Epic Historial Collection (224 page)

“Because they don't have the money to lay out.”

“Nor do I!”

“You've got three pounds from Guillaume of London.”

“Am I to have nothing with which to buy wool next year?”

“At these prices, you're better off out of the business.”

He laughed. “By the saints, you're right. Very well, try it out with some cheap stuff. I've got five sacks of coarse Devon wool that the Italians never want. I'll give you a sack of that, and see if you can do what you say.”

 

Two weeks later, Caris found Mark Webber smashing up his hand mill.

She was shocked to see a poor man destroying a valuable piece of equipment—so much so that, for a moment, she forgot her own troubles.

The hand mill consisted of two stone disks, each slightly roughened on one face. The smaller sat on the larger, fitting perfectly into a shallow indentation, rough side to rough. A protruding wooden handle enabled the upper stone to be turned while the lower remained still. Ears of grain placed between the two stones would be rapidly ground to flour.

Most Kingsbridge people of the lower class had a hand mill. The very poor could not afford one, and the affluent did not need one—they could buy flour already ground by a miller. But for families such as the Webbers, who needed every penny they earned to feed their children, a hand mill was a money-saving godsend.

Mark had laid his on the ground in front of his small house. He had borrowed from somewhere a long-handled sledgehammer with an iron head. Two of his children were watching, a thin girl in a ragged dress and a naked toddler. He lifted the hammer over his head and swung it in a long arc. It was a sight to see: he was the biggest man in Kingsbridge, with shoulders like a carthorse. The stone crazed like an eggshell and fell into pieces.

Caris said: “What on earth are you doing?”

“We must grind corn at the prior's watermills, and forfeit one sack in twenty-four as a fee,” Mark replied.

He seemed phlegmatic about it, but she was horrified. “I thought the new rules applied only to unlicensed windmills and watermills.”

“Tomorrow I have to go around with John Constable, searching people's homes, breaking up illicit hand mills. I can't have them saying I've got one of my own. That's why I'm doing this in the street, where everyone can see.”

“I didn't realize Godwyn intended to take the bread out of the mouths of the poor,” Caris said grimly.

“Luckily for us, we've got some weaving to do—thanks to you.”

Caris turned her mind to her own business. “How are you getting on?”

“Finished.”

“That was quick!”

“It takes longer in winter. But in summer, with sixteen hours of daylight, I can weave six yards in a day, with Madge helping.”

“Wonderful!”

“Come inside and I'll show you.”

His wife, Madge, was standing over the cooking fire at the back of the one-room house, with a baby on one arm and a shy boy at her side. Madge was shorter than her husband by more than a foot, but her build was chunky. She had a large bust and a jutting behind, and she made Caris think of a plump pigeon. Her protruding jaw gave her an aggressive air that was not entirely misleading. Although combative, she was good-hearted, and Caris liked her. She offered her visitor a cup of cider, which Caris refused, knowing the family could not afford it.

Mark's loom was a wooden frame, more than a yard square, on a stand. It took up most of the living space. Behind it, close to the back door, was a table with two benches. Obviously they all slept on the floor around the loom.

“I make narrow dozens,” Mark explained. “A narrow dozen is a cloth a yard wide and twelve yards long. I can't make broadcloth, because I haven't room for such a wide loom.” Four rolls of brown burel were stacked against the wall. “One sack of wool makes four narrow dozens,” he said.

Caris had brought him the raw fleeces in a standard woolsack. Madge had arranged for the wool to be cleaned, sorted, and spun into yarn. The spinning was done by the poor women of the town, and the cleaning and sorting by their children.

Caris felt the cloth. She was excited: she had completed the first stage of her plan. “Why is it so loosely woven?” she asked.

Mark bristled. “Loose? My burel is the tightest weave in Kingsbridge!”

“I know—I didn't mean to sound critical. But Italian cloth feels so different—yet they make it from our wool.”

“Partly it depends on the weaver's strength, and how hard he can press down the batten to pack the wool.”

“I don't think the Italian weavers are all stronger than you.”

“Then it's their machines. The better the loom, the closer the weave.”

“I was afraid of that.” The implication was that Caris could not compete with high-quality Italian wool unless she bought Italian looms, which seemed impossible.

One problem at a time, she told herself. She paid Mark, counting out four shillings, of which he would have to give about half to the women who had done the spinning. Caris had made eight shillings profit, theoretically. Eight shillings would not pay for much work on the bridge. And at this rate it would take years to weave all her father's surplus wool. “Is there any way we can produce cloth faster?” she said to Mark.

Madge answered. “There are other weavers in Kingsbridge, but most of them are committed to work for existing cloth merchants. I can find you more outside the town, though. The larger villages often have a weaver with a loom. He usually makes cloth for the villagers from their own yarn. Such men can easily switch to another job, if the money's good.”

Caris concealed her anxiety. “All right,” she said. “I'll let you know. Meanwhile, will you deliver these cloths to Peter Dyer for me?”

“Of course. I'll take them now.”

Caris went home for dinner, deep in thought. To make any real difference, she would have to spend most of what money her father had left. If things went wrong, they would be even worse off. But what was the alternative? Her plan was risky, but no one else had any kind of plan at all.

When she arrived home, Petranilla was serving a mutton stew. Edmund sat at the head of the table. The financial setback of the Fleece Fair seemed to have affected him more severely than Caris would have expected. His normal exuberance was subdued, and he often appeared thoughtful, not to say distracted. Caris was worried about him.

“I saw Mark Webber smashing up his hand mill,” she said as she sat down. “Where's the sense in that?”

Petranilla put her nose in the air. “Godwyn is entirely within his rights,” she said.

“Those rights are out of date—they haven't been enforced for years. Where else does a priory do such things?”

“In St. Albans,” Petranilla said triumphantly.

Edmund said: “I've heard of St. Albans. The townspeople periodically riot against the monastery.”

“Kingsbridge Priory is entitled to recoup the money it spent building mills,” Petranilla argued. “Just as you, Edmund, want to get back the money you're putting into the bridge. How would you feel if someone built a second bridge?”

Edmund did not answer her, so Caris did. “It would depend entirely on how soon it happened,” she said. “The priory's mills were built hundreds of years ago, as were the warrens and fishponds. No one has the right to hold back the development of the town forever.”

“The prior has a right to collect his dues,” she said stubbornly.

“Well, if he carries on like this, there will be no one to collect dues from. People will go and live in Shiring. They're allowed hand mills there.”

“Don't you understand that the needs of the priory are sacred?” Petranilla said angrily. “The monks serve God! By comparison with that, the lives of the townspeople are insignificant.”

“Is that what your son Godwyn believes?”

“Of course.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Don't you believe the prior's work is sacred?”

Caris had no answer to that, so she just shrugged, and Petranilla looked triumphant.

The dinner was good, but Caris was too tense to eat much. As soon as the others had finished, she said: “I have to go and see Peter Dyer.”

Petranilla protested: “Are you going to spend more? You've already given Mark Webber four shillings of your father's money.”

“Yes—and the cloth is worth twelve shillings more than the wool was, so I've made eight shillings.”

“No, you haven't,” Petranilla said. “You haven't sold the cloth yet.”

Petranilla was expressing doubts that Caris shared, in her more pessimistic moments, but she was stung into denial. “I will sell it, though—especially if it's dyed red.”

“And what will Peter charge for dyeing and fulling four narrow dozens?”

“Twenty shillings—but the red cloth will be worth double the brown burel, so we'll make another twenty-eight shillings.”

“If you sell it. And if you don't?”

“I'll sell it.”

Her father intervened. “Let her be,” he said to Petranilla. “I've told her she can give this a try.”

 

Shiring Castle stood on top of a hill. It was the home of the county sheriff. At the foot of the hill stood the gallows. Whenever there was a hanging, the prisoner was brought down from the castle on a cart, to be hanged in front of the church.

The square in which the gallows stood was also the marketplace. The Shiring Fair was held here, between the guildhall and a large timber building called the Wool Exchange. The bishop's palace and numerous taverns also stood around the square.

This year, because of the troubles at Kingsbridge, there were more stalls than ever, and the fair spilled into the streets off the marketplace. Edmund had brought forty sacks of wool on ten carts, and could get more brought from Kingsbridge before the end of the week, if necessary.

To Caris's dismay, it was not necessary. He sold ten sacks on the first day, then nothing until the end of the fair, when he sold another ten by reducing the price below what he had paid. She could not remember seeing him so down.

She put her four lengths of dull brownish red cloth on his stall, and over the week, yard by yard, she sold three of the four. “Look at it this way,” she said to her father on the last day of the fair. “Before, you had a sack of unsaleable wool and four shillings. Now you've got thirty-six shillings and a length of cloth.”

But her cheerfulness was only for his benefit. She was deeply depressed. She had boasted bravely that she could sell cloth. The result was not a complete failure, but it was no triumph. If she could not sell the cloth for more than it cost, then she did not have the solution to the problem. What was she going to do? She left the stall and went to survey other cloth sellers.

The best cloth came from Italy, as always. Caris stopped at the stall of Loro Fiorentino. Cloth merchants such as Loro were not wool buyers, though they often worked closely with buyers. Caris knew that Loro gave his English takings to Buonaventura, who used it to pay English merchants for their raw wool. Then, when the wool reached Florence, Buonaventura's family would sell it, and with the proceeds pay back Loro's family. That way, they all avoided the hazards of transporting barrels of gold and silver coins across Europe.

Loro had on his stall only two rolls of cloth, but the colors were much brighter than anything the local people could produce. “Is this all you brought?” Caris asked him.

“Of course not. I've sold the rest.”

She was surprised. “Everyone else is having a bad fair.”

He shrugged. “The finest cloth always sells.”

An idea was taking shape in Caris's head. “How much is the scarlet?”

“Only seven shillings per yard, mistress.”

That was seven times the price of burel. “But who can afford it?”

“The bishop took a lot of my red, Lady Philippa some blue and green, a few daughters of the brewers and bakers in town, some lords and ladies from the villages round about…Even when times are hard, someone is prospering. This vermilion will be so beautiful on you.” With a swift motion, he unrolled the bale and draped a length over Caris's shoulder. “Marvelous. See how everyone is looking at you already.”

She smiled. “I can see why you sell so much.” She handled the cloth. It was closely woven. She already had a cloak of Italian scarlet that she had inherited from her mother. It was her favorite garment. “What dye do they use to get this red?”

“Madder, the same as everyone.”

“But how do they make it so bright?”

“It's no secret. They use alum. It brightens the color and also fixes it, so it won't fade. A cloak in this color, for you, would be wonderful, a joy forever.”

“Alum,” she repeated. “Why don't English dyers use it?”

“It's very expensive. It comes from Turkey. Such luxury is only for special women.”