Epic Historial Collection (200 page)

Somehow, word had got around that Merthin was about to try out a new machine. Everyone had been impressed by his ferry, and people were fascinated to see what he had come up with now. Down in the graveyard a small crowd had gathered, mostly idlers but including Father Joffroi, Edmund and Caris, and some of the town's builders, notably Elfric. If Merthin failed today, he would fail in front of his friends and enemies.

That was not the worst of it. This job had saved him from the need to leave town in search of work. But such a fate still hung over him. If the hoist went wrong, people would conclude that hiring Merthin brought bad luck. They would say that the spirits did not want him in town. He would be under greater pressure to leave. He would have to say good-bye to Kingsbridge—and to Caris.

Over the last four weeks, as he had shaped the wood and joined the pieces of his hoist, he had for the first time seriously thought about losing her; and it dismayed him. He had realized that she was all the joy in his world. If the weather was fine, he wanted to walk in the sunshine with her; if he saw something beautiful, he wanted to show it to her; if he heard something funny, his first thought was to tell her, and see her smile. His work gave him pleasure, especially when he came up with clever solutions to intractable problems; but it was a cold, cerebral satisfaction, and he knew that his life would be a long winter without Caris.

He stood up. It was time to put his skill to the test.

He had built a normal hoist with one innovative feature. Like all hoists, it had a rope that ran through a series of pulleys. On top of the church wall, at the edge of the roof, Merthin had built a timber structure like a gallows, with an arm that reached across the roof. The rope ran out to the end of the arm. At the other end of the rope, on the ground in the graveyard, was a treadwheel, which wound up the rope when operated by the boy Jimmie. All this was standard. The innovation was that the gallows incorporated a swivel, so that the arm could swing.

To save himself from the fate of Howell Tyler, Merthin had a belt under his arms that was tied to a sturdy stone pinnacle: if he fell, he would not fall far. So protected, he had removed the slates from a section of the roof then tied the rope of the hoist to a timber. Now he called down to Jimmie: “Turn the wheel!”

Then he held his breath. He was sure it would work—it had to—but, all the same, this was a moment of high anxiety.

Jimmie, inside the great treadmill on the ground, began to walk. The wheel could move only one way. It had a brake pressing on its asymmetric teeth: one side of each tooth was gently angled, so that the brake moved gradually along the slope; but the other side was vertical, so that any reverse movement was immediately arrested.

As the wheel turned, the roof timber rose.

When the timber was clear of the roof structure, Merthin shouted: “Whoa!”

Jimmie stopped, the brake engaged, and the timber hung in the air, swinging gently. So far, so good. The next part was where things might go wrong.

Merthin turned the hoist, so that its arm began to swing. He watched it, holding his breath. New strains were brought to bear on the structure as the weight of the load moved its position. The wood of the hoist creaked. The arm swung through half a circle, bringing the timber from its original location over the roof to a new point over the graveyard. There was a collective murmur of wonder from the crowd: they had never seen a hoist that could swivel.

“Let it down!” Merthin called.

Jimmie operated the brake, allowing the load to fall jerkily, a foot at a time, as the wheel turned and the rope unwound.

Everyone watched in silence. When the timber touched the ground there was a round of applause.

Jimmie detached the timber from the rope.

Merthin permitted himself a moment of triumph. It had worked.

He climbed down the ladder. The crowd cheered. Caris kissed him. Father Joffroi shook his hand. “It's a marvel,” the priest said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“No one has,” Merthin said proudly. “I invented it.”

Several more men congratulated him. Everyone was pleased to have been among the first to witness the phenomenon—all but Elfric, looking cross at the back of the crowd.

Merthin ignored him. He said to Father Joffroi: “Our agreement was that you would pay me if it worked.”

“Gladly,” said Joffroi. “I owe you eight shillings so far, and the sooner I have to pay you for removing the rest of the timbers and rebuilding the roof, the happier I'll be.” He opened the wallet at his waist and took out some coins tied up in a rag.

Elfric said loudly: “Wait a moment!”

Everyone looked at him.

“You can't pay this boy, Father Joffroi,” he said. “He's not a qualified carpenter.”

Surely this could not happen, Merthin thought. He had done the work—it was too late now to deny him the wages. But Elfric cared nothing for fairness.

“Nonsense!” said Joffroi. “He's done what no other carpenter in town could do.”

“All the same, he's not in the guild.”

“I wanted to join,” Merthin put in. “You would not admit me.”

“That's the prerogative of the guild.”

Joffroi said: “I say that's unjust—and many people in town would agree. He's done six and a half years of his apprenticeship, with no wages but his food and a bed on the kitchen floor, and everyone knows he's been doing the work of a qualified carpenter for years. You should not have turned him out without his tools.”

There was a murmur of assent from the men gathered around. Elfric was generally thought to have gone a bit too far.

Elfric said: “With due respect to your reverence, that is for the guild to decide, not you.”

“All right.” Joffroi folded his arms. “You tell me not to pay Merthin—even though he is the only man in town who can repair my church without closing it. I defy you.” He handed the coins to Merthin. “Now you can take the case to court.”

“The prior's court.” Elfric's face twisted in spite. “When a man has a grievance against a priest, is he likely to get a fair hearing in a court run by monks?”

There was some sympathy in the crowd for this. They knew of too many instances where the prior's court had unjustly favored the clergy.

But Joffroi shot back: “Can an apprentice get a fair hearing in a guild run by masters?”

The crowd laughed at that: they appreciated clever arguments.

Elfric looked crushed. Whatever the court, he could win a dispute between himself and Merthin, but he could not so easily prevail against a priest. Resentfully, he said: “It's a bad day for the town when apprentices defy their masters and priests support the boys.” But he sensed he had lost, and he turned away.

Merthin felt the weight of the coins in his hand: eight shillings, ninety-six silver pennies, two-fifths of a pound. He knew he should count them, but he was too happy to bother. He had earned his first wages.

He turned to Edmund. “This is your money,” he said.

“Pay me five shillings now, the rest later,” Edmund said generously. “Keep some money for yourself—you deserve it.”

Merthin smiled. That would leave him three shillings to spend—more money than he had ever had in his life. He did not know what to do with it. Perhaps he would buy his mother a chicken.

It was midday, and the crowd began to disperse, heading home for dinner. Merthin went with Caris and Edmund. He felt his future was secure. He had proved himself as a carpenter, and few people would hesitate to employ him now that Father Joffroi had set the precedent. He could earn a living. He could have a house of his own.

He could get married.

Petranilla was waiting for them. As Merthin counted out five shillings for Edmund, she put on the table a fragrant dish of fish baked with herbs. In celebration of Merthin's triumph, Edmund poured sweet Rhenish wine into cups for all of them.

But Edmund was not a man to linger over the past. “We must get on with the new bridge,” he said impatiently. “Five weeks have gone by and nothing has been done!”

Petranilla said: “I hear the earl's health is rapidly returning to normal, so perhaps the monks will hold the election soon. I must ask Godwyn—but I haven't seen him since yesterday, when Blind Carlus fell over during the service.”

“I'd like to have a bridge design ready,” Edmund said. “Then work could begin as soon as the new prior is elected.”

Merthin's ears pricked up. “What have you got in mind?”

“We know it has to be a stone bridge. I want it wide enough for two carts to pass.”

Merthin nodded. “And it should be ramped at both ends, so that people will step off the bridge onto dry ground, not a muddy beach.”

“Yes—excellent.”

Caris said: “But how do you build stone walls in the middle of a river?”

Edmund said: “I've no idea, but it must be possible. There are lots of stone bridges.”

Merthin said: “I've heard men talk about this. You have to build a special structure called a cofferdam to keep the water out of the area where you're building. It's quite simple, but they say you have to be very careful to make sure it's watertight.”

Godwyn came in, looking anxious. He was not supposed to make social calls in the town—in theory, he could leave the priory only on a specific errand. Merthin wondered what had happened.

“Carlus withdrew his name from the election,” he said.

“Good news!” Edmund said. “Have a cup of this wine.”

“Don't celebrate yet,” Godwyn said.

“Why not? That leaves Thomas as the only candidate—and Thomas wants to build the new bridge. Our problem is solved.”

“Thomas is no longer the only candidate. The earl is nominating Saul Whitehead.”

“Oh.” Edmund was thoughtful. “Is that necessarily bad?”

“Yes. Saul is well liked and has shown himself a competent prior of St.-John-in-the-Forest. If he accepts the nomination, he's likely to get the votes of former supporters of Carlus—which means he could win. Then, as the earl's nominee, and his cousin, too, Saul is likely to do his sponsor's bidding—and the earl may oppose the building of the new bridge, on the grounds that it might take business away from Shiring market.”

Edmund looked worried. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I hope so. Someone has to go to St. John to tell Saul the news and bring him to Kingsbridge. I've volunteered for that job, and I'm hoping there's some way I can persuade him to refuse.”

Petranilla spoke. “That may not solve the problem,” she said. Merthin listened carefully to her: he did not like her, but she was clever. She went on: “The earl might nominate another candidate. Any nominee of his could oppose the bridge.”

Godwyn nodded agreement. “So, assuming I can keep Saul out of the contest, we must make sure the earl's second choice is someone who can't possibly get elected.”

“Who do you have in mind?” his mother asked.

“Friar Murdo.”

“Excellent.”

Caris said: “But he's awful!”

“Exactly,” Godwyn said. “Greedy, drunken, a sponger, a self-righteous rabble-rouser. The monks will never vote for him. That's why we want him to be the earl's candidate.”

Godwyn was like his mother, Merthin realized, in having a talent for this kind of plotting.

Petranilla said: “How shall we proceed?”

“First, we need to persuade Murdo to put his name forward.”

“That won't be hard. Just tell him he's in with a chance. He'd love to be prior.”

“Agreed. But I can't do it. Murdo would immediately suspect my motives. Everyone knows I'm backing Thomas.”

“I'll speak to him,” said Petranilla. “I'll tell him you and I are at odds, and I don't want Thomas. I'll say the earl is looking for someone to nominate, and Murdo could be the right man. He's popular in the town, especially among the poor and ignorant, who labor under the delusion that he's one of them. All he needs to do, to get the nomination, is make it clear that he's willing to be the earl's pawn.”

“Good.” Godwyn stood up. “I'll try to be present when Murdo speaks to Earl Roland.” He kissed his mother's cheek and went out.

The fish was all gone. Merthin ate his bread trencher, rich with juices. Edmund offered him more wine, but he declined: he was afraid he might fall off the roof of St. Mark's this afternoon if he drank too much. Petranilla went into the kitchen and Edmund retired to the parlor to sleep. Merthin and Caris were left alone.

He moved to sit on the bench next to her, and kissed her.

She said: “I'm so proud of you.”

He glowed. He was proud of himself. He kissed her again, this time with a long, moist kiss that gave him an erection. He touched her breast through the linen of her robe, squeezing her nipple gently with his fingertips.

She touched his erection and giggled. “Do you want me to bring you off?” she whispered.