On Whit Sunday in the year that Merthin was twenty-one, a river of rain fell on Kingsbridge Cathedral.
Great globules of water bounced off the slate roof; streams flooded the gutters; fountains gushed from the mouths of gargoyles; sheets of water unfolded down the buttresses; and torrents ran over the arches and down the columns, soaking the statues of the saints. The sky, the great church and the town round about were all shades of wet grey-paint.
Whit Sunday commemorated the moment when the Holy Spirit descended on the disciples of Jesus. The seventh Sunday after Easter, it fell in May or June, soon after most of England’s sheep had been sheared; and so it was always the first day of the Kingsbridge Fleece Fair.
As Merthin splashed through the downpour to the cathedral for the morning service, pulling his hood forward over his brow in a vain attempt to keep his face dry, he had to pass through the fair. On the broad green to the west of the church, hundreds of traders had set out their stalls – then hastily covered them with sheets of oiled sacking or felted cloth to keep the rain off. Wool traders were the key figures in the fair, from the small operators who collected the produce of a few scattered villagers, to the big dealers such as Edmund who had a warehouse full of woolsacks to sell. Around them clustered subsidiary stalls selling just about everything else money could buy: sweet wine from the Rhineland, silk brocade threaded with gold from Lucca, glass bowls from Venice, ginger and pepper from places in the East that few people could even name. And finally there were the workaday tradespeople who supplied visitors and stallholders with their commonplace needs: bakers, brewers, confectioners, fortune-tellers and prostitutes.
The stallholders responded bravely to the rain, joking with one another, trying to create the carnival atmosphere; but the weather would be bad for their profits. Some people had to do business, rain or shine: Italian and Flemish buyers needed soft English wool for thousands of busy looms in Florence and Bruges. But more casual customers would stay at home: a knight’s wife would decide she could manage without nutmeg and cinnamon; a prosperous peasant would make his old coat last another winter; a lawyer would judge that his mistress did not really need a gold bangle.
Merthin was not going to buy anything. He had no money. He was an unpaid apprentice, living with his master, Elfric Builder. He was fed at the family table, he slept on the kitchen floor, and he wore Elfric’s cast-off clothes, but he got no wages. In the long winter evenings he carved ingenious toys that he sold for a few pennies – a jewel box with secret compartments, a cockerel whose tongue poked out when its tail was pressed – but in summer there was no spare time, for craftsmen worked until dark.
However, his apprenticeship was almost over. In less than six months, on the first day of December, he would become a full member of the carpenters’ guild of Kingsbridge, at the age of twenty-one. He could hardly wait.
The great west doors of the cathedral were open to admit the thousands of townspeople and visitors who would attend today’s service. Merthin stepped inside, shaking the rain off his clothes. The stone floor was slippery with water and mud. On a fine day, the interior of the church would be bright with shafts of sunlight, but today it was murky, the stained-glass windows dim, the congregation shrouded in dark, wet clothes.
Where did all the rain go? There were no drainage ditches around the church. The water – thousands and thousands of gallons of it – just soaked into the ground. Did it go on down, farther and farther, until it fell as rain again in hell? No. The cathedral was built on a slope. The water travelled underground, seeping down the hill from north to south. The foundations of large stone buildings were designed to let water flow through, for a build-up was dangerous. All this rain eventually passed into the river on the southern boundary of the priory grounds.
Merthin imagined he could feel the underground rush of the water, its drumming vibration transmitted through the foundations and the tiled floor and sensed by the soles of his feet.
A small black dog scampered up to him, wagging its tail, and greeted him joyfully. “Hello, Scrap,” he said, and patted her. He looked up to see the dog’s mistress, Caris; and his heart skipped a beat.
She wore a cloak of bright scarlet that she had inherited from her mother. It was the only splash of colour in the gloom. Merthin smiled broadly, happy to see her. It was hard to say what made her so beautiful. She had a small round face with neat, regular features; mid-brown hair; and green eyes flecked with gold. She was not so different from a hundred other Kingsbridge girls. But she wore her hat at a jaunty angle, there was a mocking intelligence in her eyes, and she looked at him with a mischievous grin that promised vague but tantalizing delights. He had known her for ten years, but it was only in the last few months that he had realized he loved her.
She drew him behind a pillar and kissed him on the mouth, the tip of her tongue running lightly across his lips.
They kissed every chance they got: in church, in the market place, when they met on the street, and – best of all – when he was at her house and they found themselves alone. He lived for those moments. He thought about kissing her before he went to sleep and again as soon as he woke up.
He visited her house two or three times a week. Her father, Edmund, liked him, though her aunt Petranilla did not. A convivial man, Edmund often invited Merthin to stay for supper, and Merthin accepted gratefully, knowing it would be a better meal than he would get at Elfric’s house. He and Caris would play chess or draughts, or just sit talking. He liked to watch her while she told a story or explained something, her hands drawing pictures in the air, her face expressing amusement or astonishment, acting every part in a pageant. But, most of the time, he was waiting for those moments when he could steal a kiss.
He glanced around the church: no one was looking their way. He slipped his hand inside her coat, and touched her through the soft linen of her dress. Her body was warm. He held her breast in his palm, small and round. He loved the way her flesh yielded to the press of his fingertips. He had never seen her naked, but he knew her breasts intimately.
In his dreams they went farther. Then, they were alone somewhere, a clearing in the woods or the big bedchamber of a castle; and they were both naked. But, strangely, his dreams always ended a moment too soon, just before he entered her; and he would wake up frustrated.
One day, he would think; one day.
They had not yet spoken about marriage. Apprentices could not marry, so he had to wait. Caris must, surely, have asked herself what they were going to do when he finished his term; but she had not voiced those thoughts. She seemed content to take life one day at a time. And he had a superstitious fear of talking about their future together. It was said that pilgrims should not spend too much time planning their journey, for they might learn of so many hazards that they would decide not to go.
A nun walked past, and Merthin withdrew his hand guiltily from Caris’s bosom; but the nun did not notice them. People did all sorts of things in the vast space of the cathedral. Last year Merthin had seen a couple having sexual congress up against the wall of the south aisle, in the darkness of the Christmas Eve service – although they had been thrown out for it. He wondered if he and Caris could stay here throughout the service, dallying discreetly.
But she had other ideas. “Let’s go to the front,” she said. She took his hand and led him through the crowd. He knew many of the people there, though not all: Kingsbridge was one of the larger cities in England, with about seven thousand inhabitants, and no one knew everybody. He followed Caris to the crossing, where the nave met the transepts. There they came up against a wooden barrier blocking entrance to the eastern end, or chancel, which was reserved for clergy.
Merthin found himself standing next to Buonaventura Caroli, the most important of the Italian merchants, a heavy-set man in a richly embroidered coat of thick wool cloth. He came originally from Florence – which he said was the greatest city in the Christian world, more than ten times the size of Kingsbridge – but he now lived in London, managing the large business his family had with English wool producers. The Carolis were so rich they loaned money to kings, but Buonaventura was amiable and unpretentious – though people said that in business he could be implacably hard.
Caris greeted the man in a casually familiar way: he was staying at her house. He gave Merthin a friendly nod, even though he must have guessed, from Merthin’s age and hand-me-down clothing, that he was a mere apprentice.
Buonaventura was looking at the architecture. “I have been coming to Kingsbridge for five years,” he said, making idle conversation, “but until today I have never noticed that the windows of the transepts are much bigger than those in the rest of the church.” He spoke French with an admixture of words from the dialect of the Italian region of Tuscany.
Merthin had no trouble understanding. He had grown up, like most sons of English knights, speaking Norman French to his parents and English to his playmates; and he could guess the meanings of many Italian words because he had learned Latin in the monks’ school. “I can tell you why the windows are like that,” he said.
Buonaventura raised his eyebrows, surprised that an apprentice should claim such knowledge.
“The church was built two hundred years ago, when these narrow lancet windows in the nave and chancel were a revolutionary new design,” Merthin went on. “Then, a hundred years later, the bishop wanted a taller tower, and he rebuilt the transepts at the same time, putting in the bigger windows that had by then come into fashion.”
Buonaventura was impressed. “And how do you happen to know this?”
“In the monastery library there is a history of the priory, called Timothy’s Book, that tells all about the building of the cathedral. Most of it was written in the time of the great Prior Philip, but later writers have added to it. I read it as a boy at the monks’ school.”
Buonaventura looked hard at Merthin for a moment, as if memorizing his face, then he said casually: “It’s a fine building.”
“Are the buildings very different in Italy?” Merthin was fascinated by talk of foreign countries, their life in general and their architecture in particular.
Buonaventura looked thoughtful. “I believe the principles of building are the same everywhere. But in England I have never seen domes.”
“What’s a dome?”
“A round roof, like half a ball.”
Merthin was astonished. “I never heard of such a thing! How is it built?”
Buonaventura laughed. “Young man, I am a wool merchant. I can tell whether a fleece comes from a Cotswold sheep or a Lincoln sheep, just by rubbing the wool between my finger and thumb, but I don’t know how a henhouse is built, let alone a dome.”
Merthin’s master, Elfric, arrived. He was a prosperous man, and he wore expensive clothes, but they always looked as if they belonged to someone else. An habitual sycophant, he ignored Caris and Merthin, but made a deep bow to Buonaventura and said: “Honoured to have you in our city once again, sir.”
Merthin turned away.
“How many languages do you think there are?” Caris said to him.
She was always saying crazy things. “Five,” Merthin replied without thinking.
“No, be serious,” she said. “There’s English, and French, and Latin, that’s three. Then the Florentines and the Venetians speak differently, though they have words in common.”
“You’re right,” he said, entering into the game. “That’s five already. Then there’s Flemish.” Few people could make out the tongue of the traders who came to Kingsbridge from the weaving towns of Flanders: Ypres, Bruges, Ghent.
“And Danish.”
“The Arabs have their own language and, when they write, they don’t even use the same letters as we do.”
“And Mother Cecilia told me that all the barbarians have their own tongues that no one even knows how to write down – Scots, Welsh, Irish, and probably others. That makes eleven, and there might be people we haven’t even heard of!”
Merthin grinned. Caris was the only person he could do this with. Among their friends of the same age, no one understood the thrill of imagining strange people and different ways of life. She would ask a random question: What is it like to live at the edge of the world? Are the priests wrong about God? How do you know you’re not dreaming, right now? And they would be off on a speculative voyage, competing to come up with the most outlandish notions.
The roar of conversation in the church suddenly quietened, and Merthin saw that the monks and nuns were seating themselves. The choirmaster, Blind Carlus, came in last. Although he could not see, he walked without assistance in the church and the monastic buildings, moving slowly, but as confident as a sighted man, familiar with every pillar and flagstone. Now he sang a note in his rich baritone, and the choir began a hymn.
Merthin was quietly sceptical about the clergy. Priests had power that was not always matched by their knowledge – rather like his employer, Elfric. However, he liked going to church. The services induced a kind of trance in him. The music, the architecture and the Latin incantations enchanted him, and he felt as if he were asleep with his eyes open. Once again he had the fanciful sensation that he could feel the rainwater flowing in torrents far beneath his feet.
His gaze roamed over the three levels of the nave – arcade, gallery and clerestory. He knew that the columns were made by placing one stone on top of another, but they gave a different impression, at least at first glance. The stone blocks were carved so that each column looked like a bundle of shafts. He traced the rise of one of the four giant piers of the crossing, from the huge square foot on which it stood, up to where one shaft branched north to form an arch across the side aisle, on up to the tribune level where another shaft branched west to form the arcade of the gallery, on up to the westward springing of a clerestory arch, until the last remaining shafts separated, like a spray of flowers, and became the curving ribs of the ceiling vault far above. From the central boss at the highest point of the vault, he followed a rib all the way down again to the matching pier on the opposite corner of the crossing.
As he did so, something odd happened. His vision seemed momentarily to blur, and it looked as if the east side of the transept moved.
There was a low rumbling sound, so deep it was almost inaudible, and a tremor underfoot, as if a tree had fallen nearby.
The singing faltered.
In the chancel, a crack appeared in the south wall, right next to the pier Merthin had been looking at.
He found himself turning towards Caris. Out of the corner of his eye he saw masonry falling in the choir and the crossing. Then there was nothing but noise: women screaming, men shouting, and the deafening crash of huge stones hitting the floor. It lasted a long moment. When silence descended, Merthin found he was holding Caris, his left arm around her shoulders pressing her to him, his right arm protectively covering her head, his body interposed between her and the place where a part of the great church lay in ruins.
It was obviously a miracle that no one died.
The worst of the damage was in the south aisle of the chancel, which had been empty of people during the service. The congregation was not admitted to the chancel, and the clergy had all been in the central part, called the choir. Several monks had had narrow escapes, which only heightened the talk of miracles, and others had bad cuts and bruises from flying chips of stone. The congregation suffered no more than a few scratches. Evidently, they had all been supernaturally protected by St Adolphus, whose bones were preserved under the high altar, and whose deeds included many instances of curing the sick and saving people from death. However, it was generally agreed that God had sent the people of Kingsbridge a warning. What he was warning them about was not yet clear.
An hour later, four men were inspecting the damage. Brother Godwyn, the cousin of Caris, was the sacrist, responsible for the church and all its treasures. Under him as matricularius, in charge of building operations and repairs, was Brother Thomas, who had been Sir Thomas Langley ten years ago. The contract for cathedral maintenance was held by Elfric, a carpenter by training and a general builder by trade. And Merthin tagged along as Elfric’s apprentice.
The east end of the church was divided by pillars into four sections, called bays. The collapse had affected the two bays nearest the crossing. The stone vaulting over the south aisle was destroyed completely in the first bay and partially in the second. There were cracks in the tribune gallery, and stone mullions had fallen from the windows of the clerestory.
Elfric said: “Some weakness in the mortar allowed the vault to crumble, and that in turn caused the cracks at higher levels.”
That did not sound right to Merthin, but he lacked an alternative explanation.
Merthin hated his master. He had first been apprenticed to Elfric’s father, Joachim, a builder of wide experience who had worked on churches and bridges in London and Paris. The old man had delighted in explaining to Merthin the lore of the masons – what they called their ‘mysteries’, which were mostly arithmetical formulas for building, such as the ratio between the height of a building and the depth of its foundations. Merthin liked numbers and lapped up everything Joachim could teach him.
Then Joachim died, and Elfric took over. Elfric believed the main thing an apprentice had to learn was obedience. Merthin found this difficult to accept, and Elfric punished him with short rations, thin clothing and outdoor work in frosty weather. To make matters worse, Elfric’s chubby daughter Griselda, the same age as Merthin, was always well fed and warmly dressed.
Three years ago Elfric’s wife had died, and he had married Alice, the older sister of Caris. People thought Alice was the prettier sister, and it was true that she had more regular features, but she lacked Caris’s captivating ways, and Merthin found her dull. Alice had always seemed to like Merthin almost as much as her sister did, and so he had hoped she would make Elfric treat him better. But the reverse happened. Alice seemed to think it was her wifely duty to join with Elfric in tormenting him.
Merthin knew that many other apprentices suffered in the same way, and they all put up with it because apprenticeship was the only way into a well-paid trade. The craft guilds efficiently kept out upstarts. No one could do business in a town without belonging to a guild. Even a priest, a monk or a woman who wanted to deal in wool or brew ale for sale would have to get into a guild. And outside the towns there was little business to be done: peasants built their own houses and sewed their own shirts.
At the end of the apprenticeship, most boys would remain with the master, working as journeymen for a wage. A few would end up partners, taking over the enterprise when the old man died. That would not be Merthin’s destiny. He hated Elfric too much. He would leave the moment he could.
“Let’s look at it from above,” said Godwyn.
They walked towards the east end. Elfric said: “It’s good to see you back from Oxford, Brother Godwyn. But you must miss the company of all those learned people.”
Godwyn nodded. “The masters are truly astonishing.”
“And the other students – they must be remarkable young men, I imagine. Though we hear tales of bad behaviour, too.”
Godwyn looked rueful. “I’m afraid some of those stories are true. When a young priest or monk is away from home for the first time, he may suffer temptation.”
“Still – we’re fortunate to have the benefit of university-trained men here in Kingsbridge.”
“Very kind of you to say so.”
“Oh, but it’s true.”
Merthin wanted to say: Shut up, for pity’s sake. But this was Elfric’s way. He was a poor craftsman, his work inaccurate and his judgement shaky, but he knew how to ingratiate himself. Merthin had watched him do it, time and again – for Elfric could be as charming to people from whom he wanted something as he could be rude to those who had nothing he needed.
Merthin was more surprised at Godwyn. How could an intelligent and educated man fail to see through Elfric? Perhaps it was less obvious to the person who was the object of the compliments.
Godwyn opened a small door and led the way up a narrow spiral staircase concealed in the wall. Merthin felt excited. He loved to enter the hidden passageways of the cathedral. He was also curious about the dramatic collapse, and eager to figure out its cause.
The aisles were single-storey structures that stuck out either side of the main body of the church. They had rib-vaulted stone ceilings. Above the vault, a lean-to roof rose from the outer edge of the aisle up to the base of the clerestory. Under that sloping roof was a triangular void, its floor the hidden side, or extrados, of the aisle’s vaulted ceiling. The four men climbed into this void to look at the damage from above.
It was lit by window openings into the interior of the church, and Thomas had had the foresight to bring an oil lamp. The first thing Merthin noticed was that the vaults, viewed from above, were not exactly the same in each bay. The easternmost formed a slightly flatter curve than its neighbour, and the next one – partly destroyed – looked as though it was different again.
They walked along the extrados, staying close to the edge where the vault was strongest, until they were as near as they dared go to the collapsed portion. The vault was constructed in the same way as the rest of the church, of stones mortared together, except that ceiling stones were very thin and light. The vault was almost vertical at its springing but, as it rose, it leaned inwards, until it met the stonework coming up from the opposite edge.
Elfric said: “Well, the first thing to do is obviously to rebuild the vaulting over the first two bays of the aisle.”
Thomas said: “It’s a long time since anyone in Kingsbridge built rib-vaulting.” He turned to Merthin. “Could you make the formwork?”
Merthin knew what he meant. At the edge of the vault, where the masonry was almost upright, the stones would stay in place by their own weight; but, higher up, as the curve turned towards the horizontal, some support was needed to keep everything in place while the mortar dried. The obvious method was to make a wooden frame, called formwork or centering, and lay the stones on top of that.
It was a challenging job for a carpenter, for the curves had to be just right. Thomas knew the quality of Merthin’s craftsmanship, having closely supervised the work Merthin and Elfric carried out at the cathedral over several years. However, it was tactless of Thomas to address the apprentice rather than the boss, and Elfric reacted quickly. “Under my supervision he can do it, yes,” he said.
“I can make the formwork,” Merthin said, already thinking about how the frame would be supported by the scaffolding, and the platform on which the masons would have to stand. “But these vaults were not built with formwork.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, boy,” Elfric said. “Of course they were. You know nothing about it.”
Merthin knew it was unwise to argue with his employer. On the other hand, in six months he would be competing with Elfric for work, and he needed people such as Brother Godwyn to believe in his competence. Also, he was stung by the scorn in Elfric’s voice, and he felt an irresistible desire to prove his master wrong. “Look at the extrados,” he said indignantly. “Having finished one bay, surely the masons would have re-used the same formwork for the next. In which case, all the vaults would have the same curve. But, in fact, they’re all different.”
“Obviously they didn’t re-use their formwork,” Elfric said irritably.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Merthin persisted. “They must have wanted to save on timber, not to mention the wages of skilled carpenters.”
“Anyway, it’s not possible to build vaulting without formwork.”
“Yes, it is,” Merthin said. “There’s a method-”
“That’s enough,” Elfric said. “You’re here to learn, not teach.”
Godwyn put in: “Just a minute, Elfric. If the boy is right, it could save the priory a lot of money.” He looked at Merthin. “What were you going to say?”
Merthin was half wishing he had not raised this subject. There would be hell to pay later. But he was committed now. If he backed off, they would think he did not know what he was talking about. “It’s described in a book in the monastery library, and it’s very simple,” he said. “As each stone is laid, a rope is draped over it. One end of the rope is tied to the wall, the other weighted with a lump of wood. The rope forms a right angle over the edge of the stone, and keeps it from slipping off its bed of mortar and falling to the ground.”
There was a moment of silence as they all concentrated, trying to visualize the arrangements. Then Thomas nodded. “It could work,” he said.
Elfric looked furious.
Godwyn was intrigued. “What book is this?”
“It’s called Timothy’s Book,” Merthin told him.
“I know of it, but I’ve never studied it. Obviously I should.” Godwyn addressed the others. “Have we seen enough?”
Elfric and Thomas nodded. As the four men left the roof space, Elfric muttered to Merthin: “Do you realize you’ve just talked yourself out of several weeks’ work? You won’t do that when you’re your own master, I’ll bet.”
Merthin had not thought of that. Elfric was right: by proving that formwork was unnecessary, he had also done himself out of a job. But there was something badly wrong with Elfric’s way of thinking. It was unfair to allow someone to spend money unnecessarily, just to keep yourself in work. Merthin did not want to live by cheating people.
They went down the spiral staircase into the chancel. Elfric said to Godwyn: “I’ll come to you tomorrow with a price for the work.”
“Good.”
Elfric turned to Merthin. “You stay here and count the stones in an aisle vault. Bring me the answer at home.”
“Yes.”
Elfric and Godwyn left, but Thomas lingered. “I got you into trouble,” he said.
“You were trying to boost me.”
The monk shrugged, and made a what-can-you-do gesture with his right arm. His left arm had been amputated at the elbow ten years ago, after infection set in to the wound he received in the fight Merthin had witnessed.
Merthin hardly ever thought about that strange scene in the forest – he had become used to Thomas in a monk’s robe – but he recalled it now: the men-at-arms, the children hiding in the bush, the bow and arrow, the buried letter. Thomas was always kind to him, and he guessed it was because of what happened that day. “I’ve never told anyone about that letter,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Thomas replied. “If you had, you’d be dead.”
Most large towns were run by a guild merchant, an organization of the leading citizens. Under the guild merchant were numerous craft guilds, each dedicated to a particular trade: masons, carpenters, leather tanners, weavers, tailors. Then there were the parish guilds, small groups centred on local churches, formed to raise money for priestly robes and sacred ornaments, and for the support of widows and orphans.
Cathedral towns were different. Kingsbridge, like St Albans and Bury St Edmunds, was ruled by the monastery, which owned almost all the land in and around the town. The priors had always refused permission for a guild merchant. However, the most important craftsmen and traders belonged to the parish guild of St Adolphus. No doubt this had started out, in the distant past, as a pious group that raised money for the cathedral, but it was now the most important organization in town. It made rules for the conduct of business, and elected an alderman and six wardens to enforce them. In the guild hall were kept the measures that standardized the weight of a woolsack, the width of a bolt of cloth, and the volume of a bushel for all Kingsbridge trade. Nevertheless, the merchants could not hold courts and dispense justice the way they did in borough towns – the Kingsbridge prior retained those powers for himself.
On the afternoon of Whit Sunday, the parish guild gave a banquet at the guild hall for the most important visiting buyers. Edmund Wooler was the alderman, and Caris went with him to be hostess, so Merthin had to amuse himself without her.
Fortunately, Elfric and Alice were also at the banquet, so he could sit in the kitchen, listening to the rain and thinking. The weather was not cold, but there was a small fire for cooking, and its red glow was cheerful.
He could hear Elfric’s daughter, Griselda, moving about upstairs. It was a fine house, although smaller than Edmund’s. There was just a hall and a kitchen downstairs. The staircase led to an open landing, where Griselda slept, and a closed bedroom for the master and his wife. Merthin slept in the kitchen.
There had been a time, three or four years ago, when Merthin had been tormented at night by fantasies of climbing the stairs and slipping under the blankets next to Griselda’s warm, plump body. But she considered herself superior to him, treating him like a servant, and she had never given him the least encouragement.
Sitting on a bench, Merthin looked into the fire and visualized the wooden scaffolding he would build for the masons who would reconstruct the collapsed vaulting in the cathedral. Wood was expensive, and long tree trunks were rare – the owners of woodland usually yielded to the temptation of selling the timber before it was fully mature. So builders tried to minimize the amount of scaffolding. Rather than build it up from floor level, they saved timber by suspending it from the existing walls.
While he was thinking, Griselda came into the kitchen and took a cup of ale from the barrel. “Would you like some?” she said. Merthin accepted, amazed by her courtesy. She surprised him again by sitting on a stool opposite him to drink.
Griselda’s paramour, Thurstan, had disappeared three weeks ago. No doubt she now felt lonely, which would be why she wanted Merthin’s company. The drink warmed his stomach and relaxed him. Searching for something to say, he asked: “What happened to Thurstan?”
She tossed her head like a frisky mare. “I told him I didn’t want to marry him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too young for me.”
That did not sound right to Merthin. Thurstan was seventeen, Griselda twenty, but Griselda was not notably mature. More likely, he thought, Thurstan was too low-class. He had arrived in Kingsbridge from nowhere a couple of years ago, and had worked as an unskilled labourer for several of the town’s craftsmen. He had probably got bored, with Griselda or with Kingsbridge, and simply moved on.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I should marry someone my own age, someone with a sense of responsibility – perhaps a man who could take over my father’s enterprise one day.”
It occurred to Merthin that she might mean him. Surely not, he thought; she’s always looked down on me. Then she got up from her stool and came and sat on the bench beside him.
“My father is spiteful to you,” she said. “I’ve always thought that.”
Merthin was astonished. “Well, it’s taken you long enough to say so – I’ve been living here six and a half years.”
“It’s hard for me to go against my family.”
“Why is he so vile to me, anyway?”
“Because you think you know better than him, and you can’t hide it.”
“Maybe I do know better.”
“See what I mean?”
He laughed. It was the first time she had ever made him laugh.
She shifted closer on the bench, so that her thigh in the woollen dress was pressed against his. He was in his worn linen shirt, which came to mid-thigh, with the undershorts that all men wore, but he could feel the warmth of her body through their clothes. What had brought this on? He looked incredulously at her. She had glossy dark hair and brown eyes. Her face was attractive in a fleshy way. She had a nice mouth for kissing.
She said: “I like being indoors in a rainstorm. It feels cosy.”
He felt himself becoming aroused, and looked away from her. What would Caris think, he asked himself, if she walked in here now? He tried to quell his desire, but that only made it worse.
He looked back at Griselda. Her lips were moist and slightly parted. She leaned towards him. He kissed her. Immediately, she thrust her tongue into his mouth. It was a sudden, shocking intimacy that he found thrilling, and he responded in the same way. This was not like kissing Caris-
That thought arrested him. He tore himself away from Griselda and stood up.
She said: “What’s the matter?”
He did not want to tell her the truth, so he said: “You never seemed to like me.”
She looked annoyed. “I’ve told you, I had to side with my father.”
“You’ve changed very suddenly.”
She stood up and moved towards him. He stepped away until his back was to the wall. She took his hand and pressed it to her bosom. Her breasts were round and heavy, and he could not resist the temptation to feel them. She said: “Have you ever done it – the real thing – with a girl?”
He found he could not speak, but he nodded.
“Have you thought about doing it with me?”
“Yes,” he managed.
“You can do it to me now, if you like, while they’re out. We can go upstairs and lie on my bed.”
“No.”
She pressed her body to his. “Kissing you has made me go all hot and slippery inside.”
He pushed her away. The shove was rougher than he intended, and she fell backwards, landing on her well-cushioned bottom. “Leave me alone,” he said.
He was not sure he meant it, but she took him at his word. “Go to hell, then,” she swore. She got to her feet and stomped upstairs.
He stayed where he was, panting. Now that he had rejected her, he regretted it.
Apprentices were not very attractive to young women, who did not want to be forced to wait years before marrying. All the same, Merthin had courted several Kingsbridge girls. One, Kate Brown, had been sufficiently fond of him to let him go all the way, one warm summer afternoon a year ago, in her father’s orchard. Then her father had died suddenly, and her mother had taken the family to live in Portsmouth. It was the only time Merthin had lain with a woman. Was he mad to turn down Griselda’s offer?
He told himself he had had a lucky escape. Griselda was a mean-spirited girl who did not really like him. He should be proud of having resisted temptation. He had not followed his instinct like a dumb beast; he had made a decision, like a man.
Then Griselda started to cry.
Her weeping was not loud, but all the same he could hear everything. He went to the back door. Like every house in town, Elfric’s had a long, narrow strip of land at the back with a privy and a rubbish tip. Most householders kept chickens and a pig, and grew vegetables and fruits, but Elfric’s yard was used to store stacks of lumber and stones, coils of rope, buckets and barrows and ladders. Merthin stared at the rain falling on the yard, but Griselda’s sobbing still reached his ears.
He decided to leave the house, and got as far as the front door, but then he could not think where to go. At Caris’s house there was only Petranilla, who would not welcome him. He thought of going to his parents, but they were the last people he wanted to see when he was in this state. He could have talked to his brother, but Ralph was not due to arrive in Kingsbridge until later in the week. Besides, he realized, he could not leave the house without a coat – not because of the rain, he did not mind getting wet, but because of the bulge in front of his clothing that would not subside.
He tried to think of Caris. She would be sipping wine, he thought, and eating roast beef and wheat bread. He asked himself what she was wearing. Her best dress was a soft pinkish-red with a square-cut neckline that showed off the pale skin of her slender neck. But Griselda’s crying kept intruding on his thoughts. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry to make her feel spurned, and explain to her that she was an attractive person but they were not right for one another.
He sat down, then stood up again. It was hard to listen to a woman in distress. He could not think about scaffolding while that sound filled the house. Can’t stay, can’t leave, can’t sit still.
He went upstairs.
She was lying face down on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. Her dress was rucked up around her chubby thighs. The skin on the back of her legs was very white and looked soft.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Go away.”
“Don’t cry.”
“I hate you.”
He knelt down and patted her back. “I can’t sit in the kitchen and listen to you crying.”
She rolled over and looked at him, her face wet with tears. “I’m ugly and fat, and you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” He wiped her wet cheeks with the back of his hand.
She took his wrist and drew him to her. “Don’t you? Truly?”
“No. But…”
She put her hand behind his head, pulled him down, and kissed him. He groaned, more aroused than ever. He lay beside her on the mattress. I will leave her in a moment, he told himself. I’ll just comfort her a little more, then I’ll get up and go down the stairs.
She took his hand and pushed it up her skirt, placing it between her legs. He felt the wiry hair, the soft skin beneath, and the moist divide, and he knew he was lost. He stroked her roughly, his finger slipping inside. He felt as if he would burst. “I can’t stop,” he said.
“Quickly,” she said, panting. She pulled up his shirt and pushed down his drawers, and he rolled on to her.
He felt himself losing control as she guided him inside her. The remorse hit him before it was over. “Oh, no,” he said. The explosion began with his first thrust, and in an instant it was finished. He slumped on top of her, his eyes closed. “Oh, God,” he said. “I wish I was dead.”
Buonaventura Caroli made his shock announcement at breakfast on Monday, the day after the big banquet at the guild hall.
Caris felt a little unwell as she took her seat at the oak table in the dining hall of her father’s house. She had a headache and a touch of nausea. She ate a small dish of warm bread-and-milk to settle her stomach. Recalling that she had enjoyed the wine at the banquet, she wondered whether she had drunk too much of it. Was this the morning-after feeling that men and boys joked about when they boasted how much strong drink they could take?
Father and Buonaventura were eating cold mutton, and Aunt Petranilla was telling a story. “When I was fifteen, I was betrothed to a nephew of the earl of Shiring,” she said. “It was considered a good match: his father was a knight of the middling sort, and mine a wealthy wool merchant. Then the earl and his only son both died in Scotland, at the battle of Loudon Hill. My fiance, Roland, became the earl – and broke off the engagement. He is still the earl today. If I had married Roland before the battle, I would now be the countess of Shiring.” She dipped toast in her ale.
“Perhaps it was not the will of God,” said Buonaventura. He threw a bone to Scrap, who pounced on it as if she had not seen food for a week. Then he said to Papa: “My friend, there is something I should tell you before we begin the day’s business.”
Caris felt, from his tone of voice, that he had bad news; and her father must have had the same intuition, for he said: “This sounds ominous.”
“Our trade has been shrinking for the last few years,” Buonaventura went on. “Each year my family sells a little less cloth, each year we buy a little less wool from England.”
“Business is always like that,” said Edmund. “It goes up, it goes down, no one knows why.”
“But now your king has interfered.”
It was true. Edward III had seen the money being made in wool and had decided that more of it must go to the crown. He had introduced a new tax of one pound per woolsack. A sack was standardized at 364 pounds weight, and sold for about four pounds in money; so the extra tax was a quarter of the value of the wool, a huge slice.
Buonaventura went on: “What is worse, he has made it difficult to export wool from England. I have had to pay large bribes.”
“The ban on exports will be lifted shortly,” Edmund said. “The merchants of the Wool Company in London are negotiating with royal officials-”
“I hope you are right,” Buonaventura said. “But, with things as they are, my family feels I no longer need to visit two separate wool fairs in this part of the country.”
“Quite right!” said Edmund. “Come here, and forget about the Shiring Fair.”
The town of Shiring was two days’ travel from Kingsbridge. It was about the same size, and while it did not have a cathedral or a priory, it boasted the sheriff’s castle and the county court. It held a rival Wool Fair once a year.
“I’m afraid I can’t find the range of wool here. You see, the Kingsbridge Fleece Fair seems to be declining. More and more sellers go to Shiring. Their fair offers a greater variety of types and qualities.”
Caris was dismayed. This could be disastrous for her father. She put in: “Why would sellers prefer Shiring?”
Buonaventura shrugged. “The guild merchant there has made the fair attractive. There’s no long queue to enter the city gate; the dealers can hire tents and booths; there’s a wool exchange building where everyone can do business when it rains like this…”
“We could do all that,” she said.
Her father snorted. “If only.”
“Why not, Papa?”
“Shiring is an independent borough, with a royal charter. The merchant guild there has the power to organize things for the benefit of the wool merchants. Kingsbridge belongs to the priory-”
Petranilla put in: “For the glory of God.”
“No doubt,” Edmund said. “But our parish guild can’t do anything without the priory’s approval – and priors are cautious and conservative people, my brother being no exception. The upshot is that most improvement plans get rejected.”
Buonaventura went on: “Because of my family’s long association with you, Edmund, and your father before you, we have continued to come to Kingsbridge; but in hard times we can’t afford to be sentimental.”
“Then let me ask you a small favour, for the sake of that long association,” Edmund said. “Don’t make a final decision yet. Keep an open mind.”
That was clever, Caris thought. She was struck – as she often was – by how shrewd her father could be in a negotiation. He did not argue that Buonaventura should reverse his decision, for that would just make him dig his heels in. The Italian was much more likely to agree not to make the decision final. That committed him to nothing, but left the door open.
Buonaventura found it hard to refuse. “All right, but to what end?”
“I want the chance to improve the fair, and especially that bridge,” Edmund replied. “If we could offer better facilities here at Kingsbridge than they have at Shiring, and attract more sellers, you would continue to visit us, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s what we’ll have to do.” He stood up. “I’ll go and see my brother now. Caris, come with me. We’ll show him the queue at the bridge. No, wait, Caris, go and fetch your clever young builder, Merthin. We might need his expertise.”
“He’ll be working.”
Petranilla said: “Just tell his master that the alderman of the parish guild wants the boy.” Petranilla was proud that her brother was alderman, and mentioned it at every opportunity.
But she was right. Elfric would have to release Merthin. “I’ll go and find him,” Caris said.
She put on a cape with a hood and went out. It was still raining, though not as heavily as yesterday. Elfric, like most of the leading citizens, lived on the main street that ran from the bridge up to the priory gates. The broad street was crowded with carts and people heading for the fair, splashing through puddles and streamlets of rain.
She was eager to see Merthin, as always. She had liked him ever since All Hallows’ Day ten years ago, when he had appeared at archery practice with his home-made bow. He was clever and funny. Like her, he knew that the world was a bigger and more fascinating place than most Kingsbridge citizens could conceive. But six months ago they had discovered something that was even more fun than being friends.
Caris had kissed boys before Merthin, though not often: she had never really seen the point. With him it was different, exciting and sexy. He had an impish streak that made everything he did seem mildly wicked. She liked it when he touched her body, too. She wanted to do more – but she tried not to think about that. ‘More’ meant marriage, and a wife had to be subordinate to her husband, who was her master – and Caris hated that idea. Fortunately she was not forced to think about it yet, for Merthin could not marry until his apprenticeship was over, and that was half a year away.
She reached Elfric’s house and stepped inside. Her sister, Alice, was in the front room, at the table, with her stepdaughter, Griselda. They were eating bread with honey. Alice had changed in the three years since she had married Elfric. Her nature had always been harsh, like Petranilla’s, and under the influence of her husband she had become more suspicious, resentful and ungenerous.
But she was pleasant enough today. “Sit down, sister,” she said. “The bread is fresh this morning.”
“I can’t, I’m looking for Merthin.”
Alice looked disapproving. “So early?”
“Father wants him.” Caris went through the kitchen to the back door and looked into the yard. Rain fell on a dismal landscape of builder’s junk. One of Elfric’s labourers was putting wet stones into a barrow. There was no sign of Merthin. She went back inside.
Alice said: “He’s probably at the cathedral. He’s been making a door.”
Caris recalled that Merthin had mentioned this. The door in the north porch had rotted, and Merthin was working on a replacement.
Griselda added: “He’s been carving virgins.” She grinned, then put more bread-and-honey into her mouth.
Caris knew this, too. The old door was decorated with carvings illustrating the story Jesus told on the Mount of Olives, about the wise and foolish virgins, and Merthin had to copy it. But there was something unpleasant about Griselda’s grin, Caris thought; almost as if she were laughing at Caris for being a virgin herself.
“I’ll try the cathedral,” Caris said, and with a perfunctory wave she left.
She climbed the main street and entered the cathedral close. As she threaded her way through the market stalls, it seemed to her that a dismal air hung over the fair. Was she imagining it, because of what Buonaventura had said? She thought not. When she recalled the Fleece Fairs of her childhood, it seemed to her that they had been busier and more crowded. In those days, the priory precincts had not been large enough to contain the fair, and the streets all around had been obstructed by unlicensed stalls – often just a small table covered with trinkets – plus hawkers with trays, jugglers, fortune tellers, musicians, and itinerant friars calling sinners to redemption. Now it seemed to her there might have been room for a few more stalls within the precincts. “Buonaventura must be right,” she said to herself. “The fair is shrinking.” A trader gave her a strange look, and she realized she had spoken her thoughts out loud. It was a bad habit: people thought she was talking to spirits. She had taught herself not to do it, but she sometimes forgot, especially when she was anxious.
She walked around the great church to the north side.
Merthin was working in the porch, a roomy space where people often held meetings. He had the door standing upright in a stout wooden frame that held it still while he carved. Behind the new work, the old door was still in place in the archway, cracked and crumbling. Merthin stood with his back to her, so that the light fell over his shoulders on to the wood in front of him. He did not see her, and the sound of the rain drowned her footsteps, so she was able to study him for a few moments unnoticed.
He was a small man, not much taller than she. He had a large, intelligent head on a wiry body. His small hands moved deftly across the carving, shaving fine curls of wood with a sharp knife as he shaped the images. He had white skin and a lot of bushy red hair. “He’s not very handsome,” Alice had said, with a twist of her lip, when Caris admitted she had fallen in love with him. It was true that Merthin did not have the dashing good looks of his brother, Ralph, but Caris thought his face was quite marvellous: irregular and quirky and wise and full of laughter, just as he was.
“Hello,” she said, and he jumped. She laughed. “It’s not like you to be so easily spooked.”
“You startled me.” He hesitated, then kissed her. He seemed a little awkward, but that sometimes happened when he was concentrating on his work.
She looked at the carving. There were five virgins on each side of the door, the wise ones feasting at the wedding, and the foolish ones outside, holding their lamps upside down to show that they were empty of oil. Merthin had copied the design of the old door, but with subtle changes. The virgins stood in rows, five on one side and five on the other, like the arches in the cathedral; but, in the new door, they were not exactly alike. Merthin had given each girl a sign of individuality. One was pretty, another had curly hair, one wept, another closed one eye in a mischievous wink. He had made them real, and the scene on the old door now looked stiff and lifeless by comparison. “It’s wonderful,” Caris said. “But I wonder what the monks will think.”
“Brother Thomas likes it,” Merthin replied.
“What about Prior Anthony?”
“He hasn’t seen it. But he’ll accept it. He won’t want to pay twice.”
That was true, Caris thought. Her uncle Anthony was unadventurous, but parsimonious too. The mention of the prior reminded her of her errand. “My father wants you to meet him and the prior at the bridge.”
“Did he say why?”
“I think he’s going to ask Anthony to build a new bridge.”
Merthin put his tools into a leather satchel, and quickly swept the floor, brushing sawdust and wood shavings out of the porch. Then he and Caris walked in the rain through the fair and down the main street to the wooden bridge. Caris told him what Buonaventura had said at the breakfast table. Merthin felt, as she did, that recent fairs had not been as bustling as those he remembered from childhood.
Despite that, there was a long queue of people and carts waiting to get into Kingsbridge. At the near end of the bridge was a small gatehouse where a monk sat taking a fee of one penny from every trader who entered the city with goods for sale. The bridge was narrow, so it was not possible for anyone to jump the queue, and in consequence people who did not need to pay – residents of the town, mainly – also had to stand in line. In addition, some of the boards that formed the surface were twisted and broken, so carts had to move slowly as they crossed. The result was that the queue stretched away along the road between the suburban hovels and disappeared into the rain.
The bridge was also too short. Once, no doubt, both its ends had given on to dry land. But either the river had widened or, more likely, the passage of carts and people over decades and centuries had flattened the banks, so that now people had to wade across muddy beaches on both sides.
Caris saw that Merthin was studying its structure. She knew that look in his eyes: he was thinking about how it stayed upright. She often caught him staring at something in that way, usually in the cathedral, but sometimes in front of a house or even something natural, a thorn tree in blossom or a sparrowhawk hovering. He became very still, his gaze bright and sharp, as if he were shining a light into a murky place, trying to make out what was there. If she asked him, he told her he was trying to see the insides of things.
She followed his gaze and strained to imagine what he perceived in the old bridge. It was sixty yards from end to end, the longest bridge she had ever seen. The roadbed was supported by massive oak piers in two rows, like the pillars that marched either side of the nave of the cathedral. There were five pairs of piers. The end ones, where the water was shallow, were quite short, but the three central pairs stood fifteen feet above the water line.
Each pier consisted of four oak beams in a cluster, held together by plank braces. Legend said that the king had given Kingsbridge Priory the twenty-four best oak trees in England to build the three central pairs of piers. The tops were linked by beams in two parallel lines. Shorter beams crossed from one line to the other, forming the roadbed; and longitudinal planks had been laid on top to form the road surface. On each side was a wooden railing that served as a flimsy parapet. Every couple of years a drunk peasant would drive a cart through the rail and kill himself and his horse in the river.
“What are you looking at?” Caris asked Merthin.
“The cracks.”
“I don’t see any.”
“The timbers on either side of the central pier are splitting. You can see where Elfric has reinforced them with iron braces.”
Now that he pointed them out, Caris could see the flat metal strips nailed across the cracks. “You look worried,” she said to him.
“I don’t know why the timbers cracked in the first place.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does.”
He was not very talkative this morning. She was about to ask him why, when he said: “Here comes your father.”
She looked along the street. The two brothers made an odd pair. Tall Anthony fastidiously held up the skirts of his monkish robe and stepped gingerly around the puddles, wearing an expression of distaste on his pale indoor face. Edmund, more vigorous despite being the elder, had a red face and a long untidy grey beard, and he walked carelessly, dragging his withered leg through the mud, speaking argumentatively and gesturing extravagantly with both arms. When Caris saw her father at a distance, the way a stranger might see him, she always felt a surge of love.
The dispute was in full swing when they got to the bridge, and they continued without pause. “Look at that queue!” Edmund shouted. “Hundreds of people not trading at the fair because they haven’t got there yet! And you can be sure half of them will meet a buyer or seller while waiting, and conduct their business right then and there, then go home without even entering the city!”
“That’s forestalling, and it’s against the law,” said Anthony.
“You could go and tell them that, if you could get across the bridge, but you can’t, because it’s too narrow! Listen, Anthony. If the Italians pull out, the Fleece Fair will never be the same again. Your prosperity and mine are based on the fair – we must not just let it go!”
“We can’t force Buonaventura to do business here.”
“But we can make our fair more attractive than Shiring’s. We need to announce a big, symbolic project, right now, this week, something to convince them all that the Fleece Fair isn’t finished. We have to tell them we’re going to tear down this old bridge and build a new one, twice as wide.” Without warning, he turned to Merthin. “How long would it take, young lad?”
Merthin looked startled, but he answered. “Finding the trees would be the hard part. You need very long timbers, well seasoned. Then the piers have to be driven into the river bed – that’s tricky, because you’re working in running water. After that it’s just carpentry. You could finish it by Christmas.”
Anthony said: “There’s no certainty the Caroli family will change its plans if we build a new bridge.”
“They will,” Edmund said forcefully. “I guarantee it.”
“Anyway, I can’t afford to build a bridge. I don’t have the money.”
“You can’t afford not to build a bridge,” Edmund shouted. “You’ll ruin yourself as well as the town.”
“It’s out of the question. I don’t even know where I’m going to get the money for the repairs in the south aisle.”
“So what will you do?”
“Trust in God.”
“Those who trust in God and sow a seed may reap a harvest. But you’re not sowing the seed.”
Anthony got irritated. “I know this is difficult for you to understand, Edmund, but Kingsbridge Priory is not a commercial enterprise. We’re here to worship God, not to make money.”
“You won’t worship God for long if you’ve nothing to eat.”
“God will provide.”
Edmund’s red face flushed with anger, turning a purplish colour. “When you were a boy, our father’s business fed you and clothed you and paid for your education. Since you’ve been a monk, the citizens of this town and the peasants of the surrounding countryside have kept you alive by paying you rents, tithes, charges for market stalls, bridge tolls, and a dozen other different fees. All your life you’ve lived like a flea on the backs of hard-working people. And now you have the nerve to tell us that God provides.”
“That’s perilously close to blasphemy.”
“Don’t forget that I’ve known you since you were born, Anthony. You always had a talent for avoiding work.” Edmund’s voice, so often raised in a shout, now dropped – a sign, Caris knew, that he was really furious. “When it was time to empty out the privy, you went off to bed, so that you would be rested for school the next day. Father’s gift to God, you always had the best of everything, and never lifted your hand to earn it. Strengthening food, the warmest bedroom, the best clothes – I was the only boy who wore his younger brother’s cast-off outfits!”
“And you never let me forget it.”
Caris had been waiting for the opportunity to halt the flow, and now she took it. “There ought to be a way around this.”
They both looked at her, surprised to be interrupted.
She went on: “For example, couldn’t the townspeople build a bridge?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Anthony. “The town belongs to the priory. A servant doesn’t furnish his master’s house.”
“But if your permission was sought, you would have no reason to refuse it.”
Anthony did not immediately contradict that, which was encouraging; but Edmund was shaking his head. “I don’t think I could persuade them to put up the money,” he said. “It would be in their interests, long term, of course; but people are very reluctant to think in the long term when being asked to part with their money.”
“Ha!” said Anthony. “Yet you expect me to think long term.”
“You deal with eternal life, don’t you?” Edmund shot back. “You of all people ought to be able to see beyond the end of next week. Besides, you get a penny toll from everyone who crosses the bridge. You’d get your money back and you’d benefit from the improvement in business.”
Caris said: “But Uncle Anthony is a spiritual leader, and he feels it’s not his role.”
“But he owns the town!” Papa protested. “He’s the only one who can do it!” Then he gave her an inquiring look, realizing that she would not have contradicted him without a reason. “What are you thinking?”
“Suppose the townspeople built a bridge, and were repaid out of the penny tolls?”
Edmund opened his mouth to express an objection, but could not think of one.
Caris looked at Anthony.
Anthony said: “When the priory was new, its only income came from that bridge. I can’t give it away.”
“But think what you would gain, if the Fleece Fair and the weekly market began to return to their former size: not just the bridge tolls, but stallholders’ fees, the percentage you take of all transactions at the fair, and gifts to the cathedral too!”
Edmund added: “And the profits on your own sales: wool, grain, hides, books, statues of the saints-”
Anthony said: “You planned this, didn’t you?” He pointed an accusing finger at his older brother. “You told your daughter what to say, and the lad. He would never think up a scheme like this, and she’s just a woman. It has your mark on it. This is all a plot to cheat me of my bridge tolls. Well, it’s failed. Praise God, I’m not that stupid!” He turned away and splashed off through the mud.
Edmund said: “I don’t know how my father ever sired someone with so little sense.” And he, too, stomped off.
Caris turned to Merthin. “Well,” she said, “what did you think of all that?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away, avoiding her eye. “Ed better get back to work.” He went without kissing her.
“Well!” she said when he was out of earshot. “What on earth has got into him?”
The earl of Shiring came to Kingsbridge on the Tuesday of Fleece Fair week. He brought with him both his sons, various other family members, and an entourage of knights and squires. The bridge was cleared by his advance men, and no one was permitted to cross for an hour before his arrival, lest he should suffer the indignity of being made to wait alongside the common people. His followers wore his red-and-black livery, and they all splashed into town with banners flying, their horses’ hooves spattering the citizens with rainwater and mud. Earl Roland had prospered in the last ten years – under Queen Isabella and, later, her son Edward III – and he wanted the world to know it, as rich and powerful men generally did.
In his company was Ralph, son of Sir Gerald and brother of Merthin. At the same time as Merthin had been apprenticed to Elfric’s father, Ralph had become a squire in the household of Earl Roland, and he had been happy ever since. He had been well fed and clothed, he had learned to ride and fight, and he had spent most of his time hunting and playing sports and games. In six and a half years no one had asked him to read or write a word. As he rode behind the earl through the huddled stalls of the Fleece Fair, watched by faces both envious and fearful, he pitied the merchants and tradesmen grubbing for pennies in the mud.
The earl dismounted at the prior’s house, on the north side of the cathedral. His younger son, Richard, did the same. Richard was bishop of Kingsbridge and the cathedral was, theoretically, his church. However, the bishop’s palace was in the county town of Shiring, two days’ journey away. This suited the bishop, whose duties were political as much as religious; and it suited the monks, who preferred not to be too closely supervised.
Richard was only twenty-eight, but his father was a close ally of the king, and that counted for more than seniority.
The rest of the entourage rode to the south end of the cathedral close. The earl’s elder son, William, lord of Caster, told the squires to stable the horses while half a dozen knights settled in to the hospital. Ralph moved quickly to help William’s wife, Lady Philippa, get down from her horse. She was a tall, attractive woman with long legs and deep breasts, and Ralph nurtured a hopeless love for her.
When the horses were settled, Ralph went to visit his mother and father. They lived rent-free in a small house in the south-west quarter of the town, by the river, in a neighbourhood made malodorous by the work of leather tanners. As he approached the house, Ralph felt himself shrivelling with shame inside his red-and-black uniform. He was grateful that Lady Philippa could not see the indignity of his parents’ situation.
He had not seen them for a year, and they seemed older. There was a lot of grey in his mother’s hair, and his father was losing his eyesight. They gave him cider made by the monks and wild strawberries Mother had gathered in the woods. Father admired his livery. “Has the earl made you a knight yet?” he asked eagerly.
It was the ambition of every squire to become a knight, but Ralph felt it more keenly than most. His father had never got over the humiliation, ten years ago, of being degraded to the position of pensioner of the priory. An arrow had pierced Ralph’s heart that day. The pain would not be eased until he had restored the family honour. But not all squires became knights. Nevertheless, Father always talked as if it were only a matter of time for Ralph.
“Not yet,” Ralph said. “But we’re likely to go to war with France before long, and that will be my chance.” He spoke lightly, not wishing to show how badly he yearned for the chance to distinguish himself in battle.
Mother was disgusted. “Why do kings always want war?”
Father laughed. “It’s what men were made for.”
“No, it’s not,” she said sharply. “When I gave birth to Ralph in pain and suffering, I didn’t intend that he should live to have his head cut off by a Frenchman’s sword or his heart pierced by a bolt from a crossbow.”
Father flapped a hand at her in a dismissive gesture and said to Ralph: “What makes you say there will be war?”
“King Philip of France has confiscated Gascony.”
“Ah. We can’t have that.”
English kings had ruled the western French province of Gascony for generations. They had given trade privileges to the merchants of Bordeaux and Bayonne, who did more business with London than with Paris. Still, there was always trouble.
Ralph said: “King Edward has sent ambassadors to Flanders to form alliances.”
“Allies may want money.”
“That’s why Earl Roland has come to Kingsbridge. The king wants a loan from the wool merchants.”
“How much?”
“The talk is of two hundred thousand pounds, nationwide, as an advance against the wool tax.”
Mother said bleakly: “The king should take care not to tax the wool merchants to death.”
Father said: “The merchants have plenty of money – just look at their fine clothes.” There was bitterness in his tone, and Ralph observed that he had on a worn linen undershirt and old shoes. “Anyway, they want us to stop the French navy interfering with their trade.” Over the last year, French ships had raided towns on the south coast of England, sacking the ports and setting fire to ships in the harbours.
“The French attack us, so we attack the French,” said Mother. “What is the sense of it?”
“Women will never understand,” Father replied.
“That’s the truth,” she said crisply.
Ralph changed the subject. “How is my brother?”
“He’s a fine craftsman,” said his father, and he sounded, Ralph thought, like a horse salesman saying that an undersized pony was a good mount for a woman.
Mother said: “He’s smitten with Edmund Wooler’s daughter.”
“Caris?” Ralph smiled. “He always liked her. We played together as children. She was a bossy little minx, but Merthin never seemed to mind. Will he marry her?”
“I expect so,” Mother said. “When he finishes his apprenticeship.”
“He’ll have his hands full.” Ralph got up. “Where do you think he is now?”
“He’s working in the north porch of the cathedral,” Father said. “But he might be having his dinner.”
“I’ll find him.” Ralph kissed them both and went out.
He returned to the priory and wandered through the fair. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining fitfully, glinting in the puddles and raising steam off the stallholders’ wet covers. He saw a familiar profile, and the regular footsteps of his heart faltered. It was the straight nose and strong jaw of Lady Philippa. She was older than Ralph, about twenty-five, he guessed. She was standing at a stall, looking at bolts of silk from Italy, and he drank in the way her light summer dress draped itself lasciviously over the curves of her hips. He made her an unnecessarily elaborate bow.
She glanced up and gave a perfunctory nod.
“Beautiful materials,” he said, trying to open a conversation.
“Yes.”
At that moment, a diminutive figure with untidy carrot-coloured hair approached: Merthin. Ralph was delighted to see him. “This is my clever older brother,” he said to Philippa.
Merthin said to Philippa: “Buy the pale green – it matches your eyes.”
Ralph winced. Merthin should not have addressed her in such a familiar way.
However, she did not seem to mind too much. She spoke in a tone of mild reproof, saying: “When I want a boy’s opinion, I’ll ask my son,” but as she said it she gave him a smile that was almost flirtatious.
Ralph said: “This is the Lady Philippa, you fool! I apologize for my brother’s cheek, my lady.”
“What’s his name, anyway?”
“I’m Merthin Fitzgerald, at your service any time you find yourself hesitating over silks.”
Ralph took his arm and led him away before he could say anything else indiscreet. “I don’t know how you do it!” he said, with exasperation and admiration equally mixed. “It matches her eyes, does it? If I said something like that, she’d have me flogged.” He was exaggerating, but it was true that Philippa usually responded sharply to insolence. He did not know whether to be amused or angry that she had been indulgent to Merthin.
“That’s me,” Merthin said. “Every woman’s dream.”
Ralph detected bitterness in his tone. “Is anything wrong?” he said. “How’s Caris?”
“I’ve done something stupid,” Merthin replied. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s look around while the sun’s out.”
Ralph noticed a stall where a monk with ash-blond hair was selling cheese. “Watch this,” he said to Merthin. He approached the stall and said: “This looks tasty, brother – where does it come from?”
“We make it at St-John-in-the-Forest. It’s a small cell, or branch, of Kingsbridge Priory. I’m the prior there – my name is Saul Whitehead.”
“It makes me hungry to look at it. I wish I could buy some – but the earl keeps us squires penniless.”
The monk cut a slice off the wheel of cheese and gave it to Ralph. “Then you shall have some for nothing, in the name of Jesus,” he said.
“Thank you, Brother Saul.”
As they walked away, Ralph grinned at Merthin and said: “See? As easy as taking an apple from a child.”
“And about as admirable,” Merthin said.
“But what a fool, to give his cheese away to anyone with a sob story!”
“He probably thinks it’s better to risk being made a fool of than to deny food to a starving man.”
“You’re a bit sour today. How come you’re allowed to cheek a noblewoman, but I can’t talk a stupid monk into giving me free cheese?”
Merthin surprised him with a grin. “Just like when we were boys, eh?”
“Exactly!” Now Ralph did not know whether to be angry or amused. Before he could make up his mind, a pretty girl approached him with eggs on a tray. She was slim, with a small bust under a homespun dress, and he imagined her breasts to be pale and round like the eggs. He smiled at her: “How much?” he said, though he had no need of eggs.
“A penny for twelve.”
“Are they good?”
She pointed at a nearby stall. “They’re from these hens.”
“And have the hens been well serviced by a healthy rooster?” Ralph saw Merthin roll up his eyes in mock despair at this sally.
However, the girl played along. “Yes, sir,” she said with a smile.
“Lucky hens, eh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course not. A maid understands little of these things.” Ralph scrutinized her. She had fair hair and a turned-up nose. She was about eighteen, he guessed.
She batted her eyelids and said: “Don’t stare at me, please.”
From behind the stall a peasant – no doubt the girl’s father – had called: “Annet! Come here.”
“So your name is Annet,” Ralph said.
She ignored the summons.
Ralph said: “Who is your father?”
“Perkin from Wigleigh.”
“Really? My friend Stephen is lord of Wigleigh. Is Stephen good to you?”
“Lord Stephen is just and merciful,” she said dutifully.
Her father called again. “Annet! You’re wanted here.”
Ralph knew why Perkin was trying to get her away. He would not mind if a squire wanted to marry his daughter: that would be a step up the social ladder for her. But he feared that Ralph wanted to dally with her then discard her. And he was right.
“Don’t go, Annet Wigleigh,” Ralph said.
“Not until you’ve bought what I’m offering.”
Beside them, Merthin groaned: “One is as bad as the other.”
Ralph said: “Why don’t you put down the eggs and come with me. We could stroll along the river bank.” Between the river and the wall of the priory grounds there was a wide bank, covered at this time of year with wild flowers and bushes, where courting couples traditionally went.
But Annet was not that easy. “My father would be displeased,” she said.
“Let’s not worry about him.” There was not much a peasant could do to oppose the will of a squire, especially when the squire was wearing the livery of a great earl. It was an insult to the earl to lay hands on one of his servants. The peasant might try to dissuade his daughter, but it would be risky for him to restrain her forcibly.
However, someone else came to Perkin’s aid. A youthful voice said: “Hello, Annet, is all well?”
Ralph turned to the newcomer. He looked about sixteen, but he was almost as tall as Ralph, with broad shoulders and big hands. He was strikingly handsome, with regular features that might have been carved by a cathedral sculptor. He had thick tawny hair and the beginnings of a beard the same colour.
Ralph said: “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Wulfric from Wigleigh, sir.” Wulfric was deferential, but not afraid. He turned back to Annet and said: “I’ve come to help you sell some eggs.”
The boy’s muscular shoulder came between Ralph and Annet, his stance protecting the girl and at the same time excluding Ralph. It was mildly insolent, and Ralph felt a stirring of anger. “Get out of the way, Wulfric Wigleigh,” he said. “You’re not wanted here.”
Wulfric turned again and gave him a level look. “I’m betrothed to this woman, sir,” he said. Once again, the tone was respectful but the attitude fearless.
Perkin spoke up. “That’s true, sir – they are to be married.”
“Don’t talk to me about your peasant customs,” Ralph said contemptuously. “I don’t care if she’s married to the oaf.” It angered him to be spoken to this way by his inferiors. It was not their place to tell him what to do.
Merthin butted in. “Let’s go, Ralph,” he said. “I’m hungry, and Betty Baxter is selling hot pies.”
“Pies?” Ralph said. “I’m more interested in eggs.” He picked up one of the eggs on her tray and fondled it suggestively, then he put it down and touched her left breast. It was firm to his fingertips, and egg-shaped.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She sounded indignant, but she did not move away.
He squeezed gently, enjoying the sensation. “Examining the goods on offer.”
“Take your hands off me.”
“In a minute.”
Then Wulfric shoved him violently.
Ralph was taken by surprise. He had not expected to be attacked by a peasant. He staggered back, stumbled, and fell to the ground with a thump. He heard someone laugh, and amazement gave way to humiliation. He sprang to his feet, enraged.
He was not wearing his sword, but he had a long dagger at his belt. However, it would be undignified to use weapons on an unarmed peasant: he could lose the respect of the earl’s knights and the other squires. He would have to punish Wulfric with his fists.
Perkin stepped from behind his stall, speaking rapidly. “A clumsy mistake, sir, not intended, the lad is deeply sorry, I assure you-”
However, his daughter seemed unafraid. “Boys, boys!” she said in a tone of mock reprimand, but she seemed more pleased than anything else.
Ralph ignored them both. He took one step towards Wulfric and raised his right fist. Then, when Wulfric lifted both arms to defend his face from the blow, Ralph drove his left fist into the boy’s belly.
It was not as soft as he had expected. All the same, Wulfric bent forward, his face twisted in agony, both hands going to his midriff; whereupon Ralph hit him full in the face with his right fist, catching him high on the cheekbone. The punch hurt his hand but brought joy to his soul.
To his astonishment, Wulfric hit him back.
Instead of crumpling to the floor and lying there waiting to be kicked, the peasant boy came back with a right-handed punch that had all the strength of his shoulders behind it. Ralph’s nose seemed to explode in blood and pain. He roared with anger.
Wulfric stepped back, seeming to realize what a terrible thing he had done, and he dropped both arms, holding his palms upwards.
But it was too late to be sorry. Ralph hit him with both fists on the face and body, a storm of blows that Wulfric feebly tried to ward off by holding up his arms and ducking his head. As he punched him, Ralph wondered vaguely why the boy did not run away, and guessed he was hoping to take his punishment now rather than face worse later. He had guts, Ralph realized; but that made him even angrier. He hit him harder, again and again, and he was filled with an emotion that was both rage and ecstasy. Merthin tried to intervene. “For the love of Christ, enough,” he said, putting a hand on Ralph’s shoulder; but Ralph shook him off.
At last Wulfric’s hands fell to his sides and he staggered, dazed, his handsome face covered in blood, his eyes closing; then he fell down. Ralph started to kick him. Then a burly man in leather trousers appeared and spoke with a voice of authority: “Now then, young Ralph, don’t murder the boy.”
Ralph recognized John, the town constable, and said indignantly: “He attacked me!”
“Well, he’s not attacking you any more, is he, sir? Lying on the ground like that with his eyes shut.” John put himself in front of Ralph. “I’d rather do without the trouble of a coroner’s inquiry.”
People crowded around Wulfric: Perkin; Annet, who was flushed with excitement; the Lady Philippa; and several bystanders.
The ecstatic feeling left Ralph, and his nose hurt like hell. He could breathe only through his mouth. He tasted blood. “That animal punched my nose,” he said, and he sounded like a man with a heavy cold.
“Then he shall be punished,” said John.
Two men who looked like Wulfric appeared: his father and his elder brother, Ralph guessed. They helped Wulfric to his feet, shooting angry glances at Ralph.
Perkin spoke up. He was a fat man with a sly face. “The squire threw the first punch,” he said.
Ralph said: “The peasant deliberately shoved me!”
“The squire insulted Wulfric’s wife-to-be.”
The constable said: “No matter what the squire may have said, Wulfric should know better than to lay hands on a servant of Earl Roland’s. I should think the earl will expect him to be severely dealt with.”
Wulfric’s father spoke up. “Is there a new law, John Constable, that says a man in livery may do what he likes?”
There was a mutter of agreement from the small crowd now gathered. Young squires caused a lot of trouble, and often escaped punishment because they were wearing the colours of some baron; and this was deeply resented by law-abiding tradesmen and peasants.
Lady Philippa intervened. “I’m the earl’s daughter-in-law, and I saw the whole thing,” she said. Her voice was low and melodious, but she spoke with the authority of high rank. Ralph expected her to take his side, but to his dismay she went on: “I’m sorry to say that this was entirely Ralph’s fault. He fondled the girl’s body in a most outrageous way.”
“Thank you, my lady,” John Constable said deferentially. He lowered his voice to confer with her. “But I think the earl might not want the peasant lad to go unpunished.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “We don’t want this to be the start of a lengthy dispute. Put the boy in the stocks for twenty-four hours. It won’t do him much harm, at his age, but everyone will know that justice has been done. That will satisfy the earl – I’ll answer for him.”
John hesitated. Ralph could see that the constable did not like taking orders from anyone but his master, the prior of Kingsbridge. However, Philippa’s decision would surely satisfy all parties. Ralph himself would have liked to see Wulfric flogged, but he was beginning to suspect that he did not come out of this as a hero, and he would look worse if he demanded a harsh punishment. After a moment John said: “Very well, Lady Philippa, if you’re willing to take responsibility.”
“I am.”
“Right.” John took Wulfric by the arm and led him away. The lad had recovered fast, and was able to walk normally. His family followed. Perhaps they would bring him food and drink while he was in the stocks, and make sure he was not pelted.
Merthin said to Ralph: “How are you?”
Ralph felt as if the middle of his face were swelling like an inflated bladder. His vision was blurred, his speech was a nasal honk, and he was in pain. “I’m fine,” he said. “Never better.”
“Let’s get a monk to look at your nose.”
“No.” Ralph was not afraid of fights, but he hated the things physicians did: bleeding and cupping and lancing boils. “All I need is a bottle of strong wine. Take me to the nearest tavern.”
“All right,” Merthin said, but he did not move. He was giving Ralph a queer look.
Ralph said: “What’s the matter with you?”
“You don’t change, do you?”
Ralph shrugged. “Does anyone?”
Godwyn was completely fascinated by Timothy’s Book. It was a history of Kingsbridge Priory and, like most such histories, it began with the creation by God of heaven and earth. But mostly it recounted the era of Prior Philip, two centuries ago, when the cathedral was built – a time now regarded by the monks as a golden age. The author, Brother Timothy, claimed that the legendary Philip had been a stern disciplinarian as well as a man of compassion. Godwyn was not sure how you could be both.
On the Wednesday of Fleece Fair week, in the study hour before the service of Sext, Godwyn sat on a high stool in the monastery library, the book open on a lectern before him. This was his favourite place in the priory: a spacious room, well lit by high windows, with almost a hundred books in a locked cupboard. It was normally hushed, but today he could hear, from the far side of the cathedral, the muffled roar of the fair – a thousand people buying and selling, haggling and quarrelling, calling their wares, and shouting encouragement at cock-fighting and bear-baiting.
At the back of the book, later authors had tracked the descendants of the cathedral builders down to the present day. Godwyn was pleased – and frankly surprised – to find confirmation of his mother’s theory that she was descended from Tom Builder through Tom’s daughter Martha. He wondered what family traits might have come down from Tom. A mason needed to be a shrewd businessman, he supposed, and Godwyn’s grandfather and his uncle Edmund had that quality. His cousin Caris also showed signs of the same flair. Perhaps Tom had also had the green eyes flecked with yellow that they all shared.
Godwyn also read about Tom Builder’s stepson, Jack, the architect of Kingsbridge Cathedral, who had married the Lady Aliena and fathered a dynasty of earls of Shiring. He was the ancestor of Caris’s sweetheart, Merthin Fitzgerald. That made sense: young Merthin was already showing unparalleled ability as a carpenter. Timothy’s Book even mentioned Jack’s red hair, which had been inherited by Sir Gerald and Merthin, though not Ralph.
What interested him most was the book’s chapter on women. It seemed there had been no nuns at Kingsbridge in Prior Philip’s day. Women had been strictly forbidden to enter the monastery buildings. The author, quoting Philip, said that if possible a monk should never look at a female, for his own peace of mind. Philip disapproved of combined monastery-nunneries, saying the advantages of shared facilities were outweighed by the opportunities for the devil to introduce temptation. Where there was a double house, the separation of monks and nuns should be as rigid as possible, he added.
Godwyn felt the thrill of finding authoritative support for a pre-existing conviction. At Oxford he had enjoyed the all-male environment of Kingsbridge College. The university teachers were men, as were the students, without exception. He had hardly spoken to a female for seven years and, if he kept his eyes on the ground as he walked through the city, he could even avoid looking at them. On his return to the priory, he had found it disturbing to see nuns so frequently. Although they had their own cloisters, refectory, kitchen and other buildings, he met them constantly in the church, the hospital, and other communal areas. At this moment there was a pretty young nun called Mair just a few feet away, consulting an illustrated book on medicinal herbs. It was even worse to encounter girls from the town, with their close-fitting clothes and alluring hairstyles, casually walking through the priory grounds on everyday errands, bringing supplies to the kitchen or visiting the hospital.
Clearly, he thought, the priory had fallen from Philip’s high standards – another example of the slackness that had crept in under the rule of Anthony, Godwyn’s uncle. But perhaps there was something he could do about this.
The bell rang for Sext, and he closed the book. Sister Mair did the same, and smiled at him, her red lips forming a sweet curve as she did so. He looked away and hurried out of the room.
The weather was improving, the sun shining fitfully between showers of rain. In the church, the stained-glass windows brightened and faded as patchy clouds blew across the sky. Godwyn’s mind was equally restless, distracted from his prayers by thoughts of how he could best use Timothy’s Book to inspire a revival in the priory. He decided he would raise the subject at chapter, the daily meeting of all the monks.
The builders were getting on quickly with the repairs to the chancel after last Sunday’s collapse, he noted. The rubble had been cleared away and the area had been roped off. There was a growing stack of thin, lightweight stones in the transept. The men did not stop work when the monks began to sing – there were so many services during the course of a normal day that the repairs would have been severely delayed. Merthin Fitzgerald, who had temporarily abandoned his work on the new door, was in the south aisle, constructing an elaborate spider web of ropes, branches and hurdles on which the masons would stand as they rebuilt the vaulted ceiling. Thomas Langley, whose job it was to supervise the builders, was standing in the south transept with Elfric, pointing with his one arm at the collapsed vault, obviously discussing Merthin’s work.
Thomas was effective as matricularius: he was decisive, and he never let things slip. Any morning the builders failed to show up – a frequent irritation – Thomas would go and find them and demand to know why. If he had a fault, it was that he was too independent: he rarely reported progress or asked Godwyn’s opinion, but got on with the work as if he were his own master rather than Godwyn’s subordinate. Godwyn had an annoying suspicion that Thomas doubted his ability. Godwyn was younger, but only slightly: he was thirty-one, Thomas thirty-four. Perhaps Thomas thought that Godwyn had been promoted by Anthony under pressure from Petranilla. However, he showed no other sign of resentment. He just did things his own way.
As Godwyn watched, murmuring the responses of the service automatically, Thomas’s conversation with Elfric was interrupted. Lord William of Caster came striding into the church. He was a tall, black-bearded figure very like his father, and equally harsh, though people said he was sometimes softened by his wife, Philippa. He approached Thomas and waved Elfric away. Thomas turned to William, and something in his stance reminded Godwyn that Thomas had once been a knight, and had first arrived at the priory bleeding from the sword wound that had eventually necessitated the amputation of his left arm at the elbow.
Godwyn wished he could hear what Lord William was saying. William was leaning forward, speaking aggressively, pointing a finger. Thomas, unafraid, answered with equal vigour. Godwyn suddenly remembered Thomas having just such an intense, combative conversation ten years ago, on the day he arrived here. On that occasion, he had been arguing with William’s younger brother, Richard – then a priest, now the bishop of Kingsbridge. Perhaps it was fanciful, but Godwyn imagined they were quarrelling about the same thing today. What could it be? Could there really be an issue between a monk and a noble family that was still a cause of anger after ten years?
Lord William stamped off, evidently unsatisfied, and Thomas turned back to Elfric.
The argument ten years ago had resulted in Thomas’s joining the priory. Godwyn recalled that Richard had promised a donation to secure Thomas’s admittance. Godwyn had never heard any more about that donation. He wondered if it had ever been paid.
In all that time, no one at the priory seemed to have learned much about Thomas’s former life. That was curious: monks gossiped constantly. Living closely together in a small group – there were twenty-six at present – they tended to know almost everything about one another. What lord had Thomas served? Where had he lived? Most knights ruled over a few villages, receiving rents that enabled them to pay for horses, armour and weapons. Had Thomas had a wife and children? If so, what had become of them? No one knew.
Apart from the mystery of his background, Thomas was a good monk, devout and hard-working. It seemed as if this existence suited him better than his life as a knight. Despite his former career of violence, there was something of the woman about him, as there was about many monks. He was very close to Brother Matthias, a sweet-natured man a few years younger than he. But, if they were committing sins of impurity, they were very discreet about it, for no accusation had ever been made.
Towards the end of the service Godwyn glanced into the deep gloom of the nave and saw his mother, Petranilla, standing as still as one of the pillars, a shaft of sunlight illuminating her proud grey head. She was alone. He wondered how long she had been there, watching. Lay people were not encouraged to attend the weekday services, and Godwyn guessed she was here to see him. He felt the familiar mixture of pleasure and apprehension. She would do anything for him, he knew. She had sold her house and become her brother Edmund’s housekeeper just so that he could study at Oxford; when he thought of the sacrifice that entailed for his proud mother, he wanted to weep with gratitude. Yet her presence always made him anxious, as if he were going to be reprimanded for some transgression.
As the monks and nuns filed out, Godwyn peeled off from the procession and approached her. “Good morning, Mama.”
She kissed his forehead. “You look thin,” she said with maternal anxiety. “Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”
“Salt fish and porridge, but there’s plenty of it,” he said.
“What are you so excited about?” She could always read his mood.
He told her about Timothy’s Book. “I could read the passage during chapter,” he said.
“Would others support you?”
“Theodoric and the younger monks would. A lot of them find it disturbing to see women all the time. After all, they have all chosen to live in an all-male community.”
She nodded approvingly. “This casts you in the role of leader. Excellent.”
“Besides, they like me because of the hot stones.”
“Hot stones?”
“I introduced a new rule in the winter. On frosty nights, when we go into church for Matins, each monk is given a hot stone wrapped in a rag. It prevents them getting chilblains in their feet.”
“Very clever. All the same, check your support before you make your move.”
“Of course. But it fits in with what the masters teach at Oxford.”
“Which is?”
“Mankind is fallible, so we should not rely on our own reasoning. We cannot hope to understand the world – all we can do is stand amazed at God’s creation. True knowledge comes only from revelation. We should not question received wisdom.”
Mother looked sceptical, as lay people often did when educated men tried to explain high philosophy. “And this is what bishops and cardinals believe?”
“Yes. The University of Paris has actually banned the works of Aristotle and Aquinas because they are based on rationality rather than faith.”
“Will this way of thinking help you find favour with your superiors?”
That was all she really cared about. She wanted her son to be prior, bishop, archbishop, even cardinal. He wanted the same, but he hoped he was not as cynical as she. “I’m sure of it,” he replied.
“Good. But that’s not why I came to see you. Your uncle Edmund has suffered a blow. The Italians are threatening to take their custom to Shiring.”
Godwyn was shocked. “That will ruin his business.” But he was not sure why she had made a special visit to tell him.
“Edmund thinks he can win them back if we improve the Fleece Fair, and in particular if we tear down the old bridge and build a new, wider one.”
“Let me guess: Uncle Anthony refused.”
“But Edmund has not given up.”
“You want me to talk to Anthony?”
She shook her head. “You can’t persuade him. But, if the subject comes up in chapter, you should support the proposal.”
“And go against Uncle Anthony?”
“Whenever a sensible proposal is opposed by the old guard, you must be identified as leader of the reformers.”
Godwyn smiled admiringly. “Mama, how do you know so much about politics?”
“I’ll tell you.” She looked away, her eyes focusing on the great rose window at the east end, her mind in the past. “When my father started to trade with the Italians, he was treated as an upstart by the leading citizens of Kingsbridge. They turned up their noses at him and his family, and did everything they could to prevent him implementing his new ideas. My mother was dead by then, and I was an adolescent, so I became his confidante, and he told me everything.” Her face, normally fixed in an expression of frozen calm, twisted now into a mask of bitterness and resentment: her eyes narrowed, her lip curled, and her cheek flushed with remembered shame. “He decided he would never be free of them until he took control of the parish guild. So that’s what he set out to do, and I helped him.” She drew a deep breath, as if once again gathering her strength for a long war. “We divided the ruling group, set one faction against the other, made alliances then shifted them, ruthlessly undermined our opponents, and used our supporters until it suited us to discard them. It took us ten years and, at the end of it, he was alderman of the guild and the richest man in town.”
She had told him the story of his grandfather before, but never in quite such bluntly honest terms. “So you were his aide, as Caris is to Edmund?”
She gave a short, harsh laugh. “Yes. Except that, by the time Edmund took over, we were the leading citizens. My father and I climbed the mountain, and Edmund just had to walk down the other side.”
They were interrupted by Philemon. He came into the church from the cloisters, a tall, scrawny-necked man of twenty-two, walking like a bird with short, pigeon-toed steps. He carried a broom: he was employed by the priory as a cleaner. He seemed excited. “I’ve been looking for you, Brother Godwyn.”
Petranilla ignored his obvious hurry. “Hello, Philemon, haven’t they made you a monk yet?”
“I can’t raise the necessary donation, Mistress Petranilla. I come from a humble family.”
“But it’s not unknown for the priory to waive the donation in the case of an applicant who shows devotion. And you’ve been a servant of the priory, paid and unpaid, for years.”
“Brother Godwyn has proposed me, but some of the older monks argued against me.”
Godwyn put in: “Blind Carlus hates Philemon – I don’t know why.”
Petranilla said: “I’ll speak to my brother Anthony. He should overrule Carlus. You’re a good friend to my son – I’d like to see you get on.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
“Well, you’re obviously bursting to tell Godwyn something that can’t be said in front of me, so I’ll take my leave.” She kissed Godwyn. “Remember what I said.”
“I will, Mama.”
Godwyn felt relieved, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead and gone on to drench some other town.
As soon as Petranilla was out of earshot, Philemon said: “It’s Bishop Richard!”
Godwyn raised his eyebrows. Philemon had a way of learning people’s secrets. “What have you found out?”
“He’s in the hospital, right now, in one of the private rooms upstairs – with his cousin Margery!”
Margery was a pretty girl of sixteen. Her parents – a younger brother of Earl Roland, and a sister of the countess of Marr – were both dead, and she was Roland’s ward. He had arranged for her to marry a son of the earl of Monmouth, in a political alliance that would greatly strengthen Roland’s position as the leading nobleman of south-west England. “What are they doing?” Godwyn said, though he could guess.
Philemon lowered his voice. “Kissing!”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll show you.”
Philemon led the way out of the church via the south transept, through the monks’ cloisters, and up a flight of steps to the dormitory. It was a plain room with two rows of simple wooden bedsteads, each having a straw mattress. It shared a party wall with the hospital. Philemon went to a large cupboard that contained blankets. With an effort, he pulled it forward. In the wall behind it there was a loose stone. Momentarily Godwyn wondered how Philemon had come across this peephole, and guessed he might have hidden something in the gap. Philemon lifted the stone out, careful to make no noise, and whispered: “Look, quick!”
Godwyn hesitated. In a low voice he said: “How many other guests have you observed from here?”
“All of them,” Philemon replied, as if that should have been obvious.
Godwyn thought he knew what he was going to see, and he did not relish it. Peeping at a misbehaving bishop might be all right for Philemon, but it seemed shamefully underhand. However, his curiosity urged him on. In the end he asked himself what his mother would advise, and knew immediately that she would tell him to look.
The hole in the wall was a little below eye level. He stooped and peeked through.
He was looking into one of the two private guest rooms upstairs at the hospital. In one corner stood a prie-dieu facing a wall painting of the crucifixion. There were two comfortable chairs and a couple of stools. When there was a crowd of important guests, the men took one room and the women the other; and this was clearly the women’s room, for on a small table were several distinctly feminine articles: combs, ribbons, and mysterious small jars and vials.
On the floor were two straw mattresses. Richard and Margery lay on one of them. They were doing more than kissing.
Bishop Richard was an attractive man with wavy mid-brown hair and regular features. Margery was not much more than half his age, a slender girl with white skin and dark eyebrows. They lay side by side. Richard was kissing her face and speaking into her ear. A smile of pleasure played upon his fleshy lips. Margery’s dress was pushed up around her waist. She had beautiful long white legs. His hand was between her thighs, moving with a practised, regular motion: although Godwyn had no experience of women, somehow he knew what Richard was doing. Margery looked at Richard adoringly, her mouth half open, panting with excitement, her face flushed with passion. Perhaps it was mere prejudice, but Godwyn sensed intuitively that Richard saw Margery as a plaything of the moment, whereas Margery believed Richard was the love of her life.
Godwyn stared at them for a horrified moment. Richard moved his hand, and suddenly Godwyn was looking at the triangle of coarse hair between Margery’s thighs, dark against her white skin, like her eyebrows. Quickly, he looked away.
“Let me see,” said Philemon.
Godwyn moved away from the wall. This was shocking, but what should he do about it – if anything?
Philemon looked through the hole and gave a gasp of excitement. “I can see her cunt!” he whispered. “He’s rubbing it!”
“Come away from there,” Godwyn said. “We’ve seen enough – too much.”
Philemon hesitated, fascinated; then, reluctantly, he moved away and replaced the loose stone. “We must expose the bishop’s fornication at once!” he said.
“Shut your mouth and let me think,” Godwyn said. If he did as Philemon suggested he would make enemies of Richard and his powerful family – and to no purpose. But surely there was a way something like this could be turned to advantage? Godwyn tried to think about it as his mother would. If there was nothing to be gained by revealing Richard’s sin, was it possible to make a virtue of concealing it? Perhaps Richard would be grateful to Godwyn for keeping it secret.
That was more promising. But for it to work, Richard had to know that Godwyn was protecting him.
“Come with me,” Godwyn said to Philemon.
Philemon moved the cupboard back into place. Godwyn wondered whether the sound of the wood scraping on the floor was audible in the next room. He doubted it – and, anyway, Richard and Margery were surely too absorbed in what they were doing to notice noises from beyond the wall.
Godwyn led the way down the stairs and through the cloisters. There were two staircases to the private rooms: one led up from the hospital’s ground floor, and the other was outside the building, permitting important guests to come and go without passing through the common people’s quarters. Godwyn hurried up the outside stairs.
He paused outside the room where Richard and Margery were and spoke to Philemon quietly. “Follow me in,” he said. “Do nothing. Say nothing. Leave when I leave.”
Philemon put down his broom.
“No,” Godwyn said. “Carry it.”
“All right.”
Godwyn threw open the door and strode in. “I want this chamber immaculately clean,” he said loudly. “Sweep every corner – oh! I beg your pardon! I thought the room was empty!”
In the time it had taken Godwyn and Philemon to rush from the dormitory to the hospital, the lovers had progressed. Richard now lay on top of Margery, his long clerical robe lifted in front. Her shapely white legs stuck straight up in the air either side of the bishop’s hips. There was no mistaking what they were doing.
Richard ceased his thrusting motion and looked at Godwyn, his expression a mixture of angry frustration and frightened guilt. Margery gave a cry of shock and she, too, stared at Godwyn with fear in her eyes.
Godwyn drew the moment out. “Bishop Richard!” he said, feigning bewilderment. He wanted Richard to be in no doubt that he had been recognized. “But how… and Margery?” He pretended to understand suddenly. “Forgive me!” He spun on his heel. He shouted at Philemon: “Get out! Now!” Philemon scuttled back through the door, still clutching his broom.
Godwyn followed, but he turned at the door, to make sure Richard got a good look at him. The two lovers remained frozen in position, locked in sexual congress, but their faces had changed. Margery’s hand had flown to her mouth in the eternal gesture of surprised guilt. Richard’s expression had become frantically calculating. He wanted to speak but he could not think what to say. Godwyn decided to put them out of their misery. He had done everything he needed to do.
He stepped out – then, before he could close the door, a shock made him stop. A woman was coming up the stairs. He suffered a moment of Panic. It was Philippa, the wife of the earl’s other son.
He realized instantly that Richard’s guilty secret would lose its value if someone else knew it. He had to warn Richard. “Lady Philippa!” he said in a loud voice. “Welcome to Kingsbridge Priory!”
Urgent scuffling noises came from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richard leap to his feet.
Luckily, Philippa did not march straight past, but stopped and spoke to Godwyn. “Perhaps you can help me.” From where she stood, she could not quite see into the room, he thought. “I’ve lost a bracelet. It’s not precious, just carved wood, but I’m fond of it.”
“What a shame,” Godwyn said sympathetically. “I’ll ask all the monks and nuns to look out for it.”
Philemon said: “I haven’t seen it.”
Godwyn said to Philippa: “Perhaps it slipped from your wrist.”
She frowned. “The odd thing is, I haven’t actually worn it since I got here. I took it off when I arrived, and put it on the table, and now I can’t find it.”
“Perhaps it rolled into a dark corner. Philemon here will look for it. He cleans the guest rooms.”
Philippa looked at Philemon. “Yes, I saw you as I was leaving, an hour or so ago. You didn’t spot it when you swept the room?”
“I didn’t sweep. Miss Margery came in just as I was getting started.”
Godwyn said: “Philemon has just come back to clean your room, but Miss Margery is -” he looked into the room – “at prayer,” he finished. Margery was kneeling on the prie-dieu, eyes closed – begging forgiveness for her sin, Godwyn hoped. Richard stood behind her, head bowed, hands clasped, lips moving in a murmur.
Godwyn stepped aside to let Philippa enter the room. She gave her brother-in-law a suspicious look. “Hello, Richard,” she said. “It’s not like you to pray on a weekday.”
He put his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and pointed to Margery on the prayer stool.
Philippa said briskly: “Margery can pray as much as she likes, but this is the women’s room, and I want you out.”
Richard concealed his relief and left, closing the door on the two women.
He and Godwyn stood face to face in the hallway. Godwyn could tell that Richard did not know what line to take. He might be inclined to say: How dare you burst into a room without knocking? However, he was so badly in the wrong that he probably could not summon up the nerve to bluster. On the other hand, he could hardly beg Godwyn to keep quiet about what he had seen, for that would be to acknowledge himself in Godwyn’s power. It was a moment of painful awkwardness.
While Richard hesitated, Godwyn spoke. “No one shall hear of this from me.”
Richard looked relieved, then glanced at Philemon. “What about him?”
“Philemon wants to be a monk. He is learning the virtue of obedience.”
“I’m in your debt.”
“A man should confess his own sins, not those of others.”
“All the same, I’m grateful, Brother…?”
“Godwyn, the sacrist. I’m the nephew of Prior Anthony.” He wanted Richard to know that he was sufficiently well connected to make serious trouble. But, to take the edge off the threat, he added: “My mother was betrothed to your father, many years ago, before your father became the earl.”
“I’ve heard that story.”
Godwyn wanted to add: And your father spurned my mother, just as you’re planning to spurn the wretched Margery. But instead he said pleasantly: “We might have been brothers.”
“Yes.”
The bell rang for dinner. Relieved of their embarrassment, the three men parted company: Richard to Prior Anthony’s house, Godwyn to the monks’ refectory, and Philemon to the kitchen to help serve.
Godwyn was thoughtful as he walked through the cloisters. He was upset by the animal scene he had witnessed, but he felt he had handled it well. At the end, Richard had seemed to trust him.
In the refectory Godwyn sat next to Theodoric, a bright monk a couple of years younger than he. Theodoric had not studied at Oxford, and in consequence he looked up to Godwyn. Godwyn treated him as an equal, which flattered Theodoric. “I’ve just read something that will interest you,” Godwyn said. He summarized what he had read about the revered Prior Philip’s attitude to women in general and nuns in particular. “It’s what you’ve always said,” he finished. In fact, Theodoric had never expressed an opinion on the subject, but he always agreed when Godwyn complained about Prior Anthony’s slackness.
“Of course,” Theodoric said. He had blue eyes and fair skin, and now he flushed with excitement. “How can we have pure thoughts when we are constantly distracted by females?”
“But what can we do about it?”
“We must confront the prior.”
“In chapter, you mean,” Godwyn said, as if it were Theodoric’s idea rather than his own. “Yes, excellent plan. But would others support us?”
“The younger monks would.”
Young men probably agreed with more or less any criticism of their elders, Godwyn thought. But he also knew that many monks shared his own preference for a life in which women were absent or, at least, invisible. “If you talk to anyone between now and chapter, let me know what they say,” he said. That would encourage Theodoric to go around whipping up support.
The dinner arrived, a stew of salt fish and beans. Before Godwyn could begin to eat, he was prevented by Friar Murdo.
Friars were monks who lived among the people instead of secluding themselves in monasteries. They felt that their self-denial was more rigorous than that of institutional monks, whose vow of poverty was compromised by their splendid buildings and extensive landholdings. Traditionally friars had no property, not even churches – although many had slipped from this ideal after pious admirers gave them land and money. Those who still lived by the original principles scrounged their food and slept on kitchen floors. They preached in market places and outside taverns, and were rewarded with pennies. They did not hesitate to sponge on ordinary monks for food and lodging any time it suited their convenience. Not surprisingly, their assumption of superiority was resented.
Friar Murdo was a particularly unpleasant example: fat, dirty, greedy, often drunk, and sometimes seen in the company of prostitutes. But he was also a charismatic preacher who could hold a crowd of hundreds with his colourful, theologically dubious sermons.
Now he stood up, uninvited, and began to pray in a loud voice. “Our Father, bless this food to our foul, corrupt bodies, as full of sin as a dead dog is full of maggots…”
Murdo’s prayers were never short. Godwyn put down his spoon with a sigh.
There was always a reading in chapter – usually from the Rule of St Benedict, but often from the Bible, and occasionally other religious books. As the monks were taking their places on the raked stone benches around the octagonal chapter house, Godwyn sought out the young monk who was due to read today and told him, quietly but firmly, that he, Godwyn, would be reading instead. Then, when the moment came, he read the crucial page from Timothy’s Book.
He felt nervous. He had returned from Oxford a year ago, and he had been quietly talking to people about reforming the priory ever since; but, until this moment, he had not openly confronted Anthony. The prior was weak and lazy, and needed to be shocked out of his lethargy. Furthermore, St Benedict had written: “All must be called to chapter, for the Lord often reveals to a younger member what is best.” Godwyn was perfectly entitled to speak out in chapter and call for stricter compliance with monastic rules. All the same, he suddenly felt he was running a risk, and wished he had taken longer to think about his tactics in using Timothy’s Book.
But it was too late for regrets. He closed the book and said: “My question, to myself and my brethren, is this: Have we slipped below the standards of Prior Philip in the matter of separation between monks and females?” He had learned, in student debates, to put his argument in the form of a question whenever he could, giving his opponent as little as possible to argue against.
The first to reply was Blind Carlus, the sub-prior, Anthony’s deputy. “Some monasteries are located far from any centre of population, on an uninhabited island, or deep in the forest, or perched on a lonely mountain top,” he said. His slow, deliberate speech made Godwyn fidget with impatience. “In such houses, the brothers seclude themselves from all contact with the secular world,” he went on unhurriedly. “Kingsbridge has never been like that. We’re in the heart of a great city, the home of seven thousand souls. We care for one of the most magnificent cathedrals in Christendom. Many of us are physicians, because St Benedict said: ‘Special care must be taken of the sick, so that in very deed they be looked after as if it were Christ himself.’ The luxury of total isolation has not been granted to us. God has given us a different mission.”
Godwyn had expected something like this. Carlus hated furniture to be moved, for then he would stumble over it; and he opposed any other kind of change, out of a parallel anxiety about coping with the unfamiliar.
Theodoric had a quick answer to Carlus. “All the more reason for us to be strict about the rules,” he said. “A man who lives next door to a tavern must be extra careful to avoid drunkenness.”
There was a murmur of pleased agreement: the monks enjoyed a smart riposte. Godwyn gave a nod of approval. The fair-skinned Theodoric blushed with gratification.
Emboldened, a novice called Juley said in a loud whisper: “Women don’t bother Carlus, he can’t see them.” Several monks laughed, though others shook their heads in disapproval.
Godwyn felt it was going well. He seemed to be winning the argument, so far. Then Prior Anthony said: “Exactly what are you proposing, Brother Godwyn?” He had not been to Oxford, but he knew enough to press for his opponent’s real agenda.
Reluctantly, Godwyn put his cards on the table. “We might consider reverting to the position as it was in the time of Prior Philip.”
Anthony persisted: “What do you mean by that, exactly? No nuns?”
“Yes.”
“But where would they go?”
“The nunnery could be removed to another location, and become a remote cell of the priory, like Kingsbridge College, or St-John-in-the-Forest.”
That shocked them. There was a clamour of comment, which the prior suppressed with difficulty. The voice that emerged from the hubbub was that of Joseph, the senior physician. He was a clever man, but proud, and Godwyn was wary of him. “How would we run a hospital without nuns?” he said. His bad teeth caused him to slur his sibilants, making him sound drunk, but he spoke with no less authority. “They administer medicines, change dressings, feed the incapable, comb the hair of senile old men-”
Theodoric said: “Monks could do all that.”
“Then what about childbirth?” Joseph said. “We often deal with women who are having difficulty bringing a baby into the world. How could monks help them without nuns to do the actual… handling?”
Several men voiced their agreement, but Godwyn had anticipated this question, and now he said: “Suppose the nuns removed to the old lazar house?” The leper colony – or lazar house – was on a small island in the river on the south side of the town. In the old days it had been full of sufferers, but leprosy seemed to be dying out, and now there were only two occupants, both elderly.
Brother Cuthbert, who was a wit, muttered: “I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell Mother Cecilia she’s being moved to a leper colony.” There was a ripple of laughter.
“Women should be ruled by men,” said Theodoric.
Prior Anthony said: “And Mother Cecilia is ruled by Bishop Richard. He would have to make a decision such as this.”
“Heaven forbid that he should,” said a new voice. It was Simeon, the treasurer. A thin man with a long face, he spoke against every proposal that involved spending money. “We could not survive without the nuns,” he said.
Godwyn was taken by surprise. “Why not?” he said.
“We don’t have enough money,” Simeon said promptly. “When the cathedral needs repair, who do you think pays the builders? Not us – we can’t afford it. Mother Cecilia pays. She buys supplies for the hospital, parchment for the scriptorium and fodder for the stables. Anything used communally by both monks and nuns is paid for by her.”
Godwyn was dismayed. “How can this be? Why are we dependent on them?”
Simeon shrugged. “Over the years, many devout women have given the nunnery land and other assets.”
That was not the whole story, Godwyn felt sure. The monks also had extensive resources. They collected rent and other charges from just about every citizen of Kingsbridge, and they held thousands of acres of farmland too. The way the wealth was husbanded must be a factor. But there was no point going into that now. He had lost the argument. Even Theodoric was silent.
Anthony said complacently: “Well, that was a most interesting discussion. Thank you, Godwyn, for asking the question. And now let us pray.”
Godwyn was too angry for prayer. He had gained nothing of what he wanted, and he was unsure where he had gone wrong.
As the monks filed out, Theodoric gave him a frightened look and said: “I didn’t know the nuns paid for so much.”
“None of us knew,” Godwyn said. He realized he was glaring at Theodoric, and made amends hastily, adding: “But you were splendid – you debated better than many an Oxford man.”
It was just the right thing to say, and Theodoric looked happy.
This was the hour for monks to read in the library or walk in the cloisters, meditating, but Godwyn had other plans. Something had been nagging him all through dinner and chapter. He had thrust it to the back of his mind, because more important things had intervened, but now it came back. He thought he knew where Lady Philippa’s bracelet might be.
There were few hiding places in a monastery. The monks lived communally: no one but the prior had a room to himself. Even in the latrine they sat side by side over a trough that was continuously flushed by a stream of piped water. They were not permitted to have personal possessions, so no one had his own cupboard or even box.
But today Godwyn had seen a hiding place.
He went upstairs to the dormitory. It was empty. He pulled the blanket cupboard away from the wall and removed the loose stone, but he did not look through the hole. Instead, he put his hand into the gap, exploring. He felt the top, bottom and sides of the hole. To the right there was a small fissure. Godwyn eased his fingers inside and touched something that was neither stone nor mortar. Scrabbling with his fingertips, he drew the object out.
It was a carved wooden bracelet.
Godwyn held it to the light. It was made of some hard wood, probably oak. The inner surface was smoothly polished, but the outside was carved with an interlocking design of bold squares and diagonals, executed with pleasing precision: Godwyn could see why Lady Philippa was fond of it.
He put it back, restored the loose stone and returned the cupboard to its usual position.
What did Philemon want with such a thing? He might be able to sell it for a penny or two, though that would be dangerous because it was so recognizable. But he certainly could not wear it.
Godwyn left the dormitory and went down the stairs to the cloisters. He was in no mood for study or meditation. He needed to talk over the day’s events. He felt the need to see his mother.
The thought made him apprehensive. She might berate him for his failure in chapter. But she would praise him for his handling of Bishop Richard, he felt sure, and he was eager to tell her the story. He decided to go in search of her.
Strictly speaking, this was not allowed. Monks were not supposed to roam about the streets of the town at will. They needed a reason, and in theory they were supposed to ask the prior’s permission before leaving the precincts. But in practice, the obedientiaries – monastic officials – had dozens of excuses. The priory did business constantly with merchants, buying food, cloth, shoes, parchment, candles, garden tools, tack for horses, all the necessities of everyday life. The monks were landlords, owning almost the entire city. And any one of the physicians might be called to see a patient who was unable to walk to the hospital. So it was common to see monks in the streets, and Godwyn, the sacrist, was not likely to be asked to explain what he was doing out of the monastery.
Nevertheless it was wise to be discreet, and he made sure he was not observed as he left the priory. He passed through the busy fair and went quickly along the main street to his Uncle Edmund’s house.
As he hoped, Edmund and Caris were out doing business, and he found his mother alone but for the servants. “This is a treat for a mother,” she said. “To see you twice in one day! And it gives me a chance to feed you up.” She poured him a big tankard of strong ale and told the cook to bring a plate of cold beef. “What happened in chapter?” she said.
He told her the story. “I was in too much of a hurry,” he said at the end.
She nodded. “My father used to say: Never call a meeting until the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”
Godwyn smiled. “I must remember that.”
“All the same, I don’t think you’ve done any harm.”
That was a relief. She was not going to be angry. “But I lost the argument,” he said.
“You also established your position as leader of the reformist younger group.”
“Even though I made a fool of myself?”
“Better than being a nonentity.”
He was not sure she was right about that but, as usual when he doubted the wisdom of his mother’s advice, he did not challenge her, but resolved to think about it later. “Something very odd happened,” he said, and he told her about Richard and Margery, leaving out the gross physical details.
She was surprised. “Richard must be mad!” she said. “The wedding will be called off if the earl of Monmouth finds out that Margery isn’t a virgin. Earl Roland will be furious. Richard could be unfrocked.”
“But a lot of bishops have mistresses, don’t they?”
“That’s different. A priest may have a ‘housekeeper’ who is his wife in all but name. A bishop may have several. But to take the virginity of a noblewoman shortly before her wedding – even the son of an earl might find it difficult to survive as a clergyman after that.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Nothing. You’ve handled it perfectly so far.” He glowed with pride. She added: “One day this information will be a powerful weapon. Just remember it.”
“There’s one more thing. I wondered how Philemon had come across the loose stone, and it occurred to me that he might have used it initially as a hiding place. I was right – and I found a bracelet that Lady Philippa had lost.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I have a strong feeling that Philemon will be useful to you. He’ll do anything, you see. He has no scruples, no morals. My father had an associate who was always willing to do his dirty work – start rumours, spread poisonous gossip, foment strife. Such men can be invaluable.”
“So you don’t think I should report the theft.”
“Certainly not. Make him give the bracelet back, if you think it’s important – he can just say he found it while sweeping. But don’t expose him. You’ll reap the benefit, I guarantee.”
“So I should protect him?”
“As you would a mad dog that mauls intruders. He’s dangerous, but he’s worth it.”
On Thursday, Merthin completed the door he was carving.
He had finished work in the south aisle, for the present. The scaffolding was in place. There was no need for him to make formwork for the masons, as Godwyn and Thomas were determined to save money by trying Merthin’s method of building without it. So he returned to his carving and realized there was little left to do. He spent an hour improving a wise virgin’s hair, and another on a foolish virgin’s silly smile, but he was not sure he was making them any better. He found it difficult to make decisions, because his mind kept wandering to Caris and Griselda.
He had hardly been able to bring himself to speak to Caris all week. He felt so ashamed of himself. Every time he saw Caris, he thought of how he had embraced Griselda, and kissed her, and done with her the most loving act of human life – a girl he did not like, let alone love. Although he had formerly spent many happy hours imagining the moment when he would do that with Caris, now the prospect was filled with dread. There was nothing wrong with Griselda – well, there was, but that was not what disturbed him. He would have felt the same if it had been any woman other than Caris. He had taken away the meaning of the act by doing it with Griselda. And now he could not face the woman he loved.
While he was staring at his work, trying to stop thinking about Caris and decide whether the door was finished or not, Elizabeth Clerk walked into the north porch. She was a pale, thin beauty of twenty-five with a cloud of fair curls. Her father had been the bishop of Kingsbridge before Richard. He had lived, like Richard, in the bishop’s palace at Shiring, but on his frequent visits to Kingsbridge he had fallen for a serving wench at the Bell – Elizabeth’s mother. Because of her illegitimacy, Elizabeth was sensitive about her social position, alert to the least slight and quick to take offence. But Merthin liked her because she was clever, and because when he was eighteen she had kissed him and let him feel her breasts, which were high on her chest and flat, as if moulded from shallow cups, with nipples that hardened at the gentlest touch. Their romance had ended over something that seemed trivial to him and unforgivable to her – a joke he had made about randy priests – but he still liked her.
She touched his shoulder and looked at the door. Her hand went to her mouth, and she drew in her breath. “They seem alive!” she said.
He was thrilled. Her praise was not lightly given. All the same, he felt an impulse to be modest. “It’s only that I’ve made each one individual. On the old door, the virgins were identical.”
“It’s more than that. They look as if they might step forward and talk to us.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s so different from everything else in the cathedral. What will the monks say?”
“Brother Thomas likes it.”
“What about the sacrist?”
“Godwyn? I don’t know what he’ll think. But if there’s a fuss I’ll appeal to Prior Anthony – who won’t want to commission another door and pay twice.”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “the Bible doesn’t say that they were all alike, of course – just that five had the sense to get ready well in advance, and the other five left arrangements until the last minute and ended up missing the party. But what about Elfric?”
“It’s not for him.”
“He’s your master.”
“He only cares about getting the money.”
She was not convinced. “The problem is that you’re a better craftsman than he. That’s been obvious for a couple of years, and everyone knows it. Elfric would never admit it, but that’s why he hates you. He may make you regret this.”
“You always see the black side.”
“Do I?” She was offended. “Well, we’ll see if I’m right. I hope I’m wrong.” She turned to go.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m really pleased you think it’s good.”
She did not reply, but she seemed a bit mollified. She waved goodbye and left.
Merthin decided the door was finished. He wrapped it in coarse sacking. He would have to show it to Elfric, and now was as good a time as any: the rain had stopped, for a while at least.
He got one of the labourers to help him carry the door. The builders had a technique for carrying heavy, awkward objects. They laid two stout poles on the ground, parallel, then placed boards crosswise on the poles in the centre to provide a firm base. They manhandled the object on to the boards. Then they stood between the poles, one man at each end, and lifted. The arrangement was called a stretcher, and it was also used for carrying sick people to the hospital.
Even so, the door was very heavy. However, Merthin was used to difficult lifting. Elfric had never allowed him to make an excuse of his slight stature, and the result was that he had become surprisingly strong.
The two men reached Elfric’s house and carried the door inside. Griselda was sitting in the kitchen. She seemed to be getting more voluptuous by the day – her large breasts appeared to be growing even bigger. Merthin hated to be at odds with people, so he tried to be friendly. “Do you want to see my door?” he said as they passed her.
“Why would I want to look at a door?”
“It’s carved. The story of the wise and foolish virgins.”
She gave a humourless laugh. “Don’t tell me about virgins.”
They carried it through to the yard. Merthin did not understand women. Griselda had been cold to him ever since they had made love. If that was how she felt, why had she done it? She was making it clear she did not want to do it again. He could have reassured her that he felt the same way – in fact he loathed the prospect – but that would be insulting, so he said nothing.
They put down the stretcher and Merthin’s helper left. Elfric was in the yard, his brawny body bent over a stack of timber, counting planks, tapping each beam with a piece of square-cut wood a couple of feet long, sticking his tongue into his cheek as he did whenever he faced a mental challenge. He glared at Merthin and carried on, so Merthin said nothing, but unwrapped the door and stood it up against a pile of stone blocks. He was extraordinarily proud of what he had done. He had followed the traditional pattern but at the same time he had done something original that made people gasp. He could hardly wait to see the door installed in the church.
“Forty-seven,” Elfric said, then he turned to Merthin.
“I finished the door,” Merthin said proudly. “What do you think?”
Elfric looked at the door for a moment. He had a big nose, and his nostrils twitched in surprise. Then, without warning, he hit Merthin across the face with the stick he had been using to count. It was a solid piece of wood and the blow was hard. Merthin cried out in sudden agony, staggered back and fell to the ground.
“You piece of filth!” Elfric yelled. “You defiled my daughter!”
Merthin tried to sputter a protest, but his mouth was full of blood.
“How dare you?” Elfric bellowed.
As if at a signal, Alice appeared from inside the house. “Snake!” she screamed. “You slithered into our home and deflowered our little girl!”
They were pretending to be spontaneous, but they must have planned this, Merthin thought. He spat blood and said: “Deflowered? She was no virgin!”
Elfric lashed out again with his improvised club. Merthin rolled out of the way, but the blow landed painfully on his shoulder.
Alice said: “How could you do this to Caris? My poor sister – when she finds out, it will break her heart.”
Merthin was stung into a response. “And you’ll be sure to tell her, won’t you, you bitch.”
“Well, you’re not going to marry Griselda in secret,” Alice said.
Merthin was astonished. “Marry? I’m not marrying her. She hates me!”
With that, Griselda appeared. “I certainly don’t want to marry you,” she said. “But I’ll have to. I’m pregnant.”
Merthin stared at her. “That’s not possible – we only did it once.”
Elfric laughed harshly. “It only takes once, you young fool.”
“I’m still not marrying her.”
“If you don’t, you’ll be sacked,” Elfric said.
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t care, I’m not going to marry her.”
Elfric dropped the club and picked up an axe.
Merthin said: “Jesus Christ!”
Alice took a step forward. “Elfric, don’t commit murder.”
“Get out of the way, woman.” Elfric lifted the axe.
Merthin, still on the ground, scooted away, in fear of his life.
Elfric brought the axe down, not on Merthin, but on his door.
Merthin shouted: “No!”
The sharp blade sank into the face of the long-haired virgin and split the wood along the grain.
Merthin yelled: “Stop it!”
Elfric lifted the axe again and brought it down even harder. It split the door in two.
Merthin got to his feet. To his horror, he felt his eyes fill with tears. “You have no right!” He was trying to shout, but his voice came out in a whisper.
Elfric lifted the axe and turned towards him. “Stay back, boy – don’t tempt me.”
Merthin saw a mad light in Elfric’s eye, and backed away.
Elfric brought the axe down on the door again.
Merthin stood and watched with tears pouring down his face.
The two dogs, Skip and Scrap, greeted one another with joyful enthusiasm. They were from the same litter, though they did not look similar: Skip was a brown boy dog and Scrap a small black female. Skip was a typical village dog, lean and suspicious, whereas the city-dwelling Scrap was plump and contented.
It was ten years since Gwenda had picked Skip out of a litter of mongrel puppies, on the floor of Caris’s bedroom in the wool merchant’s big house, the day Caris’s mother died. Since then, Gwenda and Caris had become close friends. They met only two or three times a year, but they shared their secrets. Gwenda felt she could tell Caris everything and the information would never get back to her parents or anyone else in Wigleigh. She assumed Caris felt the same: because Gwenda did not talk to any other Kingsbridge girls, there could be no risk of her letting something slip in a careless moment.
Gwenda arrived in Kingsbridge on the Friday of Fleece Fair week. Her father, Joby, went to the fairground in front of the cathedral to sell the furs of squirrels he had trapped in the forest near Wigleigh. Gwenda went straight to Caris’s house, and the two dogs were reunited.
As always, Gwenda and Caris talked about boys. “Merthin is in a strange mood,” Caris said. “On Sunday he was his normal self, kissing me in church – then, on Monday, he could hardly look me in the eye.”
“He’s feeling guilty about something,” Gwenda said immediately.
“It’s probably connected with Elizabeth Clerk. She’s always had her eye on him, though she’s a cold bitch and much too old for him.”
“Have you and Merthin done it yet?”
“Done what?”
“You know… When I was little, I used to call it Grunting, because that was the noise grown-ups made while they were doing it.”
“Oh, that? No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know…”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Yes, but… don’t you worry about spending your life doing some man’s bidding?”
Gwenda shrugged. “I don’t like the idea but, on the other hand, I don’t worry about it.”
“What about you? Have you done it yet?”
“Not properly. I said yes to a boy from the next village, years ago, just to see what it was like. It’s a nice warm glow, like drinking wine. That was the only time. But I’d let Wulfric do it any time he liked.”
“Wulfric? This is new!”
“I know. I mean, I’ve known him since we were small, when he used to pull my hair and run away. Then one day, soon after Christmas, I looked at him as he came into church, and I realized he’d become a man. Well, not just a man, but a really gorgeous man. He had snow in his hair and a sort of mustard-coloured scarf around his neck, and he just looked glowing.”
“Do you love him?”
Gwenda sighed. She did not know how to say what she felt. It was not just love. She thought about him all the time, and she did not know how she could live without him. She daydreamed about kidnapping him and locking him up in a hut deep in the forest so that he could never escape from her.
“Well, the look on your face answers my question,” Caris said. “Does he love you?”
Gwenda shook her head. “He never even speaks to me. I wish he’d do something to show that he knows who I am, even if it was only pulling my hair. But he’s in love with Annet, the daughter of Perkin. She’s a selfish cow, but he adores her. Her father and his are the two wealthiest men in the village. Her father raises laying hens and sells them, and his father has fifty acres.”
“You make it sound hopeless.”
“I don’t know. What’s hopeless? Annet might die. Wulfric might suddenly realize he’s always loved me. My father might be made earl and order him to marry me.”
Caris smiled. “You’re right. Love is never hopeless. I’d like to see this boy.”
Gwenda stood up. “I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s go and find him.”
They left the house, the dogs following at their heels. The rainstorms that had lashed the town earlier in the week had given way to occasional showers, but the main street was still a stream of mud. Because of the fair, the mud was mixed with animal droppings, rotten vegetables, and all the litter and filth of a thousand visitors.
As they splashed through the disgusting puddles, Caris asked about Gwenda’s family.
“The cow died,” Gwenda said. “Pa needs to buy another, but I don’t know how he’s going to do it. He only has a few squirrel furs to sell.”
“A cow costs twelve shillings this year,” Caris said with concern. “That’s a hundred and forty-four silver pennies.” Caris always did arithmetic in her head: she had learned Arabic numbers from Buonaventura Caroli, and she said that made it easy.
“For the last few winters that cow has kept us alive – especially the little ones.” The pain of extreme hunger was familiar to Gwenda. Even with the cow to give milk, four of Ma’s babies had died. No wonder Philemon had longed to be a monk, she thought: it was worth almost any sacrifice to have hearty meals provided every day without fail.
Caris said: “What will your father do?”
“Something underhand. It’s difficult to steal a cow – you can’t slip it into your satchel – but he’ll have a crafty scheme.” Gwenda was sounding more confident than she felt. Pa was dishonest, but not clever. He would do anything he could, legal or not, to get another cow, but he might just fail.
They passed through the priory gates into the wide fairground. The traders were wet and miserable on the sixth day of bad weather. They had exposed their stock to the rain and got little in return.
Gwenda felt awkward. She and Caris almost never talked about the disparity in wealth between the two families. Every time Gwenda visited, Caris would quietly give her a present to take home: a cheese, a smoked fish, a bolt of cloth, a jar of honey. Gwenda would thank her – and she was always profoundly grateful – but no more would be said. When Pa tried to make her take advantage of Caris’s trust by stealing from the house, Gwenda would argue that she would then be unable to visit again, whereas this way she came home with something two or three times a year. Even Pa could see the sense of that.
Gwenda looked for the stall where Perkin would be selling his hens. Annet would probably be there and, wherever Annet was, Wulfric would not be far away. Gwenda was right. There was Perkin, fat and sly, greasily polite to his customers, curt to everyone else. Annet was carrying a tray of eggs, smiling coquettishly, the tray pulling her dress tight against her breasts, her fair hair straying from her hat in wisps that played around her pink cheeks and her long neck. And there was Wulfric, looking like an archangel who had lost his way and wandered among humankind by mistake.
“There he is,” Gwenda murmured. “The tall one with-”
“I can tell which one he is,” Caris said. “He looks good enough to eat.”
“You see what I mean.”
“He’s a bit young, isn’t he?”
“Sixteen. I’m eighteen. Annet is eighteen too.”
“All right.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Gwenda said. “He’s too handsome for me.”
“No-”
“Handsome men never fall for ugly women, do they?”
“You’re not ugly-”
“I’ve seen myself in a glass.” The memory was painful, and Gwenda grimaced. “I cried when I realized what I looked like. I have a big nose and my eyes are too close together. I resemble my father.”
Caris protested: “You have beautiful soft brown eyes, and wonderful thick hair.”
“But I’m not in Wulfric’s class.”
Wulfric was standing side-on to Gwenda and Caris, giving them a good view of his carved profile. They both admired him for a moment – then he turned, and Gwenda gasped. The other side of his face was completely different: bruised and swollen, with one eye closed.
She ran up to him. “What happened to you?” she cried.
He was startled. “Oh, hello, Gwenda. I had a fight.” He half turned away, obviously embarrassed.
“Who with?”
“Some squire of the earl’s.”
“You’re hurt!”
He looked impatient. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
He did not understand why she was concerned, of course. Perhaps ne even thought she was revelling in his misfortune. Then Caris spoke. “Which squire?” she said.
Wulfric looked at her with interest, realizing from her dress that she was a wealthy woman. “His name is Ralph Fitzgerald.”
“Oh – Merthin’s brother!” Caris said. “Was he hurt?”
“I broke his nose.” Wulfric looked proud.
“Weren’t you punished?”
“A night in the stocks.”
Gwenda gave a little cry of anguish. “Poor you!”
“It wasn’t so bad. My brother made sure no one pelted me.”
“Even so…” Gwenda was horrified. The idea of being imprisoned in any way seemed to her the worst kind of torture.
Annet finished with a customer and joined in the conversation. “Oh, it’s you, Gwenda,” she said coldly. Wulfric might be oblivious to Gwenda’s feelings, but Annet was not, and she treated Gwenda with a mixture of hostility and scorn. “Wulfric fought a squire who insulted me,” she said, unable to conceal her satisfaction. “He was just like a knight in a ballad.”
Gwenda said sharply: “I wouldn’t want him to get his face hurt for my sake.”
“Fortunately, that’s not very likely, is it?” Annet smiled triumphantly.
Caris said: “One never knows what the future may hold.”
Annet looked at her, startled by the interruption, and showed surprise that Gwenda’s companion was so expensively dressed.
Caris took Gwenda’s arm. “Such a pleasure to meet you Wigleigh folk,” she said graciously. “Goodbye.”
They walked on. Gwenda giggled. “You were terribly condescending to Annet.”
“She annoyed me. Her kind give women a bad name.”
“She was so pleased that Wulfric got beaten up for her sake! I’d like to poke out her eyes.”
Caris said thoughtfully: “Apart from his good looks, what is he actually like?”
“Strong, proud, loyal – just the type to get into a fight on someone else’s behalf. But he’s the kind of man who will provide tirelessly for his family, year in and year out, until the day he drops dead.”
Caris said nothing.
Gwenda said: “He doesn’t appeal to you, does he?”
“You make him sound a bit dull.”
“If you’d grown up with my father, you wouldn’t think a good provider was dull.”
“I know.” Caris squeezed Gwenda’s arm. “I think he’s wonderful for you – and, to prove it, I’m going to help you get him.”
Gwenda was not expecting that. “How?”
“Come with me.”
They left the fairground and walked to the north end of the town. Caris led Gwenda to a small house in a side street near St Mark’s parish church. “A wise woman lives here,” she said. Leaving the dogs outside, they ducked through a low doorway.
The single, narrow downstairs room was divided by a curtain. In the front half were a chair and a bench. The fireplace had to be at the back, Gwenda thought, and she wondered why someone would want to hide whatever went on in the kitchen. The room was clean, and there was a strong smell, herby and slightly acid, hardly a perfume but not unpleasant. Caris called out: “Mattie, it’s me.”
After a moment, a woman of about forty pulled aside the curtain and came through. She had grey hair and pale indoor skin. She smiled when she saw Caris. Then she gave Gwenda a hard look and said: “I see your friend is in love – but the boy hardly speaks to her.”
Gwenda gasped: “How did you know?”
Mattie sat on the chair heavily: she was stout, and short of breath. “People come here for three reasons: sickness, revenge and love. You look healthy, and you’re too young for revenge, so you must be in love. And the boy must be indifferent to you, otherwise you wouldn’t need my help.”
Gwenda glanced at Caris, who looked pleased and said: “I told you she was wise.” The two girls sat on the bench and looked expectantly at the woman.
Mattie went on: “He lives close to you, probably in the same village; but his family are wealthier than yours.”
“All true.” Gwenda was amazed. No doubt Mattie was guessing, but she was so accurate it seemed as if she must have second sight.
“Is he handsome?”
“Very.”
“But he’s in love with the prettiest girl in the village.”
“If you like that type.”
“And her family, too, is wealthier than yours.”
“Yes.”
Mattie nodded. “A familiar story. I can help you. But you must understand something. I have nothing to do with the spirit world. Only God can work miracles.”
Gwenda was puzzled. Everyone knew that the spirits of the dead controlled all of life’s hazards. If they were pleased with you, they would guide rabbits to your traps, give you healthy babies, and make the sun shine on your ripening corn. But if you did something to anger them, they could put worms in your apples, cause your cow to give birth to a deformed calf, and make your husband impotent. Even the physicians at the priory admitted that prayers to the saints were more efficacious than their medicines.
Mattie went on: “Don’t despair. I can sell you a love potion.”
“I’m sorry, I have no money.”
“I know. But your friend Caris is extraordinarily fond of you, and she wants you to be happy. She came here prepared to pay for the potion. However, you must administer it correctly. Can you get the boy alone for an hour?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Put the potion in his drink. Within a short time he will become amorous. That’s when you must be alone with him – if there is another girl in sight he may fall for her instead. So keep him away from other women, and be very sweet to him. He will think you the most desirable woman in the world. Kiss him, tell him he’s wonderful, and – if you want – make love to him. After a while, he will sleep. When he wakes up, he will remember that he spent the happiest hour of his life in your arms, and he’ll want to do it again as soon as he can.”
“But won’t I need another dose?”
“No. The second time, your love and desire and femininity will be enough. A woman can make any man blissfully happy if he gives her the chance.”
The very thought made Gwenda feel lustful. “I can’t wait.”
“Then let’s make up the mixture.” Mattie heaved herself out of the chair. “You can come behind the curtain,” she said. Gwenda and Caris followed her. “It’s only there for the ignorant.”
The kitchen had a clean stone floor and a big fireplace equipped with stands and hooks for cooking and boiling, far more than one woman would need for her own food. There was a heavy old table, stained and scorched but scrubbed clean; a shelf with a row of pottery jars; and a locked cupboard, presumably containing the more precious ingredients used in Mattie’s potions. Hanging on the wall was a large slate with numbers and letters scratched on it, presumably recipes. “Why do you need to hide all this behind a curtain?” Gwenda said.
“A man who makes ointments and medicines is called an apothecary, but a woman who does the same runs the risk of being called a witch. There’s a woman in town called Crazy Nell who goes around shouting about the devil. Friar Murdo has accused her of heresy. Nell is mad, it’s true, but there’s no harm in her. All the same, Murdo is insisting on a trial. Men like to kill a woman, every now and again, and Murdo will give them an excuse, and collect their pennies afterwards as alms. That’s why I always tell people that only God works miracles. I don’t conjure spirits. I just use the herbs of the forest and my powers of observation.”
While Mattie talked, Caris was moving about the kitchen as freely as if she were at home. She put a mixing bowl and a vial on the table. Mattie handed her a key, and she opened the cupboard. “Put three drops of essence of poppies into a spoonful of distilled wine,” Mattie said. “We must be careful not to make the mixture over-strong, or he will go to sleep too soon.”
Gwenda was astonished. “Are you going to make the potion, Caris?”
“I sometimes help Mattie. Don’t say anything to Petranilla, she would disapprove.”
“I wouldn’t tell her if her hair was on fire.” Caris’s aunt disliked Gwenda, probably for the same reason she would disapprove of Mattie: they were both low-class, and such things mattered to Petranilla.
But why was Caris, the daughter of a wealthy man, working like an apprentice in the kitchen of a side-street medicine woman? While Caris made up the mixture, Gwenda recalled that her friend had always been intrigued by illness and cures. As a little girl, Caris had wanted to be a physician, not understanding that only priests were allowed to study medicine. Gwenda remembered her saying, after her mother had died: “But why do people have to fall sick?” Mother Cecilia had told her it was because of sin; Edmund had said that no one really knew. Neither response had satisfied Caris. Perhaps she was still seeking the answer here in Mattie’s kitchen.
Caris poured the liquid into a tiny jar, stoppered it, and bound the stopper tightly with cord, tying the ends in a knot. Then she handed the jar to Gwenda.
Gwenda tucked it into the leather purse attached to her belt. She wondered how on earth she was going to get Wulfric on his own for an hour. She had glibly said that she would find a way but, now that she had the love potion in her possession, the task seemed nearly impossible. He showed signs of restlessness if she merely spoke to him. He wanted to be with Annet any free time he had. What reason would Gwenda give for needing to be alone with him? “I want to show you a place where we can get wild duck eggs.” But why would she show him and not her father? Wulfric was a little naive, but not stupid: he would know she was up to something.
Caris gave Mattie twelve silver pennies – two weeks’ wages for Pa. Gwenda said: “Thank you, Caris. I hope you’ll come to my wedding.”
Caris laughed. “That’s what I like to see – confidence!”
They left Mattie and headed back to the fair. Gwenda decided to begin by finding out where Wulfric was staying. His family were too well off to claim poverty, so they could not stay free at the priory. They would probably be lodging in a tavern. She could just casually ask him, or his brother, and follow up with a question about the standard of accommodation, as if she were interested to know which of the town’s many inns was the best.
A monk passed by, and Gwenda realized with a guilty start that she had not even thought about trying to see her brother, Philemon. Pa would not visit him, for they had hated one another for years; but Gwenda was fond of him. She knew that he was sly, untruthful and malicious, but all the same he loved her. They had been through many hungry winters together. She would seek him out later, she resolved, after she had seen Wulfric again.
But, before she and Caris reached the fairground, they met Gwenda’s father.
Joby was near the priory gates, outside the Bell. With him was a rough-looking man in a yellow tunic, with a pack on his back – and a brown cow.
He waved Gwenda over. “I’ve found a cow,” he said.
Gwenda looked more closely. It was two years old, and thin, with a bad-tempered look, but it appeared healthy. “It seems fine,” she said.
“This is Sim Chapman,” he said, jerking a thumb at the yellow tunic. A chapman travelled from village to village selling small necessities – needles, buckles, hand mirrors, combs. He might have stolen the cow, but that would not bother Pa, if the price was right.
Gwenda said to her father: “Where did you get the money?”
“I’m not paying, exactly,” he replied, looking shifty.
Gwenda had expected him to have some scheme. “What, then?”
“It’s more of a swap.”
“What are you giving him in exchange for the cow?”
“You,” said Pa.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, and then she felt a loop of rope dropped over her head and tightened around her body, pinning her arms to her sides.
She felt bewildered. This could not be happening. She struggled to free herself, but Sim just pulled the rope tighter.
“Now, don’t make a fuss,” Pa said.
She could not believe they were serious. “What do you think you’re doing?” she said incredulously. “You can’t sell me, you fool!”
“Sim needs a woman, and I need a cow,” Pa said. “It’s very simple.”
Sim spoke for the first time. “She’s ugly enough, your daughter.”
“This is ridiculous!” Gwenda said.
Sim smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Gwenda,” he said. “I’ll be good to you, as long as you behave yourself, and do as you’re told.”
They meant it, Gwenda saw. They actually thought they could make this exchange. A cold needle of fear entered her heart as she realized it might even happen.
Caris spoke up. “This joke has gone on long enough,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “Release Gwenda immediately.”
Sim was not intimidated by her air of command. “And who are you, to give orders?”
“My father is alderman of the parish guild.”
“But you’re not,” Sim said. “And even if you were, you’d have no authority over me or my friend Joby.”
“You can’t trade a girl for a cow!”
“Why not?” said Sim. “It’s my cow, and the girl is his daughter.”
Their raised voices attracted the attention of passers-by, who stopped to stare at the girl tied up with a rope. Someone said: “What’s happening?” Another replied: “He’s sold his daughter for a cow.” Gwenda saw a look of panic cross her father’s face. He was wishing he had done this up a quiet alley – but he was not smart enough to have foreseen the public reaction. Gwenda realized the bystanders might be her only hope.
Caris waved to a monk who came out of the priory gates. “Brother Godwyn!” she called. “Come and settle an argument, please.” She looked triumphantly at Sim. “The priory has jurisdiction over all bargains agreed at the Fleece Fair,” she said. “Brother Godwyn is the sacrist. I think you’ll have to accept his authority.”
Godwyn said: “Hello, cousin Caris. What’s the matter?”
Sim grunted with disgust. “Your cousin, is he?”
Godwyn gave him a frosty look. “Whatever the dispute is here, I shall try to give a fair judgement, as a man of God – you can depend on me for that, I hope.”
“And very glad to hear it, sir,” Sim said, becoming obsequious.
Joby was equally oily. “I know you, brother – my son Philemon is devoted to you. You’ve been the soul of kindness to him.”
“All right, enough of that,” Godwyn said. “What’s going on?”
Caris said: “Joby here wants to sell Gwenda for a cow. Tell him he can’t.”
Joby said: “She’s my daughter, sir, and she’s eighteen years old and a maid, so she’s mine to do with what I will.”
Godwyn said: “All the same, it seems a shameful business, selling your children.”
Joby became pathetic. “I wouldn’t do it, sir, only I’ve three more at home, and I’m a landless labourer, with no means to feed the children through the winter, unless I have a cow, and our old one has died.”
There was a sympathetic murmur from the growing crowd. They knew about winter hardship, and the extremes to which a man might have to go to feed his family. Gwenda began to despair.
Sim said: “Shameful you may think it, Brother Godwyn, but is it a sin?” He spoke as if he already knew the answer, and Gwenda guessed he might have had this argument before, in a different place.
With obvious reluctance, Godwyn said: “The Bible does appear to sanction selling your daughter into slavery. The book of Exodus, chapter twenty-one.”
“Well, there you are, then!” said Joby. “It’s a Christian act!”
Caris was outraged. “The book of Exodus!” she said scornfully.
One of the bystanders joined in. “We are not the children of Israel,” she said. She was a small, chunky woman with an underbite that gave her jaw a determined look. Although dressed poorly, she was assertive. Gwenda recognized her as Madge, the wife of Mark Webber. “There is no slavery today,” Madge said.
Sim said: “Then what of apprentices, who get no pay, and may be beaten by their master? Or novice monks and nuns? Or those who skivvy for bed and board in the palaces of the nobility?”
Madge said: “Their life may be hard, but they can’t be bought and sold – can they, Brother Godwyn?”
“I don’t say that the trade is lawful,” Godwyn responded. “I studied medicine at Oxford, not law. But I can find no reason, in Holy Scripture or the teachings of the Church, to say that what these men are doing is a sin.” He looked at Caris and shrugged. “I’m sorry, cousin.”
Madge Webber folded her arms across her chest. “Well, chapman, how are you going to take the girl out of town?”
“At the end of a rope,” he said. “Same way I brought the cow in.”
“Ah, but you didn’t have to get the cow past me and these people.”
Gwenda’s heart leaped with hope. She was not sure how many of the bystanders supported her, but if it came to a fight they were more likely to side with Madge, who was a townswoman, than with Sim, an outsider.
“I’ve dealt with obstinate women before,” Sim said, and his mouth twisted as he spoke. “They’ve never given me much trouble.”
Madge put her hand on the rope. “Perhaps you’ve been lucky.”
He snatched the rope away. “Keep your hands off my property and you won’t get hurt.”
Deliberately, Madge put a hand on Gwenda’s shoulder.
Sim shoved Madge roughly, and she staggered back; but there was a murmur of protest from the crowd.
A bystander said: “You wouldn’t do that if you’d seen her husband.”
There was a ripple of laughter. Gwenda recalled Madge’s husband, Mark, a gentle giant. If only he would show up!
But it was John Constable who arrived, his well-developed nose for trouble bringing him to any crowd almost as soon as it gathered. “We’ll have no shoving,” he said. “Are you causing trouble, chapman?”
Gwenda became hopeful again. Chapmen had a bad reputation, and the constable was assuming Sim was the cause of the trouble.
Sim turned obsequious, something he could obviously do quicker than changing his hat. “Beg pardon, Master Constable,” he said. “But when a man has paid an agreed price for his purchase, he must be allowed to leave Kingsbridge with his goods intact.”
“Ot course.” John had to agree. A market town depended on its reputation for fair dealing. “But what have you bought?”
“This girl.”
“Oh.” John looked thoughtful. “Who sold her?”
“I did,” said Joby. “I’m her father.”
Sim went on: “And this woman with the big chin threatened to stop me taking the girl away.”
“So I did,” said Madge. “For I’ve never heard of a woman being bought and sold in Kingsbridge Market, and nor has anyone else around here.”
Joby said: “A man may do as he will with a child of his own.” He looked around the crowd appealingly. “Is there anyone here who will disagree with that?”
Gwenda knew that no one would. Some people treated their children kindly, and some harshly, but all were agreed that the father must have absolute power over the child. She burst out angrily: “You wouldn’t stand there, deaf and dumb, if you had a father like him. How many of you were sold by your parents? How many of you were made to steal, when you were children and had hands small enough to slide into folks’ wallets?”
Joby started to look worried. “She’s raving, now, Master Constable,” he said. “No child of mine ever stole.”
“Never mind that,” said John. “Everyone listen to me. I shall make a ruling on this. Those who disagree with my decision can complain to the prior. If there’s any shoving, by anyone, or any other kind of rough stuff, I shall arrest everyone involved in it. I hope that’s clear.” He looked around belligerently. No one spoke: they were eager to hear his decision. He went on: “I know of no reason why this trade is unlawful, therefore Sim Chapman is allowed to go his way, with the girl.”
Joby said: “I told you so, didn’t-”
“Shut your damn mouth, Joby, you fool,” said the constable. “Sim, get going, and make it quick. Madge Webber, if you raise a hand I’ll put you in the stocks, and your husband won’t stop me either. And not a word from you, Caris Wooler, please – you may complain to your father about me if you wish.”
Before John had finished speaking, Sim jerked hard on the rope. Gwenda was tipped forward, and stuck a foot out in front of her to keep from falling to the ground; then, somehow, she was moving along, stumbling and half running down the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caris alongside her. Then John Constable seized Caris by the arm, she turned to protest to him, and a moment later she disappeared from Gwenda’s sight.
Sim walked quickly down the muddy main street, hauling on the rope, keeping Gwenda just off balance. As they approached the bridge she began to feel desperate. She tried jerking back on the rope, but he responded with an extra strong heave that threw her down in the mud. Her arms were still pinioned, so she could not use her hands to protect herself, and she fell flat, bruising her chest, her face squelching into the ooze. She struggled to her feet, giving up all resistance. Roped like an animal, hurt, frightened and covered in filthy mud, she staggered after her new owner, across the bridge and along the road that led into the forest.
Sim Chapman led Gwenda through the suburb of Newtown to the crossroads known as Gallows Cross, where criminals were hanged. There he took the road south, towards Wigleigh. He tied her rope to his wrist so that she could not break away, even when his attention wandered. Her dog, Skip, followed them, but Sim threw stones at him and, after one hit him full on the nose, he retreated with his tail between his legs.
After several miles, as the sun began to set, Sim turned into the forest. Gwenda had seen no feature beside the road to mark the spot, but Sim seemed to have chosen carefully for, a few hundred paces into the trees, they came upon a pathway. Looking down, Gwenda could see the neat impressions of dozens of small hooves in the earth, and she realized it was a deer path. It would lead to water, she guessed. Sure enough, they came to a little brook, the vegetation on either side trodden into mud.
Sim knelt beside the stream, filled his cupped hands with clear water, and drank. Then he moved the rope so that it was around her neck, freeing her hands, and motioned her to the water.
She washed her hands in the stream then drank thirstily.
“Wash your face,” he ordered. “You’re ugly enough by nature.”
She did as she was told, wondering wearily why he cared how she looked.
The path continued on the farther side of the drinking hole. They walked on. Gwenda was a strong girl, capable of walking all day, but she was defeated and miserable and scared, and that made her feel exhausted. Whatever fate awaited her at their destination, it was probably worse than this, but all the same she yearned to get there so that she could sit down.
Darkness was falling. The deer path wound through trees for a mile then petered out at the foot of a hill. Sim stopped beside a particularly massive oak tree and gave a low whistle.
A few moments later, a figure materialized out of the half-lit woodland and said: “All right, Sim.”
“All right, Jed.”
“What you got there, a fruit tart?”
“You shall have a slice, Jed, same as the others, so long as you’ve got sixpence.”
Gwenda realized what Sim had planned. He was going to prostitute her. The realization hit her like a blow, and she staggered and fell to her knees.
“Sixpence, eh?” Jed’s voice seemed to come from far away, but all the same she could hear the excitement in his voice. “How old is she?”
“Her father claimed she was eighteen.” Sim jerked on the rope. “Stand up, you lazy cow, we’re not there yet.”
Gwenda got to her feet. That’s why he wanted me to wash my face, she thought, and for some reason the realization made her cry.
She wept hopelessly as she stumbled along in Sim’s footsteps until they came to a clearing with a fire in the middle. Through her tears, she perceived fifteen or twenty people lying around the edge of the clearing, most of them wrapped in blankets or cloaks. Almost all those watching her in the firelight were male, but she caught sight of a white female face, hard in expression but smooth-chinned, that stared at her briefly then disappeared back into a bundle of ragged bedding. An upturned wine barrel and a scattering of wooden cups testified to a drunken party.
Gwenda realized that Sim had brought her to a den of outlaws.
She groaned. How many of them would she be forced to submit to?
As soon as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer, all of them.
Sim dragged her across the clearing to a man who was sitting upright, his back against a tree. “All right, Tam,” said Sim.
Gwenda knew instantly who the man must be: the most famous outlaw in the county, he was called Tam Hiding. He had a handsome face, though it was reddened by drink. People said he was noble-born, but they always said that about famous outlaws. Looking at him, Gwenda was surprised by his youth: he was in his mid-twenties. But then, to kill an outlaw was no crime so, in all probability, few lived to be old.
Tam said: “All right, Sim.”
“I traded Alwyn’s cow for a girl.”
“Well done.” Tam’s speech was only slightly slurred.
“We’re going to charge the boys sixpence, but of course you can have a free go. I expect you’d like to be first.”
Tam peered at her with bloodshot eyes. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she imagined she saw a hint of pity in his look. He said: “No, thanks, Sim. You go ahead and let the boys have a good time. Though you might want to leave it until tomorrow. We got a barrel of good wine from a pair of monks who were taking it to Kingsbridge, and most of the lads are dead drunk now.”
Gwenda’s heart leaped with hope. Perhaps her torture would be postponed.
“I’ll have to consult Alwyn,” Sim said doubtfully. Thanks, Tam.” He turned away, pulling Gwenda behind him.
A few yards away, a broad-shouldered man was struggling to his feet. Sim said: All right, Alwyn.” The phrase seemed to serve the outlaws as a greeting and a recognition code.
Alwyn was at the bad-tempered phase of drunkenness. “What have you got?”
“A fresh young girl.”
Alwyn took Gwenda’s chin in his hand, gripping unnecessarily hard, and turned her face to the firelight. She was forced to look into his eyes. He was young, like Tam Hiding, but with the same unhealthy air of dissipation. His breath smelled of drink. “By Christ, you picked an ugly one,” he said.
For once Gwenda was happy to be thought ugly: perhaps Alwyn would not want to do anything to her.
“I took what I could get,” Sim said testily. “If the man had a beautiful daughter he wouldn’t sell her for a cow, would he? He’d marry her to the son of a rich wool merchant instead.”
The thought of her father made Gwenda angry. He must have known, or suspected, that this would happen. How could he do it to her?
“All right, all right, it doesn’t matter,” Alwyn said to Sim. “With only two women in the group, most of the lads are desperate.”
“Tam said we should wait until tomorrow, because they’re all too drunk tonight – but it’s up to you.”
“Tam’s right. Half of them are asleep already.”
Gwenda’s fear retreated a little. Anything could happen overnight.
“Good,” Sim said. “I’m dog-tired anyway.” He looked at Gwenda. “Lie down, you.” He never called her by her name.
She lay down, and he used the rope to tie her feet together and her hands behind her back. Then he and Alwyn lay down either side of her. In a few moments, both men were asleep.
Gwenda was exhausted, but she had no thought of sleep. With her arms behind her back, every position was painful. She tried to move her wrists within the rope, but Sim had pulled it tight and knotted it well. All she achieved was to break her skin, so that the rope burned her flesh.
Despair turned to helpless rage, and she pictured herself taking revenge on her captors, lashing them all with a whip as they cowered in front of her. It was a pointless fantasy. She turned her mind to practical means of escape.
First she would have to make them untie her. That done, she would have to get away. Ideally, she would somehow ensure they could not follow her and recapture her.
It seemed impossible.
Gwenda was cold when she woke up. It was midsummer, but the weather was cool, and she had no covering but her light dress. The sky was turning from black to grey. She looked around the clearing in the faint light: no one was moving.
She needed to pee. She thought of doing it there, and soaking her dress. If she made herself disgusting, so much the better. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to her she dismissed it. That would be giving up. She was not giving up.
But what was she going to do?
Alwyn was sleeping beside her, with his long dagger in its sheath still attached to his belt, and that gave her the glimmer of an idea. She was not sure she had the nerve to carry out the plan that was forming in her mind. But she refused to think about how scared she was. She just had to do it.
Although her ankles were tied together, she could move her legs. She kicked Alwyn. At first he did not seem to feel it. She kicked him again, and he moved. The third time, he sat upright. “Was that you?” he said blearily.
“I have to pee,” she said.
“Not in the clearing. It’s one of Tam’s rules. Go twenty paces for a piss, fifty for a shit.”
“So, even outlaws live by rules.”
He stared uncomprehendingly at her. The irony escaped him. He was not a clever man, she realized. That was helpful. But he was strong, and mean. She would have to be very cautious.
She said: “I can’t go anywhere tied up.”
Grumbling, he undid the rope around her ankles.
The first part of her plan had worked. Now she was even more frightened.
She struggled to her feet. All the muscles of her legs ached from a night of constriction. She took a step, stumbled, and fell down again. “It’s so hard with my hands tied,” she said.
He ignored that.
The second part of her plan had not worked.
She would have to keep trying.
She got up again and walked into the trees, with Alwyn following her. He was counting paces on his fingers. The first time he got to ten, he started again. The second time, he said: “Far enough.”
She looked at him helplessly. “I can’t lift my dress,” she said.
Would he fall for this?
He stared dumbly at her. She could almost hear his brain working, rumbling like the gears of a water mill. He could lift her dress while she peed, but that was the kind of thing a mother did for a toddler, and he would find it humiliating. Alternatively, he could untie her hands. With hands and feet free, she might make a run for it. But she was small, weary and cramped: there was no way she could outrun a man with long, muscular legs. He must be thinking that the risk was not serious.
He untied the rope around her wrists.
She looked away from him, so that he would not see her look of triumph.
She rubbed her forearms to restore the circulation. She wanted to poke his eyeballs out with her thumbs, but instead she smiled as sweetly as she could and said: “Thank you,” as if he had performed an act of kindness.
He said nothing, but stood watching her, waiting.
She expected him to look away when she hitched up the skirt of her dress and squatted, but he only stared more intensely. She held his gaze, unwilling to act ashamed while she did what was natural. His mouth opened slightly and she could tell he was breathing harder.
Now came the hardest part.
She stood up slowly, letting him get a good look before she dropped her dress. He licked his lips, and she knew she had him.
She went closer and stood in front of him. “Will you be my protector?” she said, using a little-girl voice that did not come naturally to her.
He showed no sign of suspicion. He did not speak, but grasped her breast in his rough hand and squeezed.
She gasped with pain. “Not so hard!” She took his hand in hers. “Be more gentle.” She moved his hand against her breast, rubbing the nipple so that it stood up. “It’s nicer if you’re gentle.”
He grunted, but continued to rub softly. Then he took the neckline of her dress in his left hand and drew his dagger. The knife was a foot long, with a point, and the blade gleamed with recent sharpening. He obviously intended to cut her dress off. That would not do – it would leave her naked.
She took his wrist in a light grip, restraining him momentarily. “You don’t need the knife,” she said. “Look.” She stepped back, undid her belt and, with a quick movement, pulled the dress off over her head. It was her only garment.
She stretched it out on the ground then lay on it. She tried to smile at him. She felt sure the result was a horrible grimace. Then she parted her legs.
He hesitated only for a moment.
Keeping the knife in his right hand, he pushed down his underdrawers and knelt between her thighs. He pointed the dagger at her face and said: “Any trouble, and I’ll slice your cheek open.”
“You won’t need to do that,” she said. She was trying desperately to think what words such a man would like to hear from a woman. “My big, strong protector,” she said.
He showed no reaction to that.
He lay over her, thrusting blindly. “Not so fast,” she said, gritting her teeth against the pain of his clumsy stabs. She reached between her legs and guided him inside, throwing her legs up to make the entrance easier.
He reared over her, taking his weight on his arms. He put the dagger on the grass beside her head, covering the hilt with his right hand. He groaned as he moved inside her. She moved with him, keeping up the pretence of willingness, watching his face, forcing herself not to glance sideways at the dagger, waiting for her moment. She was both scared and disgusted, but a small part of her mind remained calm and calculating.
He closed his eyes and lifted his head like an animal scenting the breeze. His arms were straight, holding him up. She risked a look at the knife. He had moved his hand slightly, so that it only partly covered the hilt. She could grab it now, but how fast would he react?
She looked at his face again. His mouth was twisted in a rictus of concentration. He thrust faster, and she matched his motion.
To her dismay, she felt a glow spread through her loins. She was appalled at herself. The man was a murdering outlaw, little better than a beast, and he was planning to prostitute her for sixpence a time. She was doing this to save her life, not for enjoyment! Yet there was a gush of moisture inside her, and he thrust faster.
She sensed that his moment of climax was near. It was now or never. He gave a groan that sounded like surrender, and she moved.
She snatched the knife from under his hand. There was no change in the expression of ecstasy on his face: he had not noticed her movement. Terrified that he would see what she was doing and stop her at the last moment, she did not hesitate but jabbed upwards, jerking her shoulders up from the lying position as she did so. He sensed her movement and opened his eyes. Shock and fear showed on his face. Stabbing wildly, she stuck the knife into his throat just below the jaw. She cursed, knowing she had missed the most vulnerable parts of the neck – the breathing-pipe and the jugular vein. He roared with pain and rage, but he was not incapacitated, and she knew she was as close to death as she had ever been.
She moved instinctively, without forethought. Using her left arm, she struck at the inside of his elbow. He could not prevent the bending of his arm, and involuntarily he slumped. She pushed harder at the foot-long dagger, and his weight dragged him down on to the blade. As the knife entered his head from below, blood gushed from his open mouth, falling on her face, and she jerked her head aside reflexively; but she kept pushing on the knife. The blade met resistance for a moment, then slipped through, until his eyeball seemed to explode, and she saw the point emerge from the eye socket in a spray of blood and brains. He slumped on top of her, dead or nearly so. His weight knocked the breath out of her. It was like being stuck under a fallen tree. For a moment she was helpless to move.
To her horror, she felt him ejaculate inside her.
She was filled with superstitious terror. He was more frightening like this than when he had threatened her with a knife. Panicking, she wriggled out from under him.
She scrambled to her feet shakily, breathing hard. She had his blood on her breasts and his seed on her thighs. She glanced fearfully towards the outlaws’ camp. Had anyone been awake to hear Alwyn’s shout? If they had all been asleep, had the sound wakened any of them?
Trembling, she pulled her dress over her head and buckled her belt. She had her wallet and her own small knife, mainly used for eating. She hardly dared take her eyes off Alwyn: she had a dreadful feeling he might still be alive. She knew she should finish him off, but she could not bring herself to do it. A sound from the direction of the clearing startled her. She needed to get away fast. She looked around, getting her bearings, then headed in the direction of the road.
There was a sentry near the big oak tree, she recalled with a sudden start of fear. She walked softly through the woods, careful to make no sound, as she approached the tree. Then she saw the sentry – Jed, his name was – fast asleep on the ground. She tiptoed past him. It took all her will power not to break into a mad run. But he did not stir.
She found the deer path and followed it to the brook. It seemed there was no one on her tail. She washed the blood off her face and chest, then splashed cold water on her private parts. She drank deeply, knowing she had a long walk ahead.
Feeling slightly less frantic, she continued along the deer path. As she walked, she listened. How soon would the outlaws find Alwyn? She had not even tried to conceal the body. When they figured out what had happened they would surely come after her, for they had given a cow for her, and that was worth twelve shillings, half a year’s pay for a labourer such as her father.
She reached the road. For a woman travelling alone, the open road was almost as hazardous as a forest track. Tam Hiding’s group were not the only outlaws, and there were plenty of other men – squires, peasant boys, bands of men-at-arms – who might take advantage of a defenceless woman. But her first priority was to get away from Sim Chapman and his cronies, so speed was paramount.
Which direction should she take? If she went home to Wigleigh, Sim might follow her there and claim her back – and there was no telling how her father would deal with that. She needed friends she could trust. Caris would help her.
She set off for Kingsbridge.
It was a clear day, but the road was muddy from many days of rain, and walking was that much more difficult. After a while she reached the top of a hill. Looking back, she could see along the road for about a mile. At the far limit of her vision, she saw a lone figure striding along. He wore a yellow tunic.
Sim Chapman.
She broke into a run.
The case against Crazy Nell was heard in the north transept of the cathedral on Saturday at noon. Bishop Richard presided over the ecclesiastical court, with Prior Anthony on his right and, on his left, his personal assistant, Archdeacon Lloyd, a dour black-haired priest who was said to do all the actual work of the bishopric.
There was a big crowd of townspeople. A heresy trial was good entertainment, and Kingsbridge had not seen one for years. Many craftsmen and labourers finished work at midday on Saturdays. Outside, the Fleece Fair was coming to an end, tradespeople dismantling their stalls and packing up their unsold goods, buyers preparing for the journey home, or arranging to consign their purchases by raft downriver to the sea port of Melcombe.
Waiting for the trial to begin, Caris thought gloomily of Gwenda. What was she doing now? Sim Chapman would force her to have sex with him, for sure – but that might not be the worst thing to happen to her. What else would she have to do as his slave? Caris had no doubt Gwenda would try to escape – but would she succeed? And, if she failed, how would Sim punish her? Caris realized she might never find out.
It had been a strange week. Buonaventura Caroli had not changed his mind: the Florentine buyers would not return to Kingsbridge, at least until the priory improved facilities for the Fleece Fair. Caris’s father and the other leading wool merchants had spent half the week shut up with Earl Roland. Merthin continued in a strange mood, withdrawn and gloomy. And it was raining again.
Nell was dragged into church by John Constable and Friar Murdo. Her only garment was a sleeveless surcoat, fastened at the front but revealing her bony shoulders. She had no hat or shoes. She struggled feebly in the men’s grasp, shouting imprecations.
When they got her quietened down, a series of townspeople came forward to attest that they had heard her call upon the devil. They were telling the truth. Nell threatened people with the devil all the time – for refusing to give her a handout, for standing in her way on the street, for wearing a good coat, or for no reason at all.
Each witness related some misfortune that had followed the curse. A goldsmith’s wife had lost a valuable brooch; an innkeeper’s chickens had all died; a widow developed a painful boil on her bottom – a complaint that caused laughter, but also carried conviction, for witches were known to have a malicious sense of humour.
While this was going on, Merthin appeared beside Caris. “This is so stupid,” Caris said to him indignantly. “Ten times the number of witnesses could come forward to say that Nell cursed them and nothing bad ensued.”
Merthin shrugged. “People just believe what they want to believe.”
“Ordinary people, perhaps. But the bishop and the prior should know better – they are educated.”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Merthin said.
Caris perked up. Perhaps she was about to learn the reason for his bad mood. She had been looking at him sidelong, but now she turned and saw that he had a huge bruise on the left side of his face. “What happened to you?”
The crowd roared with laughter at some interjection of Nell’s, and Archdeacon Lloyd had to call repeatedly for quiet. When Merthin could be heard again he said: “Not here. Can we go somewhere quiet?”
She almost turned to leave with him, but something stopped her. All week long he had bewildered and wounded her by his coldness. Now, at last, he had decided he was ready to say what was on his mind – and she was expected to jump at his command. Why should he set the timetable? He had made her wait five days – why should she not make him wait an hour or so? “No,” she said. “Not now.”
He looked surprised. “Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t suit my convenience,” she said. “Now let me listen.” As she turned from him, she saw a hurt look cross his face, and straight away she wished she had not been so cold; but it was too late, and she was not going to apologize.
The witnesses had finished. Bishop Richard said: “Woman, do you say that the devil rules the earth?”
Caris was outraged. Heretics worshipped Satan because they believed he had jurisdiction over the earth, and God only ruled heaven. Crazy Nell could not even understand such a sophisticated credo. It was disgraceful that Richard was going along with Friar Murdo’s ridiculous accusation.
Nell shouted back: “You can shove your prick up your arse.”
The crowd laughed, delighted by this coarse insult to the bishop.
Richard said: “If that’s her defence…”
Archdeacon Lloyd intervened. “Someone should speak on her behalf,” he said. He spoke respectfully, but he seemed comfortable correcting his superior. No doubt the lazy Richard relied on Lloyd to remind him of the rules.
Richard looked around the transept. “Who will speak for Nell?” he called out.
Caris waited, but no one volunteered. She could not allow this to happen. Someone must point out how irrational this whole procedure was. When no one else spoke, Caris stood up. “Nell is mad,” she said.
Everyone looked around, wondering who was foolish enough to side with Nell. There was a murmur of recognition – most people knew Caris – but no great sense of surprise, for she had a reputation for doing the unexpected.
Prior Anthony leaned over and said something in the bishop’s ear. Richard said: “Caris, the daughter of Edmund Wooler, tells us that the accused woman is mad. We had reached that conclusion without her assistance.”
Caris was goaded by his cool sarcasm. “Nell has no idea what she is saying! She calls upon the devil, the saints, the moon and the stars. It has no more meaning than the barking of a dog. You might as well hang a horse for neighing at the king.” She could not keep the note of scorn from her voice, though she knew it was unwise to let your contempt show when addressing the nobility.
Some of the crowd murmured agreement. They liked a spirited argument.
Richard said: “But you have heard people testify to the damage done by her curses.”
“I lost a penny yesterday,” Caris rejoined. “I boiled an egg, and it was bad. My father lay awake all night coughing. But no one cursed us. Bad things just happen.”
There was much head-shaking at this. Most people believed there was some malign influence behind every misfortune, great or small. Caris had lost the support of the crowd.
Prior Anthony, her uncle, knew her views, and had argued with her before. Now he leaned forward and said: “Surely you don’t believe that God is responsible for illness and misfortune and loss?”
“No-”
“Who, then?”
Caris imitated Anthony’s prissy tone. “Surely you don’t believe that every misfortune in life is the responsibility of either God or Crazy Nell?”
Archdeacon Lloyd said sharply: “Speak respectfully to the prior.” He did not realize Anthony was Caris’s uncle. The townspeople laughed: they knew the prim prior and his independent-minded niece.
Caris finished: “I believe Nell is harmless. Mad, yes, but harmless.”
Suddenly Friar Murdo was on his feet. “My lord bishop, men of Kingsbridge, friends,” he said in his sonorous voice. “The evil one is everywhere among us, tempting us to sin – to lying, greed of food, drunkenness with wine, puffed-up pride and fleshly lust.” The crowd liked this: Murdo’s descriptions of sin called to the imagination delightful scenes of indulgence that were sanctified by his brimstone disapproval. “But he cannot go unobserved,” Murdo went on, his voice rising with excitement. “As the horse presses his hoofprints into the mud, as the kitchen mouse makes dainty tracks across the butter, as the lecher deposits his vile seed to grow in the womb of the deceived maid, so the devil must leave – his mark!”
They shouted their approval. They knew what he meant, and so did Caris.
“The servants of the evil one may be known by the mark he leaves upon them. For he sucks their hot blood as a child sucks the sweet milk from its mother’s swollen breasts. And, like the child, he needs a teat from which to suck – a third nipple!”
He had the audience rapt, Caris observed. He began each sentence in a low, quiet voice, then built it up, piling one emotive phrase on another to his climax; and the crowd responded eagerly, listening in silence while he spoke, then shouting their approval at the end.
“This mark is dark in colour, ridged like a nipple, and rises from the clear skin around it. It may be on any part of the body. Sometimes it lies in the soft valley between a woman’s breasts, the unnatural manifestation cruelly mimicking the natural. But the devil best likes it to be in the secret places of the body: in the groin, on the private parts, especially-”
Bishop Richard said loudly: “Thank you, Friar Murdo, you need go no farther. You are demanding that the woman’s body be examined for the Devil’s Mark.”
“Yes, my lord bishop, for-”
“All right, no need for further argument, your point is well made.” He looked around. “Is Mother Cecilia close by?”
The prioress was sitting on a bench on one side of the court, with Sister Juliana and some of the senior nuns. Crazy Nell’s naked body could not be examined by men, so women would have to do it in private and report back. The nuns were the obvious choice.
Caris did not envy them their task. Most townspeople washed their hands and faces every day, and the smellier parts of their bodies once a week. All-over bathing was at best a twice-a-year ritual, necessary though dangerous to the health. However, Crazy Nell never seemed to wash at all. Her face was grimy, her hands were filthy, and she smelled like a dunghill.
Cecilia stood up. Richard said: “Please take this woman to a private room, remove her clothing, examine her body carefully, and come back to report faithfully what you find.”
The nuns got up immediately and approached Nell. Cecilia spoke soothingly to the mad woman, and took her gently by the arm. But Nell was not fooled. She twisted away, throwing her arms into the air.
At that point, Friar Murdo shouted: “I see it! I see it!”
Four of the nuns managed to hold Nell still.
The friar said: “No need to take off her clothes. Just look under her right arm.” As Nell started to wriggle again, he strode over to her and lifted her arm himself, holding it high above her head. “There!” he said, pointing into her armpit.
The crowd surged forward. “I see it!” someone shouted, and others repeated the cry. Caris could see nothing other than normal armpit hair, and she was unwilling to commit the indignity of peering. She had no doubt that Nell had some kind of blemish or growth there. Lots of people had marks on their skin, especially the elderly.
Archdeacon Lloyd called for order, and John Constable beat the crowd back with a stick. When at last the church was quiet, Richard stood up. “Crazy Nell of Kingsbridge, I find you guilty of heresy,” he said. “You shall now be tied to the back of a cart and whipped through the town, then taken to the place known as Gallows Cross, where you shall be hanged by the neck until you die.”
The crowd cheered. Caris turned away in disgust. With justice like this, no woman was safe. Her eye lit on Merthin, waiting patiently for her. “All right,” she said bad-temperedly. “What is it?”
“It’s stopped raining,” he said. “Come down to the river.”
The priory had a string of ponies for the senior monks and nuns to use when travelling, plus some carthorses for transporting goods. These were kept, along with the mounts of prosperous visitors, in a run of stone stables at the south end of the cathedral close. The nearby kitchen garden was manured with the straw from the stalls.
Ralph was in the stable yard, with the rest of Earl Roland’s entourage. Their horses were saddled ready to begin the two-day journey back to Roland’s residence at Earlscastle, near Shiring. They were waiting only for the earl.
Ralph was holding his horse, a bay called Griff, and talking to his parents. “I don’t know why Stephen was made lord of Wigleigh while I got nothing,” he said. “We’re the same age, and he’s no better than I am at riding or jousting or fencing.”
Every time they met, Sir Gerald asked the same hopeful questions, and Ralph had to give him the same inadequate answers. Ralph could have borne his disappointment more easily had it not been for his father’s pathetic eagerness to see him elevated.
Griff was a young horse. He was a hunter: a mere squire did not merit a costly warhorse. But Ralph liked him. He responded gratifyingly well when Ralph urged him on in the hunt. Griff was excited by all the activity in the yard, and impatient to get going. Ralph murmured in his ear: “Quiet, my lovely lad, you shall stretch your legs later.” The horse calmed down at the sound of his voice.
“Be constantly on the alert for ways to please the earl,” Sir Gerald said. “Then he will remember you when there is a post to be filled.”
That was all very well, Ralph thought, but the real opportunities came only in battle. However, war might be a little nearer today than it had been a week ago. Ralph had not been in on the meetings between the earl and the wool merchants, but he gathered that the merchants were willing to lend money to King Edward. They wanted the king to take some decisive action against France, in retaliation for French attacks on the south coast ports.
Meanwhile, Ralph longed for some way to distinguish himself and begin to win back the honour the family had lost ten years ago – not just for his father, but for his own pride.
Griff stamped and tossed his head. To calm him, Ralph began to walk him up and down, and his father walked with him. His mother stood apart. She was upset about his broken nose.
With Father he walked past Lady Philippa, who was holding the bridle of a spirited courser with a firm hand while she talked to her husband, Lord William. She wore close-fitting clothes, which were suitable for a long ride but also emphasized her full bosom and long legs. Ralph was always on the lookout for excuses to talk to her, but it did him no good: he was just one of her father-in-law’s followers, and she never spoke to him unless she had to.
As Ralph watched, she smiled at her husband and tapped him on the chest with the back of her hand in a gesture of mock reprimand. Ralph was filled with resentment. Why should it not be him with whom she was sharing such a moment of private amusement? No doubt she would if he were lord of forty villages, as William was.
Ralph felt that his life was all aspiration. When would he actually achieve something? He and his father walked the length of the yard then turned and came back.
He saw a one-armed monk come out of the kitchen and cross the yard, and was struck by how familiar the man looked. A moment later, he remembered how he knew the face. This was Thomas Langley, the knight who had killed one of the men-at-arms in the forest ten years ago. Ralph had not seen the man since that day, but his brother Merthin had, for the knight-become-monk was now responsible for supervising repairs to the priory buildings. Thomas wore a drab robe instead of the fine clothes of a knight, and had his head shaved in the monkish tonsure. He was heavier around the waist, but still carried himself like a fighting man.
As Thomas walked past, Ralph said casually to Lord William: “There he goes – the mystery monk.”
William said sharply: “What do you mean?”
“Brother Thomas. He used to be a knight, and no one knows why he joined the monastery.”
“What the devil do you know of him?” William’s tone showed anger, although Ralph had said nothing offensive. Perhaps he was in a bad mood, despite the affectionate smiles of his beautiful wife.
Ralph wished he had not begun the conversation. “I was here the day he came to Kingsbridge,” he said. He hesitated, recalling the oath the children had sworn that afternoon. Because of that, and because of William’s inexplicable annoyance, Ralph did not tell the whole story. “He staggered into town bleeding from a sword wound,” he went on. “A boy remembers such things.”
Philippa said: “How curious.” She looked at her husband. “Do you know what Brother Thomas’s story is?”
“Certainly not,” William snapped. “How would I know a thing like that?”
She shrugged and turned away.
Ralph walked on, glad to get away. “Lord William was lying,” he said to his father in a low voice. “I wonder why?”
“Don’t ask any more questions about that monk,” Father said anxiously. “It’s obviously a touchy subject.”
At last Earl Roland appeared. Prior Anthony was with him. The knights and squires mounted up. Ralph kissed his parents and swung himself into the saddle. Griff danced sideways, eager to be off. The motion made Ralph’s broken nose hurt like fire. He gritted his teeth: there was nothing he could do but endure it.
Roland went up to his horse, Victory, a black stallion with a white patch over one eye. He did not mount, but took the bridle and began to walk, still in conversation with the prior. William called out: “Sir Stephen Wigleigh and Ralph Fitzgerald, ride ahead and clear the bridge.”
Ralph and Stephen rode across the cathedral green. The grass was trampled and the ground muddy from the Fleece Fair. A few stalls were still doing business, but most were closing, and many had already gone. They passed out through the priory gates.
On the main street, Ralph saw the boy who had given him a broken nose. Wulfric, his name was, and he came from Stephen’s village of Wigleigh. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen where Ralph had repeatedly punched him. Wulfric was outside the Bell inn with his father, mother and brother. They appeared to be about to leave.
You’d better hope you never meet me again, Ralph thought.
He tried to think of some insult to shout, but he was distracted by the sound of a crowd.
As he and Stephen rode down the main street, their horses stepping adroitly through the mud, they saw ahead of them a mob of people. Half way down the hill, they were forced to stop.
The street was jammed by hundreds of men, women and children shouting, laughing and jostling for space. They all had their backs to Ralph. He looked over their heads.
At the front of this unruly procession was a cart drawn by an ox. Tied to the back of the cart was a half-naked woman. Ralph had seen this kind of thing before: to be whipped through the town was a common punishment. The woman wore only a skirt of rough wool secured at the waist by a cord. Her face, when he could see it, was begrimed, and her hair was filthy, so that at first he thought she was old. Then he saw her breasts and realized she was only in her twenties.
Her hands were bound together and attached by the same rope to the back end of the cart. She stumbled along behind it, sometimes falling and being dragged writhing through the mud until she managed to get back on her feet. The town constable followed, vigorously lashing her bare back with a bull whip, a strip of leather at the end of a stick.
The crowd, led by a knot of young men, were taunting the woman, shouting insults, laughing, and throwing mud and rubbish. She delighted them by responding, screaming imprecations and spitting at anyone who got near her.
Ralph and Stephen urged their horses into the crowd. Ralph raised his voice. “Clear the way!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Make way for the earl!”
Stephen did the same.
No one took any notice.
To the south of the priory, the ground sloped steeply down to the river. The bank on that side was rocky, unsuitable for loading barges and rafts, so all the wharves were on the more accessible south side, in the suburb of Newtown. The quiet north side bloomed at this time of year with shrubbery and wild flowers. Merthin and Caris sat on a low bluff overlooking the water.
The river was swollen with rain. It moved faster than it used to, Merthin noticed, and he could see why: the channel was narrower than formerly. That was because of the development of the riverside. When he was a child, most of the south bank had been a wide, muddy beach with a swampy field beyond. The river then had flowed at a stately pace, and as a boy he had floated on his back from one side to the other. But the new wharves, protected from flooding by stone walls, squeezed the same quantity of water into a smaller funnel, through which it hurried as if eager to get past the bridge. Beyond the bridge, the river widened and slowed around Leper Island.
“I’ve done something terrible,” Merthin said to Caris.
Unfortunately, she looked particularly lovely today. She wore a dark red linen dress, and her skin seemed to glow with vitality. She had been angry at the trial of Crazy Nell, but now she just seemed worried, and that gave her a vulnerable look that tugged at Merthin’s heart. She must have noticed how he had been unable to meet her eye all week. But what he had to tell her was probably worse than anything she had imagined.
He had spoken to no one about this since the row with Griselda, Elfric and Alice. No one even knew that his door had been destroyed. He was longing to unburden himself, but he had held back. He did not want to talk to his parents: his mother would be judgemental and his father would just tell him to be a man. He might have talked to Ralph, but there had been a coolness between them since the fight with Wulfric: Merthin thought Ralph had behaved like a bully, and Ralph knew it.
He dreaded telling Caris the truth. For a moment he asked himself why. It was not that he was afraid of what she would do. She might be scornful – she was good at that – but she could not say anything worse than the things he said to himself constantly.
What he truly feared, he realized, was hurting her. He could bear her anger: it was her pain he could not face.
She said: “Do you still love me?”
He was not expecting the question, but he answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
“And I love you. Anything else is just a problem we can solve together.”
He wished she were right. He wished it so badly that tears came to his eyes. He looked away so that she would not see. A mob of people was moving on to the bridge, following a slow-moving cart, and he realized this must be Crazy Nell being whipped through the town on her way to Gallows Cross in Newtown. The bridge was already crowded with departing stallholders and their carts, and the traffic was almost at a standstill.
“What’s the matter?” Caris said. “Are you crying?”
“I lay with Griselda,” Merthin said abruptly.
Caris’s mouth dropped open. “Griselda?” she said unbelievingly.
“I’m so ashamed.”
“I thought it must be Elizabeth Clerk.”
“She’s too proud to offer herself.”
Caris’s reaction to that surprised him. “Oh, so you would have done it with her, too, if she’d suggested it?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Griselda! Dear St Mary, I thought I was worth more than that.”
“You are.”
“Lupa,” she said, using the Latin word for a whore.
“I don’t even like her. I hated it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Are you saying you wouldn’t be so sorry if you’d enjoyed it?”
“No!” Merthin was dismayed. Caris seemed determined to misinterpret everything he said.
“Whatever got into you?”
“She was crying.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Do you do that to every girl you see crying?”
“Of course not! I was just trying to explain to you how it happened even though I really didn’t want it to.”
Her scorn got worse with everything he said. “Don’t talk rubbish,” she said. “If you hadn’t wanted it to happen, it wouldn’t have.”
“Listen to me, please,” he said frustratedly. “She asked me, and I said no. Then she cried, and I put my arm around her to comfort her, then-”
“Oh, spare me the sickening details – I don’t want to know.”
He began to feel resentful. He knew he had done wrong, and he expected her to be angry, but her contempt stung. “All right,” he said, and he shut up.
But silence was not what she wanted. She stared at him in dissatisfaction, then said: “What else?”
He shrugged. “What’s the point in my speaking? You just pour scorn on everything I say.”
“I don’t want to listen to pathetic excuses. But there’s something you haven’t told me – I can feel it.”
He sighed. “She’s pregnant.”
Caris’s reaction surprised him again. All the anger left her. Her face, until now taut with indignation, seemed to collapse. Only sadness remained. “A baby,” she said. “Griselda is going to have your baby.”
“It may not happen,” he said. “Sometimes…”
Caris shook her head. “Griselda is a healthy girl, well fed. There’s no reason she should miscarry.”
“Not that I’d wish it,” he said, though he was not quite sure that was true.
“But what will you do?” she said. “It will be your child. You will love it, even if you hate its mother.”
“I’ve got to marry her.”
Caris gasped. “Marry! But that would be for ever.”
“I’ve fathered a child, so I should take care of it.”
“But to spend your whole life with Griselda!”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to,” she said decisively. “Think. Elizabeth Clerk’s father didn’t marry her mother.”
“He was a bishop.”
“There’s Maud Roberts, in Slaughterhouse Ditch – she has three children, and everyone knows the father is Edward Butcher.”
“He’s already married, and has four other children with his wife.”
“I’m saying they don’t always force people to marry. You could just carry on as you are.”
“No, I couldn’t. Elfric would throw me out.”
She looked thoughtful. “So, you’ve already talked to Elfric?”
“Talked?” Merthin touched his bruised cheek. “I thought he was going to kill me.”
“And his wife – my sister?”
“She screamed at me.”
“So she knows.”
“Yes. She said I have to marry Griselda. She never wanted me to be with you, anyway. I don’t know why.”
Caris muttered: “She wanted you for herself.”
That was news to Merthin. It seemed unlikely that the haughty Alice would be attracted to a lowly apprentice. “I never saw any sign of that.”
Only because you never looked at her. “That’s what made her so cross. She married Elfric in frustration. You broke my sister’s heart – and now you’re breaking mine.”
Merthin looked away. He barely recognized this picture of himself as a heartbreaker. How had things gone so wrong? Caris went quiet. Merthin stared moodily along the river to the bridge.
The crowd had come to a standstill, he saw. A heavy cart loaded with woolsacks was stuck at the southern end, probably with a broken wheel. The can pulling Nell had stopped, unable to pass. The crowd were swarming around both carts, and some people had climbed on to the woolsacks for a better view. Earl Roland was also trying to leave. He was at the town end of the bridge, on horseback, with his entourage; but even they were having trouble getting the citizens to give way. Merthin spotted his brother Ralph on his horse, chestnut-coloured with a black mane and tail. Prior Anthony, who had evidently come to see the earl off, stood wringing his hands with anxiety while Roland’s men forced their horses into the mob, trying in vain to clear a passage.
Merthin’s intuition rang an alarm. Something was badly wrong, he felt sure, though at first he did not know what. He looked more closely at the bridge. He had noticed, on Monday, that the massive oak beams stretching from one piling to another across the length of the bridge were showing cracks on the upstream side; and that the beams had been strengthened with iron braces nailed across the cracks. Merthin had not been involved in this job, which was why he had not previously looked hard at the work. On Monday he had wondered why the beams were cracking. The weakness was not half way between the uprights, as he would have expected if the timbers had simply deteriorated over time. Rather, the cracks were near the central pier, where the strain should have been less.
He had not thought about it since Monday – there was too much else on his mind – but now an explanation occurred to him. It was almost as if that central pier was not supporting the beams, but dragging them down. That would mean that something had undermined the foundation beneath the pier – and, as soon as that thought occurred to him, he realized how it could have happened. It must be the faster flow of the river, scouring the river bed from under the pier.
He remembered walking barefoot on a sandy beach, as a child, and noticing that when he stood at the sea’s edge, letting the water wash over his feet, the outgoing waves would suck the sand from under his toes. That kind of phenomenon had always fascinated him.
If he was right the central pier, with nothing underneath to support it, was now hanging from the bridge – hence the cracks. Elfric’s iron braces had not helped; in fact, they might have worsened the problem, by making it impossible for the bridge to settle slowly into a new, stable position.
Merthin guessed that the other pier of the pair – on the farther, downstream side of the bridge – was still grounded. The current surely spent most of its force on the upstream pier, and attacked the second of the pair with reduced violence. Only one pier was affected; and it seemed that the rest of the structure was knitted together strongly enough for the entire bridge to stay upright – as long as it was not subjected to extraordinary strain.
But the cracks seemed wider today than on Monday. And it was not difficult to guess why. Hundreds of people were on the bridge, a much greater load than it normally took; and there was a heavily laden wool cart, with twenty or thirty people sitting on the sacks of wool to add to the burden.
Fear gripped Merthin’s heart. He did not think the bridge could withstand that level of strain for long.
He was vaguely aware that Caris was speaking, but her meaning did not penetrate his thoughts until she raised her voice and said: “You’re not even listening!”
“There’s going to be a terrible accident,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“We have to get everyone off the bridge.”
“Are you mad? They’re all tormenting Crazy Nell. Even Earl Roland can’t get them to move. They’re not going to listen to you.”
“I think it could collapse.”
“Oh, look!” said Caris, pointing. “Can you see someone running along the road from the forest, approaching the south end of the bridge?”
Merthin wondered what that had to do with anything, but he followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, he saw the figure of a young woman running, her hair flying.
Caris said: “It looks like Gwenda.”
Behind her, in hot pursuit, was a man in a yellow tunic.
Gwenda was more tired than she had ever been in her life.
She knew that the fastest way to cover a long distance was to run twenty paces then walk twenty paces. She had started to do that half a day ago, when she spotted Sim Chapman a mile behind her. For a while she lost sight of him, but when once again the road provided her with a long rearward view, she saw that he, too, was walking and running alternately. As mile succeeded mile and hour followed hour he gained on her. By mid-morning she had known that at this rate he would catch her before she reached Kingsbridge.
In desperation, she had taken to the forest. But she could not stray far from the road for fear of losing her way. Eventually she heard running steps and heavy breathing, and peered through the undergrowth to see Sim go by on the road. She realized that as soon as he came to a long clear stretch he would guess what she had done. Sure enough, some time later she saw him come back.
She had pressed on through the forest, stopping every few minutes to stand in silence and listen. For a long time she had evaded him, and she knew he would have to search the woods on both sides of the road to make sure she was not in hiding. But her progress was also slow, for she had to fight her way through the summer undergrowth, and keep checking that she had not strayed too far from the road.
When she heard the sound of a distant crowd she knew she could not be far from the city, and she thought she was going to escape after all. She made her way to the road and cautiously looked out from a bush. The way was clear in both directions – and, a quarter of a mile to the north, she could see the tower of the cathedral.
She was almost there.
She heard a familiar bark and her dog, Skip, emerged from the bushes at the side of the road. She bent to pat him, and he wagged joyfully, licking her hands. Tears came to her eyes.
Sim was not in sight, so she risked the open road. She wearily resumed her twenty paces of running and twenty of walking, now with Skip trotting happily beside her, thinking this was a new game. Each time she switched, she looked back over her shoulder. The third time she did so, she saw Sim.
He was only a couple of hundred yards behind.
Despair washed over her like a tidal wave. She wanted to lie down and die. But she was in the suburbs, now, and the bridge was only a quarter of a mile away. She forced herself to keep going.
She tried to sprint, but her legs refused to obey orders. A staggering jog was the best she could manage. Her feet hurt. Looking down, she saw blood seeping through the holes in her tattered shoes. As she turned the corner at Gallows Cross, she saw a huge crowd on the bridge ahead of her. They were all looking at something, and no one noticed her running for her life, with Sim Chapman close behind.
She had no weapons other than her eating knife, which would just about cut through a baked hare, but would hardly disable a man. She wished with all her heart that she had had the nerve to pull Alwyn’s long dagger out of his head and bring it away with her. Now she was virtually defenceless.
She had a row of small bouses on one side of her – the suburban homes of people too poor to live in the city – and, on the other side, the pasture called Lovers’ Field, owned by the priory. Sim was so close behind her that she could hear his breathing, harsh and ragged like her own. Terror gave her a last burst of energy. Skip barked, but there was more fear than defiance in his note – he had not forgotten the stone that hit him on the nose.
The approach to the bridge was a swamp of sticky mud, churned up by boots, hooves and cartwheels. Gwenda waded through it, desperately hoping that the heavier Sim would be hampered even more than she.
At last she reached the bridge. She pushed into the crowd, which was less dense at this end. They were all looking the other way, where a heavy cart loaded with wool was blocking the passage of an ox-cart. She had to get to Caris’s house, almost in sight now on the main street. “Let me through!” she screamed, fighting her way forward. Only one person seemed to hear her. A head turned to look, and she saw the face of her brother Philemon. His mouth dropped open in alarm, and he tried to move towards her, but the crowd resisted him as it resisted her.
Gwenda tried to push past the team of oxen drawing the wool cart, but an ox tossed its massive head and knocked her sideways. She lost her footing – and, at that moment, a big hand grasped her arm in a powerful grip, and she knew she was recaptured.
“I’ve got you, you bitch,” Sim gasped. He pulled her to him and slapped her across the face as hard as he could. She had no strength left to resist him. Skip snapped ineffectually at his heels. “You won’t get away from me again,” he said.
Despair engulfed her. It had all been for nothing: seducing Alwyn, murdering him, running for miles. She was back where she had started, the captive of Sim.
Then the bridge seemed to move.
Merthin saw the bridge bend.
Over the central pier on the near side, the entire roadbed sagged like a horse with a broken back. The people tormenting Nell suddenly found the surface beneath their feet unsteady. They staggered, grabbing their neighbours for support. One fell backwards over the parapet into the river; then another, then another. The shouts and catcalls directed at Nell were quickly drowned out by yells of warning and screams of fright.
Merthin said: “Oh, no!”
Caris screamed: “What’s happening?”
All those people, he wanted to say – people we grew up with, women who have been kind to us, men we hate, children who admire us; mothers and sons, uncles and nieces; cruel masters and sworn enemies and panting lovers – they’re going to die. But he could not get any words out.
For a moment – less than a breath – Merthin hoped the structure might stabilize in the new position; but he was disappointed. The bridge sagged again. This time, the interlocked timbers began to tear free of their joints. The longitudinal planks on which the people were standing sprang from their wooden pegs; the transverse joints that supported the roadbed twisted out of their sockets; and the iron braces that Elfric had hammered across the cracks were ripped out of the wood.
The central part of the bridge seemed to lurch downward on the side nearest Merthin, the upstream side. The wool cart tilted, and the spectators standing and sitting on the piled woolsacks were hurled into the river. Great timbers snapped and flew through the air, killing everyone they struck. The insubstantial parapet gave way, and the cart slid slowly off the edge, its helpless oxen lowing in terror. It fell with nightmare slowness through the air and hit the water with a thunderclap. Suddenly there were dozens of people jumping or falling into the river, then scores of them. Those already in the water were struck by the falling bodies of those who came after, and by the disintegrating timbers, some small, some huge. Horses fell, with and without riders, and carts fell on top of them.
Merthin’s first thought was of his parents. Neither of them had gone to the trial of Crazy Nell, and they would not have wanted to watch her punishment: his mother thought such public spectacles beneath her dignity, and his father was not interested when there was no more at stake than the life of a mad woman. Instead, they had gone to the priory to say goodbye to Ralph.
But Ralph was now on the bridge.
Merthin could see his brother fighting to control his horse, Griff, which was rearing and kicking out with its front hooves. “Ralph!” he yelled uselessly. Then the timbers under Griff fell into the water. “No!” Merthin shouted as horse and rider disappeared from view.
Merthin’s gaze flashed to the other end, where Caris had spotted Gwenda, and he saw her struggling with a man in a yellow tunic. Then that part gave way, and both ends of the bridge were dragged into the water by the collapsing middle.
The river was now a mass of writhing people, panicking horses, splintered timbers, smashed carts and bleeding bodies. Merthin realized that Caris was no longer by his side when he saw her hurrying along the bank towards the bridge, clambering over rocks and running along the muddy strand. She looked back at him and yelled: “Hurry up! What are you waiting for? Come and help!”
This must be what a battlefield is like, Ralph thought: the screaming, the random violence, the people falling, the horses mad with fear. It was the last thought he had before the ground dropped away beneath him.
He suffered a moment of sheer terror. He did not understand what had happened. The bridge had been there, under his horse’s hooves, but now it was not, and he and his mount were tumbling through the air. Then he could no longer feel the familiar bulk of Griff between his thighs, and he realized they had separated. An instant later he hit the cold water.
He went under and held his breath. The panic left him. Now he felt scared, but calm. He had played in the sea as a child – a seaside village nad been among his father’s domains – and he knew he would rise to the surface, though it might seem to take a long time. He was weighed down by his thick travelling clothes, now saturated, and by his sword. If he had been wearing armour, he would have sunk to the bottom and stayed there for ever. But at last his head broke the surface and he gasped for breath.
He had swum a good deal as a boy, but that was many years ago. All the same, the technique came back to him, more or less, and he was able to keep his head above water. He began to thrash his way towards the north bank. Beside him, he recognized the chestnut coat and black mane of Griff, doing the same as he was, swimming for the nearest shore.
The horse’s gait changed, and he realized it had found its footing. Ralph let his feet drift down to the river bed and found that he, too, could stand. He waded through the shallows. The sticky mud of the bottom seemed to be trying to suck him back into midstream. Griff hauled himself on to a narrow strip of beach below the priory wall. Ralph did the same.
He turned and looked back. There were several hundred people in the water, many bleeding, many screaming, many dead. Near the edge he saw a figure wearing the red-and-black livery of the earl of Shiring, floating face down. He stepped back into the water, grabbed the man by the belt, and hauled him ashore.
He turned the heavy body over, and his heart lurched with recognition. It was his friend Stephen. The face was unmarked, but Stephen’s chest appeared to have caved in. His eyes were wide open, showing no sign of life. There was no breath. The body was too damaged even for Ralph to feel for a heartbeat. A few minutes ago I was envying him, Ralph thought. Now I’m the lucky one.
Feeling irrationally guilty, he closed Stephen’s eyes.
He thought of his parents. Only a few minutes ago he had left them in the stable yard. Even if they had followed him, they could not have reached the bridge yet. They must be safe.
Where was Lady Philippa? Ralph cast his mind back to the scene on the bridge just before the collapse. Lord William and Philippa had been at the rear of the earl’s procession, and had not yet ridden on to the bridge.
But the earl had.
Ralph could picture the scene quite clearly. Earl Roland had been close behind him, impatiently urging his horse, Victory, forward through the gap in the crowd made by Ralph on Griff. Roland must have fallen close to Ralph.
Ralph heard again his father’s words: “Be constantly on the alert for ways to please the earl.” Perhaps this was the big chance he had been looking for, he thought excitedly. He might not have to wait for a war. He could distinguish himself today. He would save Earl Roland – or even just Victory.
The thought energized him. He scanned the river. The earl had been wearing a distinctive purple robe and a black velvet surcoat. It was hard to pick out an individual in the seething mass of bodies, alive and dead. Then he saw a black stallion with a distinctive white patch over one eye, and his heart leaped: it was Roland’s mount. Victory was thrashing around in the water, apparently unable to swim in a straight line, probably having broken one or more legs.
Floating next to the horse was a tall figure in a purple robe.
This was Ralph’s moment.
He threw off his outer clothing: it would hamper his swimming. Wearing only his underdrawers, he plunged back into the river and swam towards the earl. He had to force his way through a mass of men, women and children. Many of the living grabbed desperately at him, delaying his progress. He fought them off ruthlessly with merciless blows of his fists.
At last he reached Victory. The beast’s struggles were weakening. It was still for a moment, and started to sink; then, when its head dipped into the water, it began to struggle again. “Easy, boy, easy,” Ralph said into its ear; but he felt sure it was going to drown.
Roland was floating on his back, eyes closed, unconscious or dead. One foot was caught in a stirrup, and that seemed to be what was keeping his body from going down. He had lost his hat, and the top of his head was a bloody mess. Ralph could not see how a man could live after such an injury. All the same, he would rescue him. There would surely be some reward just for the corpse, when it was that of an earl.
He tried to pull Roland’s foot from the stirrup, but he found the strap was twisted tight around the ankle. He felt for his knife and realized it was attached to his belt, which he had left on the shore with the rest of his outer clothing. But the earl had weapons. Ralph fumbled Roland’s dagger from its sheath.
Victory’s convulsions made it difficult for Ralph to cut the strap. Each time he caught hold of the stirrup, the dying horse jerked it from his grasp before he could bring the knife to bear on the leather. He cut the back of his own hand in the struggle. Finally he braced himself against the horse’s side with both feet, for stability, and in that position he was able to slice through the stirrup strap.
Now he had to drag the unconscious earl to the bank. Ralph was not a strong swimmer, and he was already panting with exhaustion. To make matters worse, he could not breathe through his broken nose, so his mouth kept filling with river water. He paused for a moment, leaning his weight on the doomed Victory, trying to catch his breath; but the earl’s body, now unsupported, began to sink, and Ralph realized he could not rest.
He grabbed Roland’s ankle in his right hand and started to swim for the shore. He found it harder to keep his head above the surface when he had only one hand free for swimming. He did not look back at Roland: if the earl’s head went under water there was nothing Ralph could do about it. After a few seconds he was gasping for air and his limbs were aching.
He was not used to this. He was young and strong, and his whole life was spent hunting, jousting and fencing. He could ride all day then win a wrestling match the same evening. But now he seemed to be relying on disused muscles. His neck hurt from the effort of keeping his head up. He could not help breathing water in, and that made him cough and choke. He flapped his left arm madly and just managed to keep himself afloat. He heaved at the bulky body of the earl, made heavier by its water-soaked clothing. He approached the shore with agonizing slowness.
At last he was close enough to put his feet on the river bed. Gulping air, he began to wade, still dragging Roland. When the water was thigh-high he turned and picked up the earl in his arms, and carried him the last few steps to the shore.
He put the body on the ground and collapsed beside it, exhausted. With the last of his energy, he felt the chest. There was a strong heartbeat.
Earl Roland was alive.
The collapse of the bridge paralysed Gwenda with fear. Then, an instant later, the sudden immersion in cold water shocked her back to normal.
When her head came above the surface, she found herself surrounded by brawling, yelling people. Some had found a piece of wood to keep them afloat, but every other man tried to keep himself above water by leaning on someone else. Those leaned upon felt themselves being pushed under, and lashed out with their fists to get free. Many of the blows missed. Those that connected were returned. It was like being outside a Kingsbridge tavern at midnight. It would have been comical, except that people were dying.
Gwenda gasped air and went under. She could not swim.
She came up again. To her horror, Sim Chapman was immediately in front of her, blowing water out of his mouth like a fountain. He began to go under, obviously as unable to swim as she was. In desperation, he grabbed her shoulder and tried to use her for support. She immediately sank. Finding her inadequate to keep him on the surface, he let her go.
Under the water, holding her breath, fighting off panic, she thought: I can’t drown now, after all I’ve been through.
Next time she surfaced, she felt herself shoved aside by a heavy body and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the ox that had knocked her over a moment before the bridge fell apart. It was apparently unharmed and swimming strongly. She reached out, kicking her feet, and managed to get hold of one of its horns. She pulled its head sideways for a moment, then the powerful neck pulled back and its head came upright again.
Gwenda managed to hang on.
Her dog, Skip, appeared beside her, swimming effortlessly, and yelped for joy to see her face.
The ox was heading for the suburban shore. Gwenda clung to its horn, even though her arm felt as if it was about to drop off.
Someone grabbed her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Sim again. Trying to use her to keep himself afloat, he pulled her under. Without letting go of the ox, she pushed Sim off with her free hand. He dropped back, his head close to her feet. Taking careful aim, she kicked him as hard as she could in the face. He gave a cry of pain that was quickly silenced as his head went under.
The ox found its footing and lumbered out of the water, splashing and snorting. Gwenda let go as soon as she could stand on the bottom.
Skip gave a frightened bark, and Gwenda looked around warily. Sim was not on the bank. She scanned the river, looking for the flash of a yellow tunic among the bodies and the floating timbers.
She saw him, keeping himself afloat by holding on to a plank, kicking with his legs and coming straight towards her.
She could not run. She had no strength left, and her dress was waterlogged. On this side of the river, there was no place to hide. And, now that the bridge was down, there was no way to cross to the Kingsbridge side.
But she was not going to let him take her.
She saw that he was struggling, and that gave her hope. The plank would have kept him afloat if he had remained still, but he was kicking for the shore, and his thrashing destabilized him. He would push down on the plank to lift himself up, then kick to swim for shore, and his head would go under again. He might not make it to the bank.
She realized she could make certain of that.
She looked around quickly. The water was full of bits of wood, from huge load-bearing timbers to splinters. Her eye lit on a stout timber about a yard long. She stepped into the water and grabbed it. Then she waded out into the river to meet her owner.
She had the satisfaction of seeing the light of fear in his eyes.
He paused in his paddling. Ahead of him was the woman he had tried to enslave – angry, determined, and wielding a formidable club. Behind him, death by drowning.
He came forward.
Gwenda stood up to her waist in water and waited for her moment.
She saw Sim pause again, and guessed from his movements that he was trying to find the bottom with his feet.
Now or never.
Gwenda raised the wood over her head and stepped forward. Sim saw what she was about to do, and scrabbled desperately to get out of the way; but he was off balance, neither swimming nor wading, and he could not dodge. Gwenda brought the timber down on top of his head with all her might.
Sim’s eyes rolled up and he slumped unconscious.
She reached forward and grabbed him by the yellow tunic. She was not going to let him float away – he might survive. She pulled him to her, then took his head in both hands and pushed it under the water.
It was more difficult than she had imagined to keep a body under, even though he was out cold. His greasy hair was slippery. She had to grasp his head under her arm then lift her feet off the bottom, so that her weight carried them both down.
She began to feel she might have overcome him. How long did it take to drown a man? She had no idea. Sim’s lungs must be filling with water already. How would she know when she could let go?
Suddenly he twisted. She tightened her grip on his head. For a moment she struggled to hold him. She was not sure whether he had come round, or was undergoing an unconscious convulsion. His spasms were strong, but seemed random. Her feet found the bottom again and she braced herself and held on.
She looked around. No one was watching: they were all too busy saving themselves.
After a few moments, Sim’s movements became weaker. Soon he was still. Gradually she relaxed her grip. Sim sank slowly to the bottom.
He did not come up again.
Panting for breath, Gwenda waded to the shore. She sat down heavily on the muddy ground. She felt for the leather purse on her belt: it was still there. The outlaws had not got around to stealing it from her, and she had kept it through all her trials. It contained the precious love potion made by Mattie Wise. She opened the purse to check – and found nothing but shards of pottery. The little vial had been smashed.
She started to cry.
The first person Caris saw doing anything sensible was Merthin’s brother, Ralph. He was wearing nothing but a soaking wet pair of underdrawers. He was uninjured, apart from his red and swollen nose, which he had had before. Ralph pulled the earl of Shiring out of the water and laid him on the shore next to a body in the earl’s livery. The earl had a grisly head injury that might be fatal. Ralph appeared exhausted by his efforts and unsure what to do next. Caris considered what she should tell him.
She looked around. On this side, the river bank consisted of small muddy beaches separated by rocky outcrops. There was not much room to lay out the dead and injured here: they would have to be taken elsewhere.
A few yards away, a flight of stone steps led up from the river to a gate in the priory wall. Caris made a decision. Pointing, she said to Ralph: “Take the earl that way into the priory. Lay him down carefully in the cathedral, then run to the hospital. Tell the first nun you see to fetch Mother Cecilia immediately.”
Ralph seemed glad to have someone decisive to obey, and did as he was told right away.
Merthin started to wade into the water, but Caris stopped him. “Look at that crowd of idiots,” she said, pointing to the city end of the ruined bridge. Dozens of people were standing gawping at the scene of carnage in front of them. “Get all the strong men down here,” she went on. “They can start pulling people out of the water and carrying them to the cathedral.”
He hesitated. “They can’t get down here from there.”
Caris saw his point. They would have to clamber over the wreckage, and that would probably lead to more injuries. But the houses on this side of the main street had gardens that backed up against the priory walls; and the house on the corner, belonging to Ben Wheeler, had a small door in the wall so that he could come to the river directly from his garden.
Merthin was thinking the same. He said: “I’ll bring them through Ben’s house and across his yard.”
“Good.”
He clambered over the rocks, pushed open the door and disappeared.
Caris looked across the water. A tall figure was wading on to the bank nearby, and she recognized Philemon. Gasping, he said: “Have you seen Gwenda?”
“Yes – just before the bridge collapsed,” Caris replied. “She was running from Sim Chapman.”
“I know – but where is she now?”
“I don’t see her. The best thing you can do is start pulling people out of the water.”
“I want to find my sister.”
“If she’s alive, she’ll be among those who need to get out of the river.”
“All right.” Philemon splashed back into the water.
Caris was desperate to find out where her own family were – but there was too much to do here. She promised herself she would look for her father as soon as possible.
Ben Wheeler emerged from his gate. A squat man with big shoulders and a thick neck, he was a carter, and got through life more by the use of his muscles than his brain. He scrambled down to the beach, then looked around, not knowing what to do.
On the ground at Caris’s feet was one of Earl Roland’s men, wearing the red-and-black livery, apparently dead. She said: “Ben, carry this man into the cathedral.”
Ben’s wife, Lib, appeared, carrying a toddler. She was a little brighter than her husband, and she asked: “Shouldn’t we deal with the living first?”
“We have to get them out of the water before we can tell whether they’re dead or alive – and we can’t leave bodies here on the bank because they will get in the way of rescuers. Take him to the church.”
Lib saw the sense of that. “You’d better do as Caris says, Ben,” she said.
Ben picked up the body effortlessly and moved off.
Caris realized they could move the bodies more quickly if they carried them on the kind of stretchers the builders used. The monks could organize those. Where were the monks? She had told Ralph to alert Mother Cecilia, but so far no one had appeared. The injured would need wound dressings, ointments and cleansing fluids: every nun and monk would be needed. Matthew Barber must be summoned: there would be many broken bones to set. And Mattie Wise, to give potions to the injured to ease their pain. Caris needed to raise the alarm, but she was reluctant to leave the riverside before the rescue operation was properly organized. Where was Merthin?
A woman was crawling to the shore. Caris stepped into the water and pulled her to her feet. It was Griselda. Her wet dress clung to her, and Caris could see her full breasts and the swell of her thighs. Knowing that she was pregnant, Caris said anxiously: “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not bleeding?”
“No.”
“Thank God.” Caris looked around and was grateful to see Merthin coming from Ben Wheeler’s garden at the head of a line of men, some of them wearing the earl’s livery. She called to him: “Take Griselda’s arm. Help her up the steps to the priory. She should sit down and rest for a while.” She added reassuringly: “She’s all right, though.”
Both Merthin and Griselda looked at her strangely, and she realized in a flash how peculiar this situation was. The three of them stood for a moment in a frozen triangle: the mother-to-be, the father of her child, and the woman who loved him.
Then Caris turned away, breaking the spell, and began to give orders to the men.
Gwenda cried for a few moments, then stopped. It was not really the broken vial that made her so sad: Mattie could make up another love potion, and Caris would pay for it, if either of them was still alive. Her tears were for everything she had been through in the last twenty-four hours, from her father’s treachery to her bleeding feet.
She had no regrets about the two men she had killed. Sim and Alwyn had tried to enslave her then prostitute her. They deserved to die. Killing them was not even murder, for it was no crime to do away with an outlaw. All the same, she could not stop her hands shaking. She was exultant that she had beaten her enemies and won her freedom, and at the same time she felt sickened by what she had done. She would never forget the way the dying body of Sim had twitched at the end. And she feared that the vision of Alwyn with the point of his own knife sticking out of his eye socket might appear in her dreams. She could not help trembling in the grip of such strong contradictory feelings.
She tried to put the killings out of her mind. Who else was dead? Her parents had been planning to leave Kingsbridge yesterday. But what about her brother, Philemon? Caris, her greatest friend? Wulfric, the man she loved?
She looked across the river and was immediately reassured about Caris. She was on the far side with Merthin, and they appeared to be organizing a gang of men to pull people out of the water. Gwenda felt a surge of gratitude: at least she had not been left completely alone in the world.
But what about Philemon? He was the last person she had seen before the collapse. He should have fallen near her, all other things being equal; but she could not see him now.
And where was Wulfric? She doubted whether he would have cared to watch the spectacle of a witch being flogged through the town. However, he had been planning to return home to Wigleigh with his family today, and it was possible – God forbid, she thought – that they had been crossing the bridge on their way home when the collapse happened. She scanned the surface frantically, looking for his distinctive tawny hair, praying that she would see him swimming vigorously for the shore, rather than floating face down. But she could not see him at all.
She decided to cross over. She could not swim, but she thought that if she had a sizeable piece of wood to keep her afloat she might be able to kick herself across. She found a plank, pulled it from the water, and walked fifty yards upstream, to get well clear of the mass of bodies. Then she re-entered the water. Skip followed fearlessly. It was more taxing than she had expected, and her wet dress was a drag on progress, but she reached the far shore.
She ran to Caris, and they embraced. Caris said: “What happened?”
“I escaped.”
“And Sim?”
“He was an outlaw.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead.”
Caris looked startled.
Gwenda added hastily: “Killed when the bridge collapsed.” She did not want even her best friend to know the exact circumstances. She went on: “Have you seen any of my family?”
“Your parents left town yesterday. I saw Philemon a few moments ago – he’s looking for you.”
“Thank God! What about Wulfric?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t been brought out of the river. His fiancee left yesterday, but his parents and his brother were in the cathedral this morning, at the trial of Crazy Nell.”
“I have to look for him.”
“Good luck.”
Gwenda ran up the steps to the priory and across the green. A few of the stallholders were still packing up their effects, and it seemed incredible to her that they could go about their normal business when hundreds of people had just been killed in an accident – until she realized that they probably did not yet know: it had happened only minutes ago, though it felt like hours.
She passed through the priory gates into the main street. Wulfric and his family had been staying at the Bell. She ran inside.
An adolescent boy stood beside the ale barrel, looking frightened.
Gwenda said: “I’m looking for Wulfric Wigleigh.”
“There’s no one here,” the boy said. “I’m the apprentice, they left me to guard the beer.”
Someone had summoned everyone to the riverside, Gwenda guessed.
She ran out again. As she passed through the doorway, Wulfric appeared.
She was so relieved that she threw her arms around him. “You’re alive – thank God!” she cried.
“Someone said the bridge collapsed,” he said. “Is it true, then?”
“Yes – it’s dreadful. Where are the rest of your family?”
“They left a while ago. I stayed behind to collect a debt.” He held up a small leather money bag. “I hope they weren’t on the bridge when it fell.”
“I know how we can find out,” Gwenda said. “Come with me.”
She took his hand. He let her lead him into the priory precincts without withdrawing his hand. She had never touched him for so long. His hand was large, the fingers rough with work, the palm soft. It sent thrills through her, despite all that had happened.
She took him across the green and inside the cathedral. “They’re pulling people out of the river and bringing them here,” she explained.
There were already twenty or thirty bodies on the stone floor of the nave, with more arriving continually. A handful of nuns attended to the injured, dwarfed by the mighty pillars around them. The blind monk who normally led the choir seemed to be in charge. “Put the dead on the north side,” he called out as Gwenda and Wulfric entered the nave. “Wounded to the south.”
Suddenly Wulfric let out a cry of shock and dismay. Gwenda followed his gaze, and saw David, his brother, lying among the wounded. They both knelt beside him on the floor. David was a couple of years older than Wulfric, and the same large build. He was breathing, and his eyes were open, but he seemed not to see them. Wulfric spoke to him. “Dave!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Dave, it’s me, Wulfric.”
Gwenda felt something sticky, and realized David was lying in a pool of blood.
Wulfric said: “Dave – where are Ma and Pa?”
There was no response.
Gwenda looked around and saw Wulfric’s mother. She was on the far side of the nave, in the north aisle, where Blind Carlus was telling people to put the dead. “Wulfric,” Gwenda said quietly.
“What?”
“Your ma.”
He stood up and looked. “Oh, no,” he said.
They crossed the wide church. Wulfric’s mother was lying next to Sir Stephen, the lord of Wigleigh – his equal, now. She was a petite woman – it was amazing that she had given birth to two such big sons. In life she had been wiry and full of energy, but now she looked like a fragile doll, white and thin. Wulfric put his hand on her chest, feeling for a heartbeat. When he pressed down, a trickle of water came from her mouth.
“She drowned,” he whispered.
Gwenda put her arm around his wide shoulders, trying to console him with her touch. She could not tell whether he noticed.
A man-at-arms wearing Earl Roland’s red-and-black livery came up carrying the lifeless body of a big man. Wulfric gasped again: it was his father.
Gwenda said: “Lay him here, next to his wife.”
Wulfric was stunned. He said nothing, seeming unable to take it in. Gwenda herself was bewildered. What could she say to the man she loved in these circumstances? Every phrase that came to mind seemed stupid. She was desperate to give him some kind of comfort, but she did not know how.
As Wulfric stared at the bodies of his mother and father, Gwenda looked across the church at his brother. David seemed very still. She walked quickly to his side. His eyes were staring up blindly, and he was no longer breathing. She felt his chest: no heartbeat.
How could Wulfric bear it?
She wiped tears from her own eyes and returned to him. There was no point in hiding the truth. “David is dead, too,” she said.
Wulfric looked blank, as if he did not understand. The dreadful thought occurred to Gwenda that the shock might have caused him to lose his mind.
But he spoke at last. “All of them,” he said in a whisper. “All three. All dead.” He looked at Gwenda, and she saw tears come to his eyes.
She put her arms around him, and felt his big body shake with helpless sobs. She squeezed him tightly. “Poor Wulfric,” she said. “Poor, beloved Wulfric.”
“Thank God I’ve still got Annet,” he said.
An hour later, the bodies of the dead and wounded covered most of the floor of the nave. Blind Carlus, the sub-prior, stood in the middle of it all with thin-faced Simeon, the treasurer, beside him to be his eyes. Carlus was in charge because Prior Anthony was missing. “Brother Theodoric, is that you?” he said, apparently recognizing the tread of the fair-skinned, blue-eyed monk who had just walked in. “Find the gravedigger. Tell him to get six strong men to help him. We’re going to need at least a hundred new graves, and in this season we don’t want to delay burial.”
“Right away, brother,” said Theodoric.
Caris was impressed by how effectively Carlus could organize things despite his blindness.
Caris had left Merthin efficiently managing the rescue of bodies from the water. She had made sure the nuns and monks were alerted to the disaster, then she had found Matthew Barber and Mattie Wise. Finally she had checked on her own family.
Only Uncle Anthony and Griselda had been on the bridge at the time of the collapse. She had found her father at the guild hall with Buonaventura Caroli. Edmund had said: “They’ll have to build a new bridge now!” Then he had gone limping down to the river bank to help pull people out of the water. The others were safe: Aunt Petranilla had been at home, cooking; Caris’s sister Alice had been with Elfric at the Bell inn; her cousin Godwyn had been in the cathedral, checking on the repairs to the south side of the chancel.
Griselda had now gone home to rest. Anthony was still unaccounted for. Caris was not fond of her uncle, but she would not wish him dead, and she looked anxiously for him every time a new body was brought into the nave from the river.
Mother Cecilia and the nuns were washing wounds, applying honey as an antiseptic, affixing bandages and giving out restorative cups of hot spiced ale. Matthew Barber, the briskly efficient battlefield surgeon, was working with a panting, overweight Mattie Wise, Mattie administering a calming medicine a few minutes before Matthew set the broken arms and legs.
Caris walked to the south transept. There, away from the noise, the bustle and the blood in the nave, the senior physician-monks were clustered around the still-unconscious figure of the earl of Shiring. His wet clothes had been removed, and he had been covered with a heavy blanket. “He’s alive,” said Brother Godwyn. “But his injury is very serious.” He pointed to the back of the head. “Part of his skull has shattered.”
Caris peered over Godwyn’s shoulder. She could see the skull, like a broken pie crust, stained with blood. Through the gaps she could see grey matter underneath. Surely nothing could be done for such a dreadful injury?
Brother Joseph, the oldest of the physicians, felt the same. He rubbed his large nose and spoke through a mouth full of bad teeth. “We must bring the relics of the saint,” he said, slurring his sibilants like a drunk, as always. “They are his best hope for recovery.”
Caris had little faith in the power of the bones of a long-dead saint to heal a living man’s broken head. She said nothing, of course: she knew she was peculiar in this respect, and she kept her views to herself most of the time.
The earl’s sons, Lord William and Bishop Richard, stood looking on. William, with his tall, soldierly figure and black hair, was a younger version of the unconscious man on the table. Richard was fairer and rounder. Merthin’s brother, Ralph, was with them. “I pulled the earl out of the water,” he said. It was the second time Caris had heard him say it.
“Yes, well done,” said William.
William’s wife, Philippa, was as dissatisfied as Caris with Brother Joseph’s pronouncement. “Isn’t there something you can do to help the earl?” she said.
Godwyn replied: “Prayer is the most effective cure.”
The relics were kept in a locked compartment under the high altar. As soon as Godwyn and Joseph left to fetch them, Matthew Barber bent over the earl, peering at the head wound. “It will never heal like that,” he said. “Not even with the help of the saint.”
William said sharply: “What do you mean?” Caris thought he sounded just like his father.
“The skull is a bone like any other,” Matthew answered. “It can mend itself, but the pieces need to be in the right place. Otherwise it will grow back crooked.”
“Do you think you know better than the monks?”
“My lord, the monks know how to call upon the help of the spirit world. I only set broken bones.”
“And where did you get this knowledge?”
“I was surgeon with the king’s armies for many years. I marched alongside your father, the earl, in the Scottish wars. I have seen broken heads before.”
“What would you do for my father now?”
Matthew was nervous under William’s aggressive questioning, Caris felt; but he seemed sure of what he was saying. “I would take the pieces of broken bone out of the brain, clean them, and try to fit them together again.”
Caris gasped. She could hardly imagine such a bold operation. How did Matthew have the nerve to propose it? And what if it went wrong?
William said: “And he would recover?”
“I don’t know,” Matthew replied. “Sometimes a head wound has strange effects, impairing a man’s ability to walk, or speak. All I can do is mend his skull. If you want miracles, ask the saint.”
“So you can’t promise success.”
“Only God is all-powerful. Men must do what they can and hope for the best. But I believe your father will die of this injury if it remains untreated.”
“But Joseph and Godwyn have read the books written by the ancient medical philosophers.”
“And I have seen wounded men die or recover on the battlefield. It’s for you to decide whom to trust.”
William looked at his wife. Philippa said: “Let the barber do what he can, and ask St Adolphus to help him.”
William nodded. “All right,” he said to Matthew. “Go ahead.”
“I want the earl lying on a table,” Matthew said decisively. “Near the window, where a strong light will fall on his injury.”
William snapped his fingers at two novice monks. “Do whatever this man asks,” he ordered.
Matthew said: “All I need is a bowl of warm wine.”
The monks brought a trestle table from the hospital and set it up below the big window in the south transept. Two squires lifted Earl Roland on to the table.
“Face down, please,” said Matthew.
They turned him over.
Matthew had a leather satchel containing the sharp tools from which barbers got their name. He first took out a small pair of scissors. He bent over the earl’s head and began to cut away the hair around the wound. The earl had thick black hair that was naturally oily. Matthew snipped the locks and tossed them aside so that they landed on the floor. When he had clipped a circle around the wound, the damage was more clearly visible.
Brother Godwyn reappeared, carrying the reliquary, the carved ivory-and-gold box containing the skull of St Adolphus and the bones of one arm and a hand. When he saw Matthew operating on Earl Roland, he said indignantly: “What is going on here?”
Matthew looked up. “If you would place the holy relics on the earl’s back, as close as possible to his head, I believe the saint will steady my hands.”
Godwyn hesitated, clearly angry that a mere barber had taken charge.
Lord William said: “Do as he says, brother, or the death of my father may be laid at your door.”
Still Godwyn did not obey. Instead he spoke to Blind Carlus, standing a few yards away. “Brother Carlus, I am ordered by Lord William to-”
“I heard what Lord William said,” Carlus interrupted. “You’d better do as he wishes.”
It was not the answer Godwyn had been hoping for. His face showed angry frustration. With evident distaste, he placed the sacred container on Earl Roland’s broad back.
Matthew picked up a fine pair of forceps. With a delicate touch, he grasped the visible edge of a piece of bone and lifted it, without touching the grey matter beneath. Caris watched, entranced. The bone came right away from the head, with skin and hair attached. Matthew put it gently into the bowl of warm wine.
He did the same with two more small pieces of bone. The noise from the nave – the groans of the wounded and the sobs of the bereaved – seemed to recede into the background. The people watching Matthew stood silent and still in a circle around him and the unconscious earl.
Next, he worked on the shards that remained attached to the rest of the skull. In each case he snipped away the hair, washed the area carefully with a piece of linen dipped in wine, then used the forceps to press the bone gently into what he thought was its original position.
Caris could hardly breathe, the tension was so great. She had never admired anyone as much as she admired Matthew Barber at this moment. He had such courage, such skill, such confidence. And he was performing this inconceivably delicate operation on an earl! If it went wrong they would probably hang him. Yet his hands were as steady as the hands of the angels carved in stone over the cathedral doorway.
Finally he replaced the three detached shards that he had put in the bowl of wine, fitting them together as if he were mending a broken jar.
He pulled the skin of the scalp across the wound and sewed it together with swift, precise stitches.
Now Roland’s skull was complete.
“The earl must sleep for a day and a night,” he said. “If he wakes, give him a strong dose of Mattie Wise’s sleeping draught. Then he must lie still for forty days and forty nights. If necessary, strap him down.”
Then he asked Mother Cecilia to bandage the head.
Godwyn left the cathedral and ran down to the river bank, feeling frustrated and annoyed. There was no firm authority: Carlus was letting everyone do as they wished. Prior Anthony was weak, but he was better than Carlus. He had to be found.
Most of the bodies were out of the water now. Those who were merely bruised and shocked had walked away. Most of the dead and wounded had been carried to the cathedral. Those left were somehow entangled with the wreckage.
Godwyn was both excited and frightened by the thought that Anthony might be dead. He longed for a new regime at the priory: a stricter interpretation of Benedict’s rule, along with meticulous management of the finances. But, at the same time, he knew that Anthony was his patron, and that under another prior he might not continue to be promoted.
Merthin had commandeered a boat. He and two other young men were out in midstream, where most of what had been the bridge was now floating in the water. Wearing only their underdrawers, the three were trying to lift a heavy beam in order to free someone. Merthin was small in stature, but the other two looked strong and well fed, and Godwyn guessed they were squires from the earl’s entourage. Despite their evident fitness, they were finding it difficult to get leverage on the heavy timbers, standing as they were in the well of a small rowing-boat.
Godwyn stood with a crowd of townspeople, watching, torn by fear and hope, as the two squires raised a heavy beam and Merthin pulled a body from beneath it. After a short examination, he called out: “Marguerite Jones – dead.”
Marguerite was an elderly woman of no account. Impatiently, Godwyn shouted out: “Can’t you see Prior Anthony?”
A look passed between the men on the boat, and Godwyn realized he had been too peremptory. But Merthin called back: “I can see a monk’s robe.”
“Then it’s the prior!” Godwyn shouted. Anthony was the only monk still unaccounted for. “Can you tell how he is?”
Merthin leaned over the side of the boat. Apparently unable to get close enough from there, he eased himself into the water. Eventually he called out: “Still breathing.”
Godwyn felt both elated and disappointed. “Then get him out, quickly!” he shouted. “Please,” he added.
There was no acknowledgement of what he said, but he saw Merthin duck under a partly submerged plank, then relay instructions to the other two. They eased the beam they were holding to one side, letting it slip gently into the water, then they leaned over the prow of the little boat to get hold of the plank Merthin was under. Merthin seemed to be struggling to detach Anthony’s clothing from a tangle of boards and splinters.
Godwyn watched, frustrated that he could do nothing to speed the process. He spoke to two of the bystanders. “Go to the priory and get two monks to bring a stretcher. Tell them Godwyn sent you.” The two men went up the steps and into the priory grounds.
At last Merthin managed to pull the unconscious figure from the wreckage. He drew him close, then the other two heaved the prior into the boat. Merthin scrambled in after, and they poled to the bank.
Eager volunteers took Anthony from the boat and put him on the stretcher brought by the monks. Godwyn examined the prior quickly. He was breathing, but his pulse was weak. His eyes were closed and his face was ominously white. His head and chest were only bruised, but his pelvis seemed smashed, and he was bleeding.
The monks picked him up. Godwyn led the way across the priory grounds into the cathedral. “Make way!” he shouted. He took the prior along the nave and into the chancel, the holiest part of the church. He told the monks to lay the body in front of the high altar. The sodden robe clearly outlined Anthony’s hips and legs, which were twisted so far out of shape that only his top half looked human.
Within a few moments, all the monks had gathered around the unconscious body of their prior. Godwyn retrieved the reliquary from Earl Roland and placed it at Anthony’s feet. Joseph placed a jewelled crucifix on his chest and wrapped Anthony’s hands around it.
Mother Cecilia knelt beside Anthony. She wiped his face with a cloth soaked in some soothing liquid. She said to Joseph: “He seems to have broken many bones. Do you want Matthew Barber to look at him?”
Joseph shook his head silently.
Godwyn was glad. The barber would have defiled the holy sanctuary. Better to leave the outcome to God.
Brother Carlus performed the last rites, then led the monks in a hymn.
Godwyn did not know what to hope for. For some years he had been looking forward to the end of Priory Anthony’s rule. But in the last hour he had got a glimpse of what might replace Anthony: joint rule by Carlus and Simeon. They were Anthony’s cronies, and would be no better.
Suddenly he saw Matthew Barber at the edge of the crowd, looking over the monks’ shoulders, studying Anthony’s lower half. Godwyn was about to order him indignantly to leave the chancel, when he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and walked away.
Anthony opened his eyes.
Brother Joseph cried: “Praise God!”
The prior seemed to want to speak. Mother Cecilia, who was still kneeling beside him, leaned over his face to catch his words. Godwyn saw Anthony’s mouth move, and wished he could hear. After a moment, the prior fell silent.
Cecilia looked shocked. “Is that true?” she said.
They all stared. Godwyn said: “What did he say, Mother Cecilia?”
She did not answer.
Anthony’s eyes closed. A subtle change came over him. He went very still.
Godwyn bent over his body. There was no breath. He placed a hand over Anthony’s heart, and felt no beat. He grasped the wrist, feeling for a pulse: nothing.
He stood up. “Prior Anthony has left this world,” he said. “May God bless his soul and welcome him into His holy presence.”
All the monks said: “Amen.”
Godwyn thought: Now there will have to be an election.