World Without End (153 page)

'We're both glad,' Merthin said. 'You gave us a scare.'

'Why?' said Lolla. She hung her cloak on a hook and sat at the table. 'I was perfectly all right.'

'But we didn't know that, so we were terribly worried.'

'You shouldn't be,' Lolla said. 'I can take care of myself.'

Merthin suppressed an angry retort. 'I'm not sure you can,' he said as mildly as possible.

Caris stepped in to try to lower the temperature. 'Where did you go?' she asked. 'You've been away for two weeks.'

'Different places.'

Merthin said tightly: 'Can you give us one or two examples?'

'Mudeford Crossing. Casterham. Outhenby.'

'And what have you been doing?'

'Is this the catechism?' she said petulantly. 'Do I have to answer all these questions?'

Caris put a restraining hand on Merthin's arm and said to Lolla: 'We just want to know that you haven't been in danger.'

Merthin said: 'I'd also like to know who you've been traveling with.'

'Nobody special.'

'Does that mean Jake Riley?'

She shrugged and looked embarrassed. 'Yes,' she said, as if it were a trivial detail.

Merthin had been ready to forgive and embrace her, but she was making that difficult. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: 'What sleeping arrangements did you and Jake have?'

'That's my business!' she cried.

'No, it's not!' he shouted back. 'It's mine, too, and your stepmother's. If you're pregnant, who will care for your baby? Are you confident that Jake is ready to settle down and be a husband and father? Have you talked to him about that?'

'Don't speak to me!' she yelled. Then she burst into tears and stomped up the stairs.

Merthin said: 'Sometimes I wish we lived in one room - then she wouldn't be able to pull that trick.'

'You weren't very gentle with her,' Caris said with mild disapproval.

'What am I supposed to do?' Merthin said. 'She talks as if she's done nothing wrong!'

'She knows the truth, though. That's why she's crying.'

'Oh, hell,' he said.

There was a knock, and a novice monk put his head around the door. 'Pardon me for disturbing you, Alderman,' he said. 'Sir Gregory Longfellow is at the priory, and would be grateful for a word with you, as soon as is convenient.'

'Damn,' said Merthin. 'Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes.'

'Thank you,' the novice said, and left.

Merthin said to Caris: 'Perhaps it's just as well to give her time to cool off.'

'You, too,' Caris said.

'You're not taking her side, are you?' he said with a touch of irritation.

She smiled and touched his arm. 'I'm on your side, always,' she said. 'But I remember what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old girl. She's as worried as you are about her relationship with Jake. But she's not admitting it, even to herself, because that would wound her pride. So she resents you for speaking the truth. She has constructed a fragile defense around her self-esteem, and you just tear it down.'

'What should I do?'

'Help her build a better fence.'

'I don't know what that means.'

'You'll figure it out.'

'I'd better go and see Sir Gregory.' Merthin stood up.

Caris put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. 'You're a good man doing your best, and I love you with all my heart,' she said.

That took the edge off his frustration, and he felt himself calm down as he strode across the bridge and up the main street to the priory. He did not like Gregory. The man was sly and unprincipled, willing to do anything for his master the king, just as Philemon had been when he served Godwyn as prior. Merthin wondered uneasily what Gregory wanted to discuss with him. It was probably taxes - always the king's worry.

Merthin went first to the prior's palace where Philemon, looking pleased with himself, told him that Sir Gregory was to be found in the monks' cloisters to the south of the cathedral. Merthin wondered what Gregory had done to win himself the privilege of holding audience there.

The lawyer was getting old. His hair was white, and his tall figure was stooped. Deep lines had appeared like brackets either side of that sneering nose, and one of the blue eyes was cloudy. But the other eye saw sharply enough, and he recognized Merthin instantly, though they had not met for ten years. 'Alderman,' he said. 'The archbishop of Monmouth is dead.'

'Rest his soul,' Merthin said automatically.

'Amen. The king asked me, as I was passing through his borough of Kingsbridge, to give you his greetings, and tell you this important news.'

'I'm grateful. The death is not unexpected. The archbishop has been ill.' The king certainly had not asked Gregory to meet with Merthin purely to give him interesting information, he thought suspiciously.

'You're an intriguing man, if you don't mind my saying so,' Gregory said expansively. 'I first met your wife more than twenty years ago. Since then I've seen the two of you slowly but surely take control of this town. And you've got everything you set your hearts on: the bridge, the hospital, the borough charter, and each other. You're determined, and you're patient.'

It was condescending, but Merthin was surprised to detect a grain of respect in Gregory's flattery. He told himself to remain mistrustful: men such as Gregory praised only for a purpose.

'I'm on my way to see the monks of Abergavenny, who must vote for a new archbishop.' Gregory leaned back in his chair. 'When Christianity first came to England, hundreds of years ago, monks elected their own superiors.' Explaining was an old man's habit, Merthin reflected: the young Gregory would not have bothered. 'Nowadays, of course, bishops and archbishops are too important and powerful to be chosen by small groups of pious idealists living detached from the world. The king makes his choice, and His Holiness the Pope ratifies the royal decision.'

Even I know it's not that simple, Merthin thought. There's usually some kind of power struggle. But he said nothing.

Gregory continued: 'However, the ritual of the monks' election still goes on, and it is easier to control it than to abolish it. Hence my journey.'

'So you're going to tell the monks whom to elect,' Merthin said.

'To put it bluntly, yes.'

'And what name will you give them?'

'Didn't I say? It's your bishop, Henri of
Mons.
Excellent man: loyal, trustworthy, never makes trouble.'

'Oh, dear.'

'You're not pleased?' Gregory's relaxed air evaporated, and he became keenly attentive.

Merthin realized that this was what Gregory had come for: to find out how the people of Kingsbridge - as represented by Merthin - would feel about what he was planning, and whether they would oppose him. He collected his thoughts. The prospect of a new bishop threatened the spire and the hospital. 'Henri is the key to the balance of power in this town,' he said. 'Ten years ago, a kind of armistice was agreed between the merchants, the monks, and the hospital. As a result, all three have prospered mightily.' Appealing to Gregory's interest - and the king's - he added: 'That prosperity is of course what enables us to pay such high taxes.'

Gregory acknowledged this with a dip of his head.

'The departure of Henri obviously puts into question the stability of our relationships.'

'It depends on who replaces him, I should have thought.'

'Indeed,' said Merthin. Now we come to the crux, he thought. He said: 'Have you got anyone in mind?'

'The obvious candidate is Prior Philemon.'

'No!' Merthin was aghast. 'Philemon! Why?'

'He's a sound conservative, which is important to the church hierarchy in these times of skepticism and heresy.'

'Of course. Now I understand why he preached a sermon against dissection. And why he wants to build a Lady chapel.' I should have foreseen this, Merthin thought

'And he has let it be known that he has no problem with taxation of the clergy - a constant source of friction between the king and some of his bishops.'

'Philemon has been planning this for some time.' Merthin was angry with himself for letting it sneak up on him.

'Since the archbishop fell ill, I imagine.'

'This is a catastrophe.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Philemon is quarrelsome and vengeful. If he becomes bishop he will create constant strife in Kingsbridge. We have to prevent him.' He looked Gregory in the eye. 'Why did you come here to forewarn me?' As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came to him. 'You don't want Philemon either. You didn't need me to tell you what a troublemaker he is - you knew already. But you can't just veto him, because he has already won support among senior clergy.' Gregory just smiled enigmatically - which Merthin took to mean he was right. 'So what do you want me to do?'

'If I were you,' Gregory said, 'I'd start by finding another candidate to put up as the alternative to Philemon.'

So that was it. Merthin nodded pensively. 'I'll have to think about this,' he said.

'Please do.' Gregory stood up, and Merthin realized the meeting was over. 'And let me know what you decide,' Gregory added.

Merthin left the priory and walked back to Leper Island, musing. Who could he propose as bishop of Kingsbridge? The townspeople had always got on well with Archdeacon Lloyd, but he was too old - they might succeed in getting him elected only to have to do the whole thing again in a year's time.

He had not thought of anyone by the time he got home. He found Caris in the parlor and was about to ask her when she preempted him. Standing up, with a pale face and a frightened expression, she said: 'Lolla's gone again.'

86

The priests said Sunday was a day of rest, but it had never been so for Gwenda. Today, after church in the morning and then dinner, she was working with Wulfric in the garden behind their house. It was a good garden, half an acre with a hen house, a pear tree, and a barn. In the vegetable patch at the far end, Wulfric was digging furrows and Gwenda sowing peas.

The boys had gone to another village for a football game, their usual recreation on Sundays. Football was the peasant equivalent of the nobility's tournaments: a mock battle in which the injuries were sometimes real. Gwenda just prayed her sons would come home intact.

Today Sam returned early. 'The ball burst,' he said grumpily.

'Where's Davey?' Gwenda asked.

'He wasn't there.'

'I thought he was with you.'

'No, he quite often goes off on his own.'

'I didn't know that.' Gwenda frowned. 'Where does he go?'

Sam shrugged. 'He doesn't tell me.'

Perhaps he was seeing a girl, Gwenda thought. Davey was close about all sorts of things. If it was a girl, who was she? There were not many eligible girls in Wigleigh. The survivors of the plague had remarried quickly, as if eager to repopulate the land; and those born since were too young. Perhaps he was meeting someone from the next village, at a rendezvous in the forest. Such assignations were as common as heartache.

When Davey came home, a couple of hours later, Gwenda confronted him. He made no attempt to deny that he had been sneaking off. 'I'll show you what I've been doing, if you like,' he said. 'I can't keep it secret forever. Come with me.'

They all went, Gwenda, Wulfric, and Sam. The Sabbath was observed to the extent that no one worked in the fields, and the Hundredacre was deserted as the four of them walked across it in a blustery spring breeze. A few strips looked neglected: there were still villagers who had more land than they could cope with. Annet was one such - she had only her eighteen-year-old daughter Amabel to help her, unless she could hire labor, which was still difficult. Her strip of oats was getting weedy.

Davey led them half a mile into the forest and stopped at a clearing off the beaten track. 'This is it,' he said.

For a moment Gwenda did not know what he was talking about. She was standing on the edge of a nondescript patch of ground with low bushes growing between the trees. Then she looked again at the bushes. They were a species she had never seen before. It had a squarish stem with pointed leaves growing in clusters of four. The way it had covered the ground made her think it was a creeping plant. A pile of uprooted vegetation at one side showed that Davey had been weeding. 'What is it?' she said.

'It's called madder. I bought the seeds from a sailor that time we went to Melcombe.'

'Melcombe?' Gwenda said. 'That was three years ago.'

'That's how long it's taken.' Davey smiled. 'At first I was afraid it wouldn't grow at all. He told me it needed sandy soil and would tolerate light shade. I dug over the clearing and planted the seeds, but the first year I got only three or four feeble plants. I thought I'd wasted my money. Then, the second year, the roots spread underground and sent up shoots, and this year it's all over the place.'

Gwenda was astonished that her child could have kept this from her for so long. 'But what use is madder?' she said. 'Does it taste good?'

Davey laughed. 'No, it's not edible. You dig up the roots, dry them, and grind them to a powder that makes a red dye. It's very costly. Madge Webber in Kingsbridge pays seven shillings for a gallon.'

That was an astonishing price, Gwenda reflected. Wheat, the most expensive grain, sold for about seven shillings a quarter, and a quarter was sixty-four gallons. 'This is sixty-four times as precious as wheat!' she said.

Davey smiled. 'That's why I planted it.'

'Why you planted what?' said a new voice. They all turned to see Nathan Reeve, standing beside a hawthorn tree as bent and twisted as he was. He wore a triumphant grin: he had caught them red-handed.

Davey was quick with an answer. 'This is a medicinal herb called...hagwort,' he said. Gwenda could tell he was improvising, but Nate would not be sure. 'It's good for my mother's wheezy chest.'

Nate looked at Gwenda. 'I didn't know she had a wheezy chest.'

'In the winter,' Gwenda said.

'A herb?' Nate said skeptically. 'There's enough here to dose all Kingsbridge. And you've been weeding it, to get more.'

'I like to do things properly,' Davey said.