Epic Historial Collection (208 page)

“So,” she said after a while, “that's what all the fuss is about.”

25

T
he day after Godwyn was confirmed as prior of Kingsbridge, Edmund Wooler came to Merthin's parents' house early in the morning.

Merthin tended to forget what an important personage Edmund was, for Edmund treated him as a member of the family; but Gerald and Maud acted as if receiving an unexpected royal visitation. They were embarrassed that Edmund should see how poor their house was. There was only one room. Merthin and his parents slept on straw mattresses on the floor. There was a fireplace and a table and a small yard at the back.

Fortunately, the family had been up since sunrise, and had washed and dressed and tidied the place. All the same, when Edmund came stomping into the house with his uneven gait, Merthin's mother dusted a stool, patted her hair, closed the back door then opened it again, and put a log on the fire. His father bowed several times, put on a surcoat, and offered Edmund a cup of ale.

“No, thank you, Sir Gerald,” said Edmund, no doubt knowing that the family had none to spare. “However, I'll take a small bowl of your pottage, Lady Maud, if I may.” Every family kept a pot of oats on the fire to which they added bones, apple cores, pea pods, and other scraps, to be slow-cooked for days. Flavored with salt and herbs, the result was a soup that never tasted the same twice. It was the cheapest food.

Pleased, Maud ladled some pottage into a bowl and put it on the table with a spoon and a plate of bread.

Merthin was still feeling the euphoria of the previous afternoon. It was like being slightly drunk. He had gone to sleep thinking of Caris's naked body and woken up smiling. But he was suddenly reminded of his confrontation with Elfric over Griselda. A false instinct told him that Edmund was going to scream, “You defiled my daughter!” and hit him across the face with a length of timber.

It was only a momentary vision, and it vanished as Edmund sat at the table. He picked up the spoon but, before he began to eat, he said to Merthin: “Now that we've got a prior, I want to start work on the new bridge as soon as possible.”

“Good,” said Merthin.

Edmund swallowed a spoonful and smacked his lips. “This is the best pottage I've ever tasted, Lady Maud.” Merthin's mother looked pleased.

Merthin was grateful to Edmund for being charming to his parents. They felt the humiliation of their reduced status, and it was balm to the wound to have the town's alderman eating at their table and calling them Sir Gerald and Lady Maud.

Now his father said: “I almost didn't marry her, Edmund—did you know that?”

Merthin was sure Edmund had heard the story before, but he replied: “Good lord, no—how did that happen?”

“I saw her in church on Easter Sunday, and fell in love with her instantly. There must have been a thousand people in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and she was the most beautiful woman there.”

“Now, Gerald, no need to exaggerate,” Maud said crisply.

“Then she disappeared into the crowd, and I couldn't find her! I didn't know her name. I asked people who was the pretty girl with the fair hair, and they said all the girls were pretty and fair.”

Maud said: “I hurried away after the service. We were staying at the Holly Bush Inn, and my mother was unwell, so I went back to take care of her.”

Gerald said: “I looked all over town, but I couldn't find her. After Easter, everyone went home. I was living in Shiring, and she in Casterham, though I didn't know that. I thought I'd never see her again. I imagined she might have been an angel, come to earth to make sure everyone was attending the service.”

She said: “Gerald, please.”

“But my heart was lost. I took no interest in other women. I expected to spend my life longing for the Angel of Kingsbridge. This went on for two years. Then I saw her at a tournament in Winchester.”

She said: “This complete stranger came up to me and said: ‘It's you—after all this time! You must marry me before you disappear again.' I thought he was mad.”

“Amazing,” said Edmund.

Merthin thought Edmund's goodwill had been stretched far enough. “Anyway,” he said, “I've drawn some designs on the tracing floor in the mason's loft at the cathedral.”

Edmund nodded. “A stone bridge wide enough for two carts?”

“As you specified—and ramped at both ends. And I've found a way to reduce the price by about a third.”

“That's astonishing! How?”

“I'll show you, as soon as you've finished eating.”

Edmund spooned up the last of the pottage and stood. “I'm done. Let's go.” He turned to Gerald and inclined his head in a slight bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It's a pleasure to have you here, alderman.”

Merthin and Edmund stepped out into a light drizzle. Instead of heading for the cathedral, Merthin led Edmund toward the river. Edmund's lopsided stride was instantly recognizable, and every second person on the street greeted him with a friendly word or a respectful bow.

Merthin suddenly felt nervous. He had been thinking about the bridge design for months. While he worked at St Mark's, supervising the carpenters who were constructing the new roof as the old was demolished, he mulled over the greater challenge of the bridge. Now for the first time his ideas would come under scrutiny by someone else.

As yet, Edmund had no idea how radical Merthin's plan was.

The muddy street wound downhill through houses and workshops. The city ramparts had fallen into disrepair during two centuries of civil peace, and in some places all that remained were humps of earth that now formed parts of garden walls. At the river's edge were industries that used large quantities of water, especially wool dyers and leather tanners.

Merthin and Edmund emerged onto the muddy foreshore between a slaughterhouse that gave off a strong smell of blood and a smithy where hammers clanged on iron. Directly in front of them, across a narrow stretch of water, was Leper Island. Edmund said: “Why are we here? The bridge is a quarter of a mile upstream.”

“It was,” said Merthin. He took a breath and said: “I think we should build the new one here.”

“A bridge to the island?”

“And another from the island to the far shore. Two small bridges instead of one big one. Much cheaper.”

“But people will have to walk across the island from one bridge to the other.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's a leper colony!”

“There's only one leper left. He can be moved elsewhere. The disease seems to be dying out.”

Edmund looked thoughtful. “So everyone who comes to Kingsbridge will arrive at this spot, where we're standing.”

“We'll have to build a new street, and knock down some of these buildings—but the cost will be small by comparison with the money saved on the bridge.”

“And on the other side…”

“A pasture that belongs to the priory. I can see the whole layout when I'm on the roof of St. Mark's. That's how come I thought of it.”

Edmund was impressed. “That's very clever. I wonder why the bridge wasn't put here originally.”

“The first bridge was erected hundreds of years ago. The river probably had a different shape then. Riverbanks must move their position as the centuries go by. The channel between the island and the pasture could have been wider at one time. Then there would have been no advantage in building here.”

Edmund peered across the water, and Merthin followed his gaze. The leper colony was a scatter of tumbledown wooden buildings spread over three or four acres. The island was too rocky for cultivation, but there were some trees and scrubby grass. The place was infested with rabbits, which the townspeople would not eat because of a superstition that they were the souls of dead lepers. At one time the ostracized inhabitants had kept their own chickens and pigs. Now, however, it was simpler for the priory to supply food to the last remaining inhabitant. “You're right,” Edmund said. “There hasn't been a new case of leprosy in the town for at least ten years.”

“I've never seen a leper,” Merthin said. “As a child, I thought people were saying ‘leopard.' I imagined that island to be occupied by spotted lions.”

Edmund laughed. Turning his back on the river, he looked at the buildings around. “There will be some political work to do,” he mused. “The people whose homes must be demolished will have to be convinced that they're the lucky ones, being moved to new and better houses while their neighbors missed out. And the island may have to be cleansed with holy water to convince people that it's safe. But we can handle all that.”

“I've drawn both bridges with pointed arches, like the cathedral,” Merthin said. “They will be beautiful.”

“Show me.”

They left the riverside and walked uphill through the town to the priory. The cathedral dripped with rain under a layer of low cloud like smoke from a damp fire. Merthin was looking forward to seeing his drawings again—he had not been to the loft for a week or so—and to explaining them to Edmund. He had thought a great deal about the way the current had undermined the old bridge, and how he could protect the new one from the same fate.

He led Edmund through the north porch and up the spiral staircase. His wet shoes slipped on the worn stone steps. Edmund energetically hauled his withered leg up behind him.

Several lamps were burning in the mason's loft. At first Merthin was pleased, for that meant they would be able to see his drawings more clearly. Then he saw Elfric working on the tracing floor.

He felt momentarily frustrated. The enmity between himself and his former master was as great as ever. Elfric had failed to prevent townspeople from employing Merthin, but he continued to block Merthin's application to join the carpenters' guild—leaving Merthin in an anomalous position, illegitimate but accepted. Elfric's attitude was pointless, but spiteful.

Elfric's presence here would put a damper on Merthin's conversation with Edmund. He told himself not to be so sensitive. Why should it not be Elfric who was made uncomfortable?

He held the door for Edmund, and together they crossed the room to the tracing floor. Then he suffered a shock.

Elfric was bent over the tracing floor, drawing with a pair of compasses—on a fresh layer of plaster. He had re-covered the floor, totally obliterating Merthin's drawings.

Merthin said incredulously: “What have you done?”

Elfric looked contemptuously at him and went on with his drawing, saying nothing.

“He's wiped out my work,” Merthin said to Edmund.

“What's your explanation, man?” Edmund demanded.

Elfric could not ignore his father-in-law. “There's nothing to explain,” he said. “A tracing floor has to be renewed at intervals.”

“But you've covered over important designs!”

“Have I? The prior has not commissioned this boy to make any drawings, and the boy has not asked permission to use the tracing floor.”

Edmund was never slow to anger, and Elfric's cool insolence was getting under his skin. “Don't act stupid,” he said. “I asked Merthin to prepare drawings for the new bridge.”

“I'm sorry, but only the prior has authority to do that.”

“Damn it, the guild is providing the money.”

“A loan, to be repaid.”

“It still gives us the right to a say on the design.”

“Does it? You'll have to speak to the prior about that. I don't think he'll be impressed by your choice of an inexperienced apprentice as your designer, though.”

Merthin was looking at the drawings Elfric had scratched in the new plaster. “I suppose this is your bridge design,” he said.

“Prior Godwyn has commissioned me to build it,” Elfric said.

Edmund was shocked. “Without asking us?”

Elfric said resentfully: “What's the matter—don't you want the work to go to your own daughter's husband?”

“Round arches,” Merthin said, still studying Elfric's drawing. “And narrow openings. How many piers will you have?”

Elfric was reluctant to answer, but Edmund was staring expectantly at him. “Seven,” he said.

“The wooden bridge only had five!” Merthin said. “Why are they so thick, and the openings so narrow?”

“To bear the weight of a stone-paved roadway.”

“You don't need thick piers for that. Look at this cathedral—its columns bear the entire weight of the roof, but they're slim and widely spaced.”

Elfric sneered. “No one's going to drive a cart across the roof of a church.”

“That's true, but—” Merthin stopped. The rain on the cathedral's vast expanse of roof probably weighed more than an oxcart loaded with stone, but why should he explain this to Elfric? It was not his role to educate an incompetent builder. Elfric's design was poor, but Merthin did not want to improve it, he wanted to replace it with his own, so he shut up.

Edmund also realized he was wasting his breath. “This decision is not going to be made by you two,” he said, and he stomped off.

 

John Constable's baby daughter was christened in the cathedral by Prior Godwyn. This honor was granted because he was an important employee of the priory. All the leading townspeople attended. Although John was neither wealthy nor well connected—his father had worked in the priory stables—Petranilla said that respectable people should take care to show friendship toward him and support for him. Caris thought they condescended to John because they needed him to protect their property.

It was raining again, and the people grouped around the font were wetter than the infant who was sprinkled with holy water. Strange feelings stirred in Caris as she looked at the tiny, helpless child. Since lying with Merthin she had simply refused to let herself think about pregnancy but, all the same, she felt a warm surge of protective emotion when she saw the baby.

She was named Jesca, after Abraham's niece.

Caris's cousin Godwyn had never been comfortable with babies and, as soon as the brief rite was over, he turned to leave. But Petranilla grabbed the sleeve of his Benedictine robe. “What about this bridge?” she said.

She spoke in a low voice, but Caris heard, and made up her mind to listen to the rest.

Godwyn said: “I've asked Elfric to prepare drawings and estimates.”

“Good. We should keep it in the family.”

“Elfric is the priory's builder.”

“Other people may want to horn in.”

“I shall decide who builds the bridge.”

Caris was annoyed enough to intervene. “How dare you,” she said to Petranilla.

“I was not speaking to you,” her aunt said.

Caris ignored that. “Why should Merthin's design not be considered?”

“Because he isn't family.”

“He practically lives with us!”

“But you're not married to him. If you were, it might be different.”

Caris knew she was at a disadvantage there, so she shifted her ground. “You've always been prejudiced against Merthin,” she said. “But everyone knows he's a better builder than Elfric.”

Her sister, Alice, heard that and joined in the argument. “Elfric taught Merthin everything, and now Merthin pretends he knows better!”

That was dishonest, Caris knew, and she felt angry. “Who built the ferry?” she said, raising her voice. “Who repaired the roof of St. Mark's?”

“Merthin was working with Elfric when he built the ferry. And no one asked Elfric about St. Mark's.”

“Because they knew he wouldn't be able to solve the problem!”

Godwyn interrupted. “Please!” he said, with his hands raised in front of himself protectively. “I know you're my family, but I'm the prior and this is the cathedral. I can't be harangued by womenfolk in public.”

Edmund joined the circle. “Just what I was going to say. Keep your voices down.”

Alice said accusingly: “You should be supporting your son-in-law.”

It occurred to Caris that Alice was getting more like Petranilla. Although she was only twenty-one, and Petranilla was more than twice that age, Alice had the same purse-mouthed look of disapproval. She was also becoming more stout, her bosom filling out the front of her dress like wind in a sail.

Edmund looked sternly at Alice. “This decision will not be made on the basis of family relationships,” he said. “The fact that Elfric is married to my daughter won't help his bridge stay upright.”

He had strong views on this subject, Caris knew. He believed you should always do business with the most reliable supplier, always hire the best man for the job, regardless of friendship or family ties. “Any man who needs to surround himself with loyal acolytes doesn't really believe in himself,” he would say. “And if he doesn't believe in himself, why should I?”

Petranilla said: “So how will the choice be made?” She gave him a shrewd look. “You've obviously got a plan.”

“The priory and the guild will consider Elfric's design and Merthin's—and any others that may be put forward,” Edmund said decisively. “All designs must be drawn and costed. The costing must be independently checked by other builders.”

Alice muttered: “I've never heard of such goings-on. It's like an archery contest. Elfric is the priory's builder; he should do the job.”

Her father ignored her. “Finally, the designers will be questioned by the leading citizens of the town at a meeting of the parish guild. And then”—he looked at Godwyn, who was pretending not to be bewildered by the way the decision process had been taken out of his hands—“and then Prior Godwyn will make his choice.”

 

The meeting took place in the guildhall on the main street. It had a stone undercroft below and a timber superstructure, topped by a tiled roof and two stone chimneys. In the basement were the large kitchen that prepared food for the banquets, a jail, and an office for the constable. The main floor was as spacious as a church, a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. At one end was a chapel. Because it was so wide, and because timbers long enough to span a thirty-foot roof were rare and expensive, the main room was divided by a row of wooden pillars supporting the joists.

It appeared an unpretentious building, made of the materials used in the humblest dwellings, glorifying nobody. But, as Edmund often said, the money made by the people here paid for the limestone-and-stained-glass majesty of the cathedral. And the guildhall was comfortable in its unostentatious way. There were tapestries on the walls and glass in the windows, and two huge fireplaces kept it warm in winter. When business was booming, the food served here was fit for royalty.

The parish guild had been formed hundreds of years ago, when Kingsbridge was a small town. A few merchants had got together to raise money to buy ornaments for the cathedral. But when wealthy men eat and drink in a group they inevitably discuss their common concerns, and fund-raising soon became secondary to politics. From the start the guild was dominated by wool merchants, which was why a huge pair of scales and a standard weight for a woolsack—364 pounds—stood at one end of the hall. As Kingsbridge grew, other guilds had been formed, representing crafts—carpenters, masons, brewers, goldsmiths—but their leading members also belonged to the parish guild, which retained its primacy. It was a less powerful version of the guild merchant that ruled most English towns, but was prohibited here by the town's landlord, Kingsbridge Priory.

Merthin had never attended a meeting or banquet here, but he had been inside several times on more mundane business. He liked to crane back his neck and study the complex geometry of the roof timbers, a lesson in how the weight of a broad expanse of roof could be funneled down to a few slender wooden pillars. Most of the elements made sense, but one or two pieces of wood seemed to him to be superfluous, or even detrimental, transferring weight to weaker zones. That was because no one really knew what made buildings stand up. Builders went by instinct and experience, and sometimes got it wrong.

This evening Merthin was in a state of high anxiety, too nervous to really appreciate the woodwork. The guild was about to pass judgment on his bridge design. It was far superior to Elfric's—but would they see that?

Elfric had had the benefit of the tracing floor. Merthin might have asked Godwyn for permission to use it, but he had been afraid of further sabotage by Elfric, so he had devised an alternative. He had stretched a large piece of parchment across a wooden frame, and had drawn his design on the skin with a pen and ink. Tonight this might work to his advantage, for he had brought his design with him to the guildhall, so that members would have it in front of them, whereas Elfric's would only be in their memories.

He placed his framed drawing at the front of the hall, on a three-legged stand he had devised for the purpose. Everyone came and looked at it as they arrived, although they had all seen it at least once over the last few days. They had also climbed the spiral staircase to the loft and looked at Elfric's drawings. Merthin thought most people preferred his design, but some were wary of backing a youngster against an experienced man. Many had kept their opinions to themselves.

The noise level rose as the hall filled up with men and a few women. They dressed up for the guild, as they did for church, the men in expensive wool coats despite the mild summer weather, the women in elaborate headdresses. Although everyone paid lip service to the untrustworthiness and general inferiority of women, in practice several of the town's wealthiest and most important citizens were female. There was Mother Cecilia, sitting now at the front with her personal assistant, a nun known as Old Julie. Caris was here—everyone acknowledged that she was Edmund's right hand. Merthin experienced a jolt of desire as she sat on the bench next to him, her thigh warm against his own. Anyone carrying on a trade in the town had to belong to a guild—outsiders could do business only on market days. Even monks and priests were compelled to join if they wanted to trade, which they often did. When a man died, it was common for his widow to continue his enterprise. Betty Baxter was the town's most prosperous baker; Sarah Taverner kept the Holly Bush Inn. It would have been difficult and cruel to prevent such women earning a living. Much easier to include them in the guild.