World Without End (76 page)

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 rumors.'

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 oxcarts 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 riverbank 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 afterward, 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 humors.'

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 toward 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 colorful 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 color 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.