by Ken Follett
Rollo looked around the nave, spotted his father leaning against a fluted column, and went over. ‘I’ve been talking to Dan Cobley.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Sir Reginald did not like the Cobleys. Few people did. They seemed to think they were holier than ordinary people, and their walkout at the play had annoyed everybody. ‘What did he want?’
‘To sell a cargo.’ Rollo gave his father the details.
When he had done, Reginald said: ‘And they’re prepared to guarantee the value of the furs?’
‘Five hundred pounds – for an investment of four hundred. I know we don’t have the money, but I thought you’d like to know about it.’
‘You’re right, we don’t have the money.’ Reginald looked thoughtful. ‘But I might be able to get it.’
Rollo wondered how. But his father could be resourceful. He was not the kind of merchant to build up a business gradually, but he was an alert opportunist, keen to grab an unforeseen bargain.
Was it possible he could solve all the family’s worries at a stroke? Rollo hardly dared to hope.
To Rollo’s surprise Reginald went to speak to the Willards. Alice was a leading merchant, so the mayor often had matters to discuss with her; but the two did not like one another, and relations had not been improved by the Fitzgeralds’ rejection of young Ned as a potential son-in-law. Rollo followed his father, intrigued.
Reginald spoke quietly. ‘A word with you, Mrs Willard, if I may.’
Alice was a short, stout woman with impeccable good manners. ‘Of course,’ she said politely.
‘I need to borrow four hundred pounds for a short period.’
Alice looked startled. ‘You may need to go to London,’ she said after a pause. ‘Or Antwerp.’ The Netherlands city of Antwerp was the financial capital of Europe. ‘We have a cousin in Antwerp,’ she added. ‘But I don’t know that even he would want to lend such a large sum.’
‘I need it today,’ Sir Reginald said.
Alice raised her eyebrows.
Rollo felt a pang of shame. It was humiliating to beg a loan from the family they had scorned so recently.
But Reginald ploughed on regardless. ‘You’re the only merchant in Kingsbridge who has that kind of money instantly available, Alice.’
Alice said: ‘May I ask what you want the money for?’
‘I have the chance to buy a rich cargo.’
Reginald would not say from whom, Rollo guessed, for fear that Alice might try to buy the cargo herself.
Reginald added: ‘The ship will be in Combe Harbour in two weeks.’
At this point Ned Willard butted into the conversation. Naturally, Rollo thought bitterly, he would enjoy the sight of the Fitzgeralds asking for help from the Willards. But Ned’s contribution was businesslike. ‘So why would the owner sell it at this point?’ he said sceptically. ‘He only has to wait two weeks to get the full value of the landed cargo.’
Reginald looked irritated at being questioned by a mere boy, but curbed his displeasure and replied: ‘The vendor needs cash immediately for another investment.’
Alice said: ‘I can’t take the risk of losing such a large amount – you’ll understand that.’
‘There’s no risk,’ said Reginald. ‘You’ll be repaid in little more than two weeks.’
That was absurd, Rollo knew. There was always risk.
Reginald lowered his voice. ‘We’re neighbours, Alice. We help each other. I ease the way for your cargoes at Combe Harbour, you know that. And you help me. It’s how Kingsbridge works.’
Alice looked taken aback, and after a moment Rollo realized why. His father’s emollient words about helping neighbours actually constituted a backhand threat. If Alice did not co-operate, it was implied, then Reginald might make trouble for her in the harbour.
There was an extended silence while Alice considered this. Rollo could guess what she was thinking. She did not want to make the loan, but she could not afford to antagonize someone as powerful as Reginald.
At last Alice said: ‘I would require security.’
Rollo’s hopes sank. A man who has nothing cannot offer security. This was just another way of saying ‘No’.
Reginald said: ‘I’ll pledge my post as Receiver of Customs.’
Alice shook her head. ‘You can’t dispose of it without royal permission – and you don’t have time for that.’
Rollo knew that Alice was right. Reginald was in danger of revealing his desperation.
Reginald said: ‘Then how about the priory?’
Alice shook her head. ‘I don’t want your half-built house.’
‘Then the southern part, the cloisters and the monks’ quarters and the nunnery.’
Rollo was sure Alice would not accept that as security. The buildings of the old priory had been disused for more than twenty years, and were now beyond repair.
Yet, to his surprise, Alice suddenly looked interested. She said: ‘Perhaps . . .’
Rollo spoke up. ‘But, Father, you know that Bishop Julius wants the chapter to buy back the priory – and you’ve more or less agreed to sell it.’
The pious Queen Mary had tried to return all the property seized from the Church by her rapacious father, Henry VIII, but Members of Parliament would not pass the legislation – too many of them had benefited – so the Church was trying to buy it back cheaply; and Rollo thought it was the duty of good Catholics to help that process.
‘That’s all right,’ said Reginald. ‘I’m not going to default on the loan, so the security will not be seized. The bishop will have what he wants.’
‘Good,’ said Alice.
Then there was a pause. Alice was clearly waiting for something, but would not say what. At last Reginald guessed, and said: ‘I would pay you a good rate of interest.’
‘I would want a high rate,’ said Alice. ‘Except that to charge interest on loans is usury, which is a crime as well as a sin.’
She was right, but this was a quibble. Laws against usury were circumvented daily in every commercial town in Europe. Alice’s prissy objection was only for the sake of appearances.
‘Well, now, I’m sure we can find a way around that,’ said Reginald in the jocular tone of one who proposes an innocent deception.
Alice said warily: ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Suppose I give you use of the priory during the term of the loan, then rent it back from you?’
‘I’d want eight pounds a month.’
Ned looked anxious. Evidently he wanted his mother to walk away from this deal. And Rollo could see why: Alice was going to risk four hundred pounds to earn just eight pounds.
Reginald pretended to be outraged. ‘Why, that’s twenty-four per cent a year – more, compounded!’
‘Then let’s drop the whole idea.’
Rollo began to feel hopeful. Why was Alice arguing about the rate of interest? It must mean she was going to make the loan. Rollo saw that Ned was looking mildly panicked, and guessed he was thinking the same, but regarding the prospect with dismay.
Reginald thought for a long moment. At last he said: ‘Very well. So be it.’ He held out his hand, and Alice shook it.
Rollo was awestruck by his father’s cleverness. For a man who was virtually penniless to make an investment of four hundred pounds was a triumph of audacity. And the cargo of the St Margaret would revive the family finances. Thank heaven for Philbert Cobley’s sudden urgent need for money.
‘I’ll draw up the papers this afternoon,’ said Alice Willard, and she turned away.
At the same moment, Lady Jane came up. ‘It’s time to go home,’ she said. ‘Dinner will be ready.’
Rollo looked around for his sister.
Margery was nowhere to be seen.
*
AS SOON AS the Fitzgeralds were out of earshot, Ned said to his mother: ‘Why did you agree to lend so much money to Sir Reginald?’
‘Because he would have made trouble for us if I’d refused.’
‘But he may defau
lt! We could lose everything.’
‘No, we’d have the priory.’
‘A collection of tumbledown buildings.’
‘I don’t want the buildings.’
‘Then . . .’ Ned frowned.
‘Think,’ said his mother.
If not the buildings, what did Alice want? ‘The land?’
‘Keep thinking.’
‘It’s in the heart of the city.’
‘Exactly. It’s the most valuable site in Kingsbridge, and worth a lot more than four hundred pounds to someone who knows how to make the most of it.’
‘I see,’ said Ned. ‘But what would you do with it – build a house, like Reginald?’
Alice looked scornful. ‘I don’t need a palace. I would build an indoor market that would be open every day of the week, regardless of the weather. I’d rent space to stallholders – pastry cooks, cheesewrights, glovers, shoemakers. There, right next to the cathedral, it would make money for a thousand years.’
The project was an idea of genius, Ned judged. That was why his mother had thought of it, and he had not.
All the same, a trace of his worry remained. He did not trust the Fitzgeralds.
Another thought occurred to him. ‘Is this a contingency plan in case we’ve lost everything in Calais?’
Alice had made strenuous efforts to get news from Calais, but had learned no more since the French had taken the city. Perhaps they had simply confiscated all English property, including the richly stocked Willard warehouse; perhaps Uncle Dick and his family were on their way to Kingsbridge empty-handed. But the city had prospered mainly because English merchants brought trade, and it was just possible that the French king realized it was smarter to let the foreigners keep what was theirs and stay in business.
Unfortunately, no news was bad news: the fact that no Englishmen had yet escaped from Calais and come home with information, despite the passage of a month, suggested that few were left alive.
‘The indoor market is worth doing in any circumstances,’ Alice answered. ‘But yes, I’m thinking we may well need a whole new business if the news from Calais is as bad as we fear.’
Ned nodded. His mother was always thinking ahead.
‘However, it probably won’t happen,’ Alice finished. ‘Reginald would not have lowered himself to beg a loan from me unless he had a really attractive deal lined up.’
Ned was already thinking about something else. The negotiation with Reginald had temporarily driven from his mind the only member of the Fitzgerald family in whom he was really interested.
He looked around the congregation but he could no longer see Margery. She had already left, and he knew where she had gone. He walked down the nave, trying not to appear hurried.
Preoccupied as he was, he marvelled as always at the music of the arches, the lower ones like bass notes repeated in a steady rhythm, the smaller ones in the gallery and the clerestory like higher harmonies in the same chord.
He pulled his cloak closer around him as he stepped outside and turned north, as if heading for the graveyard. The snow was falling more heavily now, settling on the roof of the monumental tomb of Prior Philip. It was so big that Ned and Margery had been able to stand on the far side of it and canoodle without fear of being observed. According to legend, Prior Philip had been forgiving towards those who gave in to sexual temptation, so Ned imagined the soul of the long-dead monk might not have been much troubled by two young people kissing over his grave.
But Margery had thought of a better meeting place than the tomb, and had told Ned her idea in a brief conversation during the service. Following her instructions, Ned now walked around the site of her father’s new palace. On the far side he checked that he was unobserved. There was a breach in the fence here, and he stepped through.
Sir Reginald’s new house had floors, walls, staircases and a roof, but no doors or windows. Ned stepped inside and ran up the grand stairs of Italian marble to a broad landing. Margery was waiting there. Her body was swathed in a big red coat, but her face was eager. He threw his arms around her and they kissed passionately. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her, a warm fragrance that arose from the skin of her neck.
When they paused for breath, he said: ‘I’m worried. My mother has just loaned your father four hundred pounds.’
Margery shrugged. ‘They do that sort of thing all the time.’
‘Loans lead to quarrels. This could make things worse for us.’
‘How could things be worse? Kiss me again.’
Ned had kissed several girls, but none like this. Margery was the only one who came right out and said what she wanted. Women were supposed to be led by men, especially in physical relations, but Margery seemed not to know that.
‘I love the way you kiss,’ Ned said after a while. ‘Who taught you?’
‘No one taught me! What do you think I am? Anyway, it’s not as if there’s one right way. This isn’t bookkeeping.’
‘I suppose that’s true. Every girl is different. Ruth Cobley likes her breasts squeezed really hard, so she can still feel it later. Whereas Susan White—’
‘Stop it! I don’t want to know about your other girls.’
‘I’m teasing. There has never been one like you. That’s why I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ she said, and they started kissing again. Ned opened his cloak and unbuttoned her coat so that they could press their bodies together. They hardly felt the cold.
Then Ned heard a familiar voice say: ‘Stop this right now!’
It was Rollo.
Ned reacted with a guilty start, then suppressed it: there was no reason he should not kiss a girl who loved him. He released Margery from his embrace and turned around with deliberate slowness. He was not afraid of Rollo. ‘Don’t try to give me orders, Rollo. We’re not at school now.’
Rollo ignored him and spoke to Margery, full of righteous indignation. ‘You’re coming home with me right now.’
Margery had lived a long time with her bullying older brother, and she was practised at resisting his will. ‘You go ahead,’ she said in a casual tone that sounded only a little forced. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
Rollo reddened. ‘I said now.’ He grabbed Margery’s arm.
Ned said: ‘Take your hands off her, Rollo – there’s no call for physical force.’
‘You shut your mouth. I’ll do as I please with my younger sister.’
Margery tried to pull her arm away, but Rollo tightened his grip. She said: ‘Stop it, that hurts!’
Ned said: ‘I’ve warned you, Rollo.’ He did not want violence, but he would not give in to bullying.
Rollo jerked Margery’s arm.
Ned grabbed Rollo by the coat, pulled him away from Margery, and gave him a shove, so that he staggered across the landing.
Then Ned saw Bart coming up the marble staircase.
Rollo recovered his balance. He raised a warning finger, stepped towards Ned, said: ‘Now you listen to me!’ and then kicked Ned.
The kick was aimed at the groin but Ned moved an inch and took the blow on his thigh. It hurt but he hardly noticed it, he was so angry. He went at Rollo with both fists, hitting Rollo’s head and chest three times, four, five. Rollo retreated then tried to hit back. He was taller and had longer arms, but Ned was angrier.
Ned vaguely heard Margery scream: ‘Stop it, stop it!’
Ned drove Rollo across the landing then, suddenly, he felt himself seized from behind. It was Bart, he realized. Ned’s arms were pressed to his sides as if by a rope: Bart was much bigger and stronger than either Ned or Rollo. Ned struggled furiously but could not break free, and suddenly he realized he was in for a hell of a beating.
As Bart held Ned, Rollo started to hit him. Ned tried to duck and dodge but he was pinned, and Rollo was able to punch his face and belly and kick him in the balls, painfully, again and again. Bart laughed with delight. Margery screamed and tried to restrain her brother, but without much effect: she was fierc
e enough, but too small to stop him.
After a minute Bart tired of the game and stopped laughing. He shoved Ned aside, and Ned fell on the floor. He tried to get up, but for a moment he could not. One eye was closed, but through the other he saw Rollo and Bart take Margery by either arm and march her away down the stairs.
Ned coughed and spat blood. A tooth came out with the blood and landed on the floor, he saw with his one good eye. Then he vomited.
He hurt all over. He tried again to get up, but it was too agonizing. He lay on his back on the cold marble, waiting for the pain to go away. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit.’
*
‘WHERE HAVE YOU been?’ Lady Jane asked Margery as soon as Rollo brought her into the house.
Margery yelled: ‘Rollo punched Ned while Bart held him still – what kind of animal does that?’
‘Calm down,’ said her mother.
‘Look at Rollo, rubbing his knuckles – he’s proud of himself!’
Rollo said: ‘I’m proud of doing the right thing.’
‘You couldn’t fight Ned on your own, though, could you?’ She pointed at Bart, who followed Rollo in. ‘You had to have his help.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Lady Jane. ‘There’s someone to see you.’
‘I can’t speak to anyone now,’ Margery said. She wanted nothing more than to be alone in her room.
‘Don’t be disobedient,’ said her mother. ‘Come with me.’
Margery’s power of resistance melted away. She had watched the man she loved being beaten up, and it was her fault for loving him. She felt she had lost the ability to do the right thing. She shrugged listlessly and followed her mother.
They went to Lady Jane’s parlour, from which she managed the house and directed the domestic servants. It was an austere room, with hard chairs and a writing table and a prie-dieu. On the table stood Jane’s collection of ivory carvings of saints.
The bishop of Kingsbridge was waiting there.
Bishop Julius was a thin old man, perhaps as much as sixty-five, but quick in his movements. His head was bald and Margery always thought his face looked like a skull. His pale blue eyes flashed with intelligence.