Epic Historial Collection (218 page)

That was not quite right, Godwyn knew. There had been disputes about the charter in the time of Prior Philip. But Sir Wilbert did not know that, nor did Earl Roland.

Roland's attitude was haughty, as if it was beneath his dignity to squabble with lawyers, but this was deceptive: he had a firm grip on the argument. “The charter does not say the priory may escape tax.”

Gregory said: “Why, then, has the earl never imposed such a tax until now?”

Roland had his answer ready. “Former earls forgave the tax, as their contribution to the cathedral. It was a pious act. But no piety compels me to subsidize a bridge. Yet the monks refuse to pay.”

Suddenly the argument had swung the other way. How fast it moved, Godwyn thought; not like arguments in the monks' chapter house, which could go on for hours.

Gregory said: “And the earl's men prevent movement of stones from the quarry, and have killed a poor carter.”

Sir Wilbert said: “Then the dispute had better be resolved as soon as possible. What does the priory say to the argument that the earl has the right to tax consignments passing through his earldom, using roads and bridges and fords that belong to him, regardless of whether he has actually enforced this right in the past or not?”

“That since the stones are not passing through his lands, but originate there, the tax is tantamount to charging the monks for the stones, contrary to the charter of Henry I.”

Godwyn saw with dismay that the judge seemed unimpressed by this.

However, Gregory had not finished. “And that the kings who gave Kingsbridge a bridge and a quarry did so for a good reason: they wanted the priory and the town to prosper. And the town's alderman is here to testify that Kingsbridge cannot prosper without a bridge.”

Edmund stepped forward. With his unkempt hair and provincial clothes he looked like a country bumpkin, by contrast with the gorgeously robed noblemen around; but, unlike Godwyn, he did not appear intimidated. “I'm a wool merchant, sir,” he said. “Without the bridge, there's no trade. And without trade, Kingsbridge will pay no taxes to the king.”

Sir Wilbert leaned forward. “How much did the town yield in the last tenth?”

He was speaking of the tax, imposed by Parliament from time to time, of one-tenth or one-fifteenth of each individual's movable property. No one ever paid a tenth, of course—everyone understated their wealth—so the amount payable by each town or county had become fixed, and the burden was shared out more or less fairly, with poor men and lowly peasants paying nothing at all.

Edmund had been expecting this question, and he replied promptly: “One thousand and eleven pounds, sir.”

“And the effect of the loss of the bridge?”

“Today, I estimate that a tenth would raise less than three hundred pounds. But our citizens are continuing to trade in the hope that the bridge will be rebuilt. If that hope were to be dashed in this court today, the annual Fleece Fair and the weekly market would almost disappear, and the yield from a tenth would fall below fifty pounds.”

“Next to nothing, in the scale of the king's needs,” the judge said. He did not say what they all knew: that the king was in dire need of money because in the last few weeks he had declared war on France.

Roland was needled. “Is this hearing about the king's finances?” he said scornfully.

Sir Wilbert was not to be browbeaten, even by an earl. “This is the king's court,” he said mildly. “What would you expect?”

“Justice,” Roland replied.

“And you shall have it.” The judge implied, but did not say,
Whether you like it or not.
“Edmund Wooler, where is the nearest alternative market?”

“Shiring.”

“Ah. So the business you lose will move to the earl's town.”

“No, sir. Some will move, but much will vanish. Many Kingsbridge traders will be unable to get to Shiring.”

The judge turned to Roland. “How much does a tenth yield from Shiring?”

Roland conferred briefly with his secretary, Father Jerome, then said: “Six hundred and twenty pounds.”

“And with the increased trade at Shiring market, could you pay one thousand six hundred and twenty pounds?”

“Of course not,” the earl said angrily.

The judge continued in his mild tone. “Then your opposition to this bridge would cost the king dear.”

“I have my rights,” Roland said sulkily.

“And the king has his. Is there any way you could compensate the royal treasury for the loss of a thousand pounds every year or so?”

“By fighting alongside him in France—which wool merchants and monks will never do!”

“Indeed,” said Sir Wilbert. “But your knights will require payment.”

“This is outrageous,” said Roland. He knew he was losing the argument. Godwyn tried not to look triumphant.

The judge did not like his proceedings being called outrageous. He fixed Roland with a look. “When you sent your men-at-arms to blockade the priory's quarry, I feel sure you did not intend to damage the king's interests.” He paused expectantly.

Roland sensed a trap, but there was only one answer he could give. “Certainly not.”

“Now that it has been made clear to the court, and to you, how the building of the new bridge serves the king's purposes, as well as those of Kingsbridge Priory and the town, I imagine you will agree to the reopening of the quarry.”

Godwyn realized Sir Wilbert was being clever. He was forcing Roland to consent to his ruling, making it difficult for him to appeal personally to the king later.

After a long pause, Roland said: “Yes.”

“And to the transport of stones through your territory without tax.”

Roland knew he had lost. There was fury in his voice as he said again: “Yes.”

“So ordered,” the judge said. “Next case.”

 

It was a great victory, but it had probably come too late.

November had turned into December. Building normally stopped about now. Because of the rainy weather, the frosts would come late this year but, even so, there were at most a couple of weeks left. Merthin had hundreds of stones stockpiled at the quarry, cut and shaped and ready to be laid. However, it would take months to cart them all to Kingsbridge. Although Earl Roland had lost the court case, he had almost certainly succeeded in delaying the building of the bridge by a year.

Caris returned to Kingsbridge, with Edmund and Godwyn, in a somber mood. Reining in on the suburban side of the river, she saw that Merthin had already constructed his cofferdams. In each of the channels that ran either side of Leper Island, the ends of wooden boards stuck a couple of feet above the surface in a big circle. She recalled Merthin explaining, in the guildhall, how he planned to drive stakes into the riverbed in a double ring then fill the gap between the rings with clay mortar to make a watertight seal. The water inside the coffer could then be taken out so that the builders could lay a foundation on the riverbed.

One of Merthin's workmen, Harold Mason, was on the ferry as they crossed the river, and Caris asked him if the cofferdams had been drained. “Not yet,” he said. “The master wants to leave it until we're ready to start building.”

Caris noticed with pleasure that Merthin was now called the master, despite his youth. “But why?” she said. “I thought we wanted everything ready for a quick start.”

“He says the force of the river puts more strain on the dam when there's no water inside.”

Caris wondered how Merthin knew such things. He had learned the basics from his first master, Joachim, Elfric's father. He always talked a lot to strangers who came to town, especially men who had seen tall buildings in Florence and Rome. And he had read all about the construction of the cathedral in
Timothy's Book
. But he seemed also to have remarkable intuition about these matters. She would never have guessed that an empty dam would be weaker than a full one.

Although they were subdued as they entered the town, they wanted to tell Merthin the good news right away and find out what, if anything, he could get done before the end of the season. Pausing only to entrust their horses to stableboys, they went in search of him. They found him in the mason's loft, high in the northwest tower of the cathedral, working by the light of several oil lamps, scratching a design for a parapet on the tracing floor.

He looked up from his drawing, saw their faces, and grinned widely. “We won?” he said.

“We won,” said Edmund.

“Thanks to Gregory Longfellow,” Godwyn added. “He cost a lot of money, but he was worth it.”

Merthin embraced both men—his quarrel with Godwyn forgotten, at least for now. He kissed Caris tenderly. “I missed you,” he murmured. “It's been eight weeks! I felt as if you were never coming back.”

She made no reply. She had something momentous to say to him, but she wanted privacy.

Her father did not notice her reticence. “Well, Merthin, you can start building right away.”

“Good.”

Godwyn said: “You can begin carting stones from the quarry tomorrow—but I suppose it's too late to get much building done before the winter frosts.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Merthin said. He glanced at the windows. It was mid-afternoon, the December day already darkening to evening. “There might be a way to do it.”

Edmund was immediately enthusiastic. “Well, out with it, lad! What's your idea?”

Merthin turned to the prior. “Would you grant an indulgence to volunteers who bring stones from the quarry?” An indulgence was a special act of forgiveness of sins. Like a gift of money, it could either pay for past debts or stand in credit for future liabilities.

“I could,” Godwyn said. “What have you got in mind?”

Merthin turned to Edmund. “How many people in Kingsbridge own a cart?”

“Let me think,” Edmund said, frowning. “Every substantial trader has one…so it must come to a couple of hundred, at least.”

“Suppose we were to go around the town tonight and ask every one of them to drive to the quarry tomorrow and pick up stones.”

Edmund stared at Merthin, and a grin slowly spread across his face. “Now,” he said delightedly, “that's an idea!”

“We'll tell each one that everybody else is going,” Merthin went on. “It will be like a holiday. Their families can go along, and they can take food and beer. If each one brings back a cartload of stone or rubble, in two days' time we'll have enough to build the piers of the bridge.”

That was brilliant, Caris thought wonderingly. It was typical of him, to think of something no one else could have imagined. But would it work?

“What about the weather?” said Godwyn.

“The rain has been a curse for the peasants, but it's held off the deep cold. We've a week or two yet, I think.”

Edmund was excited, stomping up and down the loft with his lopsided gait. “But if you can build the piers in the next few days…”

“By the end of next year we can finish the bulk of the work.”

“Could we use the bridge the following year?”

“No…but wait. We could put a temporary wooden roadbed on top in time for the Fleece Fair.”

“So we would have a usable bridge by the year after next—and miss only one Fleece Fair!”

“We'd have to finish the stone roadbed after the Fleece Fair, then it would harden in time to be used normally in the third year.”

“Damn it, we've got to do it!” Edmund said excitedly.

Godwyn said cautiously: “You have yet to empty the water out of the cofferdams.”

Merthin nodded. “That's hard work. In my original plan I allowed two weeks for it. But I've got an idea about that, too. However, let's get the carts organized first.”

They all moved to the door, animated with enthusiasm. As Godwyn and Edmund started down the narrow spiral staircase, Caris caught Merthin by the sleeve and held him back. He thought she wanted to kiss, and he put his arms around her, but she pushed him away. “I've got some news,” she said.

“More?”

“I'm pregnant.”

She watched his face. He was startled at first, and his red brown eyebrows rose. Then he blinked, tilted his head to one side, and shrugged, as if to say:
Nothing surprising about that.
He grinned, at first ruefully, then with unmixed happiness. At the end he was beaming. “That's wonderful!” he said.

She hated him momentarily for his stupidity. “No, it's not!”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to spend my life as a slave to anyone, even if it is my own child.”

“A slave? Is every mother a slave?”

“Yes! How could you possibly not know that I feel that way?”

He looked baffled and hurt, and a part of her wanted to back off, but she had been nursing her anger too long. “I did know, I suppose,” he said. “But then you lay with me, so I thought…” He hesitated. “You must have known it might happen—
would
happen, sooner or later.”