who are celebrating.”
“But he’s not staying with them.”
“He’s too grand for that, now. He’s at the Bell.”
“What would be the best way to persuade him?”
Merthin thought for a few moments. “Ralph feels our father’s humiliation – a knight reduced to the status of a pensioner of the priory. He’ll do anything that seems to enhance his social position.”
Gwenda thought about that as Ian Boatman rowed them all back to the city. How could she present her request as a way for Ralph to raise his standing? It was midday as she walked up the main street with the others. Merthin was going to Caris’s house for dinner, and Caris invited Gwenda to join them, but she was impatient to see Ralph, and she went on to the Bell.
A potboy told her Ralph was upstairs in the best room. Most lodgers slept in a communal dormitory: Ralph was emphasizing his new position by taking an entire room – paid for, Gwenda thought sourly, out of the meagre harvests of Wigleigh peasants.
She knocked at the door and went in.
Ralph was there with his squire, Alan Fernhill, a boy of about eighteen with big shoulders and a small head. On the table between them stood a jug of ale, a loaf and a joint of hot beef with a wisp of steam coming from it. They were finishing their dinner, and looked thoroughly contented with their lot in life, Gwenda thought. She hoped they were not too drunk: men in that state could not talk to women, all they could do was make ribald remarks and laugh helplessly at each other’s wit.
Ralph peered at her: the room was not well lit. “You’re one of my serfs, aren’t you?”
“No, my lord, but I’d like to be. I’m Gwenda, and my father is Joby, a landless labourer.”
“And what are you doing so far from the village? It’s not market day.”
She moved a step farther into the room so that she could see his face more clearly. “Sir, I come to plead for Wulfric, son of the late Samuel. I know that he behaved disrespectfully to you once but, since then, he has suffered the torments of Job. His parents and brother were killed when the bridge collapsed, all the family’s money was lost, and now his fiancee has married someone else. I hope you might feel that God has punished him harshly for the wrong he did you, and it is time for you to show mercy.” Remembering what Merthin had advised, she added: “The mercy characteristic of the true nobleman.”
He belched fruitily and sighed. “What do you care whether Wulfric inherits?”
“I love him, my lord. Now that he has been rejected by Annet, I hope he may marry me – with your gracious permission, of course.”
“Come closer,” he said.
She moved into the centre of the room and stood in front of him.
His eyes roamed all over her body. “You’re not a pretty girl,” he said. “But there’s something about you. Are you a virgin?”
“Lord – I – I-”
“Obviously not,” he laughed. “Have you lain with Wulfric yet?”
“No!”
“Liar.” He grinned, enjoying himself. “Well, now, what if I let Wulfric have his father’s lands after all? Perhaps I should. What then?”
“You would be called a true nobleman by Wigleigh and all the world.”
“The world won’t care. But will you be grateful to me?”
Gwenda had a horrible feeling that she knew where this was leading. “Of course, deeply grateful.”
“And how would you show it?”
She backed towards the door. “Any way I could without shame.”
“Would you take off your dress?”
Her heart sank. “No, lord.”
“Ah. Not so grateful, then.”
She reached the door and touched the handle, but she did not go out. “What… what are you asking me, lord?”
“I want to see you naked. Then I’ll decide.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Alan. “In front of him?”
“Yes.”
It did not seem much, to show herself to these two men – not by comparison with the prize, winning Wulfric’s inheritance back.
Swiftly, she undid her belt and pulled her dress over her head. She held the dress in her hand, keeping the other hand on the doorknob, and stared defiantly at Ralph. He looked greedily at her body, then glanced over at his companion with a grin of triumph; and Gwenda saw that this was about showing his power as much as anything else.
Ralph said: “An ugly cow, but nice udders – eh, Alan?”
Alan replied: “I wouldn’t climb over you to get at her.”
Ralph laughed.
Gwenda said: “Now will you grant my petition?”
Ralph put his hand to his crotch and began to stroke himself. “Lie with me,” he said. “On that bed.”
“No.”
“Come on – you’ve already done it with Wulfric, you’re no virgin.”
“No.”
“Think of the lands – ninety acres, all that his father had.”
She thought. If she agreed, Wulfric would have his heart’s desire – and the two of them could look forward to a life of plenty. If she continued to refuse, Wulfric would be a landless labourer, like Joby, struggling all his life to make enough to feed his children, and often failing.
Still the thought revolted her. Ralph was an unpleasant man, petty and vengeful, a bully – so different from his brother. His being tall and handsome made little difference. It would be disgusting to lie with someone she disliked so much.
The fact that she had done it with Wulfric only yesterday made the prospect of sex with Ralph even more repellent. Alter her night of happy intimacy with Wulfric, it would be a terrible betrayal to do the same with another man.
Don’t be a fool, she told herself. For the sake of five minutes of unpleasantness, will you condemn yourself to a life of hardship? She thought of her mother, and the babies that had died. She remembered the stealing she and Philemon had been forced to do. Was it not better to prostitute herself to Ralph one time, for just a few moments, than to condemn her unborn children to a life of poverty?
Ralph remained quiet while she vacillated. He was wise: any words from him would only have strengthened her revulsion. Silence served him better.
“Please,” Gwenda said at last. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Ah,” he said. “That tells me you’re willing.”
“It’s a sin,” she said desperately. She did not often talk about sin, but she thought there was a chance it might move him. “A sin for you to ask, and a sin for me to agree.”
“Sins can be forgiven.”
“What would your brother think of you?”
That gave him pause. For a moment he seemed to hesitate.
“Please,” she said. “Just let Wulfric inherit.”
His face hardened again. “I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to reverse it – unless you can persuade me. And just saying please won’t work.” His eyes glistened with desire, and he was breathing a little faster, his mouth open, his lips moist behind his beard.
She dropped her dress to the floor and walked to the bed.
“Kneel on the mattress,” Ralph said. “No, facing away from me.”
She did as he said.
“Better view from this side,” he said, and Alan laughed loudly. Gwenda wondered if Alan was going to stay to watch, but then Ralph said: “Leave us alone.” A moment later the door slammed.
Ralph knelt on the bed behind Gwenda. She closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness. She felt his thick fingers exploring her. She heard him spit, then he rubbed a wet hand on her. A moment later he entered her. She groaned with shame.
Ralph misinterpreted the sound and said: “You like that, eh?”
She wondered how long this would take. He began to move rhythmically. To ease the discomfort she moved with him, and he laughed triumphantly, thinking he had excited her lust. Her greatest rear was that this would sour her entire experience of lovemaking. In future, when she lay with Wulfric, would she think of this moment?
And then, to her horror, a warm flush of pleasure began to spread through her loins. She felt her face redden in shame. Despite her profound repugnance, her body betrayed her, and moisture flooded inside her, easing the friction of his thrusts. He sensed the change and moved faster. Disgusted with herself, she ceased to match his rhythm; but he grabbed her hips, pushing and pulling alternately, and she was helpless to resist. She remembered with dismay that her body had undermined her in the same way with Alwyn in the forest. Then as now, she had wanted her body to be a wooden statue, numb and impassive; both times, it had responded against her will.
She had killed Alwyn with his own knife.
She could not do the same to Ralph, even if she had wanted to, because he was behind her. She could not see him, and she had little control over her body. She was in his hands. She was glad when she sensed that he was approaching the climax. Soon it would be over. She felt an answering pressure in her own loins. She tried to make her body limp and her mind blank: it would be too humiliating if she, too, reached a climax. She felt Ralph ejaculate inside her, and she shuddered, not with pleasure but with loathing.
He sighed with satisfaction, withdrew from her and lay flat on the bed.
She got up and quickly pulled on her dress.
“That was better than I expected,” Ralph said, as if he were paying her some kind of polite compliment.
She went out and slammed the door behind her.
On the following Sunday, before church, Nathan Reeve came to Wulfric’s house.
Gwenda and Wulfric were sitting in the kitchen. They had had breakfast and swept the room, and now Wulfric was sewing a pair of leather trousers while Gwenda wove a belt from cords. They sat close to the window, for better light – it was raining again.
Gwenda was pretending to live in the barn, so that Father Gaspard would not be offended, but she spent every night with Wulfric. He had not mentioned marriage, which disappointed her. However, they were living more or less as man and wife, in the way that people often did when they intended to marry as soon as they got around to the formalities. The nobility and the gentry were permitted no such laxity, but it was routinely overlooked among the peasantry.
As she had feared, she felt strange making love to him. The more she tried to put Ralph out of her mind, the more he intruded. Fortunately, Wulfric never noticed her mood. He made love to her with such enthusiasm and joy that it almost swamped her guilty conscience – but not quite.
And she had the consolation of knowing that he would inherit his family’s lands after all. That made up for everything. She could not tell him this, of course, for then she would have needed to explain what had changed Ralph’s mind. She had told him about her conversations with Philemon, Caris and Merthin, and had given him a partial version of her encounter with Ralph, saying only that he had promised to reconsider. So Wulfric was hopeful, rather than triumphant.
“Come to the manor house, right away, both of you,” Nathan said, putting his wet head around the door.
Gwenda said: “What does the Lord Ralph want?”
“Will you refuse to go if the proposed topic of discussion fails to interest you?” Nathan said sarcastically. “Don’t ask stupid questions, just come.”
She put a blanket over her head to walk to the big house. She still did not have a cloak. Wulfric had money, from the sale of his crops, and could have bought her a cloak, but he was saving for the heriot.
They hurried through the rain to the manor house. It was a small version of a nobleman’s castle, having a great hall with a long dining table, plus a small upper storey, called the solar, for the lord’s private chamber. Now it bore the signs of a house occupied by men without wives: the walls were bare of tapestries, the straw on the floor gave up a pungent smell, the dogs snarled at the newcomers and a mouse nibbled a crust on the sideboard.
Ralph sat at the head of the table. On his right was Alan, who gave Gwenda a smirk she did her best to ignore. A minute later, Nathan came in. Behind him followed fat, sly Perkin, rubbing his hands and bowing obsequiously, his hair so oily it looked like a leather skullcap. With Perkin was his new son-in-law, Billy Howard. Billy shot a triumphant glance at Wulfric: I Ve got your girl, he was thinking, and now I’m going to get your land. He had a shock coming.
Nathan sat on Ralph’s left. The rest of them remained standing.
Gwenda had been looking forward to this moment. It was the reward tor her sacrifice. She eagerly anticipated the expression on Wulfric’s face when he learned that he had inherited after all. He would be overjoyed – and she would too. Their future would be secure, or at least as secure as was possible in a world of unpredictable weather and oscillating grain prices.
Ralph said: “Three weeks ago, I said that Wulfric, son of Samuel, could not inherit his father’s land because he’s too young.” He spoke slowly and ponderously. He loves this, Gwenda thought: sitting at the head of the table, pronouncing judgement, everyone hanging on his words. “Wulfric has been working the land since then, while I have considered who should succeed old Samuel.” He paused, then said: “But I’ve come to doubt my rejection of Wulfric.”
Perkin started. He had been confident of success, and this shocked him.
Billy Howard said: “What’s this? I thought Nate-” Then Perkin nudged him, and he shut up.
Gwenda could not restrain a smile of triumph.
Ralph said: “Despite his youth, Wulfric has shown himself capable.”
Perkin glared at Nathan. Gwenda guessed that Nathan had promised the land to Perkin. Perhaps the bribe had already been paid.
Nathan was just as shocked as Perkin. He stared open-mouthed at Ralph for a moment, turned to Perkin with a baffled expression, then looked suspiciously at Gwenda.
Ralph added: “In this he has been well supported by Gwenda, whose strength and loyalty have impressed me.”
Nathan stared at her speculatively. She could tell what he was thinking. He realized she had intervened, and he was wondering how she had managed to change Ralph’s mind. He might even be guessing the truth. She did not care if he did, so long as Wulfric remained ignorant.
Suddenly Nathan seemed to make a decision. He stood up and leaned his twisted torso across the table. He spoke to Ralph quietly. Gwenda could not hear what he said.
“Really?” Ralph said in a normal voice. “How much?”
Nathan turned to Perkin and murmured something to him.
Gwenda said: “Wait a minute! What’s all this whispering?”
Perkin looked angry, but said reluctantly: “Yes, all right.”
“All right to what?” Gwenda said fearfully.
“Double?” said Nathan.
Perkin nodded.
Gwenda had a feeling of dread.
Nathan said aloud: “Perkin offers to pay double the normal heriot, which would be five pounds.”
Ralph said: “That makes a difference.”
Gwenda cried: “No!”
Wulfric spoke for the first time. “The heriot is laid down by custom, recorded in the manor rolls,” he said in his slow, boy-man voice. “It’s not for negotiation.”
Nathan said quickly: “Heriots can change, though. They’re not in the Domesday Book.”
Ralph said: “Are you two lawyers? If not, shut up. The heriot is two pounds and ten shillings. Any other money that changes hands is none of your business.”
Gwenda realized with horror that Ralph was on the point of reneging on their deal. She spoke in a low, accusing voice, slow but clear. “You made me a promise.”
“Why would I do something like that?” Ralph said.
It was the one question she could not answer. “Because I pleaded with you,” she replied feebly.
“And I said I would think again. But I made no promise.”
She was powerless to make him keep his word. She wanted to kill him. “Yes, you did!” she said.
“Lords don’t bargain with peasants.”
She stared at him, lost for words. It had all been for nothing: the long walk to Kingsbridge, the humiliation of appearing naked in front of him and Alan, the shameful act she had performed on Ralph’s bed. She had betrayed Wulfric, and he still would not inherit. She pointed a finger at Ralph and said bitterly: “God damn you to hell, Ralph Fitzgerald.”
He went pale. The curse of a genuinely wronged woman was known to be powerful. “Watch what you say,” he replied. “We have a punishment for a witch who casts spells.”
Gwenda drew back. No woman could take such a threat lightly. The accusation of witchcraft was easy to make and hard to refute. Still she could not resist saying: “Those who escape justice in this life will find it in the next.”
Ralph ignored that and turned to Perkin. “Where is the money?”
Perkin had not got rich by telling people where he kept his cash. “I’ll letch it right away, lord,” he said.
Wulfric said: “Come on, Gwenda. There’s no mercy for us here.”
Gwenda fought back tears. Anger had been replaced by grief. They had lost the battle, after all they had done. She turned away, head lowered to hide her emotions.
Perkin said: “Wait, Wulfric. You need employment – and I need help. Work for me. I’ll pay you a penny a day.”
Wulfric flushed with the shame of being offered a job as a labourer on lands his family had owned.
Perkin added: “Gwenda, too. You’re both young and willing.”
He did not intend to be malicious, Gwenda saw. He was single-minded in the pursuit of his own interests, and he was eager to hire two strong young labourers to help him farm his amalgamated holding. He did not care, or perhaps did not even know, that for Wulfric this was the final humiliation.
Perkin said: “That’s a shilling a week between you. You’ll have plenty.”
Wulfric looked bitter. “Work for a wage, on lands that my family has owned for decades?” he said. “Never.” He turned away and left the house.
Gwenda followed, thinking: What are we going to do now?
Westminster Hall was huge, bigger than the inside of some cathedrals. It was dauntingly long and wide, and its distant ceiling was supported by a double row of tall pillars. It was the most important room in the Palace of Westminster.
Earl Roland was perfectly at home here, Godwyn thought resentfully. The earl and his son William swaggered about in their fashionable clothes, with one leg of their hose red and the other black. Every earl knew all the others, and most of the barons too, and they clapped their friends on the shoulders, mocked each other facetiously and hooted with laughter at their own humour. Godwyn wanted to remind them that the courts held in this room had the power to sentence any one of them to death, even if they were the nobility.
He and his entourage were quiet, speaking only to one another, and then in hushed tones. This was not out of reverence, he had to admit, but nervousness. Godwyn, Edmund and Caris were ill at ease here. None of them had been to London before. The only person they knew was Buenaventura Caroli, and he was out of town. They did not know their way around, their clothes looked old-fashioned, and the money they had brought – which they had thought would be plenty – was running out.
Edmund was not cowed by anything, and Caris seemed distracted – as if she had something more important on her mind, though it hardly seemed possible – but Godwyn was tormented by anxiety. He was a newly elected prior, challenging one of the greatest noblemen in the land. The issue was the future of the town. Without the bridge, Kingsbridge would die. The priory, currently the beating heart of one of England’s great cities, would dwindle to a lonely outpost in a small village, where a few monks did their devotions in the echoing emptiness of a crumbling cathedral. Godwyn had not fought to be prior only to see his prize turn to dust.
With so much at stake, he wanted to be in control of events, confident that he was cleverer than almost everyone else, as he was in Kingsbridge. But here he felt the opposite, and the insecurity drove him to distraction.
His consolation was Gregory Longfellow. A friend of Godwyn’s from university days, Gregory had a devious mind well suited to the law. The royal court was familiar to him. Aggressive and cocksure, he had guided Godwyn through the legal maze. He had presented the priory’s petition to Parliament, as he had presented many petitions before. It was not debated by Parliament, of course, but passed to the king’s council, which was overseen by the chancellor. The chancellor’s team of lawyers – all of them friends or acquaintances of Gregory’s – might have referred the matter to the king’s bench, the court that dealt with disputes in which the king had an interest; but, again as Gregory had foreseen, they had decided this was too petty to bother the king with, and had instead sent the case to the common bench, or court of common pleas.
All this had taken a full six weeks. It was late November, and the weather was getting colder. The building season was nearly over.
Today at last they stood before Sir Wilbert Wheatfield, an experienced judge who was said to be liked by the king. Sir Wilbert was the younger son of a northern baron. His elder brother had inherited the title and the estate, and Wilbert had trained as a priest, studied law, come to London and found favour at the royal court. His inclination would be to side with an earl against a monk, Gregory warned; but he would put the king’s interests ahead of all else.
The judge sat on a raised bench against the east wall of the palace, between windows that looked out on to the Green Yard and the River Thames. In front of him were two clerks at a long table. There were no seats for the litigants.
“Sir, the earl of Shiring has sent armed men to blockade the quarry owned by Kingsbridge Priory,” Gregory said as soon as Sir Wilbert looked at him. His voice quivered with simulated indignation. “The quarry, which is within the earldom, was granted to the priory by King Henry I some two hundred years ago. A copy of the charter has been lodged with the court.”
Sir Wilbert had a pink face and white hair, and looked handsome until he spoke, when he showed rotten teeth. “I have the charter before me,” he said.
Earl Roland spoke without waiting to be invited. “The monks were given the quarry so that they could build their cathedral,” he said, speaking in a bored-sounding drawl.
Gregory said quickly: “But the charter does not restrict their use of it to any one purpose.”
“Now they want to build a bridge,” Roland said.
“To replace the bridge that collapsed at Whitsun – a bridge that itself was built, many hundreds of years ago, with timber that was a gift of the king!” Gregory spoke as if he was outraged by the earl’s every word.
“They don’t need permission to rebuild a pre-existing bridge,” Sir Wilbert said briskly. “And the charter does say that the king wishes to encourage the building of the cathedral, but it does not say they have to relinquish their rights when the church is finished, nor that they are forbidden to use the stone for any other purpose.”
Godwyn was heartened. The judge seemed to have seen the priory’s side of the argument immediately.
Gregory made a spreading gesture with his hands, palms up, as if the judge had said something blindingly obvious. “And, indeed, sir, that has been the understanding of priors of Kingsbridge and earls of Shiring for three centuries.”
That was not quite right, Godwyn knew. There had been disputes about the charter in the time of Prior Philip. But Sir Wilbert did not know that, nor did Earl Roland.
Roland’s attitude was haughty, as if it was beneath his dignity to squabble with lawyers, but this was deceptive: he had a firm grip on the argument. “The charter does not say the priory may escape tax.”
Gregory said: “Why, then, has the earl never imposed such a tax until now?”
Roland had his answer ready. “Former earls forgave the tax, as their contribution to the cathedral. It was a pious act. But no piety compels me to subsidize a bridge. Yet the monks refuse to pay.”
Suddenly the argument had swung the other way. How fast it moved, Godwyn thought; not like arguments in the monks’ chapter house, which could go on for hours.
Gregory said: “And the earl’s men prevent movement of stones from the quarry, and have killed a poor carter.”
Sir Wilbert said: “Then the dispute had better be resolved as soon as possible. What does the priory say to the argument that the earl has the right to tax consignments passing through his earldom, using roads and bridges and fords that belong to him, regardless of whether he has actually enforced this right in the past or not?”
“That since the stones are not passing through his lands, but originate there, the tax is tantamount to charging the monks for the stones, contrary to the charter of Henry I.”
Godwyn saw with dismay that the judge seemed unimpressed by this.
However, Gregory had not finished. “And that the kings who gave Kingsbridge a bridge and a quarry did so for a good reason: they wanted the priory and the town to prosper. And the town’s alderman is here to testify that Kingsbridge cannot prosper without a bridge.”
Edmund stepped forward. With his unkempt hair and provincial clothes he looked like a country bumpkin, by contrast with the gorgeously robed noblemen around; but, unlike Godwyn, he did not appear intimidated. “I’m a wool merchant, sir,” he said. “Without the bridge, there’s no trade. And without trade, Kingsbridge will pay no taxes to the king.”
Sir Wilbert leaned forward. “How much did the town yield in the last tenth?”
He was speaking of the tax, imposed by Parliament from time to time, of one-tenth or one-fifteenth of each individual’s movable property. No one ever paid a tenth, of course – everyone understated their wealth – so the amount payable by each town or county had become fixed, and the burden was shared out more or less fairly, with poor men and lowly peasants paying nothing at all.
Edmund had been expecting this question, and he replied promptly: “One thousand and eleven pounds, sir.”
“And the effect of the loss of the bridge?”
“Today, I estimate that a tenth would raise less than three hundred pounds. But our citizens are continuing to trade in the hope that the bridge will be rebuilt. If that hope were to be dashed in this court today, the annual Fleece Fair and the weekly market would almost disappear, and the yield from a tenth would fall below fifty pounds.”
“Next to nothing, in the scale of the king’s needs,” the judge said. He did not say what they all knew: that the king was in dire need of money because in the last few weeks he had declared war on France.
Roland was needled. “Is this hearing about the king’s finances?” he said scornfully.
Sir Wilbert was not to be browbeaten, even by an earl. “This is the king’s court,” he said mildly. “What would you expect?”
“Justice,” Roland replied.
“And you shall have it.” The judge implied, but did not say: Whether you like it or not. “Edmund Wooler, where is the nearest alternative market?”
“Shiring.”
“Ah. So the business you lose will move to the earl’s town.”
“No, sir. Some will move, but much will vanish. Many Kingsbridge traders will be unable to get to Shiring.”
The judge turned to Roland. “How much does a tenth yield from Shiring?”
Roland conferred briefly with his secretary, Father Jerome, then said: “Six hundred and twenty pounds.”
“And with the increased trade at Shiring market, could you pay one thousand six hundred and twenty pounds?”
“Of course not,” the earl said angrily.
The judge continued in his mild tone. “Then your opposition to this bridge would cost the king dear.”
“I have my rights,” Roland said sulkily.
“And the king has his. Is there any way you could compensate the royal treasury for the loss of a thousand pounds every year or so?”
“By fighting alongside him in France – which wool merchants and monks will never do!”
“Indeed,” said Sir Wilbert. “But your knights will require payment.”
“This is outrageous,” said Roland. He knew he was losing the argument. Godwyn tried not to look triumphant.
The judge did not like his proceedings being called outrageous. He fixed Roland with a look. “When you sent your men-at-arms to blockade the priory’s quarry, I feel sure you did not intend to damage the king’s interests.” He paused expectantly.
Roland sensed a trap, but there was only one answer he could give. “Certainly not.”
“Now that it has been made clear to the court, and to you, how the building of the new bridge serves the king’s purposes, as well as those of Kingsbridge Priory and the town, I imagine you will agree to the reopening of the quarry.”
Godwyn realized Sir Wilbert was being clever. He was forcing Roland to consent to his ruling, making it difficult for him to appeal personally to the king later.
Alter a long pause, Roland said: “Yes.”
“And to the transport of stones through your territory without tax.”
Roland knew he had lost. There was fury in his voice as he said again: “Yes.”
“So ordered,” the judge said. “Next case.”
It was a great victory, but it had probably come too late.
November had turned into December. Building normally stopped about now. Because of the rainy weather, the frosts would come late this year but, even so, there were at most a couple of weeks left. Merthin had hundreds of stones stockpiled at the quarry, cut and shaped and ready to be laid. However, it would take months to cart them all to Kingsbridge. Although Earl Roland had lost the court case, he had almost certainly succeeded in delaying the building of the bridge by a year.
Caris returned to Kingsbridge, with Edmund and Godwyn, in sombre mood. Reining in on the suburban side of the river, she saw that Merthin had already constructed his coffer dams. In each of the channels that ran either side of Leper Island, the ends of wooden boards stuck a couple of feet above the surface in a big circle. She recalled Merthin explaining, in the guild hall, how he planned to drive stakes into the river bed in a double ring then fill the gap between the rings with clay mortar to make a watertight seal. The water inside the coffer could then be taken out so that the builders could lay a foundation on the river bed.
One of Merthin’s workmen, Harold Mason, was on the ferry as they crossed the river, and Caris asked him if the coffer dams had been drained. “Not yet,” he said. “The master wants to leave it until we’re ready to start building.”
Caris noticed with pleasure that Merthin was now called the master, despite his youth. “But why?” she said. “I thought we wanted everything ready for a quick start.”
“He says the force of the river puts more strain on the dam when there’s no water inside.”
Caris wondered how Merthin knew such things. He had learned the basics from his first master, Joachim, Elfric’s father. He always talked a lot to strangers who came to town, especially men who had seen tall buildings in Florence and Rome. And he had read all about the construction of the cathedral in Timothy’s Book. But he seemed also to have remarkable intuition about these matters. She would never have guessed that an empty dam would be weaker than a full one.
Although they were subdued as they entered the town, they wanted to tell Merthin the good news right away and find out what, if anything, he could get done before the end of the season. Pausing only to entrust their horses to stable boys, they went in search of him. They found him in the mason’s loft, high in the north-west tower of the cathedral, working by the light of several oil lamps, scratching a design for a parapet on the tracing floor.
He looked up from his drawing, saw their faces and grinned widely. “We won?” he said.
“We won,” said Edmund.
“Thanks to Gregory Longfellow,” Godwyn added. “He cost a lot of money, but he was worth it.”
Merthin embraced both men – his quarrel with Godwyn forgotten, at least for now. He kissed Caris tenderly. “I missed you,” he murmured. “It’s been eight weeks! I felt as if you were never coming back.”
She made no reply. She had something momentous to say to him, but she wanted privacy.
Her father did not notice her reticence. “Well, Merthin, you can start building right away.”
“Good.”
Godwyn said: “You can begin carting stones from the quarry tomorrow – but I suppose it’s too late to get much building done before the winter frosts.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Merthin said. He glanced at the windows. It was mid-afternoon, the December day already darkening to evening. “There might be a way to do it.”
Edmund was immediately enthusiastic. “Well, out with it, lad! What’s your idea?”
Merthin turned to the prior. “Would you grant an indulgence to volunteers who bring stones from the quarry?” An indulgence was a special act of forgiveness of sins. Like a gift of money, it could either pay for past debts or stand in credit for future liabilities.
“I could,” Godwyn said. “What have you got in mind?”
Merthin turned to Edmund. “How many people in Kingsbridge own a cart?”
“Let me think,” Edmund said, frowning. “Every substantial trader has one… so it must come to a couple of hundred, at least.”
“Suppose we were to go around the town tonight and ask every one of them to drive to the quarry tomorrow and pick up stones.”
Edmund stared at Merthin, and a grin slowly spread across his face. “Now,” he said delightedly, “that’s an idea!”
“We’ll tell each one that everybody else is going,” Merthin went on. “It will be like a holiday. Their families can go along, and they can take food and beer. If each one brings back a cartload of stone or rubble, in two days’ time we’ll have enough to build the piers of the bridge.”
That was brilliant, Caris thought wonderingly. It was typical of him, to think of something no one else could have imagined. But would it work?
“What about the weather?” said Godwyn.
“The rain has been a curse for the peasants, but it’s held off the deep cold. We’ve a week or two yet, I think.”
Edmund was excited, stomping up and down the loft with his lopsided gait. “But if you can build the piers in the next few days…”
“By the end of next year we can finish the bulk of the work.”
“Could we use the bridge the following year?”
“No… but wait. We could put a temporary wooden roadbed on top in time for the Fleece Fair.”
“So we would have a usable bridge by the year after next – and miss only one Fleece Fair!”
“We’d have to finish the stone roadbed after the Fleece Fair, then it would harden in time to be used normally in the third year.”
“Damn it, we’ve got to do it!” Edmund said excitedly.
Godwyn said cautiously: “You have yet to empty the water out of the coffer dams.”
Merthin nodded. “That’s hard work. In my original plan I allowed two weeks for it. But I’ve got an idea about that, too. However, let’s get the carts organized first.”
They all moved to the door, animated with enthusiasm. As Godwyn and Edmund started down the narrow spiral staircase, Caris caug ht Merthin by the sleeve and held him back. He thought she wanted to kiss, and he put his arms around her, but she pushed him away. “I’ve got some news,” she said.
“More?”
“I’m pregnant.”
She watched his face. He was startled at first, and his red-brown eyebrows rose. Then he blinked, tilted his head to one side and shrugged, as if to say: Nothing surprising about that. He grinned, at first ruefully, then with unmixed happiness. At the end he was beaming. “That’s wonderful!” he said.
She hated him momentarily for his stupidity. “No, it’s not!”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my life as a slave to anyone, even if it is my own child.”
“A slave? Is every mother a slave?”
“Yes! How could you possibly not know that I feel that way?”
He looked baffled and hurt, and a part of her wanted to back off, but she had been nursing her anger too long. “I did know, I suppose,” he said. “But then you lay with me, so I thought…” He hesitated. “You must have known it might happen – would happen, sooner or later.”
“Of course I knew, but I acted as if I didn’t.”
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“Oh, stop being so understanding. You’re such a weakling.”
His face froze. After a long pause he said: “All right, then, I’ll stop being so understanding. Just give me the information. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan, you fool. I just know I don’t want to have a baby.”
“So you don’t have a plan, and I’m a fool and a weakling. Do you want anything from me?”
“No!”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Don’t be so logical!”
He sighed. “I’m going to stop trying to be what you tell me to be, because you make no sense.” He went around the room putting out the lamps. “I’m glad we’re having a baby, and I’d like us to be married and look after the child together – assuming this mood you’re in is only temporary.” He put his drawing implements in a leather bag and slung it over his shoulder. “But for now, you’re so cantankerous that I’d rather not speak to you at all. And besides, I have work to do.” He went to the door, then paused. “On the other hand, we could kiss and make up.”
“Go away!” she yelled.
He ducked through the low door and disappeared into the stairwell.
Caris began to cry.
Merthin had no idea whether the people of Kingsbridge would rally to the cause. They all had work and worries of their own: would they see the communal effort to build the bridge as being more important? He was not sure. He knew, from his reading of Timothy’s Book, that at moments of crisis Prior Philip had often prevailed by calling on the ordinary people to make a massive effort. But Merthin was not Philip. He had no right to lead people. He was just a carpenter.
They made a list of cart owners and divided it up by streets. Edmund rounded up ten leading citizens and Godwyn picked ten senior monks, and they went around in pairs. Merthin was teamed with Brother Thomas.
The first door they knocked on was Lib Wheeler’s. She was continuing Ben’s business with hired labour. “You can have both my carts,” she said. “And the men to drive them. Anything to give that damned earl a poke in the eye.”
But their second call brought a refusal. “I’m not well,” said Peter Dyer, who had a cart for delivering the bales of woollen cloth he dyed yellow and green and pink. “I can’t travel.”
He looked perfectly all right, Merthin thought; he was probably scared of a confrontation with the earl’s men. There would be no fight, Merthin felt sure; but he could understand the fear. What if all the citizens felt that way?
Their third call was on Harold Mason, a young builder who was hoping for several years of work building the bridge. He agreed immediately. “Jake Chepstow will come, too,” he said. “I’ll make sure of that.” Harold and Jake were pals.
After that, almost everybody said yes.
They did not need to be told how important the bridge was – everyone who had a cart was a trader, obviously – and they had the additional incentive of a pardon for their sins. But the most important factor seemed to be the promise of an unexpected holiday. Most people said: “Is so-and-so going?” When they heard that their friends and neighbours had volunteered, they did not want to be left out.
When they had made all their calls, Merthin left Thomas and went down to the ferry. They had to take the carts across overnight, to be ready to leave at sunrise. The ferry carried only one cart at a time – two hundred carts would take several hours. That was why they needed a bridge, of course.
An ox was revolving the great wheel, and carts were already crossing the river. On the other side, the owners turned their beasts out to graze in the pasture, then came back on the ferry and went to bed. Edmund had got John Constable and half a dozen of his deputies to spend the night in Newtown, guarding carts and beasts.
The ferry was still working when Merthin went to bed an hour or so after midnight. He lay thinking about Caris for a while. Her quirkiness and unpredictability were part of what he loved, but sometimes she was impossible. She was the cleverest individual in Kingsbridge, but also hopelessly irrational at times.
Most of all, though, he hated to be called weak. He was not sure he would ever forgive Caris for that jibe. Earl Roland had humiliated him, ten years ago, by saying he could not be a squire, and was fit only to be apprenticed to a carpenter. But he was not weak. He had defied Elfric’s tyranny, he had routed Prior Godwyn over the bridge design, and he was about to save the entire town. I might be small, he thought, but by God I’m strong.
Still he did not know what to do about Caris, and he fell asleep worrying.
Edmund woke him at first light. By then almost every cart in Kingsbridge was on the far side of the river, in a straggly line that led through the suburb of Newtown and half a mile into the forest. It took a couple more hours to ferry the people over. The excitement of organizing what was effectively a pilgrimage diverted Merthin’s mind from the problem of Caris and her pregnancy. Soon the pasture on the far side was a scene of good-natured chaos, as dozens of people caught their horses and oxen, led them to their carts and backed them into the traces. Dick Brewer brought over a huge barrel of ale and gave it away – “To encourage the expedition,” he said – with mixed results: some people were so encouraged they had to lie down.
A crowd of spectators gathered on the city side of the river, watching. As the line of carts at last began to move off, a great cheer went up.
But stones were only half the problem.
Merthin turned his attention to the next challenge. If he was to begin laying stones as soon as they arrived from the quarry, he had to empty the coffer dams in two days instead of two weeks. As the cheering died down, he raised his voice and addressed the crowd. This was the moment to catch their interest, when the excitement was fading and they were beginning to wonder what to do next.
“I need the strongest men left in town!” he shouted. They went quiet, intrigued. “Are there any strong men in Kingsbridge?” This was partly a come-on: the work would be heavy, but asking only for strong people also threw down a challenge that the young men would find hard to resist. “Before the carts get back from the quarry tomorrow night, we have to empty the water out of the coffer dams. It will be the hardest work you’ve ever done – so no weaklings, please.” As he said this, he looked at Caris in the crowd and caught her eye, and he saw her flinch: she remembered using that word, and she knew she had insulted him. “Any woman who thinks she is the equal of the men can join in,” he went on. “I need you to find a bucket and meet me on the shore opposite Leper Island as soon as possible. Remember – only the strongest!”
He was not sure whether he had won them over. As he finished, he spotted the tall figure of Mark Webber, and pushed through the throng to him. “Mark, will you encourage them?” he said anxiously.
Mark was a gentle giant, much liked in the town. Even though he was poor he had influence, especially among adolescents. “I’ll make sure the lads join in,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Next, Merthin found Ian Boatman. “I’m going to need you all day, I hope,” he said. “Ferrying people out to the coffer dams and back. You can work for pay or an indulgence – your choice.” Ian was excessively fond of his wife’s younger sister, and would probably prefer the indulgence, either for a past sin or for one he was hoping to commit soon.
Merthin made his way through the streets to the shore where he was preparing to build the bridge. Could the coffer dams be emptied in two days? He really had no idea. He wondered how many gallons of water were in each. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? There must be a way of calculating. The Greek philosophers had probably worked out a method but, if they had, it had not been taught at the priory school. To find out, he would probably have to go to Oxford, where there were mathematicians famous all over the world, according to Godwyn.
He waited at the river’s edge, wondering if anyone would come.
The first to arrive was Megg Robbins, the strapping daughter of a corn dealer, with muscles enlarged by years of lifting sacks of grain. “I can outdo most of the men in this town,” she said, and Merthin did not doubt it.
A group of young men came next, then three novice monks.
As soon as Merthin had ten people with buckets, he got Ian to row them and him to the nearer of the two dams.
Inside the rim of the dam he had built a ledge just above water level, strong enough for men to stand on. From the ledge four ladders reached all the way down to the river bed. In the centre of the dam, floating on the surface, was a large raft. Between the raft and the ledge there was a gap of about two feet, and the raft was held in a central position by protruding wooden spokes that reached almost to the wall and prevented movement of more than a few inches in any direction.
“You work in pairs,” he told them. “One on the raft, one on the ledge. The one on the raft fills his bucket and passes it to the one on the ledge, who tosses the water over the edge into the river. As the empty bucket is passed back, another full one is passed forward.”
Megg Robbins said: “What happens when the water level inside falls, and we can’t reach one another?”
“Good thinking, Megg, you’d better be my forewoman in charge here. When you can no longer reach, you work in threes, with one on a ladder.”
She caught on fast. “And then fours, with two on a ladder…”
“Yes. Though by then we’ll need to rest the men and bring in fresh ones.”
“Right.”
“Get started. I’ll bring over another ten – you’ve got plenty of room still.”
Megg turned away. “Pick your partners, everyone!” she called.
The volunteers started to dip their buckets. He heard Megg say: “Let’s keep a rhythm going. Dip, lift, pass, chuck! One, two, three, four. How about a song to give us the swing of it?” She raised her voice in a lusty contralto. “Oh, there was once a comely knight…”
They knew the song, and all joined in the next line: “His blade was straight and true, oh!”
Merthin watched. Everyone was soaking wet in a few minutes. He could see no apparent fall in the level of the water. It was going to be a long job.
He climbed over the side and into Ian’s boat.
By the time he reached the bank there were thirty more volunteers with buckets.
He got the second coffer dam started, with Mark Webber as foreman, then doubled the numbers in both locations, then started replacing tired workers with fresh ones. Ian Boatman became exhausted and handed the oars over to his son. The water inside the dams fell inch by wearisome inch. As the level fell, the work went ever more slowly, for the buckets had to be lifted greater and greater distances to the rim.
Megg was the first to discover that a person cannot hold a full bucket in one hand and an empty one in the other and still keep balance on a ladder. She devised a one-way bucket chain, with full buckets going up one ladder and empty ones down another. Mark instituted the same system in his dam.
The volunteers worked an hour and rested an hour, but Merthin did not stop. He was organizing the teams, supervising the transport of volunteers to and from the dams, replacing buckets that broke. Most of the men drank ale during their rest periods, and in consequence there were several accidents during the afternoon, with people dropping buckets and falling off ladders. Mother Cecilia came to take care of the injured, with the help of Mattie Wise and Caris.
Too soon, the light began to fail, and they had to stop. But both coffers were more than half empty. Merthin asked everyone to come back in the morning, then went home. After a few spoonfuls of his mother’s soup he fell asleep at the table, waking only long enough to wrap a blanket around himself and lie down in the straw. When he woke the next morning, his first thought was to wonder whether any of the volunteers would show up for the second day.
He hurried down to the river at first light with an anxious heart. Both Mark Webber and Megg Robbins were there already, Mark eating his way through a doorstep of bread and Megg lacing a pair of high boots in the hope of keeping her feet dry. No one else showed up for the next half hour, and Merthin began to wonder what he would do with no volunteers. Then some of the young men arrived, carrying their breakfast with them, followed by the novice monks, then a whole crowd.
Ian Boatman turned up, and Merthin got him to row Megg out with some volunteers, and they began again.
The work was harder today. Everyone was aching from yesterday’s efforts. Every bucket had to be lifted ten feet or more. But the end was in sight. The levels continued to drop, and the volunteers began to glimpse the river bed.
In the middle of the afternoon, the first of the carts arrived back from the quarry. Merthin directed the owner to unload his stone in the pasture and ferry his cart back across the river to the town. A short while later, in Megg’s coffer, the raft bumped the river bed.
There was more to be done. When the last of the water was lifted out, the raft itself had to be dismantled and raised, plank by plank, up the ladders and out. Then dozens of fish were revealed, flapping in muddy pools on the bottom, and they had to be netted and shared out among the volunteers. But, when that was finished, Merthin stood on the ledge, weary but jubilant, and looked down a twenty-foot hole at the flat mud of the river bed.
Tomorrow he would drop several tons of rubble into each hole, and drench the rubble with mortar, forming a massive, immovable foundation.
Then he would start building the bridge.
Wulfric was in a depression.
He ate almost nothing and forgot to wash himself. He got up automatically at daybreak and lay down again when it got dark, but he did not work, and he did not make love to Gwenda in the night. When she asked him what was the matter, he would say: “I don’t know, really.” He answered all questions with such uninformative replies, or just with grunts.
There was little to do in the fields anyway. This was the season when villagers sat by their fires, sewing leather shoes and carving oak shovels, eating salt pork and soft apples and cabbage preserved in vinegar. Gwenda was not worried about how they were going to feed themselves: Wulfric still had money from the sale of his crops. But she was desperately anxious about him.
Wulfric had always lived for his work. Some villagers grumbled constantly and were happy only on rest days, but he was not like that. The fields, the crops, the beasts and the weather were what he cared about. On Sundays he had always been restless until he found some occupation that was not forbidden, and on holidays he had done all he could to circumvent the rules.
She knew she had to get him to return to his normal state of mind. Otherwise he might fall sick with some physical illness. And his money would not last for ever. Sooner or later they must both work.
However, she did not give him her news until two full moons had passed, and she was sure.
Then, one morning in December, she said: “I have something to tell you.”
He grunted. He was sitting at the kitchen table, whittling a stick, and he did not look up from this idle occupation.
She reached across the table and held his wrists, stopping the whittling. “Wulfric, would you please look at me?”
He did so with a surly expression on his face, resentful at being ordered but too lethargic to defy her.
“It’s important,” she said.
He looked at her in silence.
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said.
His expression did not change, but he dropped the knife and stick.
She looked back at him for a long moment. “Do you understand me?” she said.
He nodded. “A baby,” he said.
“Yes. We will have a child.”
“When?”
She smiled. It was the first question he had asked for two months. “Next summer, before the harvest.”
“The child must be cared for,” he said. “You, too.”
“Yes.”
“I must work.” He looked depressed again.
She held her breath. What was coming?
He sighed, then set his jaw. “I’ll go and see Perkin,” he said. “He’ll need help with his winter ploughing.”
“And manuring,” she said happily. “I’ll come with you. He offered to hire us both.”
“All right.” He was still staring at her. “A child,” he said, as if it were a marvel. “Boy or girl, I wonder?”
She got up and walked around the table to sit on the bench next to him. “Which would you prefer?”
“A little girl. It was all boys in my family.”
“I want a boy, a miniature version of you.”
“We might have twins.”
“One of each.”
He put his arm around her. “We should get Father Gaspard to marry us properly.”
Gwenda sighed contentedly and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps we should.”
Merthin moved out of his parents’ house just before Christmas. He had built a one-room house for himself on Leper Island, which was now his land. He said he needed to guard the growing stockpile of valuable building materials he was keeping on the island – timber, stones, lime, ropes and iron tools.
At the same time, he stopped coming to Caris’s house for meals.
On the last but one day of December, she went to see Mattie Wise.
“No need to tell me why you’re here,” said Mattie. “Three months gone?”
Caris nodded and avoided her eye. She looked around the little kitchen, with its bottles and jars. Mattie was heating something in a small iron pot, and it gave off an acrid smell that made Caris want to sneeze.
“I don’t want to have a baby,” Caris said.
“I wish I had a chicken for every time I’ve heard that said.”
“Am I wicked?”
Mattie shrugged. “I make potions, not judgements. People know the difference between right and wrong – and if they don’t, that’s what priests are for.”
Caris was disappointed. She had been hoping for sympathy. More coolly, she said: “Do you have a potion to get rid of this pregnancy?”
“I do…” Mattie looked uneasy.
“Is there a snag?”
“The way to get rid of a pregnancy is to poison yourself. Some girls drink a gallon of strong wine. I make up a dose with several toxic herbs. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But it always makes you feel dreadful.”
“Is it dangerous? Could I die?”
“Yes, though it’s not as risky as childbirth.”
“I’ll take it.”
Mattie took her pot off the fire and put it on a stone slab to cool. Turning to her scarred old workbench, she took a small pottery bowl from a cupboard and poured into it small quantities of different powders.
Caris said: “What’s the matter? You say you don’t make judgements, but you look disapproving.”
Mattie nodded. “You’re right. I do make judgements, of course; everyone does.”
“And you’re judging me.”
“I’m thinking that Merthin is a good man and you love him, but you don’t seem able to find happiness with him. That makes me sad.”
“You think I should be like other women, and throw myself at the feet of some man.”
“It seems to make them happy. But I chose a different way of life. And so will you, I suppose.”
“Are you happy?”
“I wasn’t born to be happy. But I help people, I make a living, and I’m free.” She poured her mixture into a cup, added some wine and stirred, dissolving the powders. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Just some milk.”
She dripped a little honey into the cup. “Drink this, and don’t bother to eat dinner – you’ll only throw it up.”
Caris took the cup, hesitated, then swallowed the draught. “Thank you.” It had a vilely bitter taste that was only partly masked by the sweetness of the honey.
“It should be all over by tomorrow morning – one way or the other.”
Caris paid her and left. Walking home, she felt an odd mixture of elation and sadness. Her spirits were lifted by having made a decision, after all the weeks of worry; but she also felt a tug of loss, as if she were saying goodbye to someone – Merthin, perhaps. She wondered if their separation would be permanent. She could contemplate the prospect calmly, because she still felt angry with him, but she knew she would miss him terribly. He would find another lover eventually – Bessie Bell, perhaps – but Caris felt sure she would not do the same. She would never love anyone as she had loved Merthin.
When she got home, the smell of roasting pork in the house nauseated her, and she went out again. She did not want to gossip with other women in the main street or talk business with the men at the guild hall, so she drifted into the priory grounds, her heavy wool cloak wrapped around her for warmth, and sat on a tombstone in the graveyard, looking at the north wall of the cathedral, marvelling at the perfection of its carved mouldings and the grace of its flying buttresses.
It was not long before she felt ill.
She puked on a grave, but her stomach was empty, and nothing came up except a sour fluid. Her head began to ache. She wanted to lie down, but she was reluctant to go home because of the kitchen smell. She decided to go to the priory hospital. The nuns would let her lie down for a minute. She left the graveyard, crossed the green in front of the cathedral and entered the hospital. Suddenly she was terribly thirsty.
She was greeted by the kindly, podgy face of Old Julie. “Oh, Sister Juliana,” Caris said gratefully. “Would you bring me a cup of water?” The priory had water piped from upstream, cool and clear and safe to drink.
“Are you ill, child?” said Old Julie anxiously.
“A little nauseated. If I may, I’ll just lie down for a moment.”
“Of course. I’ll fetch Mother Cecilia.”
Caris lay down on one of the straw mattresses lined up neatly on the floor. For a few moments she felt better, then the headache became worse. Julie returned with a jug and a cup, and Mother Cecilia. Caris drank some water, threw up, and drank some more.
Cecilia asked her some questions then said: “You’ve eaten something corrupt. You need to be purged.”
Caris hurt so much she could make no response. Cecilia left and returned moments later with a bottle and a spoon. She gave Caris a spoonful of treacly medicine that tasted of cloves.
Caris lay back with her eyes closed and longed for the pain to go away. After a while, she was afflicted with stomach cramps, followed by uncontrollable diarrhoea. She assumed vaguely that it had been brought on by the treacle. After an hour it went away. Julie undressed her, washed her, gave her a nun’s robe instead of her own soiled dress, and put her on a clean mattress. She lay down and closed her eyes, exhausted.
Prior Godwyn came to see her and said she must be bled. Another monk came to do the job. He made her sit up and stretch out her arm with her elbow over a large bowl. Then he took a sharp knife and opened the vein in the crook of her arm. She hardly noticed the pain of the cut or the slow throb of the bleeding. After a while the monk put a dressing on the cut and told her to hold it there firmly. He took away the bowl of blood.
She was vaguely conscious of people coming to see her: her father, Petranilla, Merthin. Old Julie put a cup to her lips from time to time and she always drank, for she was insatiably thirsty. At some point she noticed candles, and realized it must be night. Eventually she fell into a troubled sleep, and had terrifying dreams about blood. Every time she woke, Julie gave her water.
At last she woke to daylight. The pain had receded, leaving only a dull headache. The next thing she realized was that someone was washing her thighs. She raised herself on her elbow.
A novice nun with the face of an angel crouched beside the mattress. Caris’s dress was up around her waist, and the nun was bathing her with a cloth dipped in warm water. After a moment, she remembered the girl’s name. “Mair,” she said.
“Yes,” the novice answered with a smile.
As she squeezed out the cloth into a bowl, Caris was frightened to see that it was red. “Blood!” she said fearfully.
“Don’t worry,” said Mair. “It’s just your monthly cycle. Heavy, but normal.”
Caris saw that her dress and the mattress were soaked with blood.
She lay back, looking up at the ceiling. Tears came to her eyes, but she did not know whether she was crying out of relief or sadness.
She was no longer pregnant.