World Without End

30

The June of 1338 was dry and sunny, but the Fleece Fair was a catastrophe – for Kingsbridge in general, and for Edmund Wooler in particular. By the middle of the week, Caris knew that her father was bankrupt.

The townspeople had expected that it would be difficult, and had done all they could to prepare. They commissioned Merthin to build three large rafts that could be poled across the river, to supplement the ferry and Ian’s boat. He could have built more, but there was no room to land them on the banks. The priory’s grounds were opened a day early, and the ferry operated all night, by torchlight. They persuaded Godwyn to give permission for Kingsbridge shopkeepers to cross to the suburban side and sell to the queue, in the hope that Dick Brewer’s ale and Betty Baxter’s buns would mollify the people waiting.

It was not enough.

Fewer people than usual came to the fair, but the queues were worse than ever. The extra rafts were insufficient but, even so, the shore on both sides became so swampy that carts were constantly getting stuck in the mud and having to be towed out by teams of oxen. Worse, the rafts were difficult to steer, and on two occasions there were collisions that threw passengers into the water, though fortunately no one drowned.

Some traders anticipated these problems and stayed away. Others turned back when they saw the length of the queue. Of those willing to wait half a day to get into the city, some then did such paltry business that they left after a day or two. By Wednesday the ferry was taking more people away than it was bringing in.

That morning, Caris and Edmund made a tour of the bridge works with Guillaume of London. Guillaume was not as big a customer as Buonaventura Caroli, but he was the best they had this year, and they were making a fuss of him. He was a tall, beefy man in a cloak of expensive Italian cloth, bright red.

They borrowed Merthin’s raft, which had a raised deck and a built-in hoist for transporting building materials. His young assistant, Jimmie, poled them out into the river.

The midstream piers that Merthin had constructed in such a rush last December were still surrounded by their coffer dams. He had explained to Edmund and Caris that he would leave the dams in place until the bridge was almost finished to protect the stonework from accidental damage by his own workmen. When he demolished them he would put in their place a pile of loose large stones, the riprap, which he said would prevent the current undermining the piers.

The massive stone columns had now grown, like trees, spreading their arches sideways towards smaller piers built in the shallower water near the banks. These in turn were growing arches, on one side towards the central piers and on the other towards abutments on the bank. A dozen or more masons were busy on the elaborate scaffolding that clung to the stonework like gulls’ nests on a cliff.

They landed on Leper Island and found Merthin with Brother Thomas, supervising the masons building the abutment from which the bridge would spring across the northern branch of the river. The priory still owned and controlled the bridge, even though the land was leased to the parish guild and the construction was financed by loans from individual townspeople. Thomas was often on site. Prior Godwyn took a proprietorial interest in the work, and especially in how the bridge would look, evidently feeling it was going to be some kind of monument to him.

Merthin looked up at the visitors with his golden-brown eyes, and Caris’s heart seemed to beat faster. She hardly saw him, these days, and when they spoke it was always about business; but she still felt strange in his presence. She had to make an effort to breathe normally, to meet his eye with feigned indifference, and to slow her speech to a moderate speed.

They had never patched up their quarrel. She had not told him about her abortion, so he did not know whether her pregnancy had terminated spontaneously or otherwise. Neither of them had ever referred to it. On two occasions since then he had come to talk to her, solemnly, and had begged her to make a fresh start with him. Both times, she had told him that she would never love another man, but she was not going to spend her life as someone’s wife and someone else’s mother. “How will you spend your life, then?” he had asked, and she had replied simply that she did not know.

Merthin was not as impish as he used to be. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed – he was now a regular customer of Matthew Barber. He was dressed in a russet tunic, like the masons, but he wore a yellow cape trimmed with fur, a sign of his status as a master, and a cap with a feather in it, which made him look a bit taller.

Elfric, whose enmity continued, had objected to Merthin dressing like a master, on the grounds that he was not a member of any guild. Merthin’s reply was that he was a master, and the solution to the problem was for him to be admitted to a guild. And there the matter remained, unresolved.

Merthin was still only twenty-one, and Guillaume looked at him and said: “He’s young!”

Caris said defensively: “He’s been the best builder in town since he was about seventeen.”

Merthin said a few more words to Thomas then came over. “The abutments of a bridge need to be heavy, with deep foundations,” he said, explaining the massive bulwark of stone he was constructing.

Guillaume said: “Why is that, young man?”

Merthin was used to being condescended to, and he took it lightly. With a small smile, he said: “Let me show you. Stand with your feet as far apart as you can, like this.” Merthin demonstrated, and Guillaume – after a moment’s hesitation – imitated him. “Your feet feel as if they might slide farther apart, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And the ends of a bridge tend to spread, like your feet. This puts a strain on the bridge, just as you’re now feeling the tension in your groin.” Merthin stood upright and placed his own booted foot firmly up against Guillaume’s soft leather shoe. “Now your foot can’t move, and the strain on your groin has eased, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“The abutment has the same effect as my foot, in bracing your foot and relieving the strain.”

“Very interesting,” Guillaume said thoughtfully as he straightened up, and Caris knew he was telling himself not to underestimate Merthin.

“Let me show you around,” Merthin said.

The island had changed completely in the last six months. All signs of the old leper colony had gone. Much of the rocky land was now taken up with stores: neat piles of stone, barrels of lime, stacks of timber and coils of rope. The place was still infested with rabbits, but they were now competing for space with the builders. There was a smithy, where a blacksmith was repairing old tools and forging new ones; several masons’ lodges; and Merthin’s new house, small but carefully built and beautifully proportioned. Carpenters, stone carvers and mortar makers were labouring to keep the men on the scaffolding supplied with materials.

“There seem to be more people at work than usual,” Caris murmured in Merthin’s ear.

He grinned. “I’ve put as many as possible in highly visible positions,” he replied quietly. “I want every visitor to notice how fast we’re working to build the new bridge. I want them to believe the fair will be back to normal next year.”

At the west end of the island, away from the twin bridges, were storage yards and warehouses on plots of land Merthin had rented to Kingsbridge merchants. Although his rents were lower than what tenants would have to pay within the city walls, Merthin was already earning a good deal more than the token sum he paid every year for the lease.

He was also seeing a lot of Elizabeth Clerk. Caris thought she was a cold bitch, but she was the only other woman in town with the brains to challenge Merthin. She had a small box of books she had inherited from her father, the bishop, and Merthin spent evenings at her house, reading. Whether anything else went on, Caris did not know.

When the tour was over, Edmund took Guillaume back across the water, but Caris stayed behind to talk to Merthin. “Good customer?” he asked as they watched the raft being poled away.

“We’ve just sold him two sacks of cheap wool for less than we paid.” A sack was 364 pounds’ weight of wool, washed clean and dried. This year, the cheap wool was selling for thirty-six shillings a sack, the good quality for about double that.

“Why?”

“When prices are falling, it’s better to have cash than wool.”

“But surely you anticipated a poor fair.”

“We didn’t expect it to be this bad.”

“I’m surprised. In the past, your father has always had a supernatural ability to foresee trends.”

Caris hesitated. “It’s the combination of slack demand and the lack of a bridge.” In truth, she was surprised too. She had watched her father buy fleeces in the same quantity as usual, despite the poor prospects, and had wondered why he did not play safe by reducing his purchases.

“I suppose you’ll try to sell your surplus at the Shiring Fair,” Merthin said.

“It’s what Earl Roland wants everyone to do. The trouble is, we’re not regulars there. The locals will cream off the best of the business. It’s what happens in Kingsbridge: my father and two or three others strike large deals with the biggest buyers, leaving smaller operators and outsiders to scrabble for the leftovers. I’m sure the Shiring merchants do the same. We might sell a few sacks there, but there’s no real chance we can get rid of it all.”

“What will you do?”

“That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. We may have to stop work on the bridge.”

He stared at her. “No,” he said quietly.

“I’m very sorry, but my father doesn’t have the money. He’s put it all into fleeces that he can’t sell.”

Merthin looked as if he had been slapped. After a moment he said: “We have to find another way!”

Her heart went out to him, but she could think of nothing hopeful to say. “My father pledged seventy pounds to the bridge. He’s paid out half already. The rest, I’m afraid, is in woolsacks at his warehouse.”

“He can’t be completely penniless.”

“Very nearly. And the same applies to several other citizens who promised money for the bridge.”

“I could slow down,” Merthin said desperately. “Lay off some craftsmen, and run down the stocks of materials.”

“Then you wouldn’t have a bridge ready by next year’s fair, and we’d be in worse trouble.”

“Better than giving up altogether.”

“Yes, it would be,” she said. “But don’t do anything yet. When the Fleece Fair is over, we’ll think again. I just wanted you to know the situation.”

Merthin still looked pale. “I appreciate it.”

The raft came back, and Jimmie waited to take her to the shore. As she walked on board, she said casually: “And how is Elizabeth Clerk?”

Merthin pretended to be a little surprised by the question. “She’s fine, I think,” he said.

“You seem to be seeing a lot of her.”

“Not especially. We’ve always been friends.”

“Yes, of course,” Caris said, though it was not really true. Merthin had completely ignored Elizabeth for most of last year, when he and Caris were spending so much time together. But it would have been undignified to contradict him, so she said no more.

She waved goodbye and Jimmie pushed the raft off. Merthin was trying to give the impression that his relationship with Elizabeth was not a romance. Perhaps that was true. Or perhaps he was embarrassed to admit to Caris that he was in love with someone else. She could not tell. One thing she felt sure of: it was a romance on Elizabeth’s side. Caris could tell, just by the way Elizabeth looked at him. Elizabeth might be an ice maiden, but she was hot for Merthin.

The raft bumped against the opposite bank. Caris stepped off and walked up the hill into the centre of the city.

Merthin had been deeply shaken by her news. Caris felt like crying when she recalled the shock and dismay on his face. That was how he had looked when she had refused to rekindle their love affair.

She still did not know how she was going to spend her life. She had always assumed that, whatever she did, she would live in a comfortable house paid for by a profitable business. Now even that ground was moving under her feet. She racked her brains for some way out of the mess. Her father was oddly serene, as if he had not yet grasped the scale of his losses; but she knew that something had to be done.

Walking up the main street she passed Elfric’s daughter, Griselda, carrying her six-month-old baby. It was a boy, and she had named him Merthin, a permanent reproach to the original Merthin for not marrying her. Griselda was still maintaining a pretence of injured innocence. Everyone else now accepted that Merthin was not the father, though some townspeople still thought he should have married her anyway, as he had lain with her.

As Caris came to her own house, her father came out. She stared at him in astonishment. He was dressed only in his underwear: a long undershirt, drawers and hose. “Where are your clothes?” she said.

He looked down at himself and made a disgusted sound. “I’m getting absent-minded,” he said, and he went back indoors.

He must have taken his coat off to go to the privy, she thought, then forgotten to put it on again. Was that just his age? He was only forty-eight, and besides, it seemed worse than mere forgetfulness. She felt unnerved.

He returned normally dressed, and they crossed the main street together and entered the priory grounds. Edmund said: “Did you tell Merthin about the money?”

“Yes. He was terribly shocked.”

“What did he say?”

“That he could spend less by slowing the pace.”

“But then we wouldn’t have a bridge in time for next year.”

“But, as he said, that would be better than abandoning the bridge half built.”

They came to the stall of Perkin Wigleigh, selling laying hens. His flirtatious daughter, Annet, had a tray of eggs held up by a strap around her neck. Behind the counter Caris saw her friend Gwenda, who was now working for Perkin. Eight months pregnant, with heavy breasts and a swollen belly, Gwenda stood with one hand on her hip, stretching in the classic pose of the expectant mother with an aching back.

Caris calculated that she, too, would now be eight months pregnant, if she had not taken Mattie’s potion. After the abortion her breasts had leaked milk, and she could not help feeling that this was her body’s reproach for what she had done. She suffered pangs of regret but, whenever she thought about it logically, she knew that if she had her time over again she would do the same.

Gwenda caught Caris’s eye and smiled. Against all the odds, Gwenda had got what she wanted: Wulfric for her husband. He was there now, strong as a horse and twice as handsome, lifting a stack of wooden crates on to the flatbed of a cart. Caris was thrilled for Gwenda. “How do you feel today?” she said.

“My back’s been hurting all morning.”

“Not long, now.”

“A couple of weeks, I think.”

Edmund said: “Who’s this, my dear?”

“Don’t you remember Gwenda?” said Caris. “She’s been a guest at your house at least once a year for the past ten years!”

Edmund smiled. “I didn’t recognize you, Gwenda – it must be the pregnancy. You look well, though.”

They moved on. Wulfric had not been given his inheritance, Caris knew: Gwenda had failed in that task. Caris was not sure exactly what had gone on, last September, when Gwenda had gone to plead with Ralph, but it seemed Ralph had made some kind of promise then reneged. Anyway, Gwenda now hated Ralph with a passion that was almost frightening.

Nearby was a line of stalls at which local cloth merchants were selling brown burel, the loosely woven fabric that was bought by all but the rich for their home-made clothing. They seemed to be doing good business, unlike the wool merchants. Raw wool was a wholesale business – the absence of a few big buyers could ruin the market. But cloth was retail. Everyone needed it, everyone bought it. A bit less, perhaps, when times were hard, but they still needed clothes.

A vague thought formed in the back of Caris’s mind. When merchants could not sell their wool, they sometimes had it woven and tried to sell it as cloth. But it was a lot of work, and there was not much profit in brown burel. Everyone bought the cheapest, and sellers had to keep the price down.

She looked at the cloth stalls with new eyes. “I wonder what fetches the most money?” she said. The burel was twelve pence per yard. You had to pay half as much again for cloth that had been fulled – thickened by pounding in water – and still more for colours other than the natural dull brown. Peter Dyer’s stall featured green, yellow and pink cloth at two shillings – twenty-four pence – per yard, even though the colours were not very bright.

She turned to her father, to tell him the notion that was forming in her mind; but, before she could speak, something happened to distract her.

Being at the Fleece Fair reminded Ralph unpleasantly of the same event a year ago, and he touched his misshapen nose. How had that occurred? It had started with him harmlessly teasing the peasant girl, Annet, then teaching her oafish paramour a lesson in respect; but somehow it had ended up in humiliation for Ralph.

As he approached Perkin’s stall, he consoled himself by reflecting on what had happened since. He had saved Earl Roland’s life after the collapse of the bridge; he had pleased the earl by his decisive behaviour at the quarry; and he had at last been made a lord, albeit over nothing more than the little village of Wigleigh. He had killed a man, Ben Wheeler – a carter, so there was no honour in it, but all the same he had proved to himself that he could do it.

He had even made up his quarrel with his brother. Their mother had forced the issue, inviting them both to dinner on Christmas Day, insisting that they shake hands. It was a misfortune, their father had said, that they served masters who were rivals, but each had a duty to do his best, like soldiers who found themselves on opposing sides in a civil war. Ralph was pleased, and he thought Merthin felt the same.

He had been able to take a satisfying revenge on Wulfric, by denying him his inheritance and, at the same time, his girl. The eye-catching Annet was now married to Billy Howard, and Wulfric had to content himself with the ugly, though passionate, Gwenda.

It was a pity Wulfric did not look more crushed. He seemed to walk tall and proud around the village, as if he, not Ralph, owned the place. All his neighbours liked him and his pregnant wife worshipped him. Despite the defeats Ralph had inflicted, Wulfric somehow emerged as the hero. Perhaps it was because his wife was so lusty.

Ralph would have liked to tell Wulfric about Gwenda’s visit to him at the Bell. “I lay with your wife,” he wanted to say. “And she liked it.” That would wipe the proud look off Wulfric’s face. But then Wulfric would also know that Ralph had made a promise and, shamefully, broken it – which would just make Wulfric feel superior all over again. Ralph shuddered when he thought of the contempt Wulfric and others would feel for him if they ever found out about that betrayal. His brother Merthin in particular, would despise him for it. No, his tumble with Gwenda would have to remain a secret.

They were all at the stall. Perkin was the first to see Ralph approaching, and greeted his lord as obsequiously as ever. “Good day, Lord Ralph,” he said, bowing; and his wife, Peg, curtseyed behind him. Gwenda was there, rubbing her back as if it hurt. Then Ralph saw Annet with her tray of eggs, and he remembered touching her small breast, round and firm like the eggs on the tray. She saw him looking, and dropped her eyes demurely. He wanted to touch her breast again. Why not? he thought – I’m her lord. Then he saw Wulfric, at the back of the stall. The boy had been loading crates on to a cart, but now he stood still, looking at Ralph. His face was carefully expressionless, but his gaze was level and steady. His look could not be called insolent, but for Ralph there was no mistaking the threat. It could not have been clearer if Ralph had said: Touch her and I’ll kill you.

Perhaps I should do it, Ralph thought. Let him attack me. I’ll run him through with my sword. I will be completely in the right, a lord defending himself against a peasant maddened with hatred. Holding Wulfric’s gaze, he lifted his hand to fondle Annet’s breast – and then Gwenda let out a sharp cry of pain and distress, and all eyes turned to her.

31

Caris heard a cry of pain, and recognized the voice of Gwenda. She felt a throb of fear. Something was wrong. In a few hurried steps she was at Perkin’s stall.

Gwenda was sitting on a stool, looking pale, her face twisted in a grimace of pain, her hand on her hip again. Her dress was wet.

Perkin’s wife, Peg, said briskly: “Her waters have broken. Her labour is beginning.”

“It’s early,” Caris said anxiously.

“The baby is coming anyway.”

“This is dangerous.” Caris made a decision. “Let’s take her to the hospital.” Women did not normally go to the hospital to give birth, but they would admit Gwenda if Caris insisted. An early baby could be vulnerable, everyone knew that.

Wulfric appeared. Caris was struck by how young he looked. He was seventeen and about to become a father.

Gwenda said: “I feel a bit wobbly. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“I’ll carry you,” Wulfric said, and he picked her up effortlessly.

“Follow me,” said Caris. She walked ahead of him through the stalls, calling: “Stand aside, please – stand aside!” In a minute they were at the hospital.

The door was wide open. Overnight visitors had been tipped out hours ago, and their straw mattresses were now piled high against one wall. Several employees and novices were energetically washing the floor with mops and buckets. Caris addressed the nearest cleaner, a middle-aged woman with bare feet. “Fetch Old Julie, quickly – tell her Caris sent you.”

Caris found a reasonably clean mattress and spread it on the floor near the altar. She was not sure how effective altars were at helping sick People, but she followed the convention. Wulfric put Gwenda down on the bed as carefully as if she had been made of glass. She lay with her knees up and her legs parted.

A few moments later Old Julie arrived, and Caris thought how often in her life she had been comforted by this nun, who was probably not much past forty but seemed ancient. “This is Gwenda Wigleigh,” said Caris. “She may be fine, but the baby is coming several weeks early, and I thought it a sensible precaution to bring her here. We were just outside, anyway.”

“Very wise,” said Julie, gently pushing Caris aside to kneel by the bed. “How do you feel, my dear?” she said to Gwenda.

While Julie talked to Gwenda in a low voice, Caris looked at Wulfric. His handsome young face was contorted with anxiety. Caris knew that he had never intended to marry Gwenda – he had always wanted Annet. However, he now seemed as concerned for her as if he had loved her for years.

Gwenda cried out in pain. “There, there,” said Julie. She knelt between Gwenda’s feet and looked up her dress. “Baby’s coming quite soon,” she said.

Another nun appeared, and Caris recognized Mair, the novice with the angel face. She said: “Shall I get Mother Cecilia?”

“No need to bother her,” said Julie. “Just go to the storeroom and fetch me the wooden box with ‘Birth’ written on the top.”

Mair hurried away.

Gwenda said: “Oh, God, it hurts.”

“Keep pushing,” said Julie.

Wulfric said: “What’s wrong, for God’s sake?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Julie. “This is normal. This is how women give birth. You must be the youngest of your family, otherwise you would have seen your mother like this.”

Caris, too, was the young sibling in her family. She knew that childbirth was painful, but she had never actually watched it, and she was shocked by how bad it was.

Mair returned and placed a wooden box on the floor next to Julie.

Gwenda stopped groaning. Her eyes closed, and she looked almost as if she might have been asleep. Then, a few minutes later, she cried out again.

Julie said to Wulfric: “Sit beside her and hold her hand.” He obeyed immediately.

Julie was still looking up Gwenda’s dress. “Stop pushing now,” she said after a while. “Take lots of short breaths.” She panted to show Gwenda what she meant. Gwenda complied and it seemed to ease her distress for a few minutes. Then she cried out again.

Caris could hardly stand it. If this was normal, what was childbirth like when there were difficulties? She lost her sense of time: everything was happening very quickly, but Gwenda’s torment seemed endless. Caris had the powerless feeling that she hated so much, the feeling that had overwhelmed her when her mother died. She wanted to help, but she did not know what to do, and it made her so anxious that she bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Julie said: “Here comes baby.” She reached between Gwenda’s legs. The dress fell away, and suddenly Caris could clearly see the baby’s head, face down, covered in wet hair, emerging from an opening that seemed impossibly stretched. “God help us, no wonder it hurts!” she said in horror.

Julie supported the head with her left hand. The baby slowly turned sideways, then its tiny shoulders came out. Its skin was slippery with blood and some other fluid. “Just relax, now,” Julie said. “It’s nearly over. Baby looks beautiful.”

Beautiful? Caris thought. To her it looked horrible.

The baby’s torso came out with a fat, pulsing blue cord attached to its navel. Then its legs and feet came all in a rush. Julie picked up the baby in both hands. It was tiny, its head not much bigger than the palm of Julie’s hand.

Something seemed wrong. Caris realized the baby was not breathing.

Julie brought the baby’s face close to her own and blew into its miniature nostrils.

The baby suddenly opened its mouth, gasped air, and cried.

“Praise God,” said Julie.

She wiped the baby’s face with the sleeve of her robe, tenderly cleaning around the ears, eyes, nose and mouth. Then she pressed the newborn to her bosom, closing her eyes; in that instant Caris saw a lifetime of self-denial. The moment passed, and Julie laid the baby on Gwenda’s chest.

Gwenda looked down. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

Caris realized that none of them had looked. Julie leaned over and parted the baby’s knees. “A boy,” she said.

The blue cord stopped pulsing and shrivelled, turning white. Julie took from the box two short lengths of string, and tied off the umbilical cord. Then she took out a small, sharp knife and cut the cord between the two knots.

Mair took the knife from her and handed her a tiny blanket from the box. Julie took the baby from Gwenda, wrapped him in the blanket, and gave him back. Mair found some pillows and propped Gwenda up. Gwenda pushed down the neck of her shift and took out a swollen breast. She gave the baby the nipple, and he began to suck. After a minute, he seemed to sleep.

The other end of the cord was still hanging out of Gwenda. A few minutes later it moved, and a shapeless red mass slipped out: the afterbirth. Blood soaked the mattress. Julie lifted the mass, handed it to Mair and said: “Burn this.”

Julie scrutinized Gwenda’s pelvic area and frowned. Caris followed her gaze, and saw that the blood was still flowing. Julie wiped the stains away from Gwenda’s body, but the red streaks reappeared immediately.

When Mair came back, Julie said: “Fetch Mother Cecilia, please, right away.”

Wulfric said: “Is something wrong?”

“The bleeding should have stopped by now,” Julie answered.

Suddenly there was tension in the air. Wulfric looked frightened. The baby cried, and Gwenda gave him the nipple again. He suckled briefly and slept again. Julie kept looking at the doorway.

At last Cecilia appeared. She looked at Gwenda and said: “Has the afterbirth come out?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Did you put the baby to the breast?”

“As soon as we had cut the cord.”

“I’ll get a physician.” Cecilia walked quickly away.

She was gone some minutes. When she returned she was carrying a small glass vessel containing a yellowish fluid. “Prior Godwyn has prescribed this,” she said.

Caris was indignant. “Doesn’t he want to examine Gwenda?”

“Certainly not,” Cecilia said crisply. “He’s a priest as well as a monk. Such men don’t look upon women’s private parts.”

“Podex,” Caris said contemptuously. It was the Latin for arsehole.

Cecilia pretended not to hear. She knelt beside Gwenda. “Drink this, my dear.”

Gwenda drank the potion, but she continued to bleed. She was pale, and looked weaker than she had done immediately after the birth. The baby slept contentedly on her breast, but everyone else was scared. Wulfric kept standing up and sitting down again. Julie wiped the blood off Gwenda’s thighs and looked as if she might cry. Gwenda asked for something to drink, and Mair brought a cup of ale.

Caris took Julie aside and said in a whisper: “She’s bleeding to death!”

“We’ve done what we can,” Julie said.

“Have you seen cases like this before?”

“Yes, three.”

“How did they end?”

“The women died.”

Caris gave a low groan of despair. “There must be something we can do!”

“She’s in God’s hands, now. You could pray.”

“That’s not what I meant by doing something.”

“You be careful what you say.”

Caris immediately felt guilty. She did not want to quarrel with someone as kindly as Julie. “I’m sorry, sister. I didn’t mean to deny the power of prayer.”

“I should hope not.”

“But I’m not yet ready to leave Gwenda in the hands of God.”

“What else is there to do?”

“You’ll see.” Caris hurried out of the hospital.

She pushed impatiently through the customers strolling around the fair. It seemed amazing to her that people could still be buying and selling when a drama of life and death was going on a few yards away. But there had been many occasions when she had heard that a mother-to-be had gone into labour, and she had never stopped what she was doing. just wished the woman well then carried on.

She emerged from the priory grounds and ran through the streets of the town to Mattie Wise’s house. She knocked on the door and opened it. To her relief, Mattie was at home.

“Gwenda’s just had her baby,” she said.

“What’s gone wrong?” Mattie said immediately.

“The baby’s all right, but Gwenda’s still bleeding.”

“Has the afterbirth come out?”

“Yes.”

“The bleeding should have stopped.”

“Can you help her?”

“Perhaps. I’ll try.”

“Hurry, please!”

Mattie took a pot off the fire and put on her shoes, then the two of them left, Mattie locking her door behind her.

Caris said vehemently: “I’m never going to have a baby, I swear.”

They rushed to the priory and went into the hospital. Caris noticed the strong smell of blood.

Mattie was careful to acknowledge Old Julie. “Good afternoon, Sister Juliana.”

“Hello, Mattie.” Julie looked disapproving. “Do you believe you can help this woman, when the holy prior’s remedies have not been blessed with success?”

“If you pray for me and for the patient, sister, who knows what may happen?”

It was a diplomatic answer, and Julie was mollified.

Mattie knelt beside mother and child. Gwenda was becoming paler. Her eyes were closed. The baby sought blindly for the nipple, but Gwenda seemed too tired to help him.

Mattie said: “She must keep drinking – but not strong liquor. Please bring her a jug of warm water with a small glass of wine mixed into it. Then ask the kitchener if he has a clear soup, warm but not hot.”

Mair looked questioningly at Julie, who hesitated, then said: “Go – but don’t tell anyone that you’re doing Mattie’s bidding.” The novice hurried off.

Mattie pushed Gwenda’s dress up as high as it would go, exposing all of her abdomen. The skin that had been stretched so taut, a few hours ago, was now flabby and folded. Mattie grasped the loose flesh, digging her fingers gently but firmly into Gwenda’s belly. Gwenda grunted, but it was a sound of discomfort rather than pain.

Mattie said: “The womb is soft. It has failed to contract. That’s why she’s bleeding.”

Wulfric, who seemed close to tears, said: “Can you do anything for her?”

“I don’t know.” Mattie began to massage, her fingers apparently pressing Gwenda’s womb through the skin and flesh of her belly. “Sometimes this provokes the womb to shrink,” she said.

Everyone watched in silence. Caris was almost afraid to breathe.

Mair came back with the water-and-wine mixture. “Give her some, please,” Mattie said without pausing in her massage. Mair held a cup to Gwenda’s lips and she drank thirstily. “Not too much,” Mattie warned. Mair took the cup away.

Mattie continued to massage, glancing from time to time at Gwenda’s pelvis. Julie’s lips moved in silent prayer. The blood flowed without let-up.

Looking worried, Mattie changed her position. She put her left hand on Gwenda’s belly just below the navel, then her right hand over the left. She pressed down, slowly putting on more pressure. Caris was afraid it must hurt the patient, but Gwenda seemed only half conscious. Mattie leaned farther over Gwenda until she seemed to be putting all her weight on to her hands.

Julie said: “She’s stopped bleeding!”

Mattie did not change her position. “Can anyone here count to five hundred?”

“Yes,” Caris said.

“Slowly, please.”

Caris began to count aloud. Julie wiped the blood off Gwenda again, and this time the streaks did not reappear. She began to pray aloud. “Holy Mary, Mother of the Lord Jesus Christ…”

Everyone was still, like a group of statuary, the mother and baby on the bed, the wise woman pressing down on the mother’s belly; the husband, the praying nun and Caris counting: “A hundred and eleven, a hundred and twelve…”

As well as her own voice and Julie’s, Caris could hear the sound of the fair outside, the roar of hundreds of people all speaking at once. The strain of pressing down began to show on Mattie’s face, but she did not move. Wulfric was crying silently, tears streaming down his sunburned cheeks.

When Caris reached five hundred, Mattie slowly eased her weight off Gwenda’s abdomen. Everyone looked at her vagina, dreading the gush of blood.

It did not come.

Mattie breathed a long sigh of relief. Wulfric smiled. Julie said: “Praise God!”

Mattie said: “Give her another drink, please.”

Once again, Mair put a full cup to Gwenda’s lips. Gwenda opened her eyes and drank it all.

“You’re going to be all right now,” Mattie said.

Gwenda whispered: “Thank you.” Then she closed her eyes.

Mattie looked at Mair. “Perhaps you should go and see about that soup,” she said. “The woman must rebuild her strength, otherwise her milk will dry up.”

Mair nodded and left.

The baby cried. Gwenda seemed to revive. She moved the baby to her other breast and helped him find the nipple. Then she looked up at Wulfric and smiled.

Julie said: “What a beautiful little boy.”

Caris looked at the baby again. For the first time, she saw him as an individual. What would he be like – strong and true like Wulfric, or weak and dishonest like his grandfather Joby? He did not resemble either, she thought. “Who does he look like?” she said.

Julie said: “He has his mother’s colouring.”

That was right, Caris thought. The baby had dark hair and beige skin, where Wulfric had fair skin and a mane of dark-blond hair. The baby’s face reminded her of someone, and after a moment she realized it was Merthin. A foolish thought crossed her mind, and she dismissed it immediately. All the same, the resemblance was there. “You know who he reminds me of?” she said.

Suddenly she caught a look from Gwenda. Her eyes widened, an expression of panic crossed her face, and she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was gone in an instant, but the message was unmistakable: Shut up! Caris clamped her teeth together.

“Who?” said Julie innocently.

Caris hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say. At last she was inspired. “Philemon, Gwenda’s brother,” she said.

“Of course,” said Julie. “Someone should tell him to come and see his new nephew.”

Caris was bewildered. So the baby was not Wulfric’s? Then whose? It could not be Merthin’s. He might have lain with Gwenda – he was certainly vulnerable to temptation – but he could never have kept it secret from Caris afterwards. If not Merthin…

Caris was struck by a dreadful thought. What had gone on that day when Gwenda went to plead with Ralph for Wulfric’s inheritance? Could the baby be Ralph’s? It was too grim to contemplate.

She looked at Gwenda, then at the baby, then at Wulfric. Wulfric was smiling with joy, though his face was still wet with tears. He had no suspicions.

Julie said: “Have you thought about the baby’s name?”

“Oh, yes,” said Wulfric. “I want to name him Samuel.”

Gwenda nodded, looking down at the baby’s face. “Samuel,” she said. “Sammy. Sam.”

“After my father,” Wulfric said happily.

32

One year after the death of Anthony, Kingsbridge Priory was a different place, Godwyn thought, with satisfaction, as he stood in the cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair.

The main difference was the separation of monks and nuns. They no longer mingled in the cloisters, the library or the scriptorium. Even here in the church, a new carved-oak screen running down the centre of the choir prevented them from looking at one another during the services. Only in the hospital were they sometimes forced to mix.

In his sermon, Prior Godwyn said the collapse of the bridge a year ago had been God’s punishment for laxity in the monks and nuns, and for sin among the townspeople. The new spirit of rigour and purity at the priory, and piety and submission in the town, would lead to a better life for all, in this world and the hereafter. He felt it went down quite well.

Afterwards he had dinner with Brother Simeon, the treasurer, in the prior’s house. Philemon served them stewed eel and cider. “I want to build a new prior’s house,” Godwyn said.

Simeon’s long, thin face seemed to get longer. “Any particular reason?”

“I’m sure I am the only prior in Christendom who lives in a house like a leather tanner’s. Think of the people who have been guests here in the last twelve months – the earl of Shiring, the bishop of Kingsbridge, the earl of Monmouth – this building isn’t appropriate for such folk. It gives a poor impression of us and of our order. We need a magnificent building to reflect the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory.”

“You want a palace,” said Simeon.

Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon’s tone of voice, as if Godwyn’s aim was to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It’s not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”

“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can’t afford it.”

Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”

“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”

Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”

Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition, and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look, and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer – and make an interesting contribution.

“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there’s no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”

Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”

“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain. Many of our serfs struggled to stay alive. It’s hard to force them to pay their rents when they’re hungry-”

“They must pay, all the same,” Godwyn said. “Monks get hungry too.”

Philemon spoke again. “If the bailiff of a village says that a serf has defaulted on his rent, or that part of the land is untenanted therefore no rent is due, you haven’t really got any way of checking that he’s telling the truth. Bailiffs can be bribed by serfs.”

Godwyn felt frustrated. He had had numerous conversations like this in the past year. He had been determined to tighten up control of the priory’s finances, but every time he tried to change things he ran into barriers. “Have you got a suggestion?” he said irritably to Philemon.

“Send an inspector on a tour of the villages. Let him speak to bailiffs, look at the land, go into the cottages of serfs who are said to be starving.”

“If the bailiff can be bribed, so can the inspector.”

“Not if he’s a monk. What use have we for money?”

Godwyn recalled Philemon’s old inclination to stealing. It was true that monks had no use for personal money, at least in theory, but that did not mean they were incorruptible. However, a visit from the prior’s inspector would certainly put bailiffs on their toes. “It’s a good idea,” Godwyn said. “Would you like to be the inspector?”

“I’d be honoured.”

“Then it’s settled.” Godwyn turned back to Simeon. “All the same, we still have a huge income.”

“And huge costs,” Simeon replied. “We pay a subvention to our bishop. We feed, clothe and house twenty-five monks, seven novices and nineteen pensioners of the priory. We employ thirty people as cleaners, cooks, stable boys and so on. We spend a fortune on candles. Monks’ robes-”

“All right, I’ve grasped your point,” Godwyn said impatiently. “But I still want to build a palace.”

“Where will you go for the money, then?”

Godwyn sighed. “Where we always go, in the end. I’ll ask Mother Cecilia.”

He saw her a few minutes later. Normally he would have asked her to come to him, as a sign of the superiority of the male within the church; but on this occasion he thought it best to flatter her.

The prioress’s house was an exact copy of the prior’s, but it had a different feel. There were cushions and rugs, flowers in a bowl on the table, embroidered samplers on the wall illustrating Bible stories and texts, and a cat asleep in front of the fireplace. Cecilia was finishing a dinner of roast lamb and dark-red wine. She put on a veil when Godwyn arrived, in accordance with a rule Godwyn had introduced, for occasions when monks had to talk to nuns.

He found Cecilia difficult to read, veiled or not. She had formally welcomed his election as prior, and had gone along unprotestingly with his stricter rules about separation of monks and nuns, making only the occasional practical point about the efficient running of the hospital. She had never opposed him, and yet he felt she was not really on his side. It seemed he was no longer able to charm her. When he was younger he had been able to make her laugh like a girl. Now she was no longer susceptible – or perhaps he had lost the knack.

Small talk was difficult with a woman in a veil, so he plunged straight into his topic. “I think we should build two new houses for entertaining noble and high-ranking guests,” he said. “One for men, one for women. They would be called the prior’s house and the prioress’s house, but their main purpose would be to accommodate visitors in the style to which they’re accustomed.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Cecilia said. As ever, she was compliant without being enthusiastic.

“We should have impressive stone buildings,” Godwyn went on. “After all, you have been prioress here for more than a decade – you are one of the most senior nuns in the kingdom.”

“We want the guests to be impressed, not by our wealth, but by the holiness of the priory and the piety of the monks and nuns, of course,” she said.

“Indeed – but the buildings should symbolize that, as the cathedral symbolizes the majesty of God.”

“Where do you think the new buildings should be sited?”

This was good, Godwyn thought – she was already getting down to details. “Close to where the old houses are now.”

“So, yours near the east end of the church, next to the chapter house, and mine down here by the fishpond.”

It crossed Godwyn’s mind that she might be mocking him. He could not see her expression. Imposing a veil on women had its disadvantages, he reflected. “You might prefer a new location,” he said.

“Yes, I might.”

There was a short silence. Godwyn was finding it hard to broach the subject of money. He was going to have to change the rule about veils – make an exception for the prioress, perhaps. It was just too difficult to negotiate like this.

He was forced to plunge again. “Unfortunately, I would not be able to make any contribution to the building costs. The monastery is very poor.”

“To the cost of the prioress’s house, you mean?” she said. “I wouldn’t expect it.”

“No, actually, I meant the cost of the prior’s house.”

“Oh. So you want the nunnery to pay for your new house as well as mine.”

“I’m afraid I would have to ask you that, yes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Well, if it’s for the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory…”

“I knew you would see it that way.”

“Let me see… Right now I’m building new cloisters for the nuns, as we no longer share with the monks.”

Godwyn made no comment. He was irritated that Cecilia had employed Merthin to design the cloisters, rather than the cheaper Elfric, which was a wasteful extravagance; but this was not the moment to say so.

Cecilia went on: “And when that’s done, I need to build a nuns’ library and buy some books for it, as we can’t use your library any more.”

Godwyn tapped his foot impatiently. This seemed irrelevant.

“And then we need a covered walkway to the church, as we now take a different route to that used by the monks, and we have no protection in bad weather.”

“Very reasonable,” Godwyn commented, though he wanted to say: Stop dithering!

“So,” she said with an air of finality, “I think we could consider this proposal in three years’ time.”

“Three years? I want to start now!”

“Oh, I don’t think we can contemplate that.”

“Why not?”

“We have a budget for building, you see.”

“But isn’t this more important?”

“We must stick to our budget.”

“Why?”

“So that we remain financially strong and independent,” she said; then she added pointedly: “I wouldn’t like to go begging.”

Godwyn did not know what to say. Worse, he had a ghastly feeling that she was laughing at him behind the veil. He could not stand to be laughed at. He stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Mother Cecilia,” he said coldly. “We’ll talk about this again.”

“Yes,” she said, “in three years’ time. I look forward to it.”

Now he was sure she was laughing. He turned away and left as quickly as he could.

Back in his own house, he threw himself in a chair, fuming. “I hate that woman,” he said to Philemon, who was still there.

“She said no?”

“She said she would consider it in three years’ time.”

“That’s worse than a no,” said Philemon. “It’s a three-year no.”

“We’re always in her power, because she has money.”

“I listen to the talk of the older men,” Philemon said, apparently irrelevantly. “It’s surprising how much you learn.”

“What are you getting at?”

“When the priory first built mills and dug fishponds and fenced oft rabbit warrens, the priors made a law that townspeople had to use the monks’ facilities, and pay for them. They weren’t allowed to grind their corn at home, or full cloth by treading it, nor could they have their own ponds and warrens – they had to buy from us. The law ensured that the priory got back its costs.”

“But the law fell out of use?”

“It changed. Instead of a prohibition, people were allowed their own facilities if they paid a fine. Then that fell out of use, in Prior Anthony’s time.”

“And now there’s a hand mill in every house.”

“And all the fishmongers have ponds, there are half a dozen warrens, and dyers full their own cloth by making their wives and children tread it, instead of bringing it to the priory’s fulling mill.”

Godwyn was excited. “If all those people paid a fine for the privilege of having their own facilities…”

“It could be quite a lot of money.”

“They would squeal like pigs.” Godwyn frowned. “Can we prove what we say?”

“There are plenty of people who remember the fines. But it’s bound to be written in the priory records somewhere – probably in Timothy’s Book.”

“You’d better find out exactly how much the fines were. If we’re resting on the ground of precedent, we’d better get it right.”

“If I may make a suggestion…”

“Of course.”

“You could announce the new regime from the pulpit of the cathedral on Sunday morning. That would serve to emphasize that it’s the will of God.”

“Good idea,” said Godwyn. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

33

“I’ve got the solution,” Caris said to her father.

He sat back in the big wooden seat at the head of the table, a slight smile on his face. She knew that look. It was sceptical, but willing to listen. “Go on,” he said.

She was a little nervous. She felt sure her idea would work – saving her father’s fortune and Merthin’s bridge – but could she convince Edmund? “We take our surplus wool and have it woven into cloth and dyed,” she said simply. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

“Wool merchants often try that in hard times,” he said. “But tell me why you think it would work. What would it cost?”

“For cleaning, spinning and weaving, four shillings per sack.”

“And how much cloth would that make?”

“A sack of poor-quality wool, that you bought for thirty-six shillings and wove for four more shillings, would make forty-eight yards of cloth.”

“Which you would sell for…?”

“Undyed, brown burel sells for a shilling a yard, so forty-eight shillings – eight more than we would have paid out.”

“It’s not much, considering the work we would have put in.”

“But that’s not the best of it.”

“Keep going.”

“Weavers sell their brown burel because they’re in a hurry to get the money. But if you spend another twenty shillings fulling the cloth, then dyeing and finishing it, you can get double the price – two shillings a yard, ninety-six shillings for the whole lot – thirty-six shillings more than you paid!”

Edmund looked dubious. “If it’s so easy, why don’t more people do it?”

“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 discs, 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 for ever.”

“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 market place. The Shiring Fair was held here, between the guild hall and a large timber building that was 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 market place. 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 colours 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. “Marvellous. 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, the one that she had inherited from her mother. It was her favourite 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 colour and also fixes it, so it won’t fade. A cloak in this colour, for you, would be wonderful, a joy for ever.”

“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.”

“And the blue?”

“Like your eyes.”

Her eyes were green, but she did not correct him. “It’s such a deep colour.”

“English dyers use woad, but we get indigo from Bengal. Moorish traders bring it from India to Egypt, and then our Italian merchants buy it in Alexandria.” He smiled. “Think how far it has travelled – to complement your outstanding beauty.”

“Yes,” said Caris. “Just think of that.”

The riverside workshop of Peter Dyer was a house as big as Edmund’s, but built of stone, and with no interior walls or floors – just a shell. Two iron cauldrons stood over great fires. Beside each was a hoist, like the ones Merthin made for building work. These were used to lift huge sacks of wool or cloth and lower them into the vats. The floors were permanently wet and the air was thick with steam. The apprentices worked barefoot, in their underdrawers because of the heat, their faces running with sweat, their hair gleaming with damp. There was an acrid smell that bit at the back of Caris’s throat.

She showed Peter her unsold length of cloth. “I want the bright scarlet that the Italian cloths have,” she said. “That’s what sells best.”

Peter was a lugubrious man who always looked injured, no matter what you said to him. Now he nodded glumly, as if acknowledging a justified criticism. “We’ll dye it again with madder.”

“And with alum, to fix the colour and make it brighter.”

“We don’t use alum. Never have. I don’t know anyone who does.”

Caris cursed inwardly. She had not thought to check this. She had assumed a dyer would know everything about dyes. “Can’t you try it?”

“I haven’t got any.”

Caris sighed. Peter seemed to be one of those craftsmen for whom everything is impossible unless they have done it before. “Suppose I could get you some?”

“Where from?”

“Winchester, I suppose, or London. Or perhaps from Melcombe.” That was the nearest big port. Ships came from all over Europe to Melcombe.

“If I had some, I wouldn’t know how to use it.”

“Can’t you find out?”

“Who from?”

“I’ll try to find out, then.”

He shook his head pessimistically. “I don’t know…”

She did not want to quarrel with him: he was the only large-scale dyer in town. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “I won’t take up any more of your time discussing it now. First I’ll see if I can get some alum.”

She left him. Who in town might know about alum? She wished now that she had asked Loro Fiorentino more questions. The monks ought to know about things like this, but they were no longer allowed to talk to women. She decided to see Mattie Wise. Mattie was forever mixing strange ingredients – maybe alum was one of them. More importantly, if she did not know she would admit her ignorance, unlike a monk or an apothecary who might make something up for fear of being thought foolish.

Mattie’s first words were: “How is your father?”

“He seems a bit shaken by the failure of the Fleece Fair,” Caris said. It was typical of Mattie to know what she was worried about. “He’s becoming forgetful. He seems older.”

“Take care of him,” said Mattie. “He’s a good man.”

“I know.” Caris was not sure what Mattie was getting at.

“Petranilla is a self-centred cow.”

“I know that, too.”

Mattie was grinding something with a mortar and pestle. She pushed the bowl towards Caris. “If you do this for me, I’ll pour you a cup of wine.”

“Thank you.” Caris began to grind.

Mattie poured yellow wine from a stone jug into two wooden cups. “Why are you here? You’re not ill.”

“Do you know what alum is?”

“Yes. In small quantities, we use it as an astringent, to close wounds. It can also stop diarrhoea. But in large quantities it’s poisonous. Like most poisons, it makes you vomit. There was alum in the potion I gave you last year.”

“What is it, a herb?”

“No, it’s an earth. The Moors mine it in Turkey and Africa. Tanners employ it in the preparation of leather, sometimes. I suppose you want to use it to dye cloth.”

“Yes.” As always, Mattie’s guesswork seemed supernaturally accurate.

“It acts as a mordant – it helps the dye to bite the wool.”

“And where do you get it?”

“I buy it in Melcombe,” said Mattie.

Caris made the two-day journey to Melcombe, where she had been several times before, accompanied by one of her father’s employees as a bodyguard. At the quayside she found a merchant who dealt in spices, cage birds, musical instruments and all kinds of curiosities from remote parts of the world. He sold her both the red dye made from the root of the madder plant, cultivated in France, and a type of alum known as Spiralum that he said came from Ethiopia. He charged her seven shillings for a small barrel of madder and a pound for a sack of alum, and she had no idea whether she was paying fair prices or not. He sold her his entire stock, and promised to get more from the next Italian ship to come into port. She asked him what quantities of dye and alum she should use, but he did not know.

When she got home, she began to dye pieces of her unsold cloth in a cooking pot. Petranilla objected to the smell, so Caris built a fire in the back yard. She knew that she had to put the cloth in a solution of dye and boil it, and Peter Dyer told her the correct strength of the dye solution. However, no one knew how much alum she needed or how she should use it.

She began a frustrating process of trial and error. She tried soaking the cloth in alum before dyeing it; putting the alum in at the same time as the dye; and boiling the dyed cloth in a solution of alum afterwards. She tried using the same quantity of alum as dye, then more, then less. At Mattie’s suggestion she experimented with other ingredients: oak galls, chalk, lime water, vinegar, urine.

She was short of time. In all towns, no one could sell cloth but members of the guild – except during a fair, when the normal rules were relaxed. And all fairs were held in summer. The last was St Giles’s Fair, which took place on the downs to the east of Winchester on St Giles’s Day, 12 September. It was now mid-July, so she had eight weeks.

She started early in the morning and worked until long after dark. Agitating the cloth continuously and lifting it in and out of the pot made her back ache. Her hands became red and sore from constant dipping in the harsh chemicals, and her hair began to smell. But, despite the frustration, she occasionally felt happy, and sometimes she hummed or even sang as she worked, old tunes whose words she could barely remember from childhood. Neighbours in their own back yards watched ner curiously across the fences.

Now and again there came into her mind the thought: Is this my rate? More than once she had said that she did not know what to do with her life. But she might not have a free choice. She was not to be allowed to be a physician; becoming a wool merchant looked like a bad idea; she did not want to enslave herself to a husband and children – but she had never dreamed that she might end up as a dyer. When she thought about it, she knew that this was not what she wanted to do. Having started it, she was determined to succeed – but it was not going to be her destiny.

At first she could only get the cloth to turn brownish red or pale pink. When she began to approach the right shade of scarlet she found, maddeningly, that it faded when she dried it in the sun, or came out when washed. She tried double-dyeing, but the effect proved temporary. Peter told her, rather late, that the material would soak up dye more completely if she worked with the yarn before it was woven, or even with raw fleeces; and that improved the shade, but not the fastness.

“There’s only one way to learn dyeing, and that’s from a master,” Peter said several times. They all thought that way, Caris realized. Prior Godwyn learned medicine by reading books that were hundreds of years old, and prescribed medicines without even looking at his patient. Elfric had punished Merthin for carving the parable of the virgins in a new way. Peter had never even tried to dye cloth scarlet. Only Mattie based her decisions on what she could see for herself, rather than on some venerated authority.

Caris’s sister Alice stood watching her late one evening, with folded arms and pursed lips. As darkness gathered in the corners of the yard, the light of Caris’s fire reddened Alice’s disapproving face. “How much of our father’s money have you spent on this foolishness?” she said.

Caris added it up. “Seven shillings for the madder, a pound for the alum, twelve shillings for the cloth – thirty-nine shillings.”

“God save us!” Alice was horrified.

Caris herself was daunted. It was more than a year’s wages for most people in Kingsbridge. “It is a lot, but I’ll make more,” she said.

Alice was angry. “You have no right to spend his money like this.”

“No right?” Caris said. “I have his permission – what more do I need?”

“He’s showing signs of age. His judgement is not what it was.”

Caris pretended not to know this. “His judgement is fine, and a lot better than yours.”

“You’re spending our inheritance!”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Don’t worry, I’m making you money.”

“I don’t want to take the risk.”

“You’re not taking the risk, he is.”

“He shouldn’t throw away money that should come to us!”

“Tell him that.”

Alice went away defeated, but Caris was not as confident as she pretended. She might never get it just right. And then what would she and her father do?

When finally she found the right formula, it was remarkably simple: an ounce of madder and two ounces of alum for every three ounces of wool. She boiled the wool in the alum first, then added the madder to the pot without re-boiling the liquid. The extra ingredient was lime water. She could hardly believe the result. It was more successful than she could have hoped. The red was bright, almost like the Italian red. She felt sure it would fade and give her another disappointment; but the colour remained the same through drying, re-washing and fulling.

She gave Peter the formula and, under her close supervision, he used all her remaining alum to dye twelve yards of best-quality wool cloth in one of his giant vats. When it had been fulled, Caris paid a finisher to draw off the loose threads with a teasel, the prickly head of a wild flower, and to repair small blemishes.

She went to St Giles’s Fair with a bale of perfect bright red cloth.

As she was unrolling it, she was addressed by a man with a London accent. “How much is that?” he said.

She looked at him. His clothes were expensive without being ostentatious, and she guessed he was wealthy but not noble. Trying to mask the trembling in her voice, she said: “Seven shillings a yard. It’s the best-”

“No, I meant how much for the whole cloth.”

“It’s twelve yards, so that would be eighty-four shillings.”

He rubbed the cloth between finger and thumb. “It’s not as close-woven as Italian cloth, but it’s not bad. I’ll give you twenty-seven gold florins.”

The gold coin of Florence was in common use, because England had no gold currency of its own. It was worth about three shillings, thirty-six English silver pennies. The Londoner was offering to buy her entire cloth for only three shillings less than she would get selling it yard by yard. But she sensed that he was not very serious about haggling – otherwise he would have started lower. “No,” she said, marvelling at her own temerity. “I want the full price.”

“All right,” he said immediately, confirming her instinct. She watched, thrilled, as he took out his purse. A moment later she held in her hand twenty-eight gold florins.

She examined one carefully. It was a bit larger than a silver penny. On one side was St John the Baptist, the patron saint of Florence, and on the other the flower of Florence. She placed it on a balance to compare its weight with that of a new-minted florin her father kept for the purpose. The coin was good.

“Thank you,” she said, hardly believing her success.

“I’m Harry Mercer of Cheapside, London,” he said. “My father is the largest cloth merchant in England. When you’ve got more of this scarlet, come to London. We’ll buy as much as you can bring us.”

“Let’s weave it all!” she said to her father when she returned home. “You’ve got forty sacks of wool left. We’ll turn it all into red cloth.”

“It’s a big enterprise,” he said thoughtfully.

Caris was sure her scheme would work. “There are plenty of weavers, and they’re all poor. Peter isn’t the only dyer in Kingsbridge, we can teach the others to use the alum.”

“Others will copy you, once the secret gets out.”

She knew he was right to think of snags, but all the same she felt impatient. “Let them copy,” she said. “They can make money too.”

He was not going to be pushed into anything. “The price will come down if there’s a lot of cloth for sale.”

“It will have to fall a long way before the business becomes unprofitable.”

He nodded. “That’s true. But can you sell that much in Kingsbridge and Shiring? There aren’t that many rich people.”

“Then I’ll take it to London.”

“All right.” He smiled. “You’re so determined. It’s a good plan – but even if it were a bad one, you’d probably make it work.”

She went immediately to Mark Webber’s house and arranged for him to begin work on another sack of wool. She also arranged for Madge to take one of Edmund’s ox-carts and four sacks of wool, and go around neighbouring villages looking for weavers.

But the rest of Caris’s family were not happy. Next day, Alice came to dinner. As they sat down, Petranilla said to Edmund: “Alice and I think you should reconsider your cloth-making project.”

Caris wanted him to tell her that the decision was made and it was too late to go back. But instead he said mildly: “Really? Tell me why.”

“You’ll be risking just about every penny you’ve got, that’s why!”

“Most of it’s at risk now,” he said. “I’ve got a warehouse full of wool that I can’t sell.”

“But you could make a bad situation worse.”

“I’ve decided to take that chance.”

Alice broke in: “It’s not fair on me!”

“Why not?”

“Caris is spending my inheritance!”

His face darkened. “I’m not dead yet,” he said.

Petranilla clamped her mouth shut, recognizing the undertone in his low voice; but Alice did not notice how angry he was, and ploughed on. “We have to think about the future,” she said. “Why should Caris be allowed to spend my birthright?”

“Because it’s not yours yet, and perhaps it never will be.”

“You can’t just throw away money that should come to me.”

“I won’t be told what to do with my money – especially by my children,” he said, and his voice was so taut with anger that even Alice noticed.

More quietly, she said: “I didn’t intend to annoy you.”

He grunted. It was not much of an apology, but he could never remain grumpy for long. “Let’s have dinner and say no more about it,” he said; and Caris knew that her project had survived another day.

After dinner she went to see Peter Dyer, to warn him of the large quantity of work coming his way. “It can’t be done,” he said.

That took her by surprise. He always looked gloomy, but he normally did what she wanted. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to dye it all,” she said. “I’ll give some of the work to others.”

“It’s not the dyeing,” he said. “It’s the fulling.”

“Why?”

“We’re not allowed to full the cloth ourselves. Prior Godwyn has issued a new edict. We have to use the priory’s fulling mill.”

“Well, then, we’ll use it.”

“It’s too slow. The machinery is old, and keeps breaking down. It’s been repaired again and again, so the wood is a mixture of new and old, which never sorts well. It’s no faster than a man treading in a bath of water. But there’s only one mill. It will barely cope with the normal work of Kingsbridge weavers and dyers.”

This was maddening. Surely her whole scheme could not fail because of a stupid ruling by her cousin Godwyn? She said indignantly: “But if the mill can’t do the work, the prior must permit us to tread the cloth by foot!”

Peter shrugged. “Tell him that.”

“I will!”

She marched off towards the priory but, before she got there, she thought again. The hall of the prior’s house was used for his meetings with townspeople, but all the same it would be unusual for a woman to go in alone without an appointment, and Godwyn was increasingly touchy about such things. Moreover, a straight confrontation might not be the best way to change his mind. She realized she would do better to think this through. She returned to her house and sat down with her father in the parlour.

“Young Godwyn is on weak ground here,” Edmund said immediately. “There never was a charge for using the fulling mill. According to legend, it was built by a townsman, Jack Builder, for the great Prior Philip; and, when Jack died, Philip gave the town the right to use the mill in perpetuity.”

“Why did people stop using it?”

“It fell into disrepair, and I think there was an argument about who should pay for its upkeep. The argument was never resolved, and people went back to treading cloth themselves.”

“Why, then, he has no right to charge a fee, nor to force people to use it!”

“No, indeed.”

Edmund sent a message to the priory asking when it might be convenient for Godwyn to see him, and the reply came back saying he was free right away, so Edmund and Caris crossed the street and went to the prior’s house.

Godwyn had changed a lot in a year, Caris thought. There was no boyish eagerness left. He seemed wary, as if he expected them to be aggressive. She was beginning to wonder whether he had the strength of character to be prior.

Philemon was with him, pathetically eager as ever to fetch chairs and pour drinks, but with a new touch of assurance in his manner, the look of someone who knew he belonged here.

“So, Philemon, you’re an uncle now,” Caris said. “What do you think of your new nephew, Sam?”

“I’m a novice monk,” he said prissily. “We give up all worldly relations.”

Caris shrugged. She knew he was fond of his sister Gwenda but, if he wanted to pretend otherwise, she was not going to argue.

Edmund laid out the problem starkly for Godwyn. “Work on the bridge will have to stop if the wool merchants of Kingsbridge can’t improve their fortunes. Happily, we have come up with a new source of income. Caris has discovered how to produce high-quality scarlet cloth. Only one thing stands in the way of the success of this new enterprise: the fulling mill.”

“Why?” said Godwyn. “The scarlet cloth can be fulled at the mill.”

“Apparently not. It’s old and inefficient. It can barely handle the existing production of cloth. It has no capacity for extra. Either you build a new fulling mill-”

“Out of the question,” Godwyn interrupted. “I have no spare cash for that sort of thing.”

“Very well, then,” said Edmund. “You’ll have to permit people to full cloth in the old way, by putting it in a bath of water and stamping on it with their bare feet.”

The look that came over Godwyn’s face was familiar to Caris. It was compounded of resentment, injured pride and mulish obstinacy. In childhood he had looked like that whenever he was opposed. It meant he would try to bully the other children into submission or, failing that, stamp his foot and go home. Wanting his own way was only part of it. He seemed, Caris thought, to feel humiliated by disagreement, as if the idea that someone might think him wrong was too wounding to be borne. Whatever the explanation, she knew as soon as she saw the look that he was not going to be reasonable.

“I knew you would oppose me,” he said petulantly to Edmund. “You seem to think the priory exists for the benefit of Kingsbridge. You’ll just have to realize that it’s the other way around.”

Edmund rapidly became exasperated. “Don’t you see that we depend on one another? We thought you understood that interrelationship – that’s why we helped you get elected.”

“I was elected by the monks, not the merchants. The town may depend on the priory, but there was a priory here before there was a town, and we can exist without you.”

“You can exist, perhaps, but as an isolated outpost, rather than as the throbbing heart of a bustling city.”

Caris put in: “You must want Kingsbridge to prosper, Godwyn – why else would you have gone to London to oppose Earl Roland?”

“I went to the royal court to defend the ancient rights of the priory – as I am trying to do here and now.”

Edmund said indignantly: “This is treachery! We supported you as prior because you led us to believe you would build a bridge!”

“I owe you nothing,” Godwyn replied. “My mother sold her house to send me to the university – where was my rich uncle then?”

Caris was amazed that Godwyn was still resentful over what had happened ten years ago.

Edmund’s expression became coldly hostile. “I don’t think you have the right to force people to use the fulling mill,” he said.

A glance passed between Godwyn and Philemon, and Caris realized they knew this. Godwyn said: “There may have been times when the prior generously allowed the townspeople to use the mill without charge.”

“It was the gift of Prior Philip to the town.”

“I know nothing of that.”

“There must be a document in your records.”

Godwyn became angry. “The townspeople have allowed the mill to fall into disrepair, so that the priory has to pay to put it right. That is enough to annul any gift.”

Edmund was right, Caris realized: Godwyn was on weak ground. He knew about Prior Philip’s gift, but he intended to ignore it.

Edmund tried again. “Surely we can settle this between us?”

“I will not back down from my edict,” Godwyn said. “It would make me appear weak.”

That was what really bothered him, Caris realized. He was frightened that the townspeople would disrespect him if he changed his mind. His obstinacy came, paradoxically, from a kind of timidity.

Edmund said: “Neither of us wants the trouble and expense of another visit to the royal court.”

Godwyn bristled. “Are you threatening me with the royal court?”

“I’m trying to avoid it. But…”

Caris closed her eyes, praying that the two men would not push their argument to the brink. Her prayer was not answered.

“But what?” said Godwyn challengingly.

Edmund sighed. “But yes, if you force the townspeople to use the fulling mill, and prohibit home fulling, I will appeal to the king.”

“So be it,” said Godwyn.

34

The deer was a young female, a year or two old, sleek across the haunches, well muscled under a soft leather skin. She was on the far side of a clearing, pushing her long neck through the branches of a bush to reach a patch of scrubby grass. Ralph Fitzgerald and Alan Fernhill were on horseback, the hooves of their mounts muffled by the carpet of wet autumn leaves, and their dogs were trained to silence. Because of this, and perhaps because she was concentrating on straining to reach her fodder, the deer did not hear their approach until it was too late.

Ralph saw her first, and pointed across the clearing. Alan was carrying his longbow, grasping it and the reins in his left hand. With the speed of long practice, he fitted an arrow to the string in a heartbeat, and shot.

The dogs were slower. Only when they heard the thrum of the bowstring, and the whistle of the arrow as it flew through the air, did they react. Barley, the bitch, froze in place, head up, ears erect; and Blade, her puppy, now grown larger than his mother, uttered a low, startled woof.

The arrow was a yard long, flighted with swan feathers. Its tip was two inches of solid iron with a socket into which the shaft fitted tightly, it was a hunting arrow, with a sharp point: a battle arrow would have had a square head, so that it would punch through armour without being deflected.

Alan’s shot was good, but not perfect. It struck the deer low in the neck. She jumped with all four feet – shocked, presumably, by the sudden, agonizing stab. Her head came up out of the bush. For an instant, Ralph thought she was going to fall down dead, but a moment later she bounded away. The arrow was still buried in her neck, but the blood was oozing rather than spurting from the wound, so it must have lodged in her muscles, missing the major blood vessels.

The dogs leaped forward as if they, too, had been shot from bows; and the two horses followed without urging. Ralph was on Griff, his favourite hunter. He felt the rush of excitement that was what he mainly lived for. It was a tingling in the nerves, a constriction in the neck, an irresistible impulse to yell at the top of his voice; a thrill so like sexual excitement that he could hardly have said what the difference was.

Men such as Ralph existed to fight. The king and his barons made them lords and knights, and gave them villages and lands to rule over, for a reason: so that they would be able to provide themselves with horses, squires, weapons and armour whenever the king needed an army. But there was not a war every year. Sometimes two or three years would go by without so much as a minor police action on the borders of rebellious Wales or barbarian Scotland. Knights needed something to do in the interim. They had to keep fit and maintain their horsemanship and – perhaps most important of all – their blood lust. Soldiers had to kill, and they did it better when they longed for it.

Hunting was the answer. All noblemen, from the king down to minor lords such as Ralph, hunted whenever they got the chance, often several times a week. They enjoyed it, and it ensured they were fit for battle whenever called upon. Ralph hunted with Earl Roland on his frequent visits to Earlscastle, and often joined Lord William’s hunt at Casterham. When he was at his own village of Wigleigh, he went out with his squire, Alan, in the forests round about. They usually killed boar – there was not much meat on the wild pigs, but they were exciting to hunt because they put up a good fight. Ralph also went after foxes and the occasional, rare, wolf. But a deer was best: agile, fast, and a hundred pounds of good meat to take home.

Now Ralph thrilled to the feel of Griff beneath him, the horse’s weight and strength, the powerful action of its muscles and the drumbeat of its tread. The deer disappeared into the vegetation, but Barley knew where it had gone, and the horses followed the dogs. Ralph carried a spear ready in his right hand, a long shaft of ash with a fire-hardened point. As Griff swerved and jumped, Ralph ducked under overhanging branches and swayed with the horse, his boots firmly in the stirrups, keeping his seat effortlessly by the pressure of his knees.

In the undergrowth the horses were not as nimble as the deer, and they fell behind; but the dogs had the advantage, and Ralph heard frantic barking as they closed in. Then there was a lull, and in a few moments Ralph found out why: the deer had broken out of the vegetation on to a pathway, and was leaving the dogs behind. Here, however, the horses had the advantage, and they quickly passed the dogs and began to gain on the deer.

Ralph could see that the beast was weakening. He saw blood on its rump, and deduced that one of the dogs had got a bite. Its gait became irregular as it struggled to get away. It was a sprinter, made for the sudden quick dash, and it could not keep up its initial pace for long.

His blood raced as he closed on his prey. He tightened his grip on the lance. It took a great deal of strength to force a wooden point into the tough body of a big animal: the skin was leathery, the muscles dense, the bones hard. The neck was the softest target, if you could contrive to miss the vertebrae and hit the jugular vein. You had to choose the exact moment, then thrust quickly with all your might.

Seeing the horses almost upon it, the deer made a desperate turn into the bushes. This gave it a few seconds’ respite. The horses slowed as they crashed through undergrowth over which the deer had bounded without pause. But the dogs caught up again, and Ralph saw that the deer could not go much farther.

The usual pattern was that the dogs would inflict more and more wounds, slowing the deer until the horses could catch it and the hunter could deliver the death blow. But, on this occasion, there was an accident.

When the dogs and the horses were almost upon the deer, she dodged sideways. Blade, the younger dog, went after her with more enthusiasm than sense, and swerved in front of Griff. The horse was going too fast to stop or even avoid the dog, and kicked him with a mighty foreleg. The dog was a mastiff, weighing seventy or eighty pounds, and the impact caused the horse to stumble.

Ralph was thrown. He let go of his spear as he flew through the air. His greatest fear, in that instant, was that his horse would fall on him. But he saw, in the moment before he landed, that Griff had somehow regained his balance.

Ralph fell into a thorn bush. His hands and face were scratched painfully, but the branches broke his fall. All the same, he was enraged.

Alan reined in. Barley went after the deer but returned in a few moments: the beast had obviously got away. Ralph struggled to his feet, cursing. Alan caught Griff then dismounted, holding both horses.

Blade lay motionless on the dead leaves, blood dripping from his mouth. He had been struck on the head by Griff’s iron horseshoe. Barley went up to him, sniffed, nudged him with her nose and licked the blood on his face, then turned away, looking bewildered. Alan prodded the dog with the toe of his boot. There was no response. Blade was not breathing. “Dead,” Alan said.

“Damn fool dog deserved to die,” Ralph said.

They walked the horses through the woods, looking for a place to rest. After a while Ralph heard running water. Following the sound, he came to a fast-flowing stream. He recognized the stretch of water: they were only a little way beyond the fields of Wigleigh. “Let’s have some refreshment,” he said. Alan tied up the horses then took from his saddlebag a stoppered jug, two wooden cups and a canvas sack of food.

Barley went to the stream and lapped the cold water thirstily. Ralph sat on the bank, resting his back against a tree. Alan sat beside him and handed him a cup of ale and a wedge of cheese. Ralph took the drink and refused the food.

Alan knew his boss in a bad mood, and said nothing while Ralph drank, wordlessly refilling Ralph’s cup from the jug. In the silence they both heard female voices. Alan looked at Ralph with a raised eyebrow. Barley growled. Ralph stood up, shushing the dog, and walked softly in the direction of the sound. Alan followed.

A few yards downstream Ralph stopped, looking through the vegetation. A small group of village women were doing laundry on the near bank of the stream, where the water flowed fast over an outcrop of rocks. It was a damp October day, cool but not cold, and they wore their sleeves rolled up and the skirts of their shifts raised to thigh level to keep them dry.

Ralph studied them one by one. There was Gwenda, all muscular forearms and calves, with her baby – now four months old – strapped to her back. He identified Peg, the wife of Perkin, scrubbing her husband’s underdrawers with a stone. His own housemaid, Vira, was there, a hard-faced woman of about thirty who had looked so stonily at him when he patted her arse that he never touched her again. The voice that he had heard belonged to the widow Huberts, a great talker, no doubt because she lived alone. The widow was standing in midstream, calling out to the others, carrying on a gossipy conversation at a distance.

And there was Annet.

She stood on a rock, washing some small garment, bending to dip it in the stream then standing upright to scrub it. She had long, white legs that disappeared enchantingly into her rucked-up dress. Every time she bent over, her neckline fell open to reveal the pale fruit of her small breasts hanging like temptation on a tree. Her fair hair was wet at the ends, and there was a petulant look on her pretty face, as if she felt she had not been born for this kind of work.

They had been there for some time, Ralph guessed, and their presence might have remained unknown to him, had not Widow Huberts raised her voice to call out. He lowered himself to the ground and knelt behind a bush, peering through the leafless twigs. Alan squatted beside him.

Ralph liked spying on women. He had often done it as an adolescent. They scratched themselves, sprawled on the ground with their legs apart, and talked about things they would never speak of if they knew a man was listening. In fact they acted like men.

He feasted his eyes on the unsuspecting women of his village, and strained to hear what they were saying. He watched Gwenda, looking at her small, strong body, remembering her naked, kneeling on the bed, and reliving how it had felt to hold her hips and pull her to him. He recalled how her attitude had changed. At first she had been coldly passive, struggling to conceal her resentment and distaste for the act she was performing; then he had seen a slow alteration. The skin on her neck had flushed, her chest had betrayed her excited breathing, and she had bent her head and closed her eyes in what seemed to him to be a mixture of shame and pleasure. The memory made him breathe faster and brought out a film of perspiration on his brow, despite the chill October air. He wondered if he would get another chance to lie with Gwenda.

Too soon, the women prepared to depart. They folded the damp washing and packed it into baskets, or wrapped it in bundles to be balanced on their heads, and then began to move away along the pathway beside the stream. Then an argument began between Annet and her mother. Annet had done only half the laundry she had brought. She was proposing to take the dirty half home, and it seemed Peg thought she should stay and finish it. In the end Peg stomped off and Annet stayed, looking sulky.

Ralph could hardly believe his luck.

In a low voice he said to Alan: “We’ll have some fun with her. Sneak around and cut off her retreat.”

Alan disappeared.

Ralph watched as Annet dipped the remaining laundry perfunctorily in the stream, then sat on the bank staring at the water grumpily. When he judged that the other women were out of earshot and Alan must be in place, he stood up and walked forward.

She heard him pushing through the undergrowth and looked up, startled. He enjoyed seeing the expression on her face change from surprise and curiosity to fear as she realized she was alone with him in the forest. She leaped to her feet, but by that time he was next to her, holding her arm in a light but firm grip. “Hello, Annet,” he said. “What are you doing here… all alone?”

She looked over his shoulder – hoping, he guessed, that he might be accompanied by others who would restrain him, and her face registered dismay when she saw only Barley. “I’m going home,” she said. “My mother’s just left.”

“Don’t rush,” he said. “You look so attractive like this, with your hair damp and your knees bare.”

She tried hastily to push the skirt of her dress down. With his free hand, he held the point of her chin and made her look at him. “How about a smile?” he said. “Don’t look so worried. I wouldn’t harm you – I’m your lord.”

She attempted a smile. “I’m just a bit flustered,” she said. “You startled me.” She mustered a trace of her habitual coquetry. “Perhaps you would escort me home,” she said with a simper. “A girl needs protection in the forest.”

“Oh, I’ll protect you. I’ll look after you much better than that fool Wulfric, or your husband.” He took his hand from her chin and grasped her breast. It was as he remembered, small and firm. He released her arm so that he could use both hands, one on each breast.

But as soon as he let go of her, she fled. He laughed as she ran along the path and into the trees. A moment later he heard her give a cry of shock. He stayed where he was, and Alan brought her to him, her arm twisted behind her back so that her chest stuck out invitingly.

Ralph drew his knife, a sharp dagger with a blade a foot long. “Take off your dress,” he said.

Alan let her go, but she did not immediately comply. “Please, lord,” she said. “I’ve always shown you respect-”

“Take off your dress, or I’ll cut your cheeks and scar you for ever.”

It was a well-chosen threat for a vain woman, and she gave in immediately. She began to cry as she lifted the plain brown wool shift over her head. At first she held the crumpled garment in front of her, covering her nakedness, but Alan snatched it from her and threw it aside.

Ralph stared at her naked body. She stood with her eyes down, tears on her face. She had slim hips with a prominent bush of dark-blonde hair. “Wulfric never saw you like this, did he?” Ralph said.

She shook her head in negation without raising her eyes.

He thrust his hand between her legs. “Did he ever touch you here?”

She said: “Please, lord, I’m a married woman-”

“All the better – you’ve no virginity to lose, nothing to worry about. Lie down.”

She tried to back away from him, and bumped into Alan, who expertly tripped her, so that she fell on her back. Ralph grabbed her ankles, so that she could not get up, but she wriggled desperately. “Hold her down,” Ralph said to Alan.

Alan forced her head down then put his knees on her upper arms and his hands on her shoulders.

Ralph got his cock out and rubbed it to make it harder. Then he knelt between Annet’s thighs.

She began to scream, but no one heard her.

35

Fortunately, Gwenda was one of the first people to see Annet after the incident.

Gwenda and Peg brought home the laundry and hung it to dry around the fire in the kitchen of Perkin’s house. Gwenda was still working as a labourer for Perkin but now, in autumn, when there was less to do in the fields, she helped Peg with her domestic chores. When they had dealt with the laundry they began to prepare the midday meal for Perkin, Rob, Billy Howard and Wulfric. After an hour Peg said: “What can have happened to Annet?”

“I’ll go and see.” Gwenda first checked on her baby. Sammy was lying in a basketwork crib, wrapped in an old bit of brown blanket, his alert dark eyes watching the smoke from the fire gathering in curls under the ceiling. Gwenda kissed his forehead then went to look for Annet.

She retraced her steps across the windy fields. Lord Ralph and Alan Fernhill galloped past her, heading up to the village, their day’s hunting apparently cut short. Gwenda entered the forest and followed the short path that led to the spot where the woman did laundry. Before she got there she met Annet coming the other way.

“Are you all right?” Gwenda said. “Your mother is worried.”

“I’m fine,” Annet replied.

Gwenda could tell something was wrong. “What has happened?”

“Nothing.” Annet would not meet her eye. “Nothing happened, leave me alone.”

Gwenda stood squarely in front of Annet and looked her up and down. Her face told Gwenda unmistakably that there had been some calamity. At first glance she did not appear to be physically hurt – though most of her body was covered by the long wool shift – but then Gwenda saw dark smears on her dress that looked like bloodstains.

Gwenda recalled Ralph and Alan galloping past. “Did Lord Ralph do something to you?”

“I’m going home.” Annet tried to push past Gwenda. Gwenda grabbed her arm to stop her. She did not squeeze hard, but nevertheless Annet cried out in pain, her hand flying to her upper arm.

“You’re hurt!” Gwenda exclaimed.

Annet burst into tears.

Gwenda put her arm around Annet’s shoulders. “Come home,” she said. “Tell your mother about it.”

Annet shook her head. “I’m not telling anyone,” she said.

Too late for that, Gwenda thought.

Walking Annet back to Perkin’s house, Gwenda ran over the possibilities in her mind. Clearly Annet had suffered some kind of assault. She might have been attacked by one or more travellers, though there was no road nearby. Outlaws were always a possibility, but it was a long time since any had been seen near Wigleigh. No, the likeliest suspects were Ralph and Alan.

Peg was brisk. She sat Annet down on a stool and pulled her dress down over her shoulders. Both upper arms showed swollen red bruises. “Someone held you down,” Peg said angrily.

Annet made no reply.

Peg persisted. “Am I right? Answer me, child, or you’ll be in worse trouble. Did someone hold you down?”

Annet nodded.

“How many men? Come on, out with it.”

Annet did not speak, but held up two fingers.

Peg reddened with fury. “Did they fuck you?”

Annet nodded.

“Who were they?”

Annet shook her head.

Gwenda knew why she did not want to say. It was dangerous for a serf to accuse a lord of a crime. She said to Peg: “I saw Ralph and Alan riding away.”

Peg said to Annet: “Was it them – Ralph and Alan?”

Annet nodded.

Peg’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “I suppose Alan held you down while Ralph did it.”

Annet nodded again.

Peg softened, now that she had got the truth. She put her arms around her daughter and hugged her. “You poor child,” she said. “My Poor baby.”

Annet began to sob.

Gwenda left the house.

The men would be home soon for their midday dinner, and they would quickly find out that Ralph had raped Annet. Annet’s father, her brother, her husband and her former lover would be mad with rage. Perkin was too old to do anything foolish, Rob would do what Perkin told him and Billy Howard probably was not brave enough to make trouble – but Wulfric would be incandescent. He would kill Ralph.

And then he would be hanged.

Gwenda had to turn the course of events, otherwise she would lose her husband. She hurried through the village, speaking to no one, and went to the manor house. There, she hoped to be told that Ralph and Alan had finished their dinner and gone out again; but it was a little too early and, to her dismay, they were still at home.

She found them in the stable behind the house, looking at a horse with an infected hoof. Normally she was uncomfortable in the presence of Ralph or Alan, for she felt sure that whenever they looked at her they remembered the sight of her kneeling naked on the bed at the Bell in Kingsbridge. But today the thought hardly entered her head. Somehow she had to make them leave the village – now, before Wulfric found out what they had done. What was she going to say?

For a moment she was struck dumb. Then in desperation she said: “Lord, there was a messenger here from Earl Roland.”

Ralph was surprised. “When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

Ralph looked at the groom who was holding the horse’s foot up for inspection. The man said: “No one came here.”

Naturally, a messenger would have come to the manor house and spoken to the lord’s servants. Ralph said to Gwenda: “Why did he give this message to you?”

She improvised desperately. “I met him on the road just outside the village. He asked for Lord Ralph, and I told him you were out hunting and you would be back for dinner – but he wouldn’t stay.”

This was unusual behaviour for a messenger, who would normally stop to eat and drink and rest his horse. Ralph said: “Why was he in such a hurry?”

Inventing excuses extempore, Gwenda said: “He had to get to Cowford by sundown… I didn’t make so bold as to question him.”

Ralph grunted. The last part was plausible: a messenger from Earl Roland was not likely to subject himself to cross-examination by a peasant woman. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I came across the fields to meet you, but you didn’t see me and galloped past.”

“Oh. I think I did see you. No matter – what’s the message?”

“Earl Roland summons you to Earlscastle as soon as possible.” She took a breath and added another layer of implausibiiity. “The messenger said to tell you not to wait to eat your dinner, but take fresh horses and leave at once.” It was barely credible, but she had to get Ralph away before Wulfric showed up.

“Really? Did he say why he needs me in such a terrible hurry?”

“No.”

“Hm.” Ralph looked thoughtful and said nothing for a few moments.

Gwenda said anxiously: “So, will you go now?”

He glared at her. “That’s no concern of yours.”

“It’s just that I wouldn’t want it to be said that I hadn’t made the urgency clear enough.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you? Well, I don’t care what you would or wouldn’t want. Be off.”

Gwenda had to go.

She returned to Perkin’s house. She arrived just as the men were coming in from the fields. Sam was quiet and happy in his crib. Annet was sitting in the same place, with her dress pulled down to show the bruises on her arms. Peg said accusingly: “Where have you been?”

Gwenda did not answer, and Peg was distracted by Perkin coming in and saying: “What’s this? What’s the matter with Annet?”

Peg said: “She had the misfortune to meet Ralph and Alan when she was alone in the forest.”

Perkin’s face darkened with anger. “Why was she alone?”

“It’s my fault,” Peg said, and she began to cry. “Only she was so lazy about the laundry, as she always is, and I made her stay back and finish it, after the other women went home, and that’s when those two animals must have come along.”

“We saw them a while ago, riding across Brookfield,” Perkin said. “They must have just come from the place.” He looked frightened. “This is very dangerous,” he said. “It’s the kind of thing that can ruin a family.”

“But we’ve done nothing wrong!” Peg protested.

“Ralph’s guilt will make him hate us for our innocence.”

That was probably true, Gwenda realized. Perkin was shrewd, beneath his obsequious manner.

Annet’s husband, Billy Howard, came in, wiping his muddy hands on his shirt. Her brother, Rob, was close behind. Billy looked at his wife’s bruises and said: “What happened to you?”

Peg answered for her. “It was Ralph and Alan.”

Billy stared at his wife. “What did they do to you?”

Annet lowered her eyes and said nothing.

“I’ll kill them both,” Billy said furiously, but it was obviously an idle threat: Billy was a mild-mannered man, slim built, and had never been known to fight, even when drunk.

Wulfric was the last to come through the door. Too late, Gwenda realized how attractive Annet was looking. She had a long neck and pretty shoulders, and the tops of her breasts were showing. The ugly bruises only emphasized her other charms. Wulfric stared at her with undisguised admiration – he never could hide his feelings. Then, after a moment, he registered the angry bruises, and he frowned.

Billy said: “Did they rape you?”

Gwenda was watching Wulfric. As he grasped the significance of the scene, his expression registered shock and dismay, and his fair skin flushed with emotion.

Billy said: “Did they, woman?”

Gwenda felt a surge of compassion for the unlovable Annet. Why did everyone feel they had the right to ask her bullying questions?

At last, Annet answered Billy’s question with a silent nod.

Wulfric’s face was suffused with black rage. “Who?” he growled.

Billy said: “This is none of your business, Wulfric. Go home.”

Perkin said tremulously: “I don’t want trouble. We mustn’t let this destroy us.”

Billy looked angrily at his father-in-law. “What are you saying? That we should do nothing?”

“If we make an enemy of Lord Ralph, we could suffer for the rest of our lives.”

“But he’s raped Annet!”

Wulfric said incredulously: “Ralph did this?”

Perkin said: “God will punish him.”

“So will I, by Christ,” said Wulfric.

Gwenda said: “Please, Wulfric, no!”

Wulfric made for the door.

Gwenda went to him, frantic with fright, and grabbed his arm. Only a few minutes had gone by since she had given Ralph the fake message. Even if he believed it, she did not know how seriously he would take the urgency. There was a good chance he had not left the village yet. “Don’t go to the manor house,” she pleaded with Wulfric. “Please.”

He shook her off roughly. “Get away from me,” he said.

“Look at your baby!” she cried, pointing at Sammy in the crib. “Are you going to leave him without a father?”

Wulfric went out.

Gwenda followed, and the other men came after. Wulfric marched through the village like the angel of death, fists clenched at his sides, staring straight ahead, his face twisted into a rictus of fury. Other villagers, on their way home for the midday meal, spoke to him but got no reply. Some followed him. In the few minutes it took to walk to the manor house he gathered a small crowd. Nathan Reeve came out of his house and asked Gwenda what was happening, but all she could say was: “Stop him, someone, please!” It was useless: none of them could have restrained Wulfric even if they had dared to try.

He threw open the front door of the manor house and marched in. Gwenda was right behind him, and the crowd pushed through after them. The housekeeper, Vira, said indignantly: “You’re supposed to knock!”

“Where is your master?” said Wulfric.

Vira saw the expression on Wulfric’s face and looked scared. “He went to the stable,” she said. “He’s about to leave for Earlscastle.”

Wulfric pushed past her and went through the kitchen. As he and Gwenda stepped out of the back door, they saw Ralph and Alan mounting up. Gwenda could have screamed – they were just seconds too early!

Wulfric jumped forward. With desperate inspiration, Gwenda stuck out her foot and hooked it around Wulfric’s ankle.

Wulfric fell flat on his face in the mud.

Ralph did not see either of them. He kicked his horse and it trotted out of the yard. Alan saw them, read the situation, decided to avoid trouble and followed Ralph. As they left the yard Alan urged his horse into a canter, passing Ralph, whereupon Ralph’s horse eagerly increased its pace.

Wulfric leaped to his feet, cursing, and chased them. Gwenda ran after him. Wulfric could not catch the horses, but Gwenda was terrified that Ralph would look behind and rein in to see what the fuss was about.

But the two men were enjoying the lively energy of fresh horses, and without a backward glance they raced away along the track that led out of the village. In seconds they disappeared.

Wulfric slumped on his knees in the mud.

Gwenda caught up with him and took his arm to help him to his feet. He pushed her aside so forcefully that she staggered and almost fell. She was shocked: it was completely out of character for him to be rough with her.

“You tripped me up,” he said as he got to his feet unaided.

“I saved your life,” she said.

He stared at her with hatred in his eyes and said: “I will never forgive you.”

When Ralph reached Earlscastle he was told that Roland had not sent for him at all, never mind urgently. The rooks on the battlements laughed mockingly at him.

Alan conjectured an explanation. “It’s to do with Annet,” he said. “Just as we left, I saw Wulfric coming out of the back door of the manor house. I thought nothing of it at the time, but maybe he was intending to confront you.”

“I’ll bet he was,” Ralph said. He touched the long dagger at his belt. “You should have told me – I’d welcome an excuse to stick my knife in his belly.”

“And no doubt Gwenda knows that, so perhaps she invented the message to get you away from her murderous husband.”

“Of course,” said Ralph. “That would explain why no one else saw this messenger – he never existed. Crafty bitch.”

She should be punished, but it might be difficult. She would probably say she did it for the best, and Ralph could hardly argue that she had been wrong to prevent her husband attacking the lord of the manor. Worse, if he made a fuss about her deception he would call attention to the fact that she had outwitted him. No, there would be no formal penalty – though he might find unofficial ways to chastise her.

As he was at Earlscastle, he took the opportunity to go hunting with the earl and his entourage, and he forgot about Annet – until the end of the second day, when Roland called him into his private chamber. Only the earl’s clerk, Father Jerome, was with him. Roland did not ask Ralph to sit down. “The priest of Wigleigh is here,” he said.

Ralph was surprised. “Father Gaspard? At Earlscastle?”

Roland did not bother to answer these rhetorical questions. “He complains that you raped a woman called Annet, the wife of Billy Howard, one of your serfs.”

Ralph’s heart missed a beat. He had not imagined the peasants would have the nerve to complain to the earl. It was very difficult for a serf to accuse a lord in a court of law. But they could be sly, and someone in Wigleigh had cleverly persuaded the priest to make the complaint.

Ralph put on an expression of carelessness. “Rubbish,” he said. “All right, I lay with her, but she was willing.” He gave Roland a man-to-man grin. “More than willing.”

An expression of distaste came over Roland’s face, and he turned to Father Jerome with an inquiring look.

Jerome was an educated, ambitious young man, a type Ralph particularly disliked. He had a snooty look as he said: “The girl is here. Woman, I should say, though she is only nineteen. She has massive bruises on her arms and a bloodstained dress. She says you encountered her in the forest, and your squire knelt on her to hold her down. And a man called Wulfric is here to say that you were seen riding away from the scene.”

Ralph guessed it was Wulfric who had persuaded Father Gaspard to come here to Earlscastle. “It’s not true,” he said, trying to put a note of indignation into his voice.

Jerome looked sceptical. “Why would she lie?”

“Maybe someone saw us and told her husband. He gave her the bruises, I expect. She cried rape to stop him beating her. Then she stained her dress with chicken blood.”

Roland sighed. “It’s a bit oafish, isn’t it, Ralph?”

Ralph was not sure what he meant. Did he expect his men to behave like damned monks?

Roland went on: “I was warned you’d be like this. My daughter-in-law always said you’d give me problems.”

“Philippa?”

“Lady Philippa, to you.”

Enlightenment dawned on Ralph, and he said incredulously: “Is that why you didn’t promote me after I saved your life – because a woman was against me? What sort of an army will you have if you let girls pick your men?”

“You’re right, of course, and that’s why I went against her judgement in the end. What women never realize is that a man without some bile in him is good for nothing but tilling the land. We can’t take milksops into battle. But she was right when she warned me that you would cause trouble. I don’t want to be bothered, in peacetime, with damned priests whining about serfs’ wives being raped. Don’t do it again. I don’t care if you lie with the peasant women. If it comes to that, I don’t care if you lie with the men. But if you take a man’s wife, willing or otherwise, be prepared to compensate the husband in some way. Most peasants can be bought. Just don’t let it become my problem.”

“Yes, lord.”

Jerome said: “What am I to do with this Gaspard?”

“Let me see,” Roland said thoughtfully. “Wigleigh is on the edge of my territory, not far from my son William’s landholding, is it not?”

“Yes,” Ralph said.

“How far were you from the border when you met this girl?”

“A mile. We were only just outside Wigleigh.”

“No matter.” He turned to Jerome. “Everyone will know this is just an excuse, but tell Father Gaspard that the incident took place in Lord William’s territory, so I can’t adjudicate.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Ralph said: “What if they go to William?”

“I doubt that they will. But, if they persist, you’ll have to come to some arrangement with William. The peasants will tire of complaining eventually.”

Ralph nodded, relieved. For a moment, he had suffered the dread thought that he had made a terrible error of judgement, and that after all he might be made to pay the price for raping Annet. But, in the end, he had got away with it, as he had expected to.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said.

He wondered what his brother would say about this. The thought filled him with shame. But perhaps Merthin would never find out.

“We must complain to Lord William,” said Wulfric when they got back to Wigleigh.

The entire village had gathered in the church to discuss the matter. Father Gaspard and Nathan Reeve were there but, somehow, Wulfric seemed to be the leader, despite his youth. He had gone to the front, leaving Gwenda and baby Sammy in the crowd.

Gwenda was praying that they would decide to drop the matter. It was not that she wanted Ralph to go unpunished – on the contrary, she would have liked to see him boiled alive. She herself had killed two men for merely threatening her with rape, something she remembered, every now and again during the discussion, with a shudder. But she did not like Wulfric taking the leading role. It was partly because he was driven by the unquenched flame of his feeling for Annet, which hurt and saddened Gwenda. But, more importantly, she feared for him. The enmity between him and Ralph had already cost Wulfric his inheritance. What other vengeance would Ralph take?

Perkin said: “I’m the father of the victim, and I don’t want any more trouble over this. It’s very dangerous to complain of the actions of a lord. He always finds a way to punish the complainers, right or wrong. Let’s drop it.”

“Too late for that,” said Wulfric. “We’ve already complained, or at least our priest has. There’s nothing to be gained by backing down now.”

“We’ve gone far enough,” Perkin argued. “Ralph has been embarrassed in front of his earl. He knows now that he can’t do just whatever he pleases.”

“On the contrary,” said Wulfric. “He thinks he’s got away with it. I’m afraid he’ll do it again. No woman in the village will be safe.”

Gwenda herself had said to Wulfric all the things Perkin was saying. Wulfric had not answered her. He had hardly spoken to her since she tripped him up at the back door of the manor house. At first, she had told herself that he was merely sulking because he had felt foolish. She had expected him to have forgotten about it by the time he returned from Earlscastle. But she had been wrong. He had not touched her, in bed or out of it, for a week; he rarely met her eye; and he talked to her in monosyllables and grunts. It was beginning to depress her.

Nathan Reeve said: “You’ll never win against Ralph. Serfs never overcome lords.”

“I’m not so sure,” Wulfric said. “Everyone has enemies. We might not be the only people who would like to see Ralph reined in. Perhaps we will never see him convicted in court – but we must inflict the maximum of trouble and embarrassment on him if we want him to hesitate before doing this sort of thing again.”

Several villagers nodded agreement, but no one spoke in support of Wulfric, and Gwenda began to hope that he would lose the argument. However, her husband was nothing if not determined, and he now turned to the priest. “What do you think, Father Gaspard?”

Gaspard was young, poor and earnest. He had no fear of the nobility. He was not ambitious – he did not want to become a bishop and join the ruling class – so he felt no need to please aristocrats. He said: “Annet has been cruelly violated, the peace of our village has been criminally broken, and Lord Ralph has committed a wicked, vile sin which he must confess and repent. For the sake of the victim, for our own self-respect, and to save Lord Ralph from the flames of hell, we must go to Lord William.”

There was a rumble of assent.

Wulfric looked at Billy Howard and Annet, sitting side by side. In the end, Gwenda thought, people would probably do what Annet and Billy wanted. “I don’t want trouble,” Billy said. “But we should finish what we’ve started, for the sake of all the women in the village.”

Annet did not raise her eyes from the floor, but she nodded assent, and Gwenda realized with dismay that Wulfric had won.

“Well, you got what you wanted,” she said to him as they left the church.

He grunted.

She persisted: “So, I suppose you will continue to risk your life for the honour of Billy Howard’s wife, while refusing to speak to your own wife.”

He said nothing. Sammy sensed the hostility and began to cry.

Gwenda felt desperate. She had moved heaven and earth to get the man she loved, she had married him and had his baby, and now he was treating her like an enemy. Her father had never behaved this way to her mother – not that Joby’s behaviour was a model for anyone. But she had no idea how to deal with him. She had tried using Sammy, holding him in one arm while touching Wulfric with the other hand, in an attempt to win back his affection by associating herself with the baby boy he loved; but he just moved away, rejecting them both. She had even tried sex, pressing her breasts against his back at night, brushing her hand across his belly, touching his penis, but it did not work – as she might have known, remembering how resistant he had been last summer, before Annet married Billy.

Now, in frustration, she cried out: “What is wrong with you? I only tried to save your life!”

“You should not have done it,” he said.

“If I’d let you kill Ralph, you’d have been hanged!”

“You had no right.”

“What does it matter if I had the right or not?”

“That’s your father’s philosophy, isn’t it?”

She was startled. “What do you mean?”

“Your father believes it doesn’t matter whether or not he has the right to do something. If it’s for the best, he does it. Like selling you to feed his family.”

“They sold me to be raped! I tripped you up to save you from the gallows. That’s completely different.”

“As long as you go on telling yourself that, you’ll never understand him or me.”

She realized she was not going to win back his affection by trying to prove him wrong. “Well… I don’t understand, then.”

“You took away my power to make my own decisions. You treated me the way your father treated you, as a thing to be controlled, not as a person. It doesn’t matter whether I was right or wrong. What matters is that it was up to me to decide, not you. But you can’t see that, just as your father can’t see what he took away from you when he sold you.”

She still thought the two things were completely different, but she did not argue the point, because she was beginning to see what had made him angry. He was passionate about his independence – something she could empathize with, for she felt the same way. And she had robbed him of that. She said falteringly: “I… I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

“At any rate, I’ll try not to do anything of that kind again.”

“Good.”

She only half believed she had been wrong, but she was desperate to end the war between them, so she said: “I’m very sorry.”

“All right.”

He wasn’t saying much, but she sensed he might be softening. “You know that I don’t want you to complain to Lord William about Ralph – but, if you’re determined to, I won’t try to stop you.”

“I’m glad.”

“In fact,” she said, “I might be able to help you.”

“Oh?” he said. “How?”

36

The home of Lord William and Lady Philippa, at Casterham, had once been a castle. There was still a round stone keep with battlements, though it was in ruins and used as a cowshed. The wall around the courtyard was intact, but the moat had dried up, and the ground in the slight remaining dip was used to grow vegetables and fruit trees. Where once there had been a drawbridge, a simple ramp now led up to the gatehouse.

Gwenda, carrying Sammy, passed under the arch of the gatehouse with Father Gaspard, Billy Howard, Annet and Wulfric. A young man-at-arms was lolling on a bench, presumably on guard, but he saw the priest’s robe and did not challenge them. The relaxed atmosphere encouraged Gwenda. She was hoping to get a private audience with Lady Philippa.

They entered the house by the main door and found themselves in a traditional great hall, with high windows like those of a church. It seemed to take up about half the total space of the house. The rest, presumably, would be personal chambers, in the modern fashion, which emphasized the privacy of the noble family and played down military defences.

A middle-aged man in a leather tunic was sitting at a table counting notches on a tally stick. He glanced up at them, finished his count, made a note on a slate, then said: “Good day to you, strangers.”

“Good day, Master Bailiff,” said Gaspard, deducing the man’s occupation. “We’ve come to see Lord William.”

“He’s expected back by suppertime, father,” the bailiff said politely. “What’s your business with him, may I ask?”

Gaspard began to explain, and Gwenda slipped back outside.

She went around the house to the domestic end. There was a wooden extension that she guessed was the kitchen. A maid sat on a stool by the kitchen door with a sack of cabbages, washing the mud off in a big bowl of water. The maid was young, and looked fondly at the baby. “How old is he?” she said.

“Four months, nearly five. His name is Samuel. We call him Sammy, or Sam.”

The baby smiled at the girl, and she said: “Ah.”

Gwenda said: “I’m just an ordinary woman, like you, but I need to speak to the Lady Philippa.”

The girl frowned and looked troubled. “I’m only the kitchen maid,” she said.

“But you must see her sometimes. You could speak to her for me.”

She glanced behind her, as if worried about being overheard. “I don’t like to.”

Gwenda realized this might be more difficult than she had anticipated. “Couldn’t you just give her a message for me?” she said.

The maid shook her head.

Then a voice came from inside: “Who wants to send me a message?”

Gwenda tensed, wondering if she was in trouble. She looked towards the kitchen door.

A moment later, Lady Philippa stepped out.

She was not quite beautiful, and certainly not pretty, but she was good-looking. She had a straight nose and a strong jaw, and her green eyes were large and clear. She was not smiling, in fact she wore a slight frown, but nevertheless there was something friendly and understanding about her face.

Gwenda answered her question. “I’m Gwenda from Wigleigh, my lady.”

“Wigleigh.” Philippa’s frown deepened. “And what do you have to say to me?”

“It’s about Lord Ralph.”

“I was afraid it might be. Well, come inside and let’s warm that baby by the kitchen fire.”

Many noble ladies would have refused to speak to someone as lowly as Gwenda, but she had guessed that Philippa had a big heart underneath that rather formidable exterior. She followed Philippa inside. Sammy began to grizzle, and Gwenda gave him the breast.

“You can sit down,” Philippa said.

That was even more unusual. A serf would normally remain standing when talking to a lady. Philippa was being kind because of the baby, Gwenda guessed.

“All right, out with it,” Philippa said. “What has Ralph done?”

“You may remember, lady, a fight at the Fleece Fair in Kingsbridge last year.”

“I certainly do. Ralph groped a peasant girl, and her handsome young fiance broke his nose. The boy shouldn’t have done it, of course, but Ralph is a brute.”

“Indeed he is. Last week he came across the same girl, Annet, in the woods. His squire held her down while Ralph raped her.”

“Oh, God save us.” Philippa looked distressed. “Ralph is an animal, a pig, a wild boar. I knew he should never have been made a lord. I told my father-in-law not to promote him.”

“A pity the earl didn’t follow your advice.”

“And I suppose the fiance wants justice.”

Gwenda hesitated. She was not sure how much of the complicated story to tell. But she sensed it would be a mistake to hold anything back. “Annet is married, lady, but to a different man.”

“So what lucky girl got Mr Handsome?”

“As it happens, Wulfric married me.”

“Congratulations.”

“Though Wulfric is here, with Annet’s husband, to bear witness.”

Philippa gave Gwenda a sharp look, and seemed about to comment, then changed her mind. “So why have you come here? Wigleigh is not in my husband’s territory.”

“The incident happened in the forest, and the earl says it was on Lord William’s land, so he can’t adjudicate.”

“That’s an excuse. Roland adjudicates anything he likes. He just doesn’t want to punish a man he’s recently elevated.”

“Anyway, our village priest is here to tell Lord William what happened.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“You’re a woman, you understand. You know how men make excuses for rape. They say the girl must have been flirting, or doing something provocative.”

“Yes.”

“If Ralph gets away with this, he might do it again – perhaps to me.”

“Or me,” said Philippa. “You should see the way he stares at me – like a dog looking at a goose on the pond.”

That was encouraging. “Perhaps you can make Lord William understand how important it is that Ralph should not get away with this.”

Philippa nodded. “I think I can.”

Sammy had stopped sucking and gone to sleep. Gwenda stood up. “Thank you, lady.”

“I’m glad you came to me,” said Philippa.

Lord William summoned them the next morning. They met with him in the great hall. Gwenda was glad to see Lady Philippa sitting beside him. She gave Gwenda a friendly look, and Gwenda hoped that meant she had spoken to her husband.

William was tall and black-haired, like his father the earl, but he was going bald, and the dome above the dark beard and eyebrows suggested a more thoughtful kind of authority, matching his reputation. He examined the bloodstained dress and looked at Annet’s bruises, which were blue now, rather than the original angry red. All the same, they brought a look of fury to Lady Philippa’s face. Gwenda guessed it was not so much the severity of the injuries as the grim picture they conjured up of a brawny squire kneeling on a girl’s arms to hold her down while another man raped her.

“Well, you’ve done everything correctly so far,” William said to Annet. “You went immediately to the nearest village, you showed your injuries to men of good reputation there, and you named your attacker. Now you have to offer a bill to a justice of the peace in the Shiring County Court.”

She looked anxious. “What does that mean?”

“A bill is an accusation, written in Latin.”

“I can’t write English, lord, let alone Latin.”

“Father Gaspard can do it for you. The justice will put the bill before an indicting jury, and you will tell them what happened. Can you do that? They may ask for embarrassing details.”

Annet nodded determinedly.

“If they believe you, they will order the sheriff to summon Lord Ralph to the court a month later to be tried. Then you will need two sureties, people who will pledge a sum of money to guarantee that you will appear at the trial.”

“But who will be my sureties?”

“Father Gaspard can be one, and I will be the other. I’ll put up the money.”

“Thank you, lord!”

“Thank my wife, who has persuaded me that I can’t allow the king’s peace to be breached on my territory by an act of rape.”

Annet shot a grateful look at Philippa.

Gwenda looked at Wulfric. She had told her husband about her conversation with the lord’s wife. Now he met her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. He knew she had made this happen.

William went on: “At the trial, you will tell your story again. Your friends will all have to be witnesses: Gwenda will say she saw you coming from the forest in your bloodstained dress, Father Gaspard will say you told him what happened, Wulfric will say he saw Ralph and Alan riding away from the scene.”

They all nodded solemnly.

“One more thing. Having started something like this, you can’t stop it. Withdrawing an appeal is an offence, and you would be severely punished – to say nothing of what revenge Ralph might take on you.”

Annet said: “I won’t change my mind. But what will happen to Ralph? How will he be punished?”

“Oh, there’s only one penalty for rape,” said Lord William. “He’ll be hanged.”

They all slept in the great hall of the castle, with William’s servants and squires and dogs, wrapping their cloaks around them and nestling into the carpet of rushes on the floor. As the light from the embers in the huge fireplace dimmed to a glow, Gwenda hesitantly reached for her husband, putting a tentative hand on his arm, stroking the wool of his cloak. They had not made love since the rape, and she was unsure whether he wanted her or not. She had angered him grievously by tripping him up: would he feel that her intervention with Lady Philippa made up for that?

He responded immediately, drawing her to him and kissing her lips. She relaxed gratefully into his arms. They toyed with each other for a while. Gwenda was so happy she wanted to weep.

She waited for him to roll on top of her, but he did not do so. She could tell he wanted to, for he was being very affectionate, and his penis was hard in her hand; but perhaps he hesitated to do it in the company of so many others. People did have sex in halls like this, of course; it was normal, and no one took any notice. But perhaps Wulfric felt shy.

However, Gwenda was determined to seal the repair of their love, and after a while she climbed on to him, drawing her cloak over them both. As they began to move together, she saw an adolescent boy watching them, wide-eyed, a few yards away. Adults would politely look the other way, of course, but he was at the age where sex was a captivating mystery, and he obviously could not tear his gaze away. Gwenda was feeling so happy that she hardly cared. She met his eye, then smiled at him, without ceasing to move. His mouth fell open in shock, and he was struck by agonizing embarrassment. Looking mortified, he rolled over and covered his eyes with his arm.

Gwenda pulled her cloak up over her head and Wulfric’s, buried her face in his neck and gave herself up to pleasure.

37

Caris felt confident the second time she went to the royal court. The vast interior of Westminster Hall no longer intimidated her, nor did the mass of wealthy and powerful people crowding around the judges’ benches. She had been here before, she knew the ropes; everything that had seemed so strange a year ago was now familiar. She even had a dress in the London fashion, green on the right side and blue on the left. She enjoyed studying those around her and reading their lives in their faces: cocksure or desperate, bewildered or sly. She could spot people who were new to the capital by their wide-eyed gaze and their air of uncertainty, and she felt pleasantly knowledgeable and superior.

If she had any misgivings they centred on her lawyer, Francis Bookman. He was young and well informed and – like most lawyers, she thought – he seemed very sure of himself. A small man with sandy hair, quick in his movements and always ready for an argument, he made her think of a cheeky bird on a window ledge, pecking crumbs and aggressively chasing away rivals. He had told them that their case was incontrovertible.

Godwyn had Gregory Longfellow, of course. Gregory had won the case against Earl Roland, and Godwyn had naturally asked him to represent the priory again. He had proved his ability, whereas Bookman was an unknown. However, Caris had a weapon up her sleeve, something that would come as a shock to Godwyn.

Godwyn showed no awareness that he had betrayed Caris, her father and the entire city of Kingsbridge. He had always presented himself as a reformer, impatient of stick-in-the-mud Prior Anthony, sympathetic with the needs of the town, eager for the prosperity of monks and merchants alike. Then, within a year of becoming prior, he had turned to face the opposite way, and become even more of a traditionalist than Anthony. Yet he appeared to feel no shame. Caris flushed with anger every time she thought of it.

He had no right to force the townspeople to use the fulling mill. His other impositions – the ban on hand mills, the fines for private fishponds and warrens – were technically correct, albeit outrageously harsh. But the fulling mill should be free, and Godwyn knew it. Caris wondered whether he believed that any deceit was pardonable provided it was done for the sake of God’s work. Surely men of God should be more scrupulous about honesty than laymen, not less?

She put the point to her father, as they hung around the court, waiting for their case to come up. He said: “I never trust anyone who proclaims his morality from the pulpit. That high-minded type can always find an excuse for breaking his own rules. I’d rather do business with an everyday sinner who thinks it’s probably to his advantage, in the long run, to tell the truth and keep his promises. He’s not likely to change his mind about that.”

In moments such as that, when Papa was his old self, Caris realized how much he had changed. Nowadays he was not often shrewd and quick-witted. More usually, he was forgetful and distracted. Caris suspected the decline had begun some months before she had noticed, and it probably accounted for his disastrous failure to anticipate the collapse of the wool market.

After several days’ wait, they were called before Sir Wilbert Wheatfield, the pink-faced judge with rotten teeth who had ruled for the priory against Earl Roland a year ago. Caris’s confidence began to ebb away as the judge took his seat on the bench against the east wall. It was frightening that a mere mortal should have such power. If he made the wrong decision, Caris’s new cloth-manufacturing enterprise would be blighted, her father would be ruined, and no one would be able to pay for the new bridge.

Then, as her lawyer began to speak, she started to feel better. Francis commenced with the history of the fulling mill, saying how it had been invented by the legendary Jack Builder, who built the first one, and how Prior Philip had given the townspeople the right to use it free.

He then dealt with Godwyn’s counter-arguments, disarming the prior in advance. “It is true that the mill is in bad repair, slow, and prone to frequent breakdowns,” he said. “But how can the prior argue that the people have lost the right to it? The mill is the priory’s property, and it is for the priory to keep it in good repair. The fact that he has failed in this duty makes no difference. The people have no right to repair the mill, and they certainly have no obligation so to do. Prior Philip’s grant was not conditional.”

At this point, Francis produced his secret weapon. “In case the prior should attempt to claim that the grant was conditional, I invite the court to read this copy of Prior Philip’s will.”

Godwyn was astonished. He had tried to pretend that the will had been lost. But Thomas Langley had agreed to look for it, as a favour to Merthin, and he had sneaked it out of the library for a day: time enough for Edmund to have it copied.

Caris could not help enjoying the look of shock and outrage on Godwyn’s face when he found that his deception had been foiled. He stepped forward and said indignantly: “How was this obtained?”

The question was revealing. He did not ask: “Where was it found?” – which would have been the logical inquiry if it had really been lost.

Gregory Longfellow looked annoyed, and waved at him with a hushing gesture; and Godwyn closed his mouth and stepped back, realizing he had given himself away – but it was surely too late, Caris thought. The judge must see that the only reason for Godwyn to be angry was that he knew the document favoured the townspeople, and had attempted to suppress it.

Francis wound up quickly after that – a good decision, Caris thought, for Godwyn’s duplicity would be fresh in the judge’s mind while Gregory made the case for the defence.

But Gregory’s approach took them all completely by surprise.

He stepped forward and said to the judge: “Sir, Kingsbridge is not a chartered borough.” He stopped there, as if that was all he had to say.

It was true, technically. Most towns had a royal charter giving them the freedom to trade and hold markets without obligations to the local earl or baron. Their citizens were free men, owing allegiance to no one but the king. However, a few towns such as Kingsbridge remained the property of an overlord, usually a bishop or a prior: St Albans and Bury St Edmunds were examples. Their status was less clear.

The judge said: “That makes a difference. Only free men can appeal to the royal court. What do you have to say to that, Francis Bookman? Are your clients serfs?”

Francis turned to Edmund. In a low, urgent voice he said: “Have the townspeople appealed to the royal court before?”

“No. The prior has-”

“But not the parish guild? Even before your time?”

“There’s no record of it-”

“So we can’t argue from precedent. Damn.” Francis turned back to the judge. His face changed from worried to confident in a flash, and he spoke as if condescending to deal with something trivial. “Sir, the townspeople are free. They enjoy burgess tenure.”

Gregory said quickly: “There is no universal pattern of burgess tenure. It means different things in different places.”

The judge said: “Is there a written statement of customs?”

Francis looked at Edmund, who shook his head. “No prior would ever agree to such things being written down,” he muttered.

Francis turned back to the judge, “There is no written statement, sir, but clearly-”

“Then this court must decide whether or not you are free men,” the judge said.

Edmund spoke directly to the judge. “Sir, the citizens have the freedom to buy and sell their homes.” This was an important right not granted to serfs, who needed their lord’s permission.

Gregory said: “But you have feudal obligations. You must use the prior’s mills and fishponds.”

Sir Wilbert said: “Forget fishponds. The key factor is the citizens’ relationship to the system of royal justice. Does the town freely admit the king’s sheriff?”

Gregory answered that. “No, he must ask permission to enter the town.”

Edmund said indignantly: “That is the prior’s decision, not ours!”

Sir Wilbert said: “Very well. Do the citizens serve on royal juries, or claim exemption?”

Edmund hesitated. Godwyn looked exultant. Serving on juries was a time-consuming chore that everyone avoided if they could. After a pause, Edmund said: “We claim exemption.”

“Then that settles the matter,” the judge said. “If you refuse that duty on the grounds that you are serfs, you cannot appeal over the head of your landlord to the king’s justice.”

Gregory said triumphantly: “In the light of that, I beg you to dismiss the townspeople’s application.”

“So ruled,” said the judge.

Francis appeared outraged. “Sir, may I speak?”

“Certainly not,” said the judge.

“But, sir-”

“Another word and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

Francis closed his mouth and bowed his head.

Sir Wilbert said: “Next case.”

Another lawyer began to speak.

Caris was dazed.

Francis addressed her and her father in tones of protest. “You should have told me you were serfs!”

“We’re not.”

“The judge has just ruled that you are. I can’t win cases on partial information.”

She decided not to squabble with him. He was the type of young man who cannot admit a mistake.

Godwyn was so pleased with himself that he looked as if he might burst. As he left, he could not resist a parting shot. He wagged a finger at Edmund and Caris. “I hope that, in future, you’ll see the wisdom of submitting to the will of God,” he said solemnly.

Caris said: “Oh, piss off,” and turned her back.

She spoke to her father. “This makes us completely powerless! We proved we had the right to use the fulling mill free, but Godwyn can still withhold that right!”

“So it seems,” he said.

She turned to Francis. “There must be something we can do,” she said angrily.

“Well,” he said, “you could get Kingsbridge made into a proper borough, with a royal charter setting out your rights and freedoms. Then you would have access to the royal court.”

Caris saw a glimmer of hope. “How do we go about that?”

“You apply to the king.”

“Would he grant it?”

“If you argued that you need this to be able to pay your taxes, he would certainly listen.”

“Then we must try.”

Edmund warned: “Godwyn will be furious.”

“Let him,” Caris said grimly.

“Don’t underestimate the challenge,” her father persisted. “You know how ruthless he is, even over small disputes. Something like this will lead to total war.”

“So be it,” said Caris bleakly. “Total war.”

“Oh, Ralph, how could you do it?” said his mother.

Merthin studied his brother’s face in the dim light of their parents’ home. Ralph appeared torn between outright denial and self-justification.

In the end, Ralph said: “She led me on.”

Maud was distressed more than angry. “But, Ralph, she is another man’s wife!”

“A peasant’s wife.”

“Even so.”

“Don’t worry, Mother, they’ll never convict a lord on the word of a serf.”

Merthin was not so sure. Ralph was a minor lord, and it seemed he had incurred the enmity of William of Caster. There was no telling how the trial would come out.

Their father said sternly: “Even if they don’t convict you – which I pray for – just think of the shame of it! You’re the son of a knight – how could you forget that?”

Merthin was horrified and upset, but not surprised. That streak of violence had always been in Ralph’s nature. In their boyhood he had ever been ready for a fight, and Merthin had often steered him away from fisticuffs, deflating a confrontation with a conciliatory word or a joke. Had anyone other than his brother committed this horrible rape, Merthin would have been hoping to see the man hang.

Ralph kept glancing at Merthin. He was worried about Merthin’s disapproval – perhaps more so than his mother’s. He had always looked up to his older brother. Merthin just wished there was some way Ralph could be shackled to prevent his attacking people, now that he no longer had Merthin nearby to keep him out of trouble.

The discussion with their distraught parents was set to go on for some time, but there was a knock at the door of the modest house and Caris came in. She smiled at Gerald and Maud, though her face changed when she saw Ralph.

Merthin guessed she wanted him. He stood up. “I didn’t know you were back from London,” he said.

“Just arrived,” she replied. “Can we have a few words?”

He pulled a cloak around his shoulders and stepped outside with her into the dim grey light of a cold December day. It was a year since she had terminated their love affair. He knew that her pregnancy had ended in the hospital, and he guessed she had somehow brought on the abortion deliberately. Twice in the following few weeks he had asked her to come back to him, but she had refused. It was bewildering: he sensed that she still loved him, but she was adamant. He had given up hope, and assumed that in time he would cease to grieve. So far, that had not happened. His heart still beat faster when he saw her, and he was happier talking to her than doing anything else in the world.

They walked to the main street and turned into the Bell. In the late afternoon the tavern was quiet. They ordered hot spiced wine.

“We lost the case,” Caris said.

Merthin was shocked. “How is that possible? You had Prior Philip’s will-”

“It made no difference.” She was bitterly disappointed, Merthin could see. She explained: “Godwyn’s smart lawyer argued that Kingsbridge people are serfs of the prior, and serfs have no right to appeal to the royal court. The judge dismissed the case.”

Merthin felt angry. “But that’s stupid. It means the prior can do anything he likes, regardless of laws and charters-”

“I know.”

Merthin realized she was impatient because he was saying things she had said to herself many times. He suppressed his indignation and tried to be practical. “What are you going to do?”

“Apply for a borough charter. That would free the town from the control of the prior. Our lawyer thinks we have a strong case. Mind you, he thought we would win against the fulling mill. However, the king is desperate for money for this war against France. He needs prosperous towns to pay his taxes.”

“How long would it take to get a charter?”

“That’s the bad news – at least a year, perhaps more.”

“And in that time, you can’t manufacture scarlet cloth.”

“Not with the old fulling mill.”

“So we’ll have to stop work on the bridge.”

“I can’t see any way out of it.”

“Damn.” It seemed so unreasonable. Here they had at their fingertips the means to restore the town’s prosperity, and one man’s stubbornness was preventing them. “How we all misjudged Godwyn,” Merthin said.

“Don’t remind me.”

“We’ve got to escape from his control.”

“I know.”

“But sooner than a year from now.”

“I wish there was a way.”

Merthin racked his brains. At the same time, he was studying Caris. She was a wearing a new dress from London, particoloured in the current fashion, which gave her a playful look, even though she was solemn and anxious. The colours, deep green and mid-blue, seemed to make her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. This happened every so often. He would be deep in conversation with her over some problem to do with the bridge – they rarely talked of anything else – then suddenly he would realise how lovely she was.

Even while he was thinking about that, the problem-solving part of his mind came up with a proposal. “We should build our own fulling mill.”

Caris shook her head. “It would be illegal. Godwyn would order John Constable to pull it down.”

“What if it were outside the town?”

“In the forest, you mean? That’s illegal too. You’d have the king’s verderers on your back.” Verderers enforced the laws of the forest.

“Not in the forest, then. Somewhere else.”

“Wherever you went, you’d need the permission of some lord.”

“My brother’s a lord.”

A look of distaste crossed Caris’s face at the mention of Ralph, then her expression changed as she thought through what Merthin was saying. “Build a fulling mill at Wigleigh?”

“Why not?”

“Is there a fast-flowing stream to turn the mill wheel?”

“I believe so – but if not it can be driven by an ox like the ferry.”

“Would Ralph let you?”

“Of course. He’s my brother. If I ask him, he’ll say yes.”

“Godwyn will go mad with rage.”

“Ralph doesn’t care about Godwyn.”

Caris was pleased and excited, Merthin could see; but what were her feelings towards him? She was glad they had a solution to their problem, and eager to outwit Godwyn, but beyond that he could not read her mind.

“Let’s think this through before we rejoice,” she said. “Godwyn will make a rule saying cloth can’t be taken out of Kingsbridge to be fulled. Lots of towns have laws like that.”

“Very hard for him to enforce such a rule without the cooperation of a guild. And, if he does, you can get around it. Most of the cloth is being woven in the villages anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t bring it into the city. Send it from the weavers to Wigleigh. Dye it there, full it in the new mill, then take it to London. Godwyn will have no jurisdiction.”

“How long would it take to build a mill?”

Merthin considered. “The timber building can be put up in a couple of days. The machinery will be wooden, too, but it will take longer, as it has to be precisely measured. Getting the men and materials there will take the most time. I could have it finished a week after Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “We’ll do it.”

Elizabeth rolled the dice and moved her last counter into the home position on the board. “I win!” she said. “That’s three out of three. Pay up.”

Merthin handed her a silver penny. Only two people ever beat him at tabula: Elizabeth and Caris. He did not mind losing. He was grateful for a worthy opponent.

He sat back and sipped his pear wine. It was a cold Saturday afternoon in January, and already dark. Elizabeth’s mother was asleep in a chair near the fire, snoring gently with her mouth open. She worked at the Bell, but she was always at home when Merthin visited her daughter. He preferred it that way. It meant he never had to decide whether to kiss Elizabeth or not. It was a question he did not want to confront. He would have liked to kiss her, of course. He remembered the touch of her cool lips and the firmness of her flat breasts. But it would mean admitting that his love affair with Caris was over for ever, and he was not yet ready for that.

“How is the new mill at Wigleigh?” Elizabeth asked.

“Finished, and rolling,” Merthin said proudly. “Caris has been fulling cloth there for a week.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Herself?”

“No, that was a figure of speech. As a matter of fact, Mark Webber is running the mill, though he is training some of the village men to take over.”

“It will be good for Mark if he becomes Caris’s second-in-command. He’s been poor all his life – this is a big opportunity.”

“Caris’s new enterprise will be good for us all. It will mean I can finish the bridge.”

“She’s a clever girl,” Elizabeth said in a level voice. “But what does Godwyn have to say?”

“Nothing. I’m not sure he knows about it yet.”

“He will, though.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything he can do.”

“He’s a prideful man. If you’ve outwitted him, he’ll never forgive you.”

“I can live with that.”

“And what about the bridge?”

“Despite all the problems, the work is only a couple of weeks behind schedule. I’ve had to spend money to catch up, but we will be able to use the bridge – with a temporary wooden roadbed – for the next Fleece Fair.”

“You and Caris between you have saved the town.”

“Not yet – but we will.”

There was a knock at the door, and Elizabeth’s mother woke up with a start. “Now who could that be?” she said. “It’s dark out.”

It was one of Edmund’s apprentice boys. “Master Merthin is wanted at the parish guild meeting,” he said.

“What for?” Merthin asked him.

“Master Edmund said to tell you, you’re wanted at the parish guild meeting,” the boy said. He had obviously learned the message off by heart and knew nothing more.

“Something about the bridge, I expect,” Merthin said to Elizabeth. “They’re worried about the cost.” He picked up his cloak. “Thank you for the wine – and the game.”

“I’ll play you any time you like,” she said.

He walked beside the apprentice to the guild hall on the high street. The guild was holding a business meeting, not a banquet. The twenty or so most important people in Kingsbridge were sitting at a long trestle table, some drinking ale or wine, talking in low voices. Merthin sensed tension and anger, and he became apprehensive.

Edmund was at the head of the table. Prior Godwyn sat next to him. The prior was not a member of the guild: his presence suggested that Merthin’s surmise had been right, and the meeting was about the bridge. However, Thomas the matricularius was not present, although Philemon was. That was odd.

Merthin had recently had a small dispute with Godwyn. His contract had been for a year at two pence a day plus the lease on Leper Island. It was due for renewal, and Godwyn had proposed to continue paying him two pence a day. Merthin had insisted on four pence, and in the end Godwyn had conceded the point. Had he complained about this to the guild?

Edmund spoke with characteristic abruptness. “We’ve called you here because Prior Godwyn wishes to dismiss you as master builder in charge of the bridge.”

Merthin felt as if he had been punched in the face. He was not expecting anything like this. “What?” he said. “But Godwyn appointed me!”

Godwyn said: “And therefore I have the right to dismiss you.”

“But why?”

“The work is behind schedule and over budget.”

“It’s behind schedule because the earl closed the quarry – and it’s over budget because I had to spend money to catch up.”

“Excuses.”

“Am I inventing the death of a carter?”

Godwyn shot back: “Killed by your own brother!”

“What has that to do with anything?”

Godwyn ignored the question. “A man who is accused of rape!” he added.

“You can’t dismiss a master builder because of his brother’s behaviour.”

“Who are you to say what I can do?”

“I’m the builder of your bridge!” Then it occurred to Merthin that much of his work as master builder was complete. He had designed all the most complicated parts, and made wooden templates to guide the stonemasons. He had built the coffer dams, which no one else knew how to do. And he had constructed the floating cranes and hoists needed to move the heavy stones into position in midstream. Any builder could now finish the job, he realized with dismay.

“There is no guarantee of renewal of your contract,” Godwyn said.

It was true. Merthin looked around the room for support. No one would meet his eye. They had already argued this out with Godwyn, he deduced. Despair overwhelmed him. Why had this happened? It was not because the bridge was behind schedule and over budget – the delay was not Merthin’s fault, and anyway he was catching up. What was the real reason? As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came into his mind. “This is because of the fulling mill at Wigleigh!” he said.

Godwyn said primly: “The two things are not necessarily connected.”

Edmund said quietly but distinctly: “Lying monk.”

Philemon spoke for the first time. “Take care, alderman!” he said.

Edmund was undeterred. “Merthin and Caris outwitted you, didn’t they, Godwyn? Their mill at Wigleigh is entirely legitimate. You brought defeat on yourself by your greed and obstinacy. And this is your revenge.”

Edmund was right. No one was as capable a builder as Merthin. Godwyn must know that, but clearly he did not care. “Who will you hire instead of me?” Merthin asked. Then he answered the question himself. “Elfric, I suppose.”

“That has to be decided.”

Edmund said: “Another lie.”

Philemon spoke again, his voice more shrill. “You can be brought before the ecclesiastical court for talk like that!”

Merthin wondered if this might be no more than a move in the game, a way for Godwyn to renegotiate his contract. He said to Edmund: “Is the parish guild in agreement with the prior on this?”

Godwyn said: “It is not for them to agree or disagree!”

Merthin ignored him and looked expectantly at Edmund.

Edmund was shamefaced. “It cannot be denied that the prior has the right. The guildsmen are financing the bridge by loans, but the prior is overlord of the town. This was agreed from the start.”

Merthin turned to Godwyn. “Do you have anything else to say to me, lord prior?” He waited, hoping in his heart that Godwyn would come out with his real demands.

But Godwyn said stonily: “No.”

“Goodnight, then.”

He waited a second longer. No one spoke. The silence told him it was all over.

He left the room.

Outside the building, he took a deep breath of the cold night air. He could hardly believe what had happened. He was no longer master of the bridge.

He walked through the dark streets. It was a clear night, and he could find his way by starlight. He walked past Elizabeth’s house: he did °ot want to talk to her. He hesitated outside Caris’s, but passed that too and went down to the waterside. His small rowing-boat was tied up opposite Leper Island. He got in and rowed himself across.

When he reached his house, he paused outside and looked up at the stars, fighting back tears. The truth was that in the end he had not outwitted Godwyn – rather the reverse. He had underestimated the lengths to which the prior would go to punish those who opposed him. Merthin had thought himself clever, but Godwyn had been cleverer, or at least more ruthless. He was prepared to damage the town and the priory, if necessary, to avenge a wound to his pride. And that had given him victory.

Merthin went inside and lay down, alone and beaten.

38

Ralph lay awake all through the night before his trial.

He had seen many people die by hanging. Every year, twenty or thirty men and a few women rode the sheriffs cart from the prison in Shiring Castle down the hill to the market square where the gallows stood waiting. It was a common occurrence, but those people had remained in Ralph’s memory, and on this night they returned to torment him.

Some died fast, their necks snapped by the drop; but not many. Most strangled slowly. They kicked and struggled and opened their mouths wide in silent breathless screaming. They pissed and shat themselves. He recalled an old woman convicted of witchcraft: when she dropped she bit right through her tongue and spat it out, and the crowd around the gallows had backed away in fright from the bloody lump of flesh as it flew through the air and fell on the dusty ground.

Everyone told Ralph he was not going to be hanged, but he could not get the thought out of his mind. People said that Earl Roland could not allow one of his lords to be executed on the word of a serf. However, so far the earl had done nothing to intervene.

The preliminary jury had returned an indictment against Ralph to the justice of the peace in Shiring. Like all such juries, it had consisted mainly of knights of the county owing allegiance to Earl Roland – but, despite this, they had acted on the evidence of the Wigleigh peasants. The men – jurors were never women, of course – had not flinched from indicting one of their own. In fact the jurors had shown, by their questions, some distaste for what Ralph had done, and several had refused to shake his hand afterwards.

Ralph had planned to prevent Annet testifying again, at the trial proper, by imprisoning her in Wigleigh before she could leave for Shiring. However, when he went to her house to seize her he found she had already departed. She must have anticipated his move and left earlier to foil him.

Today another jury would hear the case but, to Ralph’s dismay, at least four of the men had been on the preliminary jury too. Since the evidence on both sides was likely to be exactly the same, he could not see how this group could return a different verdict, unless some kind of pressure was put on the jurors – and it was getting very late for that.

He got up at first light and went downstairs to the ground floor of the Courthouse inn on the market square of Shiring. He found a shivering boy breaking the ice on the well in the back yard and told him to fetch bread and ale. Then he went to the communal dormitory and woke his brother, Merthin.

They sat together in the cold parlour, with the stale smell of last night’s ale and wine, and Ralph said: “I’m afraid they’ll hang me.”

“So am I,” said Merthin.

“I don’t know what to do.” The boy brought two tankards and half a loaf. Ralph picked up his ale in a shaking hand and took a long draught.

Merthin ate some bread automatically, frowning and looking upwards out of the corners of his eyes in the way he always did when he was racking his brains. “The only thing I can think of is to try to persuade Annet to drop the charge and come to a settlement. You’ll have to offer her compensation.”

Ralph shook his head. “She can’t back out – it’s not allowed. They’ll punish her it she does.”

“I know. But she could deliberately give weak evidence, making room for doubt. That’s how it’s usually done, I believe.”

Hope sparked in Ralph’s heart. “I wonder if she would consent.”

The potboy brought in an armful of logs and knelt before the fireplace to start a fire.

Merthin said thoughtfully: “How much money could you offer Annet?”

“I’ve got twenty florins.” That was worth three pounds of English silver pennies.

Merthin ran a hand through his untidy red hair. “It’s not much.”

“It’s a lot to a peasant girl. On the other hand, her family are rich, for peasants.”

“Doesn’t Wigleigh yield you much money?”

“I’ve had to buy armour. When you’re a lord you need to be ready to go to war.”

“I could lend you money.”

“How much have you got?”

“Thirteen pounds.”

Ralph was so astonished that for a moment he forgot his troubles. “Where did you get all that?”

Merthin looked faintly resentful. “I work hard and I’m paid well.”

“But you were sacked as master builder of the bridge.”

“There’s plenty more work. And I rent out land on Leper Island.”

Ralph was indignant. “So a carpenter is richer than a lord!”

“Luckily for you, as it happens. How much do you think Annet will want?”

Ralph thought of a snag, and his spirits fell again. “It’s not her, it’s Wulfric. He’s the ringleader in this.”

“Of course.” Merthin had spent a lot of time in Wigleigh while building the fulling mill, and he knew that Wulfric had married Gwenda only after being jilted by Annet. “Then let’s talk to him.”

Ralph did not think it would do any good, but he had nothing to lose.

They went out into the bleak grey daylight, pulling their cloaks around their shoulders against a cold February wind. They crossed the market place and entered the Bull, where the Wigleigh folk were staying – paid for, Ralph presumed, by Lord William, without whose help they would not have begun this process. But Ralph had no doubt that his real enemy was William’s voluptuous, malevolent wife, Philippa, who seemed to hate Ralph, even though – or perhaps because – he found her fascinating and alluring.

Wulfric was up, and they found him eating porridge with bacon. When he saw Ralph his face turned thunderous and he rose from his seat.

Ralph put his hand on his sword, ready to fight there and then, but Menhin hastily stepped forward, holding his hands open in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “I come as a friend, Wulfric,” he said. “Don’t get angry, or you’ll end up on trial instead of my brother.”

Wulfric remained standing with his hands at his sides. Ralph was disappointed: the agony of his suspense would have been eased by a fight.

Wulfric spat a piece of bacon rind on the floor and swallowed, then said: “What do you want, if not trouble?”

“To make a settlement. Ralph is willing to pay Annet ten pounds by way of recompense for what he did.”

Ralph was startled by the amount. Merthin would have to pay most of it – but he showed no hesitation.

Wulfric said: “Annet can’t withdraw the charge – it’s not allowed.”

“But she can alter her evidence. If she says that at first she consented, then changed her mind when it was too late, the jury wouldn’t convict Ralph.”

Ralph watched Wulfric’s face eagerly for a sign of willingness, but his expression remained stony, and he said: “So you’re offering her a bribe to commit perjury?”

Ralph began to despair. He could see that Wulfric did not want Annet to be paid money. Revenge was his aim, not compensation. He wanted a hanging.

Merthin said reasonably: “I’m offering her a different kind of justice.”

“You’re trying to get your brother off the hook.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same? You had a brother once.” Ralph recalled that Wulfric’s brother had been killed, along with his parents, when the bridge collapsed. Merthin went on: “Wouldn’t you try to save his life – even if he had done wrong?”

Wulfric appeared startled by this appeal to family feeling. Clearly it had never occurred to him to think of Ralph as someone with kinfolk who loved him. But he recovered after a moment and said: “My brother David would never have done what Ralph did.”

“Of course,” Merthin said soothingly. “All the same, you can’t blame me for wanting to find a way to save Ralph, especially if it can be managed without doing an injustice to Annet.”

Ralph admired his brother’s smooth way of talking. He could charm a bird out of a tree, he thought.

But Wulfric was not easily persuaded. “The villagers want to see the back of Ralph. They’re afraid he might do the same thing again.”

Merthin sidestepped that. “Perhaps you should put our offer to Annet. It should be her decision, surely.”

Wulfric looked thoughtful. “How could we be certain you would pay the money?”

Ralph’s heart leaped. Wulfric was softening.

Merthin replied: “We’ll give the cash to Caris Wooler before the trial. She will pay Annet after Ralph is declared innocent. You trust Caris, and we do too.”

Wulfric nodded. “As you say, it’s not my decision. I’ll put it to her.” He went upstairs.

Merthin let out his breath in a long sigh. “By heaven, there’s an angry man.”

“You talked him round, though,” Ralph said admiringly.

“He’s only agreed to pass on a message.”

They sat at the table Wulfric had vacated. A potboy asked them if they wanted breakfast, but they both refused. The parlour was full of guests calling for ham and cheese and ale. The inns were crowded with people attending the court. Unless they had a good excuse, all the knights of the shire were obliged to come, as were most other prominent men of the county: senior clergymen, wealthy merchants, and anyone with an income over forty pounds a year. Lord William, Prior Godwyn and Edmund Wooler were all included. Ralph and Merthin’s father, Sir Gerald, had been a regular attender before his fall from grace. They had to offer themselves as jurors and transact other business, such as paying their taxes or electing their Members of Parliament. In addition there was a host of accused men, victims, witnesses and sureties. A court brought a lot of business to the inns of a town.

Wulfric kept them waiting. Ralph said: “What do you think they’re talking about, up there?”

Merthin said: “Annet may be inclined to take the money. Her father would support her in that, and perhaps her husband, Billy Howard, too. But Wulfric is the type who thinks telling the truth is more important than money. His wife, Gwenda, will support him out of loyalty, and Father Gaspard will do the same on principle. Most importantly, they’ll have to consult Lord William; and he’ll do what Lady Philippa wants. She hates you, for some reason. On the other hand, a woman is more likely to choose reconciliation over confrontation.”

“So it could go either way.”

“Exactly.”

The patrons of the inn finished their breakfasts and began to drift out, heading across the square to the Courthouse inn, where the session would be held. Soon it would be too late.

At last Wulfric reappeared. “She says no,” he said abruptly, and he turned away.

“Just a minute!” Merthin said.

Wulfric took no notice, and disappeared again up the stairs.

Ralph cursed. For a while he had hoped for a reprieve. Now he was in the hands of the jury.

He heard the sound of a handbell being rung vigorously outside. A sheriff’s deputy was summoning all concerned to the court. Merthin stood up. Reluctantly, Ralph followed suit.

They walked back to the Courthouse and went into the large back room. At the far end, the justice’s bench stood on a raised dais. Although always called a bench, it was in fact a carved wooden chair like a throne. The justice was not seated, but his clerk was at a table in front of the dais, reading a scroll. Two long benches for the jurymen stood to one side. There were no other seats in the room: everyone else would stand wherever he wished. Order was maintained by the power of the justice to sentence instantly anyone who misbehaved: no trial was necessary for a crime that the judge had himself witnessed. Ralph spotted Alan Fernhill, looking terrified, and stood beside him without speaking.

Ralph began to think he should never have come here. He could have made an excuse: sickness, a misunderstanding about dates, a horse lamed on the road. But that would only have brought him a postponement. Eventually the sheriff would come, with armed deputies, to arrest him; and if he evaded them he would be declared an outlaw.

However, that was better than hanging. He wondered if he should flee now. He could probably fight his way out of the tavern. But he would not get far on foot. He would be chased by half the town, and if they did not catch him the sheriff’s deputies would follow on horseback. And his flight would be seen as an admission of guilt. As things stood, he still had a chance of acquittal. Annet might be too intimidated to give her evidence clearly. Perhaps key witnesses would fail to show up. There could be some last-minute intervention by Earl Roland.

The courtroom filled up: Annet, the villagers, Lord William and Lady Philippa, Edmund Wooler and Caris, Prior Godwyn and his slimy assistant Philemon. The clerk banged on his table for quiet, and the justice came through a side door. It was Sir Guy de Bois, a large landholder. He had a bald head and a fat belly. He was an old comrade-in-arms of the earl’s, which might stand in Ralph’s favour; but, on the other side of the balance, he was Lady Philippa’s uncle, and she might have whispered malice in his ear. He had the flushed look of a man who has breakfasted on salt beef and strong ale. He sat down, farted loudly, sighed with satisfaction and said: “All right, let’s get on with it.”

Earl Roland was not present.

Ralph’s case came first: it was the one that most interested everybody, including the justice. The indictment was read, and Annet was called to give her evidence.

Ralph found it strangely difficult to concentrate. He had heard it all before, of course, but he should have been listening hard for any discrepancy in the story Annet told today, any sign of uncertainty, any hesitation or faltering. But he felt fatalistic. His enemies were out in full force. His one powerful friend, Earl Roland, was absent. Only his brother stood beside him, and Merthin had already tried his best to help, and failed. Ralph was doomed.

The witnesses followed: Gwenda, Wulfric, Peg, Gaspard. Ralph had thought he had absolute power over these people, but somehow they had conquered him. The foreman of the jury, Sir Herbert Montain, was one of those who had refused to shake Ralph’s hand, and he asked questions that seemed designed to emphasize the horror of the crime: How bad was the pain? How much blood? Was she weeping?

When it was Ralph’s turn to speak, he told the story that had been disbelieved by the jury of indictment, and he told it in a low voice, stumbling over his words. Alan Fernhill did better, saying firmly that Annet had been eager to lie with Ralph, and that the two lovers had asked him to make himself scarce while they enjoyed one another’s favours beside the stream. But the jury did not believe him: Ralph could tell by their faces. He began to feel almost bored by the proceedings, wishing they would be over, and his fate sealed.

As Alan stepped back, Ralph was conscious of a new figure at his shoulder, and a low voice said: “Listen to me.”

Ralph glanced behind and saw Father Jerome, the earl’s clerk, and the thought crossed his mind that a court such as this had no power over priests, even if they committed crimes.

The justice turned to the jury and asked for their verdict.

Father Jerome murmured: “Your horses stand outside, saddled and ready to go.”

Ralph froze. Was he hearing correctly? He turned and said: “What?”

“Run for it.”

Ralph looked behind him. A hundred men barred his way to the door, many of them armed. “It’s not possible.”

“Use the side door,” Jerome said, indicating with a slight inclination of his head the entrance through which the justice had come. Ralph saw immediately that only the Wigleigh people stood between him and the side door.

The foreman of the jury, Sir Herbert, stood up, looking self-important.

Ralph caught the eye of Alan Fernhill, standing beside him. Alan had heard everything and looked expectant.

“Go now!” whispered Jerome.

Ralph put his hand on his sword.

“We find Lord Ralph of Wigleigh guilty of rape,” said the foreman.

Ralph drew his sword. Waving it in the air, he dashed for the door.

There was a second of stunned silence, then everyone shouted at once. But Ralph was the one man in the room with a weapon in his hand, and he knew it would take the others a moment to draw.

Only Wulfric tried to stop him, stepping into his path heedlessly, not even looking scared, just determined. Ralph raised his sword and brought it down, as hard as he could, aiming at the middle of Wulfric’s skull, intending to cleave it in two. But Wulfric stepped nimbly back and to the side. Nevertheless, the point of the sword sliced through the left side of his face, cutting it open from the temple to the jaw. Wulfric cried out in sudden agony, and his hands flew to his cheek; and then Ralph was past him.

He flung open the door, stepped through and turned. Alan Fernhill dashed past him. The foreman of the jury was close behind Alan, sword drawn and raised. Ralph experienced a moment of pure elation. This was how things should be settled – by a fight, not a discussion. Win or lose, he preferred it this way.

With a yell of exhilaration he thrust at Sir Herbert. The point of his sword touched the foreman’s chest, ripping through his leather tunic; but the man was too distant for the blow to penetrate the ribs, and it merely cut his skin then glanced off the bones. All the same, Herbert cried out – more in fear than pain – and stumbled back, colliding with those behind him. Ralph slammed the door on them.

He found himself in a passage that ran the length of the house, with a door to the market square at one end and another to the stable yard at the other. Where were the horses? Jerome had said only that they were outside. Alan was already running for the back door, so Ralph followed. As they burst into the yard, a hubbub behind them told him that the courtroom door had been opened and the crowd was after him.

There was no sign of their horses in the yard.

Ralph ran under the arch that led to the front.

There stood the most welcome sight in the world: his hunter, Griff, saddled and pawing the ground, with Alan’s two-year-old Fletch beside him, both held by a barefoot stable boy with his mouth full of bread.

Ralph seized the reins and jumped on his horse. Alan did the same. They kicked their beasts just as the mob from the courtroom came through the arch. The stable boy threw himself out of the way, terrified. The horses surged forward and away.

Someone in the crowd threw a knife. It stuck a quarter of an inch into Griffs flank, then fell away, serving only to spur the horse on.

They galloped flat out through the streets, scattering townspeople before them, careless of men, women, children and livestock. They charged through a gate in the old wall and passed into a suburb of houses interspersed with gardens and orchards. Ralph looked behind. No pursuers were in sight.

The sheriff’s men would come after them, of course, but they had first to fetch horses and saddle them. Ralph and Alan were already a mile from the market square, and their mounts showed no signs of tiring. Ralph was filled with glee. Five minutes ago he had reconciled himself to being hanged. Now he was free!

The road forked. Choosing at random, Ralph turned left. A mile away across the fields he could see woodland. Once there, he would turn off the track, and disappear.

But what would he do then?

39

“Earl Roland was clever,” Merthin said to Elizabeth Clerk. “He allowed justice to take its course almost to the end. He didn’t bribe the judge or influence the jury or intimidate the witnesses, and he avoided a quarrel with his son, Lord William. But he escaped the humiliation of seeing one of his men hanged.”

“Where is your brother now?” she said.

“No idea. I haven’t spoken to him or even seen him since that day.”

They were sitting in Elizabeth’s kitchen on Sunday afternoon. She had made dinner for him: boiled ham with stewed apples and winter greens, and a small jug of wine that her mother had bought, or perhaps stolen, from the inn where she worked.

Elizabeth said: “What will happen now?”

“The sentence of death still hangs over him. He can’t return to Wigleigh, or come here to Kingsbridge, without getting arrested. In effect, he’s declared himself an outlaw.”

“Is there nothing he can do?”

“He could get a pardon from the king – but that costs a fortune, far more money than he or I could raise.”

“And how do you feel about him?”

Merthin winced. “Well, he deserves punishment for what he did, of course. All the same, I can’t wish it on him. I just hope he’s all right, wherever he is.”

He had told the story of Ralph’s trial many times in the last few days, but Elizabeth had asked the most astute questions. She was intelligent and sympathetic. The thought crossed his mind that it would be no hardship to spend every Sunday afternoon this way.

Her mother, Sairy, was dozing by the fire, as usual, but now she opened her eyes and said: “My soul! I’ve forgotten the pie.” She stood up, patting her mussed grey hair. “I promised to ask Betty Baxter to make a pie with ham and eggs for the leather-tanners’ guild. They’re holding their last-before-Lent dinner at the Bell tomorrow.” She draped a blanket around her shoulders and went out.

It was unusual for them to be left alone together, and Merthin felt slightly awkward, but Elizabeth seemed relaxed enough. She said: “What are you doing with yourself, now that you no longer work on the bridge?”

“I’m building a house for Dick Brewer, among other things. Dick’s ready to retire and hand over to his son, but he says he’ll never stop work while he’s living at the Copper, so he wants a house with a garden outside the old city walls.”

“Oh – is that the building site beyond Lovers’ Field?”

“Yes. It will be the biggest house in Kingsbridge.”

“A brewer is never short of money.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“The site?”

“The house. It’s not finished, but it’s got four walls and a roof.”

“Now?”

“There’s still an hour of daylight.”

She hesitated, as if she might have had another plan; but then she said: “I’d love to.”

They put on heavy cloaks with hoods and went out. It was the first day of March. Flurries of snow chased them down the main street. They took the ferry to the suburban side.

Despite the ups and downs of the wool trade, the town seemed to grow a little every year, and the priory turned more and more of its pasture and orchards into house plots for rent. Merthin guessed there must be fifty dwellings that had not been here when he first came to Kingsbridge, as a boy, twelve years ago.

Dick Brewer’s new home was a two-storey structure set back from the road. As yet it had no window shutters or doors, so the gaps in the walls had been temporarily covered with hurdles, wood frames filled in with woven reeds. The front entrance was thus blocked, but Merthin took Elizabeth to the back, where there was a temporary wooden door with a lock.

Merthin’s assistant Jimmie, now sixteen, was in the kitchen, guarding the place from thieves. He was a superstitious boy, always crossing himself and throwing salt over his shoulder. He was sitting on a bench in front of a big fire, but he looked anxious. “Hello, master,” he said. “Now that you’re here, may I go and get my dinner? Lol Turner was supposed to bring it, but he hasn’t come.”

“Make sure you’re back before it gets dark.”

“Thank you.” He hurried off.

Merthin stepped through the doorway to the interior of the house. “Four rooms downstairs,” he said, showing her.

She was incredulous. “What will they use them all for?”

“Kitchen, parlour, dining room and hall.” There was no staircase yet, but Merthin climbed a ladder to the upper floor, and Elizabeth followed. “Four bedrooms,” he said as she reached the top.

“Who will live here?”

“Dick and his wife, his son Danny and his wife, and his daughter, who probably won’t remain single for ever.”

Most Kingsbridge families lived in one room, and all slept side by side on the floor: parents, children, grandparents and in-laws. Elizabeth said: “This place has more rooms than a palace!”

It was true. A nobleman with a big entourage might still live in two rooms: a bedchamber for himself and his wife, and a great hall for everyone else. But Merthin had now designed several houses for wealthy Kingsbridge merchants, and the luxury they all craved was privacy. It was a new trend, he thought.

“I suppose there will be glass in the windows,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes.” That was another trend. Merthin could remember the time when there was no glazier in Kingsbridge, just an itinerant who called every year or two. Now the city had a resident glazier.

They returned to the ground floor. Elizabeth sat on Jimmie’s bench in front of the fire and warmed her hands. Merthin sat beside her. “I’ll build a house like this for myself, one day,” he said. “In a big garden with fruit trees.”

To his surprise, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a nice dream,” she said.

They both stared into the fire. Her hair tickled Merthin’s cheek. After a moment, she laid a hand on his knee. In the silence, he could hear her breathing, and his own, and the crackle of burning logs.

“In your dream, who’s in the house?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Just like a man. I can’t see my house, but I know who’s in it: a husband, some babies, my mother, an elderly parent-in-law and three servants.”

“Men and women have different dreams.”

She lifted her head, looked at him and touched his face. “And when you put them together, you have a life.” She kissed his mouth.

He closed his eyes. He remembered the soft touch of her lips from years ago. Her mouth lingered on his for just a moment, then she drew back.

He felt oddly detached, as if he were watching himself from a corner of the room. He did not know how he felt. He looked at her and saw again how lovely she was. He asked himself what was so striking about her, and realized immediately that everything was in harmony, like the parts of a beautiful church. Her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones and her forehead were just as he would have drawn them if he had been God creating a woman.

She looked back at him with calm blue eyes. “Touch me,” she said. She opened her cloak.

He took her breast gently in his hand. He remembered doing this, too. Her breasts were firm and flat against her chest. Her nipple hardened immediately to his touch, betraying her calm demeanour.

“I want to be in your dream house,” she said, and she kissed him again.

She was not acting on the spur of the moment; Elizabeth never did. She had been thinking about this. While he had been casually visiting her, enjoying her company without thinking any farther, she had been imagining their life together. Perhaps she had even planned this scene. That would explain why her mother had left them with an excuse about a pie. He had almost spoiled her plan by proposing to show her Dick Brewer’s house, but she had improvised.

There was nothing wrong with such an unemotional approach. She was a reasoning person. It was one of the things he liked about her. He knew that passions burned nonetheless beneath the surface.

What seemed wrong was his own lack of feeling. It was not his way to be coolly rational about women – quite the reverse. When he had felt We, it had taken him over, making him feel rage and resentment as well as lust and tenderness. Now he felt interested, flattered and titillated, but he was not out of control.

She sensed that his kiss was lukewarm, and drew back. He saw the ghost of an emotion on her face, fiercely suppressed, but he knew there was fear behind the mask. She was so poised, by nature, that it must have cost her a lot to be so forward, and she dreaded rejection.

She drew away from him, stood up and lifted the skirt of her dress. She had long, shapely legs covered with nearly invisible fine blonde hair. Although she was tall and slim, her body widened just below the hips in a delightfully womanly way. His gaze homed in helplessly on the delta of her sex. Her hair was so fair that he could see through it, to the pale swelling of the lips and the delicate line between them.

He looked up to her face and read desperation there. She had tried everything, and she saw that it had not worked.

Merthin said: “I’m sorry.”

She dropped her skirts.

“Listen,” he said. “I think-”

She interrupted him. “Don’t speak.” Her desire was turning to anger. “Whatever you say now will be a lie.”

She was right. He had been trying to formulate some soothing half-truth: he was not feeling well, or Jimmie might be back at any moment. But she did not want to be mollified. She had been rebuffed, and feeble excuses would only make her feel patronized as well.

She stared at him, grief struggling with rage on the battleground of her beautiful face. Tears of frustration came to her eyes. “Why not?” she cried; but when he opened his mouth to reply she said: “Don’t answer! It won’t be the truth”; and again she was right.

She turned to go, then came back. “It’s Caris,” she said, her face working with emotion. “That witch has cast a spell on you. She won’t marry you, but no one else can have you. She’s evil!”

At last she walked away. She flung open the door and stepped out. He heard her sob once, then she was gone.

Merthin stared into the fire. “Oh, hell,” he said.

“There’s something I need to explain to you,” Merthin said to Edmund a week later, as they were leaving the cathedral.

Edmund’s face took on a look of mild amusement that was familiar to Merthin. I’m thirty years older than you, the look said, and you should be listening to me, not giving me lessons; but I enjoy youthful enthusiasm. Besides, I’m not yet too old to learn something. “All right,” he said. “But explain it in the Bell. I want a cup of wine.”

They went into the tavern and sat close to the fire. Elizabeth’s mother brought their wine, but she stuck her nose in the air and did not talk to them. Edmund said: “Is Sairy angry with you or me?”

“Never mind that,” said Merthin. “Have you ever stood at the edge of the ocean, with your bare feet on the sand, and felt the sea wash over your toes?”

“Of course. All children play in water. Even I was a boy once.”

“Do you remember how the action of the waves, flowing in and out, seems to scour the sand from under the edges of your feet, making a little channel?”

“Yes. It’s a long time ago, but I think I know what you mean.”

“That’s what happened to the old wooden bridge. The flowing river scoured the earth from under the central pier.”

“How do you know?”

“By the pattern of cracks in the woodwork just before the collapse.”

“What’s your point?”

“The river hasn’t changed. It will undermine the new bridge just as surely as it did the old – unless we prevent it.”

“How?”

“In my drawing, I showed a pile of large, loose stones surrounding each of the piers of the new bridge. They will break up the current and enfeeble its effect. It’s the difference between being tickled by loose thread and being flogged with a tightly woven rope.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked Buonaventura about it, immediately after the bridge collapsed, before he went back to London. He said he had seen such piles of stones around the piers of bridges in Italy, and he had often wondered what they were for.”

“Fascinating. Are you telling me this for general enlightenment, or is there some more specific purpose?”

“People like Godwyn and Elfric don’t understand this, and wouldn’t listen if I told them. Just in case Elfric takes it into his fool head not to follow my design exactly, I want to be sure that at least one person in town knows the reason for the pile of stones.”

“But one person does – you.”

“I’m leaving Kingsbridge.”

That shocked him. “Leaving?” he said. “You?”

At that moment, Caris appeared. “Don’t stay here too long,” she said to her father. “Aunt Petranilla is preparing dinner. Do you want to join us, Merthin?”

Edmund said: “Merthin’s leaving Kingsbridge.”

Caris paled.

Seeing her reaction, Merthin felt a jolt of satisfaction. She had rejected him, but she was dismayed to hear that he was leaving town. He immediately felt ashamed of such an unworthy emotion. He was too fond of her to want her to suffer. All the same, he would have felt worse if she had received the news with equanimity.

“Why?” she said.

“There’s nothing for me here. What am I going to build? I can’t work on the bridge. The town already has a cathedral. I don’t want to do nothing but merchants’ houses for the rest of my life.”

In a quiet voice, she said: “Where will you go?”

“Florence. I’ve always wanted to see the buildings of Italy. I’ll ask Buonaventura Caroli for letters of introduction. I might even be able to travel with one of his consignments.”

“But you own property here in Kingsbridge.”

“I wanted to speak to you about that. Would you manage it for me? You could collect my rents, take a commission and give the balance to Buonaventura. He can transfer money to Florence by letter.”

“I don’t want a damn commission,” she said huffily.

Merthin shrugged. “It’s work, you should be paid.”

“How can you be so cold about it?” she said. Her voice was shrill, and around the parlour of the Bell several people looked up. She took no notice. “You’ll be leaving all your friends!”

“I’m not cold about it. Friends are great. But I’d like to get married.”

Edmund put in: “Plenty of girls in Kingsbridge would marry you. You’re not handsome, but you’re prosperous, and that’s worth more than good looks.”

Merthin smiled wryly. Edmund could be disarmingly blunt. Caris had inherited the trait. “For a while I thought I might marry Elizabeth Clerk,” he said.

Edmund said: “So did I.”

Caris said: “She’s a cold fish.”

“No, she’s not. But when she asked me, I backed off.”

Caris said: “Oh – so that’s why she’s so bad-tempered lately.”

Edmund said: “And why her mother won’t look at Merthin.”

“Why did you refuse her?” Caris asked.

“There’s only one woman in Kingsbridge I could marry – and she doesn’t want to be anyone’s wife.”

“But she doesn’t want to lose you.”

Merthin became angry. “What should I do?” he said. His voice was loud, and people around them stopped their conversations to listen. “Godwyn has fired me, you’ve rejected me and my brother is an outlaw. In God’s name, why should I stay here?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she said.

“That’s not enough!” he shouted.

The room was silent now. Everyone there knew them: the landlord, Paul Bell, and his curvy daughter Bessie; the grey-haired barmaid Sairy, Elizabeth’s mother; Bill Watkin, who had refused to employ Merthin; Edward Butcher, the notorious adulterer; Jake Chepstow, Merthin’s tenant; Friar Murdo, Matthew Barber and Mark Webber. They all knew the history of Merthin and Caris, and they were fascinated by the quarrel.

Merthin did not care. Let them listen. He said furiously: “I’m not going to spend my life hanging around you, like your dog Scrap, waiting for your attention. I’ll be your husband, but I won’t be your pet.”

“All right, then,” she said in a small voice.

Her sudden change of tone surprised him, and he was not sure what she meant. “All right, what?”

“All right, I’ll marry you.”

For a moment, he was too shocked to speak. Then he said suspiciously: “Do you mean it?”

She looked up at him at last and smiled shyly. “Yes, I mean it,” she said. “Just ask me.”

“All right.” He took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will,” she said.

Edmund shouted: “Hoorah!”

Everyone in the tavern cheered and clapped.

Merthin and Caris started laughing. “Will you, really?” he said.

“Yes.”

They kissed, then he put his arms around her and squeezed as hard as he could. When he let her go, he saw that she was crying.

“Some wine for my betrothed,” he called out. “A barrel, in fact – give everyone a cup, so they can all drink our health!”

“Coming right up,” said the landlord, and they all cheered again.

A week later, Elizabeth Clerk became a novice nun.

40

Ralph and Alan were miserable. They were living on venison and cold water, and Ralph found himself dreaming about food he would normally scorn: onions, apples, eggs, milk. They slept in a different place every night, always lighting a fire. They each had a good cloak, but it was not enough out in the open, and they woke shivering every dawn. They robbed any vulnerable people they met on the road, but most of the loot was either paltry or useless: ragged clothes, animal fodder, and money, which would buy nothing in the forest.

Once they stole a big barrel of wine. They rolled it a hundred yards into the woods, drank as much as they could and fell asleep. When they woke up, hung over and ill-tempered, they realized they could not take the three-quarters-full barrel with them, so they just left it there.

Ralph thought nostalgically of his former life: the manor house, the roaring fires, the servants, the dinners. But, in his realistic moments, he knew he did not want that life either. It was too dull. That was probably why he had raped the girl. He needed excitement.

After a month in the forest, Ralph decided they had to get organized. They needed a base where they could build some kind of shelter and store food. And they had to plan their robberies so that they stole items that would be really valuable to them, such as warm clothing and fresh food.

Around the time he was coming to this realization, their wanderings brought them to a range of hills a few miles from Kingsbridge. Ralph recalled that the hillsides, bleak and bare in winter, were used for summer grazing by shepherds, who had built rough stone shelters in the folds of the landscape. As adolescents he and Merthin had discovered these crude buildings while out hunting, and had lit fires and cooked the rabbits and partridges they shot with their bows. Even in those days, he recalled, he had craved the thrill of the hunt: chasing and shooting a terrified creature, finishing it off with a knife or club – the ecstatic sense of power that came from taking a life.

No one would come here until the new season’s grass was thick. The traditional day was Whit Sunday, also the opening day of the Fleece Fair, still two months away. Ralph selected a hut that looked sturdy and they made it their home. There were no doors or windows, just a low entrance, but there was a hole in the roof to let smoke out, and they lit a fire and slept warm for the first time in a month.

Proximity to Kingsbridge gave Ralph another bright idea. The time to rob people, he realized, was when they were on their way to market. They were carrying cheeses, flagons of cider, honey, oatcakes: all the things that were produced by villagers and needed by townspeople – and by outlaws.

Kingsbridge market was on a Sunday. Ralph had lost track of the days of the week, but he found out by asking a travelling friar, before robbing him of three shillings and a goose. On the following Saturday, he and Alan made camp not far from the road to Kingsbridge, and stayed awake all night by their fire. At dawn they made their way to the road and lay in wait.

The first group to come along were carting fodder. Kingsbridge had hundreds of horses and very little grass, so the town constantly needed supplies of hay. However, it was no use to Ralph: Griff and Fletch had no end of grazing in the forest.

Ralph was not bored waiting. Preparing an ambush was like watching a woman get undressed. The longer the anticipation, the more intense the thrill.

Soon afterwards they heard singing. The hairs on the back of Ralph’s neck stood up: it sounded like angels. The morning was hazy, and when he first saw the singers they seemed to have haloes. Alan, obviously thinking the same as Ralph, even gave a sob of fear. But it was only the weak winter sun lighting the mist behind the travellers. They were peasant women, each carrying a basket of eggs – hardly worth robbing. Ralph let them go by without revealing himself.

The sun rose a little higher. Ralph began to worry that soon the road would become sufficiently crowded with market-goers to make robbery difficult. Then along came a family: a man and woman in their thirties with two adolescent children, a boy and a girl. They were vaguely familiar: no doubt he had seen them at Kingsbridge market during the years he lived there. They carried an assortment of goods. The husband had a heavy basket of vegetables on his back; the wife balanced on her shoulder a long pole bearing several live chickens, trussed; the boy had a heavy ham on his shoulder, and the girl a crock that probably contained salted butter. Ralph’s mouth watered at the thought of ham.

The excitement rose in his guts, and he gave Alan a nod.

As the family drew level, Ralph and Alan came out of the bushes at a run.

The woman screamed and the boy gave a shout of fear.

The man tried to shrug off his basket but, before it fell from his shoulders, Ralph ran him through, his sword piercing the man’s abdomen under the ribs and then rising up. The man’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly as the point of the sword penetrated his heart.

Alan swung at the woman and cut through most of her neck, so that blood spurted from her severed throat in a sudden red jet.

Exhilarated, Ralph turned to the son. The lad was quick to react: he had already dropped his ham and drawn a knife. While Ralph’s weapon was still on the upswing, the boy darted close and stabbed him. It was an unprofessional blow, too wild to do much damage. The knife completely missed Ralph’s chest, but the point caught in the flesh of his upper right arm, and the sudden agonizing pain made him drop his sword. The boy turned and ran away, going in the direction of Kingsbridge.

Ralph looked at Alan. Before turning to the girl, Alan finished off the mother, and the delay almost cost him his life. Ralph saw the girl throw her crock of butter at Alan. Either accurate or lucky, she hit him square on the back of the head, and Alan fell to the ground as if poleaxed.

Then she ran after her brother.

Ralph stooped, picked up his sword in his left hand and gave chase.

They were young and fleet, but he had long legs and he soon gained on them. The boy looked over his shoulder and saw Ralph coming close. To Ralph’s astonishment the lad stopped, turned and came running back at him, screaming, knife raised in his fist.

Ralph stopped running and lifted his sword. The boy ran at him – then stopped outside his reach. Ralph stepped forward and lunged, but it was a feint. The boy dodged the blow, then, thinking to catch Ralph off balance, tried to step inside his guard and stab him at close quarters. But that was exactly what Ralph was expecting. He stepped nimbly back, stood on the balls of his feet and thrust his sword precisely into the boy’s throat, pushing it through until the point came out of the back ot his neck.

The boy fell dead, and Ralph withdrew his sword, pleased with the accuracy and efficiency of the death blow.

He looked up to see the girl disappearing into the distance. He saw immediately that he could not catch her on foot; and by the time he fetched his horse she would be in Kingsbridge.

He turned and looked back. To his surprise, Alan was struggling to his feet. “I thought she’d killed you,” Ralph said. He wiped his sword on the dead boy’s tunic, sheathed his blade and clamped his left hand over the wound in his right arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

“My head hurts like Satan,” Alan replied. “Did you kill them all?”

“The girl got away.”

“Do you think she knew us?”

“She might know me. I’ve seen this family before.”

“In that case, we’re now branded as murderers.”

Ralph shrugged. “Better to hang than starve.” He looked at the three bodies. “All the same, let’s get these peasants off the road before someone comes along.”

With his left hand he dragged the man to the edge of the road. Alan picked up the body and threw it into the bushes. They did the same with the woman and the boy. Ralph made sure the corpses were not visible to passers-by. The blood on the road was already darkening to the colour of the mud into which it was soaking.

Ralph cut a strip off the woman’s dress and tied it around the cut in his arm. It still hurt, but the flow of blood was less. He felt the slight depression that always followed a fight, like the sadness after sex.

Alan began to collect up the loot. “A nice haul,” he said. “Ham, chickens, butter -” he looked into the basket the man had been carrying – “and onions! Last year’s, of course, but still good.”

“Old onions taste better than no onions. My mother says that.”

As Ralph bent to pick up the butter crock that had felled Alan, he felt a sharp iron point stick into his arse. Alan was in front of him, dealing with the trussed chickens. Ralph said: “Who…?”

A harsh voice said: “Don’t move.”

Ralph never obeyed such instructions. He sprang forward, away from the voice, and spun round. Six or seven men had materialized from nowhere. He was bewildered, but he managed, left-handed, to draw his sword. The man nearest him – who presumably had prodded him – raised his sword to fight, but the others were grabbing the loot, snatching chickens and fighting over the ham. Alan’s sword flashed in defence of his chickens as Ralph engaged with his antagonist. He realized that another group of outlaws was trying to rob him. He was filled with indignation: he had killed people for this stuff, and now they wanted to take it from him! He felt no fear, only anger. He attacked his opponent with the energy of outrage, despite being forced to fight left-handed. Then an authoritative voice said loudly: “Put away your blades, you fools.”

All the newcomers stood still. Ralph held his sword at the ready, suspicious of a trick, and looked towards the voice. He saw a handsome man in his twenties with something of the nobility about him. He wore clothes that looked expensive but were filthy dirty: a cloak of Italian scarlet covered with leaves and twigs, a rich brocade coat marked with what appeared to be food stains, and hose of a rich chestnut leather, scratched and muddy.

“It amuses me to steal from thieves,” the newcomer said. “It’s not a crime, you see.”

Ralph knew he was in a tight spot but, all the same, he was intrigued. “Are you the one they call Tam Hiding?” he said.

“There were stories of Tam Hiding when I was a child,” the man replied. “But every now and again someone comes along to act the part, like a monk impersonating Lucifer in a mystery play.”

“You’re not a common type of outlaw.”

“Nor are you. I’m guessing that you’re Ralph Fitzgerald.”

Ralph nodded.

“I heard about your escape, and I’ve been wondering when I’d run into you.” Tam looked up and down the road. “We happened upon you by accident. What made you choose this spot?”

“I picked the day and time, first. It’s Sunday, and at this hour the peasants are taking their produce to market in Kingsbridge, which is on this road.”

“Well, well. Ten years I’ve been living outside the law, and I never thought of doing that. Perhaps we should team up. Are you going to put your weapon away?”

Ralph hesitated, but Tam was unarmed, so he could not see the disadvantage. Anyway, he and Alan were so heavily outnumbered that it would be best to avoid a fight. Slowly, he sheathed his sword.

“That’s better.” Tam put an arm around Ralph’s shoulders, and Ralph realized they were the same height. Not many people were as tall as Ralph. Tam walked him into the woods, saying: “The others will bring the loot. Come this way. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”

Edmund rapped on the table. “I’ve called this emergency meeting of the parish guild to discuss the outlaw problem,” he said. “But, as I’m getting old and lazy, I’ve asked my daughter to summarize the situation.”

Caris was a member of the parish guild now, by virtue of her success as a manufacturer of scarlet cloth. The new business had rescued her father’s fortunes. Numerous other Kingsbridge people were prospering because of it, notably the Webber family. Her father had been able to fulfil his pledge to lend money for the building of the bridge, and in the general upturn several other merchants had done the same. Bridge building continued apace – supervised now by Elfric, not Merthin, unfortunately.

Her father took little initiative, these days. The moments when he was his sharp-witted former self were becoming rarer. She was worried about him, but there was nothing she could do. She felt the rage that had possessed her during her mother’s illness. Why was there no help for him? Nobody understood what was wrong; no one could even put a name to his malady. They said it was old age, but he was not yet fifty!

She prayed he would live to see her wedding. She was going to marry Merthin in Kingsbridge Cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair, now just a month away. The wedding of the daughter of the town’s alderman would be a big event. There would be a banquet in the guild hall for the leading citizens, and a picnic in Lovers’ Field for several hundred more guests. Some days her father would spend hours planning the menus and the entertainment, only to forget everything he had said and start again from scratch the next day.

She put that out of her mind, and turned her attention to a problem she hoped would be more tractable. “In the last month there has been a big increase in attacks by outlaws,” she said. “They take place mainly on Sundays, and the victims are invariably people bringing produce to Kingsbridge.”

She was interrupted by Elfric. “It’s your fiance’s brother that’s doing it!” he said. “Talk to Merthin, not us.”

Caris suppressed a flash of exasperation. Her sister’s husband never missed a chance to snipe at her. She was painfully aware of Ralph’s likely involvement. It was a cause of agony to Merthin. Elfric relished that.

Dick Brewer said: “I think it’s Tam Hiding.”

“Perhaps it’s both,” Caris said. “I believe that Ralph Fitzgerald, who has some military training, may have joined forces with an existing band of outlaws and simply made them more organized and effective.”

Fat Betty Baxter, the town’s most successful baker, said: “Whoever it is, they’ll be the ruination of this town. No one comes to market any more!”

That was an exaggeration, but attendance at the weekly market was down drastically, and the effects were felt by just about every enterprise in town, from bakeries to brothels. “That’s not the worst of it, though,” Caris said. “In four weeks’ time we’ve got the Fleece Fair. Several people here have invested enormous sums of money in the new bridge, which should be ready for use, with a temporary timber roadbed, in time for the opening. Most of us depend on the annual fair for our prosperity. I personally have a warehouse full of costly scarlet cloth to sell. If it gets around that people coming to Kingsbridge are likely to be robbed by outlaws, we may have no customers.”

She was even more worried than she let herself appear. Neither she nor her father had any cash left. Everything they had was either invested in the bridge or tied up in raw wool and scarlet cloth. The Fleece Fair was their chance to get their money back. If attendance was poor, they would be in deep trouble. Among other things, who would pay for the wedding?

She was not the only worried citizen. Rick Silvers, the head of the jewellers’ guild, said: “That would be the third bad year in succession.” He was a prim, fussy man, always immaculately dressed. “It would finish some of my people,” he went on. “We do half our year’s business at the Fleece Fair.”

Edmund said: “It would finish this town. We can’t let it happen.”

Several others joined in. Caris, who was unofficially presiding, let them grumble. A heightened sense of urgency would predispose them to accept the radical solution she was going to propose.

Elfric said: “The Sheriff of Shiring ought to do something about it. What’s he paid for, if not to keep the peace?”

Caris said: “He can’t search the entire forest. He doesn’t have enough men.”

“Earl Roland has.”

This was wishful thinking, but again Caris let the discussion run, so that when she proposed her solution they would be aware that there were no real alternatives.

Edmund said to Elfric: “The earl won’t help us – I’ve already asked him.”

Caris, who had in fact written Edmund’s letter to Roland, said: “Ralph was the earl’s man, and still is. You notice the outlaws don’t attack people going to Shiring market.”

Elfric said indignantly: “Those Wigleigh peasants should never have made a complaint against a squire of the earl’s – who do they think they are?”

Caris was about to respond indignantly but Betty Baxter beat her to it. “Oh, so you think lords should be allowed to rape anyone they like?”

Edmund intervened. “That’s a different question,” he said briskly, showing some of his old authority. “It’s happened, and Ralph is preying on us, so what are we going to do? The sheriff can’t help us and the earl won’t.”

Rick Silvers said: “What about Lord William? He took the side of the Wigleigh people – it’s his fault that Ralph’s an outlaw.”

“I asked him, too,” Edmund said. “He said we’re not in his territory.”

Rick said: “That’s the trouble with having the priory as your landlord – what use is a prior when you need protection?”

Caris said: “Another reason why we are applying to the king for a borough charter. We’d be under royal protection then.”

Elfric said: “We’ve got our own constable, what’s he doing?”

Mark Webber spoke. He was one of the constable’s deputies. “We’re ready to do whatever’s necessary,” he said. “Just give us the word.”

Caris said: “No one doubts your bravery. But your role is to deal with troublemakers within the town. John Constable doesn’t have the expertise to hunt down outlaws.”

Mark, who was close to Caris because he ran her fulling mill at Wigleigh, was mildly indignant. “Well, who does, then?”

Caris had been leading the discussion towards this question. “As a matter of fact, there is an experienced soldier who is willing to help us,” she said. “I took the liberty of asking him to come here tonight, and he’s waiting in the chapel.” She raised her voice. “Thomas, will you join us?”

Thomas Langley came out of the little chapel at the end of the hall.

Rick Silvers said sceptically: “A monk?”

“Before he was a monk, he was a soldier,” Caris explained. “That’s how he lost his arm.”

Elfric said grumpily: “Guild members’ permission should have been sought before he was invited.” No one took any notice, Caris was pleased to see: they were too interested to hear what Thomas would have to say.

“You need to form a militia,” Thomas began. “By all accounts there are twenty or thirty outlaws in the troop. That’s not many. Most townsmen can use a longbow effectively, thanks to the Sunday-morning practice sessions. A hundred of you, well prepared and intelligently led, could overcome the outlaws easily.”

“That’s all very well,” said Rick Silvers. “But we have to find them.”

“Of course,” said Thomas. “But I feel sure there is someone in Kingsbridge who knows where they are.”

Merthin had asked the timber merchant, Jake Chepstow, to bring him a piece of slate from Wales – the largest piece he could find. Jake had come back from his next logging expedition with a thin sheet of grey Welsh slate about four feet square. Merthin had encased it in a wooden frame, and he used it for sketching plans.

This evening, while Caris was at the parish guild, Merthin was at his own house on Leper Island, working on a map of the island. Renting parts of it for wharves and warehouses was the least of his ambitions. He foresaw an entire street of inns and shops crossing the island from one bridge to the other. He would construct the buildings himself and rent them to enterprising Kingsbridge traders. It excited him to look into the future of the town and imagine the buildings and streets it was going to need. This was the kind of thing the priory would have done, if it had had better leadership.

Included in the plan was a new house for him and Caris. This little place would be cosy when they were first married, but they would need more room eventually, especially if they had children. He had marked out a site on the southern shore, where they would get fresh air off the river. Most of the island was rocky, but the patch he had in mind featured a small area of cultivable soil where he might be able to grow some fruit trees. As he planned the house, he relished the vision of the two of them living side by side, day by day, always.

His dream was interrupted by a knock at the door. He was startled. Normally no one came to the island at night – except Caris, and she would not knock. “Who is it?” he called nervously.

Thomas Langley came in.

“Monks are supposed to be asleep at this time,” Merthin said.

“Godwyn doesn’t know I’m here.” Thomas looked at the slate. “You draw left-handed?”

“Left or right, it makes no difference. Would you like a cup of wine?”

“No, thanks. I’ll have to be up for Matins in a few hours, so I don’t want to get sleepy.”

Merthin liked Thomas. There had been a bond between them ever since that day, twelve years ago, when he had promised that if Thomas should die he would take a priest to the place where the letter was buried. Later, when they had worked together on cathedral repairs, Thomas had always been clear in his instructions and gracious to apprentices. He managed to be sincere about his religious calling without becoming prideful: all men of God should be like that, Merthin thought.

He waved Thomas to a chair by the fire. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about your brother. He has to be stopped.”

Merthin winced, as if at a sudden stab of pain. “If I could do anything, I would. But I haven’t seen him and, when I do, I’m not sure he will listen to me. There was a time when he looked to me for guidance, but I think those days are over.”

“I’ve just come from a meeting of the parish guild. They asked me to organize a militia.”

“Don’t expect me to be part of it.”

“No, I didn’t come for that purpose.” Thomas gave a wry smile. “Your many amazing talents don’t actually include military skills.”

Merthin nodded ruefully. “Thanks.”

“But there is something you could do to help me, if you would.”

Merthin felt uneasy. “Well, ask me.”

“The outlaws must have a hideout somewhere not far from Kingsbridge. I want you to think about where your brother might be. It’s probably a place you both know – a cave, perhaps, or an abandoned verderer’s hut in the forest.”

Merthin hesitated.

Thomas said: “I know you’d hate to betray him. But think of that first family he attacked: a decent, hard-working peasant, his pretty wife, a lad of fourteen and a little girl. Now three of them are dead and the little girl has no parents. Even though you love your brother, you have to help us catch him.”

“I know.”

“Can you think where he might be?”

Merthin was not yet ready to answer the question. “Will you take him alive?”

“If I can.”

Merthin shook his head. “Not good enough. I need a guarantee.”

Thomas was silent for a few moments. At last he said: “All right. I’ll take him alive. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Merthin paused. He knew he had to do this, but his heart rebelled. After a moment, he forced himself to speak. “When I was about thirteen we used to go hunting, often with older boys. We would stay out all day and cook whatever we shot. Sometimes we used to go as far as the chalk hills and meet the families who spend the summer up there grazing sheep. Shepherdesses tend to be quite free and easy – some would let you kiss them.” He smiled briefly. “In winter, when they weren’t there, we used their huts for shelter. That might be where Ralph is hiding out.”

“Thank you,” said Thomas. He stood up.

“Remember your promise.”

“I will.”

“You trusted me with a secret twelve years ago.”

“I know.”

“I never betrayed you.”

“I realize that.”

“Now I’m trusting you.” Merthin knew that his words could be interpreted two ways: either as a plea for reciprocity, or as a veiled threat. That was all right. Let Thomas take it how he wished.

Thomas put out his one hand, and Merthin clasped it. “I’ll keep my word,” Thomas said. Then he went out.

Ralph and Tam rode side by side up the hill, followed by Alan Fernhill on his horse and the rest of the outlaws on foot. Ralph was feeling good: it had been another successful Sunday morning’s work. Spring had arrived, and the peasants were beginning to bring the new season’s produce to market. The members of the gang were carrying half a dozen lambs, a jar of honey, a stoppered jug of cream and several leather bottles of wine. As usual, the outlaws had suffered only minor injuries, a few cuts and bruises inflicted by the more foolhardy of their victims.

Ralph’s partnership with Tam had been extraordinarily successful. A couple of hours’ easy fighting brought them all they needed for a week of living in luxury. They spent the rest of their time hunting in the day and drinking in the evenings. There were no clodhopping serfs to badger them about boundary disputes or cheat them of rent. All they lacked were women, and today they had remedied that, by kidnapping two plump girls, sisters of about thirteen and fourteen years.

His only regret was that he had never fought for the king. It had been his ambition since boyhood, and he still felt the tug. Being an outlaw was too easy. He could not feel very proud of killing unarmed serfs. The boy in him longed yet for glory. He had never proved, to himself and others, that he had in him the soul of a true knight.

However, he would not allow that thought to lower his spirits. As he breasted the rise that hid the upland pasture where their hideout was, he looked forward to a feast tonight. They would roast a lamb on a spit and drink cream with honey. And the girls… Ralph decided he would make them lie side by side, so that each would see her sister being violated by one man after another. The thought made his heart beat faster.

They came within sight of the stone shelters. They would not be able to use these much longer, Ralph reflected. The grass was growing and the shepherds would be here soon. Easter had been early this year, so Whitsun would come soon after May Day. The outlaws would have to find another base.

When he was fifty yards from the nearest hut, he was shocked to see someone walk out of it.

He and Tam both reined in, and the outlaws gathered around them, hands on their weapons.

The man approached them, and Ralph saw that it was a monk. Tam, beside Ralph, said: “What in the name of heaven…?”

One sleeve of the monk’s robe flapped empty, and Ralph recognized him as Brother Thomas from Kingsbridge. Thomas walked up to them as if meeting them by chance on the main street. “Hello, Ralph,” he said. “Remember me?”

Tam said to Ralph: “Do you know this man?”

Thomas came up on the right side of Ralph’s horse and extended his good right arm to shake hands. What the hell was he doing here? On the other hand, what harm could there be in a one-armed monk? Baffled, Ralph reached down and took the proffered hand. Thomas slipped his hand up Ralph’s arm and grasped his elbow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ralph saw movement near the stone huts. Glancing up, he saw a man step out through the doorway of the nearest building, closely followed by a second man, then three more; then he saw that they were pouring out of all the huts – and fitting arrows to the tall longbows they carried. He realized that he and his band had been ambushed – but, in that moment, the grip on his elbow tightened and, with a sudden strong heave, he was pulled off his horse.

A shout went up from the outlaws. Ralph crashed to the ground, landing on his back. His horse, Griff, skittered sideways, frightened. As Ralph tried to get up, Thomas fell on him like a tree, flattening him to the ground, and lay on top of him like a lover. “Lie still and you won’t get killed,” he said in Ralph’s ear.

Then Ralph heard the sound of dozens of arrows being shot simultaneously from longbows, a deadly swish that was unmistakable, like the sudden wind of a flash thunderstorm. The noise was tremendous – there must have been a hundred archers, he thought. They had obviously crammed themselves into the shelters. Thomas’s grasping Ralph’s arm must have been the signal for them to come out and shoot.

He considered fighting Thomas off, and thought better of it. He could hear the cries of the outlaws as the arrows struck home. From ground level he could not see much, but some of his men were drawing their swords. However, they were too far from the archers: if they ran at their enemy, they would be shot down before they could engage. It was a massacre, not a battle. Hooves drummed the earth, and Ralph wondered whether Tam was charging the archers or riding away.

Confusion reigned, but not for long. Within moments he could tell that the outlaws were in full retreat.

Thomas got off him, pulled a long dagger from under his Benedictine robe, and said: “Don’t even think about drawing your sword.”

Ralph stood up. He looked at the archers, and recognized many of them: fat Dick Brewer, randy Edward Butcher, convivial Paul Bell, grumpy Bill Watkin – timid, law-abiding citizens of Kingsbridge, every one. He had been captured by tradesmen. But that was not the most surprising thing.

He looked curiously at Thomas. “You saved my life, monk,” he said.

“Only because your brother asked me to,” Thomas replied crisply. “If it had been up to me, you would have been dead before you hit the ground.”

The Kingsbridge jail was in the basement of the guild hall. The pen had stone walls, a dirt floor and no windows. There was no fire either, and prisoners occasionally died of cold in the winter; but this was May, and Ralph had a wool cloak to keep him warm at night. He also had a few items of furniture – a chair, a bench and a small table – rented from John Constable and paid for by Merthin. On the other side of the barred oak door was John Constable’s office. On market days and during the fair, he and his deputies sat there waiting to be summoned to deal with trouble.

Alan Fernhill was in the cell with Ralph. A Kingsbridge archer had brought him down with an arrow in the thigh, and although the wound was not serious he had been unable to run. However, Tam Hiding had got away.

Today was their last here. The sheriff was due at midday to take them to Shiring. They had already been sentenced to death, in their absence, for the rape of Annet, and for the crimes they had committed in that court under the judge’s eye: wounding the foreman of the jury, wounding Wulfric and escaping. When they got to Shiring they would be hanged.

An hour before noon, Ralph’s parents brought them dinner: hot ham, new bread and a jug of strong ale. Merthin came with them, and Ralph surmised that this was goodbye.

His father confirmed it. “We’ll not follow you to Shiring,” he said.

His mother added: “We don’t want to see you-” She broke down, but he knew what she was going to say. They would not journey to Shiring to see him hang.

Ralph drank the ale but found it difficult to eat. He was going to the gallows, and food seemed pointless. Anyway, he had no appetite. Alan tucked in: he seemed to have no sense of the doom that awaited him.

The family sat in an awkward silence. Although these were their last minutes together, no one knew what to say. Maud wept quietly, Gerald looked thunderous and Merthin sat with his head in his hands. Alan Fernhill just looked bored.

Ralph had a question for his brother. Part of him did not want to ask it, but now he realized that this was his last chance. “When Brother Thomas pulled me off my horse, protecting me from the arrows, I thanked him for saving my life,” he said. Looking at his brother, he went on: “Thomas said he did it for you, Merthin.”

Merthin just nodded.

“Did you ask him to?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew what was going to happen.”

“Yes.”

“So… how did Thomas know where to find me?”

Merthin did not answer.

Ralph said: “You told him, didn’t you?”

Their father was shocked. “Merthin!” he said. “How could you?”

Alan Fernhill said: “You treacherous swine.”

Merthin said to Ralph: “You were murdering people! Innocent peasants and their wives and children! You had to be stopped!”

Ralph did not feel angry, somewhat to his surprise. He felt a choking sensation. He swallowed, then said: “But why did you ask Thomas to spare my life? Was it because you preferred that I should hang?”

Maud said: “Ralph, don’t,” and sobbed.

“I don’t know,” Merthin said. “Perhaps I just wanted you to live a little longer.”

“But you did betray me.” Ralph found that he was on the verge of breaking down. Tears seemed to gather behind his eyes, and he felt the pressure in his head. “You betrayed me,” he repeated.

Merthin stood up and said angrily: “By God, you deserved it!”

Maud said: “Don’t fight.”

Ralph shook his head sadly. “We’re not going to fight,” he said. Those days are over.’

The door opened and John Constable stepped in. “The sheriff is outside,” he announced.

Maud put her arms around Ralph and clung to him, weeping. After a few moments, Gerald gently pulled her away.

John walked out and Ralph followed him. He was surprised not to be tied up or chained. He had escaped once before – were they not afraid he would do the same again? He walked through the constable’s office and out into the open air. His family came behind.

It must have been raining earlier, for now bright sunshine reflected off the wet street and Ralph had to screw up his eyes against the glare. As he adjusted to the light he recognized his own horse, Griff, saddled ready. The sight gladdened his heart. He took the reins and spoke into the horse’s ear. “You never betrayed me, boy, did you, eh?” The horse blew through its nostrils and stamped, pleased to have its master back.

The sheriff and several deputies were waiting, mounted and armed to the teeth: they were going to let Ralph ride to Shiring, but they were not taking any risks with him. There would be no escape this time, he realized.

Then he looked again. The sheriff was here, but the other armed riders were not his deputies. They were Earl Roland’s men. And there was the earl himself, black-haired and black-bearded, mounted on a grey charger. What was he doing here?

Without dismounting, the earl leaned down and handed a rolled sheet of parchment to John Constable. “Read that, if you can,” Roland said, speaking as always out of one side of his mouth. “It is a writ from the king. All the prisoners in the county are pardoned and freed – on condition they come with me to join the king’s army.”

Gerald shouted: “Hoorah!” Maud burst into tears. Merthin looked over the constable’s shoulder and read the writ.

Ralph looked at Alan, who said: “What does it mean?”

“It means we’re free!” Ralph said.

John Constable said: “It does, if I read it aright.” He looked at the sheriff. “Do you confirm this?”

“I do,” said the sheriff.

“Then there is no more to be said. These men are free to go with the earl.” The constable rolled up the parchment.

Ralph looked at his brother. Merthin was weeping. Were they tears of joy, or frustration?

He was given no more time to wonder. “Come on,” said Roland impatiently. “We’ve completed the formalities, let’s get on the road. The king is in France – we’ve a long way to go!” He wheeled his horse and rode down the main street.

Ralph kicked Griffs sides, and the horse eagerly broke into a trot and followed the earl.

41

“You can’t win,” Gregory Longfellow said to Prior Godwyn, sitting in the large chair in the hall of the prior’s house. “The king is going to grant a borough charter to Kingsbridge.”

Godwyn stared at him. This was the lawyer who had won two cases for him at the royal court, one against the earl and the other against the alderman. If such a champion declared himself beaten then, surely, defeat must be inevitable.

It was not to be borne. If Kingsbridge became a royal borough, the priory would be sidelined. For hundreds of years, the prior had ruled the town. In Godwyn’s eyes, the town existed only to serve the priory, which served God. Now the priory would become just part of a town ruled by merchants, serving the god of Money. And the Book of Life would show that the prior who let this happen was Godwyn.

Dismayed, he said: “Are you quite certain?”

“I’m always quite certain,” said Gregory.

Godwyn was aggravated. Gregory’s cocksure attitude was all very well when he was sneering at your opponents, but when he turned it on you it became infuriating. Angrily, Godwyn said: “You came all the way to Kingsbridge to tell me you can’t do what I asked for?”

“And to collect my fee,” Gregory said blithely.

Godwyn wished he could have him thrown into the fishpond in his London clothes.

It was the Saturday of Whitsun weekend, the day before the opening of the Fleece Fair. Outside, on the green to the west of the cathedral, hundreds of traders were setting up their stalls, and their conversations and cries to one another combined to make a roar that could be heard here in the hall of the prior’s house, where Godwyn and Gregory sat at either end of the dining table.

Philemon, sitting on the bench at the side, said to Gregory: “Perhaps you could explain to the lord prior how you have reached this pessimistic conclusion?” He was developing a tone of voice that sounded half obsequious and half contemptuous. Godwyn was not sure he liked it.

Gregory did not react to the tone. “Of course,” he said. “The king is in France.”

Godwyn said: “He has been there for almost a year, but nothing much has happened.”

“You will hear of action this winter.”

“Why?”

“You must have heard of the French raids on our southern ports.”

“I have,” Philemon said. “They say the French sailors raped nuns at Canterbury.”

“We always claim the enemy has raped nuns,” Gregory said with condescension. “It encourages the common people to support the war. But they did burn Portsmouth. And there has been serious disruption to shipping. You may have noticed a fall in the price you get for your wool.”

“We certainly have.”

“That’s partly due to the difficulty of shipping it to Flanders. And the price you’re paying for wine from Bordeaux is up for the same reason.”

We couldn’t afford wine at the old prices, Godwyn thought; but he did not say so.

Gregory went on: “These raids appear to be no more than preliminaries. The French are assembling an invasion fleet. Our spies say they already have more than two hundred vessels anchored in the mouth of the Zwyn river.”

Godwyn noted that Gregory talked of ‘our spies’ as if he were part of the government. In reality he was only retailing gossip. All the same, it sounded convincing. “But what does the French war have to do with whether or not Kingsbridge becomes a borough?”

“Taxes. The king needs money. The parish guild has argued that the town will be more prosperous, and therefore will pay more tax, if the merchants are freed from the control of the priory.”

“And the king believes this?”

“It has proved true before. That’s why kings create boroughs. Boroughs generate trade, and trade produces tax revenue.”

Money again, Godwyn thought with disgust. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Not in London. I advise you to concentrate on the Kingsbridge end. Can you persuade the parish guild to withdraw the application? What’s the old alderman like? Can he be bribed?”

“My uncle Edmund? He’s in poor health, and fading fast. But his daughter, my cousin Caris, is the real driving force behind this.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her at the trial. Rather arrogant, I felt.”

There was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Godwyn thought sourly. “She’s a witch,” he said.

“Is she, now? That might help.”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

Philemon said: “As a matter of fact, lord prior, there have been rumours.”

Gregory raised his eyebrows. “Interesting!”

Philemon went on: “She is a great friend of a wise woman called Mattie, who mixes potions for gullible townspeople.”

Godwyn was about to pour scorn on the witchcraft idea, then he decided to shut up. Any weapon that might shoot down the notion of a borough charter must surely have been sent by God. Perhaps Caris does use witchcraft, he thought; who knows?

Gregory said: “I see you hesitate. Of course, if you are fond of your cousin…”

“I was when we were younger,” Godwyn said, and he felt a pang of regret for the old simplicities. “But I regret to say she has not grown into a God-fearing woman.”

“In that case…”

“I must investigate this,” Godwyn said.

Gregory said: “If I might make a suggestion?”

Godwyn had had enough of Gregory’s suggestions, but he did not quite have the nerve to say so. “Of course,” he said with slightly exaggerated politeness.

“Heresy investigations can be… mucky. You shouldn’t get your own hands soiled. And people may be nervous about talking to a prior. Delegate the task to someone less intimidating. This young novice, for example.” He indicated Philemon, who glowed with pleasure. “His attitude strikes me as… sensible.”

Godwyn recalled that it was Philemon who had discovered Bishop Richard’s weakness – his affair with Margery. He was certainly the man for any dirty work. “All right,” he said. “See what you can find out, Philemon.”

“Thank you, lord prior,” said Philemon. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

On Sunday morning, people were still pouring into Kingsbridge. Caris stood and watched them streaming over Merthin’s two wide bridges on foot, on horseback, or driving two-wheeled and four-wheeled horse-carts and ox-carts laden with goods for the fair. The sight gladdened her heart. There had been no grand opening ceremony – the bridge was not really finished, but was usable thanks to a temporary timber roadbed – but, all the same, word had got around that it was open, and that the roads were safe from outlaws. Even Buonaventura Caroli was here.

Merthin had suggested a different way of collecting the tolls, which the parish guild had adopted eagerly. Instead of a single booth at the end of the bridge, creating a bottleneck, they had stationed ten men on Leper Island in temporary booths spread across the road between the two bridges. Most people handed over their penny without breaking stride. “There isn’t even a queue,” Caris said aloud, talking to herself.

And the weather was sunny and mild with no sign of rain. The fair was going to be a triumph.

Then, a week from today, she would marry Merthin.

She still had misgivings. The idea of losing her independence, and becoming someone’s property, had not ceased to terrify her, even though she knew Merthin was not the kind of man to take advantage by bullying his wife. On the rare occasions when she had confessed this feeling – to Gwenda, for example, or to Mattie Wise – she had been told that she thought like a man. Well, so be it, that was how she felt.

But the prospect of losing him had seemed even more bleak. What would she have left, except for a cloth-manufacturing business that did not inspire her? When he finally announced his intention of leaving town, the future had suddenly seemed empty. And she had realized that the only thing worse than being married to him might be not being married to him.

At least, that was what she told herself in her more positive moments. Then, sometimes, when she lay awake in the middle of the night, she saw herself backing out at the last minute, often in the middle of the wedding, refusing to take the vows and rushing out of the church, to the consternation of the entire congregation.

That was nonsense, she felt now in the light of day, with everything going so well. She would marry Merthin and be happy.

She left the river bank and walked through the town to the cathedral, already crowded with worshippers waiting for the morning service. She remembered Merthin feeling her up behind a pillar. She felt nostalgic for the thoughtless passion of their early relationship; the long, intense conversations and the stolen kisses.

She found him near the front of the congregation, studying the south aisle of the choir, the part of the church that had collapsed in front of their eyes two years ago. She recalled going up into the space over the vaulting with Merthin, and overhearing that dreadful interaction between Brother Thomas and his estranged wife, the conversation that had crystallized all her fears and made her turn Merthin down. She put the thought out of her mind. “The repairs seem to be holding,” she said, guessing what he was thinking about.

He looked dubious. “Two years is a short time in the life of a cathedral.”

“There’s no sign of deterioration.”

“That’s what makes it difficult. An invisible weakness can work away for years, unsuspected, until something comes tumbling down.”

“Perhaps there is no weakness.”

“There must be,” he said with a touch of impatience. “There was a reason why that collapse took place two years ago. We never found out what it was, so we haven’t put it right. If it hasn’t been put right, it’s still a weakness.”

“It might have corrected itself spontaneously.”

She was just being argumentative, but he took her seriously. “Buildings don’t usually repair themselves – but you’re right, it’s possible. There might have been some seepage of water, for example from a blocked gargoyle, which somehow became diverted to a less harmful route.”

The monks began to enter in procession, singing, and the congregation went quiet. The nuns appeared from their separate entrance. One of the novice nuns looked up, a beautiful pale face in the line of hooded heads. It was Elizabeth Clerk. She saw Merthin and Caris together, and the sudden malice in her eyes made Caris shudder. Then Elizabeth bowed her head and disappeared back into her anonymous uniform.

“She hates you,” Merthin said.

“She thinks I stopped you marrying her.”

“She’s right.”

“No, she’s not – you could have married anyone you wanted!”

“But I only wanted you.”

“You toyed with Elizabeth.”

“It must have seemed that way to her,” Merthin said regretfully. “But I just liked talking to her. Especially after you turned to ice.”

She felt uncomfortable. “I know. But Elizabeth feels cheated. The way she looks at me makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be afraid. She’s a nun, now. She can’t do you any harm.”

They were quiet for a while, standing side by side, their shoulders touching intimately, watching the ritual. Bishop Richard sat on the throne at the east end, presiding over the service. Merthin liked this sort of thing, Caris knew. He always felt better afterwards, and he said that was what going to church was supposed to do for you. Caris went because people noticed if she stayed away, but she had doubts about the whole business. She believed in God, but she was not sure He revealed His wishes exclusively to men such as her cousin Godwyn. Why would a God want praise, for example? Kings and earls required worship, and the more petty their rank the more deference they demanded. It seemed to her that an almighty God would not care one way or another whether the people of Kingsbridge sang His praises, any more than she cared whether the deer in the forest feared her. She occasionally gave voice to these ideas, but no one took her seriously.

Her thoughts drifted to the future. The signs were good that the king would grant Kingsbridge a borough charter. Her father would probably be the first mayor, if his health recovered. Her cloth business would continue to grow. Mark Webber would be rich. With increased prosperity, the parish guild could build a wool exchange, so that everyone could do business comfortably even in bad weather. Merthin could design the building. Even the priory was going to be better off, though Godwyn would not thank her.

The service came to an end, and the monks and nuns began to process out. A novice monk broke out of line and entered the congregation. It was Philemon. To Caris’s surprise, he approached her. “May I have a word?” he said.

She repressed a shudder. There was something loathsome about Gwenda’s brother. “What about?” she replied, barely politely.

“I want to ask your advice, really,” he said, with an attempt at a charming smile. “You know Mattie Wise.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her methods?”

She gave him a hard look. Where was this going? She decided she had better defend Mattie anyway. “She has never studied the texts of the ancients, of course. Despite that, her remedies work – sometimes better than those of the monks. I think it’s because she bases her treatments on what has worked previously, rather than on a theory about the humours.”

People standing nearby were listening with curiosity, and some of them now joined in uninvited.

“She gave our Nora a potion that brought her fever down,” said Madge Webber.

John Constable said: “When I broke my arm, her medicine took the pain away while Matthew Barber set the bone.”

Philemon said: “And what kind of spells does she pronounce when she’s making her mixtures?”

“No spells!” Caris said indignantly. “She tells people to pray when they take their medicines, because only God can heal – she says.”

“Could she be a witch?”

“No! It’s a ridiculous idea.”

“Only there has been a complaint to the ecclesiastical court.”

A chill gripped Caris. “From whom?”

“I can’t say. But I’ve been asked to investigate.”

Caris was mystified. Who could Mattie’s enemy be? She said to Philemon: “Well, you of all people know Mattie’s worth – she saved the life of your sister when she gave birth to Sam. Gwenda would have bled to death if not for Mattie.”

“So it seems.”

“Seems? Gwenda’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Yes, of course. So you feel sure Mattie does not call on the devil?”

Caris noticed that he asked the question in a slightly raised voice, as if he wanted to make sure the listeners around heard it. She was puzzled, but she had no doubt of her answer. “Of course I’m sure! I’ll swear an oath if you want.”

“Not necessary,” Philemon said smoothly. “Thank you for your advice.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow, and slithered away.

Caris and Merthin walked towards the exit. “What rubbish!” Caris said. “Mattie a witch!”

Merthin looked troubled. “You would expect Philemon to want evidence against her, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So why did he come to you? He could have guessed that you, of all people, would deny the charge. Why would he be keen to clear her name?”

“I don’t know.”

They passed through the great west doorway and out on to the green. The sun was shining on hundreds of stalls loaded with colourful goods. “It doesn’t make sense,” Merthin said. “And that troubles me.”

“Why?”

“It’s like the cause of weakness in the south aisle. If you can’t see it, it may be working away invisibly to undermine you – and you won’t know it until everything comes crashing down all around.”

The scarlet cloth on Caris’s market stall was not as good as that sold by Loro Fiorentino, although you had to have a sharp eye for wool to see the difference. The weave was not so close, because the Italian looms were somehow superior. The colour was just as bright, but it was not perfectly even over the length of the bale, no doubt because Italian dyers were more skilled. In consequence, she charged one-tenth less than Loro.

All the same, it was easily the best English scarlet that had ever been seen at Kingsbridge, and business was brisk. Mark and Madge sold it retail by the yard, measuring and cutting for individual customers, and Caris dealt with wholesale buyers, negotiating reductions for one bale or six with drapers from Winchester, Gloucester and even London. By midday on Monday she knew she would sell out before the end of the week.

When business slowed down for the dinner break she strolled around the fair. She felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had triumphed over adversity, and so had Merthin. She stopped at Perkin’s stall to talk to the Wigleigh folk. Even Gwenda had triumphed. Here she was, married to Wulfric – something that had seemed impossible – and there was her baby, Sammy, a year old, sitting on the ground, fat and happy. Annet was selling eggs from a tray, as always. And Ralph had gone to France to fight for the king, and might never come back.

Farther on she saw Joby, Gwenda’s father, selling his squirrel furs. There was a wicked man. But he seemed to have lost his power to hurt Gwenda.

Caris stopped at her own father’s stall. She had persuaded him to buy fleece in smaller quantities this year. The international wool market could not possibly thrive when the French and English were raiding one another’s ports and burning ships. “How is business?” she asked him.

“Steady,” he said. “I think I’ve judged it about right.” He forgot that it had been her judgement, not his, that had counselled caution. But that was all right.

Their cook, Tutty, appeared with Edmund’s dinner: mutton stew in a pot, a loaf of bread and a jug of ale. It was important to look prosperous, but not overly so. Edmund had explained to Caris, many years ago, that although customers needed to believe they were buying from a successful business, they would resent contributing to the wealth of someone who appeared to be rolling in money.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her.

“Starving.”

He stood up to reach for the stew pot. Then he staggered, made an odd sound half way between a grunt and a cry, and fell to the ground.

The cook screamed.

Caris cried: “Father!” But she knew he would not respond. She could tell he was unconscious by the way he hit the earth, inertly heavy, like a sack of onions. She fought down the urge to scream. She knelt beside him. He was alive, and breathing hoarsely. She grasped his wrist and felt his pulse: it was strong, but slow. His face seemed flushed. It was always reddish, but now it seemed more so than usual.

Tutty said: “What is it? What is it?”

Caris forced herself to speak calmly. “He’s had a fit,” she said. “Fetch Mark Webber. He can carry Father into the hospital.”

The cook ran off. People from the neighbouring stalls gathered around. Dick Brewer appeared and said: “Poor Edmund – what can I do?”

Dick was too old and fat to lift Edmund. Caris said: “Mark’s coming to take him to the hospital.” She began to cry. “I hope he’ll be all right,” she said.

Mark appeared. He lifted Edmund easily, cradling him gently in his strong arms, and walked towards the hospital, negotiating his way through the crowds, calling: “Mind out, there! Out of the way, please! Injured man, injured man.”

Caris followed, distraught. She could hardly see through her tears, so she stayed close to Mark’s broad back. They reached the hospital building and went inside. Caris was grateful to see the familiar knobbly face of Old Julie. “Fetch Mother Cecilia, as quick as you can!” Caris said to her. The old nun hurried away, and Mark laid Edmund on a pallet near the altar.

Edmund was still unconscious, eyes closed, breathing hoarsely. Caris felt his forehead: he was neither hot nor cold. What had caused this? It had been so sudden. One moment he had been talking normally, the next he fell down unconscious. How could such a thing happen?

Mother Cecilia came. Her bustling efficiency was reassuring. She knelt beside the pallet and felt Edmund’s heart, then his pulse. She listened to his breathing and touched his face. “Get him a pillow and a blanket,” she said to Julie. “Then fetch one of the monk-physicians.”

She stood up and looked at Caris. “He’s had a fit,” she said. “He may recover. All we can do is make him comfortable. The physician may recommend bleeding, but apart from that the only treatment is prayer.”

That was not good enough for Caris. “I’m going for Mattie,” she said.

She ran out of the building and dodged through the fair, remembering that she had done exactly the same thing a year ago, rushing to fetch Mattie when Gwenda was bleeding to death. This time it was her father, and she felt a different kind of panic. She had been desperately worried about Gwenda, but now it was as if the world was falling apart. The fear that her father might die gave her the dreadful feeling she sometimes got in dreams, when she found herself on the roof of Kingsbridge Cathedral with no way down but to jump.

The physical effort of running through the streets calmed her a little, and she was in control of her emotions by the time she came to Mattie’s house. Mattie would know what to do. She would say: I’ve seen this before, I know what will happen next, here’s the treatment that helps.

Caris banged on the door. Hearing no immediate answer, she impatiently tried the latch and found it open. She dashed inside, saying: “Mattie, you have to come to the hospital right away, it’s my father!”

The front room was empty. Caris pulled aside the curtain that screened off the kitchen. Mattie was not there, either. Caris said aloud: “Oh, why would you be out of the house at this very moment?” She looked around for some clue as to where Mattie might have gone. Then she noticed how stripped the room appeared. All the little jars and bottles had gone, leaving the shelves bare. There were none of the mortars and pestles Mattie used for grinding ingredients, none of her small pots for melting and boiling, no knives for chopping herbs. Caris returned to the front half of the house and saw that Mattie’s personal possessions had also disappeared: her sewing box, her polished wood cups for wine, the embroidered shawl she had hung on the wall for decoration, the carved bone comb she treasured.

Mattie had packed up and gone.

And Caris could guess why. Mattie must have heard about Philemon’s questions in church yesterday. Traditionally, the ecclesiastical court held a session on the Saturday of Fleece Fair week. Only two years ago the monks had used the occasion for the trial of Crazy Nell on the absurd charge of heresy.

Mattie was no heretic, of course, but it was difficult to prove that, as many old women had learned. She had calculated her chances of surviving a trial, and found the answer frightening. Without telling anyone, she had packed up her possessions and left town. Probably she had found a peasant returning home after selling his produce, and persuaded him to take her on his ox-cart. Caris imagined her leaving at first light, her box beside her on the cart, the hood of her cloak pulled forward to hide her face. No one could even guess where she had gone.

“What am I going to do?” Caris said to the empty room. Mattie knew better than anyone else in Kingsbridge how to help sick people. This was the worst possible moment for her to disappear, just when Edmund lay unconscious in the hospital. Caris felt despair.

She sat down on Mattie’s chair, still panting from the effort of running. She wanted to run back to the hospital, but there was no point. She would not be able to help her father. Nobody could.

The town must have a healer, she thought; one who does not rely on prayers and holy water, or bleeding, but uses simple treatments that have been shown to work. And as she sat in Mattie’s empty house, she realized that there was one person who could fill the role, someone who knew Mattie’s methods and believed in her practical philosophy. That person was Caris herself.

The thought burst on her with the blinding light of a revelation, and she sat dead still, bewildered by the implications. She knew the recipes for Mattie’s main potions: one for easing pain, one to cause vomiting, one for washing wounds, one to bring down a fever. She knew the uses of all the common herbs: dill for indigestion, fennel for fever, rue for flatulence, watercress for infertility. She knew the treatments Mattie never prescribed: poultices made with dung, medicines containing gold and silver, verses written on vellum and bound to the ailing part of the body.

And she had an instinct for it. Mother Cecilia had said so, had practically pleaded with Caris to become a nun. Well, she was not going to enter the priory, but she might perhaps take Mattie’s place. Why not? The cloth business could be run by Mark Webber – he was doing most of the work anyway.

She would seek out other wise women – in Shiring, in Winchester, perhaps in London – and question them about their methods, what succeeded and what failed. Men were secretive about their craft skills – their ‘mysteries’ as they called them, as if there were something supernatural about tanning leather or making horseshoes – but women were usually willing to share knowledge with other women.

She would even read some of the monks’ ancient texts. There might be some truth in them. Perhaps the instinct that Cecilia attributed to her would help her winnow the seeds of practical treatment from the chaff of priestly mumbo-jumbo.

She stood up and left the house. She walked slowly back, dreading what she would find at the hospital. She felt fatalistic now. Her father would either be all right, or he would not. All she could do was carry out her resolution so that in future, when the people she loved were sick, she would know she was doing everything possible to help them.

She fought back tears as she made her way through the fair to the priory buildings. When she entered the hospital, she hardly dared look at her father. She approached the bed, which was surrounded by people: Mother Cecilia, Old Julie, Brother Joseph, Mark Webber, Petranilla, Alice, Elfric.

What must be, must be, she thought. She touched the shoulder of her sister, Alice, who moved aside, making room. At last Caris looked at her father.

He was alive and conscious, though he looked pale and tired. His eyes were open, and he looked straight at her and tried a weak smile. “I’m afraid I gave you a scare,” he said. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Caris, and she began to cry.

On Wednesday morning Merthin came to Caris’s stall in consternation. “Betty Baxter just asked me a strange question,” he said. “She wanted to know who was going to stand against Elfric in the election for alderman.”

“What election?” Caris said. “My father is alderman… oh.” She realized what must be going on. Elfric was telling people that Edmund was too old and sick to fulfil the role, and the town needed someone new. And he was presenting himself as a candidate. “We must tell my father right away.”

Caris and Merthin left the fairground and crossed the main street to the house. Edmund had left the priory hospital yesterday, saying – correctly – that there was nothing the monks could do for him but bleed him, which made him feel worse. He had been carried home, and a bed had been made up for him in the parlour on the ground floor.

This morning he was reclining on a stack of pillows in his improvised bed. He looked so weak that Caris hesitated to bother him with the news, but Merthin sat down beside him and laid out the facts starkly.

“Elfric is right,” Edmund said when Merthin had finished. “Look at me. I can hardly sit upright. The parish guild needs strong leadership. It’s no job for a sick man.”

“But you’ll be better soon!” Caris exclaimed.

“Perhaps. But I’m getting old. You must have noticed how absent-minded I’ve become. I forget things. And I was fatally slow to react to the downturn in the market for raw wool – I lost a lot of money last year. Thank God, we’ve rebuilt our fortune with the scarlet cloth – but you did that, Caris, not me.”

She knew all that, of course, but still she felt indignant. “Are you just going to let Elfric take over?”

“Certainly not. He would be a disaster. He’s too much in thrall to Godwyn. Even after we become a borough, we’ll need an alderman who can stand up to the priory.”

“Who else could do the job?”

“Talk to Dick Brewer. He’s one of the richest men in town, and the alderman must be rich, to have the respect of the other merchants. Dick’s not afraid of Godwyn or any of the monks. He’d be a good leader.”

Caris found herself reluctant to do as he said. It seemed like accepting that he was going to die. She could not remember a time when her father had not been alderman. She did not want her world to change.

Merthin understood her reluctance, but urged her on. “We have to accept this,” he said. “If we ignore what’s happening, we could end up with Elfric in charge. He would be a disaster – he might even withdraw the application for the borough charter.”

That decided her. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s find Dick.”

Dick Brewer had several carts in different locations in the fairground. Each bore a huge barrel. His children, grandchildren and in-laws were selling ale from the barrels as fast as they could pour it. Caris and Merthin found him setting an example by drinking a large pot of his own brew while he watched his family making money for him. They took him aside and explained what was going on.

Dick said to Caris: “When your father dies, I suppose his fortune will be divided equally between you and your sister?”

“Yes.” Edmund had already told Caris that this was in his will.

“When Alice’s inheritance is added to Elfric’s existing wealth, he will be very rich.”

Caris realized that half the money she was making from her scarlet cloth might go to her sister. She had not thought of this before, because she had not thought about her father dying. It came as a shock. Money itself was not important to her, but she did not want to help Elfric become alderman. “It’s not just a question of who is the richest man,” she said. “We need someone who will stand up for the merchants.”

“Then you must put up a rival candidate,” Dick said.

“Will you stand?” she asked him directly.

He shook his head. “Don’t bother trying to persuade me. At the end of this week I’m handing over to my eldest son. I’m planning to spend the rest of my days drinking beer instead of brewing it.” He took a long draught from his tankard and belched contentedly.

Caris felt she had to accept that: he seemed quite sure. She said: “Who do you think we might approach?”

“There’s only one real possibility,” he said. “You.”

Caris was astonished. “Me! Why?”

“You’re the driving force behind the campaign for a borough charter. Your fiancé’s bridge has saved the Fleece Fair, and your cloth business has pretty much rescued the town’s prosperity after the wool slump. You’re the child of the existing alderman and, although it’s not an inherited office, people think leaders breed leaders. And they’re right. You’ve actually been acting as alderman for almost a year, ever since your father’s powers started to fail.”

“Has the town ever had a woman alderman?”

“Not as far as I know. Nor one as young as you. Both these things will count heavily against you. I’m not saying you’re going to win. I’m telling you no one else has a better chance of beating Elfric.”

Caris had a faintly dizzy feeling. Was it possible? Could she do the job? What about her vow to become a healer? Were there not many other people in town who would be better than she as alderman? “What about Mark Webber?” she said.

“He’d be good, especially with that shrewd wife of his at his side. But people in this town still think of Mark as a poor weaver.”

“He’s prosperous now.”

“Thanks to your scarlet cloth. But people are suspicious of new money. They would just say Mark is a jumped-up weaver. They want an alderman from a well-established family – someone whose father was rich, and preferably grandfather too.”

Caris wanted to beat Elfric, but she did not feel sure of her ability. She thought of her father’s patience and shrewdness, his hearty conviviality, his inexhaustible energy. Did she have any such qualities? She looked at Merthin.

He said: “You would be the best alderman the town has ever had.”

His unhesitating confidence decided her. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

Godwyn invited Elfric to dine with him on the Friday of the fair. He ordered an expensive dinner: swan cooked with ginger and honey. Philemon served them, and sat down to eat with them.

The citizens had decided to elect a new alderman and, in a remarkably short time, two candidates had emerged as the principal contestants: Elfric and Caris.

Godwyn did not like Elfric, but he was useful. He was not a particularly good builder, but he had successfully ingratiated himself with Prior Anthony, and thereby gained the contract for cathedral repairs. When Godwyn took office he had seen in Elfric a servile toady and had kept him on. Elfric was not well liked, but he either employed or subcontracted most of the building craftsmen and suppliers in town, and they in their turn courted him in the hope of work. Having won his confidence, they all wanted him to continue in a position where he could grant them favours. And that gave him a power base.

“I don’t like uncertainty,” Godwyn said.

Elfric tasted the swan and grunted appreciatively. “In what context?”

“The election of a new alderman.”

“By its nature, an election is uncertain – unless there is only one candidate.”

“Which would be my preference.”

“Mine, too, provided that candidate was me.”

“That’s what I’m suggesting.”

Elfric looked up from his dinner. “Really?”

“Tell me, Elfric – how badly do you want to be alderman?”

Elfric swallowed his mouthful. “I want it,” he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse, and he slurped some wine. “I deserve it,” he went on, a note of indignation creeping into his tone. “I’m as good as any of them, am I not? Why should I not be alderman?”

“Would you proceed with the application for a borough charter?”

Elfric stared at him. Thoughtfully, he said: “Are you asking me to withdraw it?”

“If you’re elected alderman, yes.”

“Are you offering to help me get elected?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“By eliminating the rival candidate.”

Elfric looked sceptical. “I don’t see how you could achieve that.”

Godwyn nodded to Philemon, who said: “I believe Caris is a heretic.”

Elfric dropped his knife. “You’re going to try Caris as a witch?”

“You must not tell anyone about this,” Philemon said. “If she hears about it beforehand, she may flee.”

“As Mattie Wise did.”

“I have let some townspeople believe that Mattie has been captured, and it is she who will be tried on Saturday at the ecclesiastical court. But, at the last minute, a different person will be accused.”

Elfric nodded. “And, as it’s an ecclesiastical court, there is conveniently no need for indictments or juries.” He turned to Godwyn. “And you will be judge.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Godwyn said. “Bishop Richard will preside. So we must prove our point.”

“Have you any evidence?” Elfric said sceptically.

Godwyn replied: “Some, but we’d like more. What we already have would be plenty if the accused were some old woman with no family or friends, like Crazy Nell. But Caris is well known and comes from a wealthy and influential family, as I need hardly tell you.”

Philemon put in: “It’s extremely fortunate for us that her father is too ill to leave his bed – God has ordained it so that he will not be able to defend her.”

Godwyn nodded. “Nevertheless, she has many friends. So our evidence must be strong.”

“What have you got in mind?” said Elfric.

Philemon answered. “It would be helpful if a member of her family were to come forward and say that she had called upon the devil, or turned a crucifix upside down, or spoken to some presence in an empty room.”

For a moment, Elfric looked as if he did not understand; then enlightenment dawned. “Oh!” he said. “You mean me?”

“Think very carefully before you answer.”

“You’re asking me to help send my sister-in-law to Gallows Cross.”

Godwyn said: “Your sister-in-law; my cousin. Yes.”

“All right, I’m thinking.”

Godwyn saw on Elfric’s face ambition, greed and vainglory, and he marvelled at the way God used even men’s weaknesses to His holy purpose. He could guess what Elfric was thinking. The position of alderman was a burdensome task for an unselfish man such as Edmund, who exercised his power for the benefit of the town’s merchants; but for someone with his eye on the main chance it offered endless opportunities for profit and self-aggrandizement.

Philemon continued in a smooth, assured voice. “If you have never witnessed anything suspicious, then of course that is the end of the matter. But I beg you to search your memory carefully.”

Godwyn noticed again how much Philemon had learned in the last two years. The awkward priory servant had vanished. He talked like an archdeacon.

“There may have been incidents that seemed at the time perfectly harmless, but which take on a sinister cast in the light of what you have been told today. On mature reflection, you may feel that these events were not as innocent as they at first appeared.”

“I get your meaning, brother,” Elfric said.

There was a long silence. None of them ate. Godwyn waited patiently for Elfric’s decision.

Philemon said: “And, of course, if Caris were dead, then Edmund’s entire fortune would come to the other sister, Alice… your wife.”

“Yes,” Elfric said. “I’d thought of that.”

“Well?” said Philemon. “Is there anything you can think of that might help us?”

“Oh, yes,” Elfric said at last. “I can think of quite a lot.”

42

Caris was unable to find out the truth about Mattie Wise. Some people said she had been captured and was locked in a cell in the priory. Others thought she would be tried in her absence. A third strand of opinion claimed that someone else entirely would stand trial for heresy. Godwyn refused to answer Caris’s questions, and the rest of the monks said they knew nothing.

Caris went to the cathedral on Saturday morning determined to defend Mattie whether she was present or not, and to stand up for any other poor old woman who suffered this absurd accusation. Why did monks and priests hate women so? They worshipped their Blessed Virgin, but treated every other female as an incarnation of the devil. What was the matter with them?

In a secular court there would have been a jury of indictment and a preliminary hearing, and Caris would have been able to find out in advance what the evidence against Mattie might be. But the church made its own rules.

Whatever they alleged, Caris would say loud and clear that Mattie was a genuine healer who used herbs and drugs and told people to pray to God to make them well. Some of the many townspeople who had been helped by Mattie would surely speak up for her.

Caris stood with Merthin in the north transept and remembered the Saturday two years ago when Crazy Nell had been tried. Caris had told the court Nell was mad but harmless. It had done no good.

Today, as then, there was a big crowd of townspeople and visitors in the cathedral, hoping for drama: accusations, counter-accusations, quarrels, hysterics, curses, and the spectacle of a woman being flogged through the streets and then hanged at Gallows Cross. Friar Murdo was present. He always showed up for sensational trials. They provided an opportunity for him to do what he did best, whip up hysteria in a congregation.

While they were waiting for the clergy, Caris’s mind wandered. Tomorrow, in this church, she would marry Merthin. Betty Baxter and her four daughters were already busy making the bread and pastry for the feast. Tomorrow night, Caris and Merthin would sleep together in his house on Leper Island.

She had stopped worrying about the marriage. She had made her decision and she would take the consequences. In truth she felt very happy. Sometimes she wondered how she could have been so scared. Merthin could not make anyone his slave – it was not in his nature. He was even kind to his boy labourer Jimmie.

Most of all she loved their sexual intimacy. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her. What she looked forward to most was having a home and a bed of their own, and being able to make love whenever they wanted to, on going to bed or on waking up, in the middle of the night or even the middle of the day.

At last the monks and nuns came in, led by Bishop Richard with his assistant, Archdeacon Lloyd. When they had taken their seats, Prior Godwyn stood up and said: “We are here today to try the charge of heresy against Caris, daughter of Edmund Wooler.”

The crowd gasped.

Merthin shouted: “No!”

Everyone turned to look at Caris. She felt sick with fear. She had had no suspicion of this. It hit her like a punch in the dark. Bewildered, she said: “Why?” No one answered her.

She remembered her father warning her that Godwyn would have an extreme reaction to the threat of a borough charter. “You know how ruthless he is, even over small disputes,” Edmund had said. “Something like this will lead to total war.” Caris shuddered now to remember her reply: “So be it – total war.”

Even so, Godwyn’s chance of success would have been slender indeed if her father had been in good health. Edmund would have fought Godwyn to a standstill, and probably destroyed him. But Caris alone was a different matter. She did not have her father’s power, authority or popular support – not yet. Without him, she had become vulnerable.

She noticed her Aunt Petranilla in the crowd. She was one of the few people not looking at Caris. How could she stand there in silence? Of course she supported her son, Godwyn, in general – but surely she would try to stop him condemning Caris to death? She had once said she wanted to be like a mother to Caris. Would she remember that? Somehow, Caris felt she would not. Her devotion to her son was too great. That was why she could not meet Caris’s eye. She had already made up her mind not to stand in Godwyn’s way.

Philemon stood up. “My lord bishop,” he said, formally addressing the judge. But he immediately turned to the crowd. “As everyone knows, the woman Mattie Wise has fled, too frightened and guilty to be tried. Caris has been a regular visitor to Mattie’s house for some years. Only days ago she defended the woman, in front of witnesses, here in the cathedral.”

So that was why Philemon had questioned her about Mattie, Caris realized. She caught Merthin’s eye. He had been worried because he could not figure out what Philemon was up to. He had been right to worry. Now they knew.

At the same time, part of her mind marvelled at the transformation of Philemon. That awkward, unhappy boy was now a confident, arrogant man, standing in front of the bishop, the prior and the townspeople, as full of spite as a snake about to strike.

Philemon said: “She offered to swear on oath that Mattie is no witch. Why would she do that – unless to cover her own guilt?”

Merthin shouted out: “Because she’s innocent, and so is Mattie, you mendacious hypocrite!”

He might have been put in the stocks for that, but others were shouting at the same time, and his insult passed without comment.

Philemon went on: “Recently, Caris has miraculously dyed wool the exact shade of Italian scarlet, something Kingsbridge dyers have never been able to do. How has this been achieved? By a magic spell!”

Caris heard the rumble of Mark Webber’s bass voice: “This is a lie!”

“She could not do this by daylight, of course. She lit a fire in her back yard at night, as was seen by people living nearby.”

Philemon had been assiduous, Caris noted with foreboding. He had interviewed her neighbours.

“And she chanted strange rhymes. Why?” Caris had sung to herself out of boredom, as she boiled up dyes and dipped the cloth, but Philemon had the ability to turn innocent trivia into evidence of evil. He dropped his voice to a thrilling stage whisper and said: “Because she was calling for the secret aid of the Prince of Darkness -” he raised his voice to a shout – “Lucifer!”

The crowd groaned with dread.

“That cloth is Satan’s scarlet!”

Caris looked at Merthin. He was aghast. “The fools are starting to believe him!” he said.

Caris’s courage began to return. “Don’t despair,” she said. “I haven’t had my say yet.”

He took her hand.

“This is not the only spell she has used,” Philemon continued in a more normal voice. “Mattie Wise also made love potions.” He looked accusingly around the crowd. “There may even be wicked girls in this church now who have made use of Mattie’s powers to bewitch a man.”

Including your own sister, Caris thought. Did Philemon know about that?

He said: “This novice nun will testify.”

Elizabeth Clerk stood up. She spoke in a quiet voice, eyes lowered, the picture of nun-like modesty. “I say this on my oath as I hope to be saved,” she began. “I was betrothed to Merthin Builder.”

Merthin called out: “Liar!”

“We were in love and very happy,” Elizabeth went on. “Suddenly he changed. He seemed like a stranger to me. He became cold.”

Philemon asked her: “Did you notice anything else unusual, sister?”

“Yes, brother. I saw him hold his knife in his left hand.”

The crowd gasped. This was an acknowledged sign of bewitchment – although, as Caris knew, Merthin was ambidextrous.

Elizabeth said: “Then he announced he was going to marry Caris.”

It was amazing, Caris thought, how the truth could be just a little skewed so that it sounded sinister. She knew what had really happened. Merthin and Elizabeth had been friends until Elizabeth made it clear she wanted to be more than a friend, at which point he had told her that he did not share her feelings, and they had parted. But a satanic spell made a much better story.

Elizabeth might have convinced herself that she was telling the truth. But Philemon knew this was a lie. And Philemon was Godwyn’s tool. How could Godwyn reconcile his conscience with this level of wickedness? Was he telling himself that anything was justified in the service of the priory?

Elizabeth finished: “I can never love another man. That is why I have decided to give my life to God.” She sat down.

It was powerful evidence, Caris realized, and her dismay darkened like a winter sky. The fact that Elizabeth had become a nun lent conviction to her testimony. She was operating a kind of sentimental blackmail: How can you disbelieve me when I have made such a sacrifice?

The townspeople were quieter now. This was not the hilarious spectacle of a mad old woman being condemned. They were watching a battle for the life of a fellow citizen.

Philemon said: “Most damning of all, my lord bishop, is the final witness, a close member of the accused woman’s own family: her brother-in-law, Elfric Builder.”

Caris gasped. She had been accused by her cousin, Godwyn; by her best friend’s brother, Philemon; and by Elizabeth – but this was worse. For her sister’s husband to speak against her was astonishing treachery. Surely no one would ever respect Elfric again?

Elfric stood up. The expression of defiance on his face told Caris he was ashamed of himself. “I say this on my oath as I hope to be saved,” he began.

Caris looked around for her sister, Alice, but did not see her. If she had been here, she would surely have stopped Elfric. No doubt Elfric had ordered her to stay at home on some pretext. She probably knew nothing of this.

Elfric said: “Caris speaks to unseen presences in empty rooms.”

“Spirits?” Philemon prompted.

“I fear so.”

A murmur of horror came from the crowd.

Caris was aware that she often talked aloud to herself. She had always thought of it as a harmless, if mildly embarrassing, habit. Her father said all imaginative people did it. Now it was being used to condemn her. She bit back a protest. It was better to let the prosecution run its course, then refute the accusations one by one.

“When does she do this?” Philemon asked Elfric.

“When she thinks she is alone.”

“And what does she say?”

“The words are difficult to make out. She might be speaking a foreign tongue.”

The crowded reacted to that, too: witches and their familiars were said to have their own language that no one else could understand.

“What does she seem to be saying?”

“To judge by her tone of voice, she is asking for help, pleading for good luck, cursing those who cause her misfortune, that sort of thing.”

Merthin shouted: “This is not evidence!” Everyone looked at him, and he added: “He has admitted he did not understand the words – he’s just making this up!”

There was a rumble of support from the more level-headed citizens, but it was not as loud nor as indignant as Caris would have liked.

Bishop Richard spoke for the first time. “Be quiet,” he said. “Men who disrupt the proceedings will be put outside by the constable. Carry on, please, Brother Philemon, but do not invite witnesses to fabricate evidence when they have admitted they do not know the truth.”

That was at least even-handed, Caris thought. Richard and his family had no love for Godwyn after the quarrel over Margery’s wedding. On the other hand, as a cleric Richard might not want the town to pass out of the priory’s control. Perhaps he would at least be neutral in this. Her hopes rose a little.

Philemon said to Elfric: “Do you think the familiars she speaks to help her in any way?”

“Most certainly,” Elfric replied. “Caris’s friends, those she favours, are lucky. Merthin has become a successful builder although he never even completed his apprenticeship as a carpenter. Mark Webber was a poor man, but now he is rich. Caris’s friend Gwenda is married to Wulfric, even though Wulfric was betrothed to someone else. How are these things achieved, if not with unnatural help?”

“Thank you.”

Elfric sat down.

As Philemon summarized his evidence, Caris fought down a rising feeling of terror. She tried to put out of her mind the vision of Crazy Nell being flogged behind a cart. She struggled to concentrate on what she should say to defend herself. She could ridicule every statement made about her, but that might not be enough. She needed to explain why people had lied about her, and show what their motives were.

When Philemon was finished, Godwyn asked her if she had anything to say. In a loud voice that sounded more confident than she felt, she replied: “Of course I do.” She made her way to the front of the crowd: she would not let her accusers monopolize the position of authority. She took her time, making them all wait for her. She walked up to the throne and looked Richard in the eye. “My lord bishop, I say this on my oath as I hope to be saved -” she turned to the crowd and added – “which I notice Philemon did not say.”

Godwyn interrupted: “As a monk, he does not need to swear.”

Caris raised her voice. “And a good thing for him, otherwise he would burn in hell for the lies he has told today!”

Score a point to me, she thought, and her hopes rose another notch.

She spoke to the crowd. Although the decision would be made by the bishop, he would be heavily influenced by the reaction of the townspeople. He was not a man of high principle.

“Mattie Wise healed many people in this town,” she began. “On this day two years ago, when the old bridge collapsed, she was one of the foremost in tending to the injured, working alongside Mother Cecilia and the nuns. Looking around the church today I see many people who benefited from her care at that terrible time. Did anyone hear her invoke the devil on that day? If so, let him speak now.”

She paused to let the silence impress itself on her audience.

She pointed at Madge Webber. “Mattie gave you a potion that brought down your child’s fever. What did she say to you?”

Madge looked scared. No one was comfortable being called as a witness in the defence of a witch. But Madge owed a lot to Caris. She straightened her shoulders, looked defiant, and said: “Mattie said to me: ‘Pray to God, for only He can heal.’ ”

Caris pointed at the constable. “John, she eased your pain while Matthew Barber set your broken bones. What did she say to you?”

John was used to being on the prosecuting side, and he, too, looked uneasy, but he told the truth in a strong voice. “She said: ‘Pray to God, for only He can heal.’ ”

Caris turned to the crowd. “Everyone knows that Mattie was no witch. In that case, says Brother Philemon, why did she flee? Easy question. She was afraid that lies would be told about her – as they have been told about me. Which of you women, if falsely accused of heresy, would feel confident about proving your innocence to a court of priests and monks?” She looked around, letting her eyes rest on the prominent women of the town: Lib Wheeler, Sarah Taverner, Susanna Chepstow.

“Why did I mix dyes at night?” she resumed. “Because the days were short! Like many of you, my father failed to sell all his fleeces last year, and I wanted to turn the raw wool into something I could market. It was very difficult to discover the formula, but I did it, by hard work, over many hours, day and night – but without the help of Satan.” She paused for breath.

When she began again, she used a different tone of voice, more playful. “I am accused of bewitching Merthin. I have to admit that the case against me is strong. Look at Sister Elizabeth. Stand up, please, sister.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth stood.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Caris said. “She is also clever. And she is the daughter of a bishop. Oh, forgive me, my lord bishop, I meant no disrespect.”

The crowd chuckled at that cheeky stab. Godwyn looked outraged, but Bishop Richard smothered a smile.

“Sister Elizabeth cannot see why any man would prefer me to her. Nor can I. Unaccountably, Merthin loves me, plain as I am. I cannot explain it.” There was more giggling. “I’m sorry Elizabeth is so angry. If we lived in Old Testament times, Merthin could have two wives and everyone would be happy.” They laughed loudly at that. She waited for the sound to subside, then said gravely: “What I am most sorry about is that the commonplace jealousy of a disappointed woman should become the pretext, in the untrustworthy mouth of a novice monk, for a charge as serious as that of heresy.”

Philemon stood up to protest the charge of untrustworthiness, but Bishop Richard flapped a hand at him, saying: “Let her speak, let her speak.”

Caris decided she had made her point about Elizabeth, and moved on. “I confess that I sometimes use vulgar words when I am alone – especially if I stub my toe. But you may ask why my own brother-in-law would testify against me and tell you that my mutterings were invocations to evil spirits. I’m afraid I can answer that.” She paused, then spoke solemnly. “My father is ill. If he dies, his fortune will be divided between me and my sister. But, if I die first, my sister will get it all. And my sister is Elfric’s wife.”

She paused again, looking quizzically at the crowd. “Are you shocked?” she said. “So am I. But men kill for less money than that.”

She moved away, as if she had finished, and Philemon got up from his bench. Caris turned around and addressed him in Latin. “Caput tuum in ano est.”

The monks laughed loudly, and Philemon flushed.

Caris turned to Elfric. “You didn’t understand that, did you, Elfric?”

“No,” he said sulkily.

“Which is why you might have thought I was using some sinister witchcraft tongue.” She turned back to Philemon. “Brother, you know what language I was using, don’t you?”

“Latin,” Philemon replied.

“Perhaps you would tell us what I just said to you.”

Philemon looked an appeal at the bishop. But Richard was amused, and just said: “Answer the question.”

Looking furious, Philemon obeyed. “She said: ‘You’ve got your head up your arse.’ ”

The townspeople roared with laughter, and Caris walked back to her place.

When the noise died down, Philemon began to speak, but Richard interrupted him. “I don’t need to hear any further from you,” he said. “You’ve made a strong case against her, and she has mounted a vigorous defence. Does anyone else have anything to say about this accusation?”

“I do, my lord bishop.” Friar Murdo came forward. Some of the townspeople cheered, others groaned: Murdo aroused contrary reactions. “Heresy is an evil,” he began, his voice modulating into fruity preaching mode. “It corrupts the souls of women and men-”

“Thank you, brother, but I know what heresy does,” said Richard. “Do you have anything else to say? If not-”

“Just this,” Murdo replied. “I agree with, and reiterate-”

“If it has been said before-”

“-your own comment that the case is strong, and the defence similar.”

“In which case-”

“I have a solution to propose.”

“All right, Brother Murdo, what is it? In the minimum number of words.”

“She must be examined for the Devil’s Mark.”

Caris’s heart seemed to stop.

“Of course,” said the bishop. “I seem to remember you making the same suggestion at an earlier trial.”

“Indeed, lord, for the devil greedily sucks the hot blood of his acolytes through his own special nipple, as the newborn babe sucks the swollen breasts-”

“Yes, thank you, friar, no need for further details. Mother Cecilia, will you and two other nuns please take the accused woman to a place of examination?”

Caris looked at Merthin. He was pale with horror. They were both thinking the same.

Caris had a mole.

It was tiny, but the nuns would find it – in just the kind of place they thought the devil was most interested in: on the left side of her vulva, just beside the cleft. It was dark brown, and the red-gold hair around did not hide it. The first time Merthin had noticed it, he had joked: “Friar Murdo would call you a witch – you’d better not let him see it.” And Caris had laughed and said: “Not if he were the last man on earth.”

How could they have spoken of it in such a carefree way? Now she would be condemned to death for it.

She looked around desperately. She would have run, but she was surrounded by hundreds of people, some of whom would stop her. She saw Merthin’s hand on the knife at his belt; but, even if the knife had been a sword and he had been a great fighter – which he was not – he could not have cut his way through such a crowd.

Mother Cecilia came to her and took her hand.

Caris decided she would escape as soon as she got outside the church. Crossing the cloisters she could easily break free.

Then Godwyn said: “Constable, take one of your deputies and escort the woman to the place of examination, and stand outside the door until it is done.”

Cecilia could not have held Caris, but two men could.

John looked at Mark Webber, normally his first choice among the deputies. Caris felt a faint hope: Mark was a loyal friend to her. But the constable apparently had the same thought, for he turned from Mark and pointed to Christopher Blacksmith.

Cecilia tugged gently on Caris’s hand.

As if sleepwalking, Caris allowed herself to be led out of the church. They left by the north door, Cecilia and Caris followed by Sister Mair and Old Julie, with John Constable and Christopher Blacksmith close behind. They crossed the cloisters, entered the nuns’ quarters and made their way to the dormitory. The two men stayed outside.

Cecilia closed the door.

“No need to examine me,” Caris said dully. “I’ve got a mark.”

“We know,” said Cecilia.

Caris frowned. “How?”

“We have washed you.” She indicated Mair and Julie. “All three of us. When you were in the hospital, two Christmases ago. You had eaten something that poisoned you.”

Cecilia did not know, or was pretending not to have guessed, that Caris had taken a potion to end her pregnancy.

She went on: “You were puking and shitting all over the place, and bleeding down there. You had to be washed several times. We all saw the mole.”

Hopeless despair washed over Caris in an irresistible tide. She closed her eyes. “So now you will condemn me to death,” she said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

“Not necessarily,” said Cecilia. “There could be another way.”

Merthin was distraught. Caris was trapped. She would be condemned to death, and there was nothing he could do. He could not have rescued her even if he had been Ralph, with big shoulders and a sword and a relish for violence. He stared, horrified, at the door through which she had disappeared. He knew where Caris’s mole was, and he felt sure the nuns would find it – that was just the kind of place where they would look most carefully.

All around him the noise of excited chatter rose from the crowd. People were arguing for or against Caris, rerunning the trial, but he seemed to be inside a bubble, and he could hardly follow what anyone said. In his ears, their talk sounded like the random beating of a hundred drums.

He found himself staring at Godwyn, wondering what he was thinking. Merthin could understand the others – Elizabeth was eaten up with jealousy, Elfric was possessed by greed and Philemon was pure malevolence – but the prior mystified him. Godwyn had grown up with his cousin Caris, and he knew she was not a witch. Yet he was prepared to see her die. How could he do something so wicked? What excuse did he make to himself? Did he tell himself that this was all for the glory of God? Godwyn had once seemed to be a man of enlightenment and decency, the antidote to Prior Anthony’s narrow conservatism. But he had turned out to be worse than Anthony: more ruthless in the pursuit of the same obsolete aims.

If Caris dies, Merthin thought, I’m going to kill Godwyn.

His parents came up to him. They had been in the cathedral throughout the trial. His father said something, but Merthin could not understand him. “What?” he said.

Then the north door opened, and the crowd became silent. Mother Cecilia walked in alone and closed the door behind her. There was a murmur of curiosity. What now?

Cecilia walked up to the bishop’s throne.

Richard said: “Well, Mother Prioress? What do you have to report to the court?”

Cecilia said slowly: “Caris has confessed-”

There was a roar of shock from the crowd.

Cecilia raised her voice. “…confessed her sins.”

They went quiet again. What did this mean?

“She has received absolution-”

“From whom?” Godwyn interrupted. “A nun cannot give absolution!”

“From Father Joffroi.”

Merthin knew Joffroi. He was the priest at St Mark’s, the church where Merthin had repaired the roof. Joffroi had no love for Godwyn.

But what was going on? Everyone waited for Cecilia to explain.

She said: “Caris has applied to become a novice nun here at the priory-”

Once again she was interrupted by a shout of shock from the assembled townspeople.

She yelled over their voices: “-and I have accepted her!”

There was uproar. Merthin could see Godwyn yelling at the top of his voice, but his words were lost. Elizabeth was enraged; Philemon stared at Cecilia with poisonous hatred; Elfric looked bewildered; Richard was amused. Merthin’s own mind reeled with the implications. Would the bishop accept this? Did it mean the trial was over? Had Caris been saved from execution?

Eventually the tumult died down. As soon as he could be heard, Godwyn spoke, his face white with fury. “Did she, or did she not, confess to heresy?”

“The confessional is a sacred trust,” Cecilia replied imperturbably. “I don’t know what she said to the priest, and if I did I could not tell you or anyone else.”

“Does she bear the mark of Satan?”

“We did not examine her.” This answer was evasive, Merthin realized, but Cecilia quickly added: “It was not necessary once she had received absolution.”

“This is unacceptable!” Godwyn bellowed. He had dropped the pretence that Philemon was the prosecutor. “The prioress cannot frustrate the proceedings of the court in this way!”

Bishop Richard said: “Thank you, Father Prior-”

“The order of the court must be carried out!”

Richard raised his voice. “That will do!”

Godwyn opened his mouth to protest further, then thought better of it.

Richard said: “I don’t need to hear any more argument. I have made my decision, and I will now announce my judgement.”

Silence fell.

“The proposal that Caris be permitted to enter the nunnery is an interesting one. If she is a witch, she will be unable to do any harm in the holiness of her surroundings. The devil cannot enter here. On the other hand, if she is not a witch, we will have been saved from the error of condemning an innocent woman. Perhaps the nunnery would not have been Caris’s choice as a way of life, but her consolation will be an existence dedicated to serving God. On balance, then, I find this a satisfactory solution.”

Godwyn said: “What if she should leave the nunnery?”

“Good point,” said the bishop. “That is why I am formally sentencing her to death, but suspending the sentence for as long as she remains a nun. If she should renounce her vows, the sentence would be carried out.”

That’s it, thought Merthin in despair: a life sentence; and he felt tears of rage and grief come to his eyes.

Richard stood up. Godwyn said: “The court is adjourned!” The bishop left, followed by the monks and nuns in procession.

Merthin moved in a daze. His mother spoke to him in a consoling voice, but he ignored her. He let the crowd carry him to the great west door of the cathedral and out on to the green. The traders were packing up their leftover goods and dismantling their stalls: the Fleece Fair was over for another year. Godwyn had got what he wanted, he realized. With Edmund dying and Caris out of the way, Elfric would become alderman and the application for a borough charter would be withdrawn.

He looked at the grey stone walls of the priory buildings: Caris was in there somewhere. He turned that way, moving across the tide of the crowd, and headed for the hospital.

The place was empty. It had been swept clean, and the straw-filled palliasses used by the overnight visitors were stacked neatly against the walls. A candle burned on the altar at the eastern end. Merthin walked slowly the length of the room, not sure what to do next.

He recalled, from Timothy’s Book, that his ancestor Jack Builder had briefly become a novice monk. The author had hinted that Jack had been a reluctant recruit, and had not taken easily to monastic discipline; at any rate, his novitiate had ended abruptly in circumstances over which Timothy drew a tactful veil.

But Bishop Richard had stated that if Caris ever left the nunnery she would be under sentence of death.

A young nun came in. When she recognized Merthin she looked scared. “What do you want?” she said.

“I must speak to Caris.”

“I’ll go and ask,” she said, and hurried out.

Merthin looked at the altar, and the crucifix, and the triptych on the wall showing Elizabeth of Hungary, the patron saint of hospitals. One panel showed the saint, who had been a princess, wearing a crown and feeding the poor; the second showed her building her hospital; and the third illustrated the miracle in which the food she carried beneath her cloak was turned into roses. What would Caris do in this place? She was a sceptic, doubtful of just about everything the church taught. She did not believe that a princess could turn bread into roses. “How do they know that?” she would say to stories that everyone else accepted without question – Adam and Eve, Noah’s ark, David and Goliath, even the Nativity. She would be a caged wildcat in here.

He had to talk to her, to find out what was in her mind. She must have some plan that he was not able to guess at. He waited impatiently for the nun to return. She did not come back, but Old Julie appeared. “Thank heaven!” he said. “Julie, I have to see Caris, quickly!”

“I’m sorry, young Merthin,” she said. “Caris doesn’t want to see you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “We’re betrothed – we’re supposed to get married tomorrow. She has to see me!”

“She’s a novice nun, now. She won’t be getting married.”

Merthin raised his voice. “If that’s true, don’t you think she should tell me herself?”

“It’s not for me to say. She knows you’re here, and she won’t see you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Merthin pushed past the old nun and went through the door by which she had entered. He found himself in a small lobby. He had never been here before: few men had ever entered the nuns’ area of the priory. He passed through another door and found himself in the nuns’ cloisters. Several of them stood there, some reading, some walking around the square meditatively, some talking in quiet voices.

He ran along the arcade. A nun caught sight of him and screamed. He ignored her. Seeing a staircase, he ran up it and entered the first room. He found himself in a dormitory. There were two lines of mattresses, with neatly folded blankets on top. No one was there. He went a few steps along the corridor and tried another door. It was locked. “Caris!” he shouted. “Are you in there? Speak to me!” He banged on the door with his fist. He scraped the skin of his knuckles, which started to bleed, but he hardly felt the pain. “Let me in!” he yelled. “Let me in!”

A voice behind him said: “I’ll let you in.”

He spun round to see Mother Cecilia.

She took a key from her belt and calmly unlocked the door. Merthin threw it open. Beyond it was a small room with a single window. All around the walls were shelves packed with folded clothes.

“This is where we keep our winter robes,” Cecilia said. “It’s a storeroom.”

“Where is she?” Merthin shouted.

“She’s in a room that is locked by her own request. You won’t find the room and, if you did, you couldn’t get in. She will not see you.”

“How do I know she’s not dead?” Merthin heard his voice crack with emotion, but he did not care.

“You know me,” Cecilia said. “She’s not dead.” She looked at his hand. “You’ve hurt yourself,” she said sympathetically. “Come with me and let me put some ointment on your cuts.”

He looked at his hand, and then at her. “You’re a devil,” he said.

He ran from her, back the way he had come, into the hospital, past a scared-looking Julie, out into the open. He made his way through the end-of-fair chaos in front of the cathedral and emerged on to the main street. He thought of speaking to Edmund, but decided against it: someone else could tell Caris’s ailing father the terrible truth. Whom could he trust? He thought of Mark Webber.

Mark and his family had moved to a big house on the main street, with a large stone-built ground-floor storeroom for bales of cloth. There was no loom in their kitchen now: all the weaving was done by others whom they organized. Mark and Madge were sitting on a bench, looking solemn. When Merthin walked in, Mark jumped up. “Have you seen her?” he cried.

“They won’t let me.”

“That’s outrageous!” Mark said. “They don’t have the right to stop her seeing the man she’s supposed to marry!”

“The nuns say she doesn’t want to see me.”

“I don’t believe them.”

“Nor do I. I went in and looked for her, but I couldn’t find her. There are a lot of locked doors.”

“She must be there somewhere.”

“I know. Will you come back with me, and bring a hammer, and help me break down every door until we find her?”

Mark looked uncomfortable. Strong as he was, he hated violence.

Merthin said: “I have to find her – she might be dead!”

Before he could reply, Madge said: “I’ve got a better idea.”

The two men looked at her.

“I’ll go to the nunnery,” Madge said. “The nuns won’t be so nervous of a woman. Perhaps they will persuade Caris to see me.”

Mark nodded. “At least then we’ll know that she’s alive.”

Merthin said: “But… I need more than that. What is she thinking? Is she going to wait until the fuss dies down, then escape? Should I try to break her out of there? Or should I just wait – and, if so, how long? A month? A year? Seven years?”

“I’ll ask her, if they’ll let me in.” Madge stood up. “You wait here.”

“No, I’m coming with you,” Merthin said. “I’ll wait outside.”

“In that case, Mark, why don’t you come, too, to keep Merthin company?”

To keep Merthin out of trouble, she meant, but he made no objection. He had asked for their help. And he was grateful to have two people he trusted on his side.

They hurried back to the priory close. Mark and Merthin waited outside the hospital while Madge went in. Merthin saw that Caris’s old dog, Scrap, was sitting at the door, waiting for her to reappear.

After Madge had been gone for half an hour, Merthin said: “I think they must have let her in, otherwise she’d be back by now.”

“We’ll see,” said Mark.

They watched the last of the traders pack up and depart, leaving the cathedral green a sea of churned mud. Merthin paced up and down while Mark sat like a statue of Samson. One hour followed another. Despite his impatience, Merthin was glad of the delay, for almost certainly Madge was talking to Caris.

The sun was sinking over the west side of town when at last Madge emerged. Her expression was solemn and her face was wet with tears. “Caris is alive,” she said. “And there’s nothing wrong with her, physically or mentally. She’s in her right mind.”

“What did she say?” Merthin asked urgently.

“I’ll tell you every word. Come, let’s sit in the garden.”

They went to the vegetable patch and sat on the stone bench, looking at the sunset. Madge’s equanimity gave Merthin a bad feeling. He would have preferred her to be spitting with rage. Her manner told him the news was bad. He felt hopeless. He said: “Is it true that she doesn’t want to see me?”

Madge sighed. “Yes.”

“But why?”

“I asked her that. She said it would break her heart.”

Merthin began to cry.

Madge went on in a low, clear voice. “Mother Cecilia left us alone, so that we could speak frankly, without being overheard. Caris believes that Godwyn and Philemon are determined to get rid of her, because of the application for a borough charter. She’s safe in the nunnery, but if she ever leaves they will find her and kill her.”

“She could escape and I could take her to London!” Merthin said. “Godwyn would never find us there!”

Madge nodded. “I said that to her. We discussed it for a long time. She feels the two of you would be fugitives for the rest of your lives. She’s not willing to condemn you to that. It’s your destiny to be the greatest builder of your generation. You will be famous. But, if she is with you, you will always have to lie about your identity and hide from the light of day.”

“I don’t care about that!”

“She told me you would say that. But she believes you do care about it, and what is more she thinks you should. Anyway, she cares about it. She will not take away your destiny, even if you ask her to.”

“She could say this to me herself!”

“She’s afraid you would talk her round.”

Merthin knew Madge was telling the truth. Cecilia had been telling the truth, too. Caris did not want to see him. He felt choked with grief. He swallowed, wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve and struggled to speak. “But what will she do?” he said.

“Make the best of it. Try to be a good nun.”

“She hates the church!”

“I know she has never been very respectful of the clergy. In this town, it’s not surprising. But she believes she can find some kind of consolation in a life dedicated to healing her fellow women and men.”

Merthin thought about that. Mark and Madge watched him in silence. He could imagine Caris working in the hospital, taking care of sick people. But how would she feel about spending half the night singing and praying? “She might kill herself,” he said after a long pause.

“I don’t think so,” Madge said with conviction. “She’s terribly sad, but I don’t see her taking that way out.”

“She might kill someone else.”

“That’s more likely.”

“Then again,” Merthin said slowly and reluctantly, “she might find a kind of happiness.”

Madge said nothing. Merthin looked hard at her. She nodded.

That was the terrible truth, he realized. Caris might be happy. She was losing her home, her freedom and her husband-to-be; but she might still be happy, in the end.

There was nothing more to say.

Merthin stood up. “Thank you for being my friends,” he said. He began to walk away.

Mark said: “Where are you going?”

Merthin stopped and turned back. There was a thought spinning in his head, and he waited for it to become clear. When it did, he was astonished. But he saw immediately that the idea was right. It was not merely right, it was perfect.

He wiped the tears from his face and looked at Mark and Madge in the red light of the dying sun.

“I’m going to Florence,” he said. “Goodbye.”