World Without End

by Ken Follett

  He put it back, restored the loose stone, and returned the cupboard to its usual position.

  What did Philemon want with such a thing? He might be able to sell it for a penny or two, though that would be dangerous because it was so recognizable. But he certainly could not wear it.

  Godwyn left the dormitory and went down the stairs to the cloisters. He was in no mood for study or meditation. He needed to talk over the day's events. He felt the need to see his mother.

  The thought made him apprehensive. She might berate him for his failure in chapter. But she would praise him for his handling of Bishop Richard, he felt sure, and he was eager to tell her the story. He decided to go in search of her.

  Strictly speaking, this was not allowed. Monks were not supposed to roam about the streets of the town at will. They needed a reason, and in theory they were supposed to ask the prior's permission before leaving the precincts. But in practice, the obedientiaries--monastic officials--had dozens of excuses. The priory did business constantly with merchants, buying food, cloth, shoes, parchment, candles, garden tools, tack for horses--all the necessities of everyday life. The monks were landlords, owning almost the entire city. And any one of the physicians might be called to see a patient who was unable to walk to the hospital. So it was common to see monks in the streets, and Godwyn, the sacrist, was not likely to be asked to explain what he was doing out of the monastery.

  Nevertheless it was wise to be discreet, and he made sure he was not observed as he left the priory. He passed through the busy fair and went quickly along the main street to his uncle Edmund's house.

  As he hoped, Edmund and Caris were out doing business, and he found his mother alone but for the servants. "This is a treat for a mother," she said. "To see you twice in one day! And it gives me a chance to feed you up." She poured him a big tankard of strong ale and told the cook to bring a plate of cold beef. "What happened in chapter?" she said.

  He told her the story. "I was in too much of a hurry," he said at the end.

  She nodded. "My father used to say: never call a meeting until the outcome is a foregone conclusion."

  Godwyn smiled. "I must remember that."

  "All the same, I don't think you've done any harm."

  That was a relief. She was not going to be angry. "But I lost the argument," he said.

  "You also established your position as leader of the reformist younger group."

  "Even though I made a fool of myself?"

  "Better than being a nonentity."

  He was not sure she was right about that but, as usual when he doubted the wisdom of his mother's advice, he did not challenge her, but resolved to think about it later. "Something very odd happened," he said, and he told her about Richard and Margery, leaving out the gross physical details.

  She was surprised. "Richard must be mad!" she said. "The wedding will be called off if the earl of Monmouth finds out that Margery isn't a virgin. Earl Roland will be furious. Richard could be unfrocked."

  "But a lot of bishops have mistresses, don't they?"

  "That's different. A priest may have a 'housekeeper' who is his wife in all but name. A bishop may have several. But to take the virginity of a noblewoman shortly before her wedding--even the son of an earl might find it difficult to survive as a clergyman after that."

  "What do you think I should do?"

  "Nothing. You've handled it perfectly so far." He glowed with pride. She added: "One day this information will be a powerful weapon. Just remember it."

  "There's one more thing. I wondered how Philemon had come across the loose stone, and it occurred to me that he might have used it initially as a hiding place. I was right--and I found a bracelet that Lady Philippa had lost."

  "Interesting," she said. "I have a strong feeling that Philemon will be useful to you. He'll do anything, you see. He has no scruples, no morals. My father had an associate who was always willing to do his dirty work--start rumors, spread poisonous gossip, foment strife. Such men can be invaluable."

  "So you don't think I should report the theft."

  "Certainly not. Make him give the bracelet back, if you think it's important--he can just say he found it while sweeping. But don't expose him. You'll reap the benefit, I guarantee."

  "So I should protect him?"

  "As you would a mad dog that mauls intruders. He's dangerous, but he's worth it."

  10

  On Thursday, Merthin completed the door he was carving.

  He had finished work in the south aisle, for the present. The scaffolding was in place. There was no need for him to make formwork for the masons, as Godwyn and Thomas were determined to save money by trying Merthin's method of building without it. So he returned to his carving and realized there was little left to do. He spent an hour improving a wise virgin's hair, and another on a foolish virgin's silly smile, but he was not sure he was making them any better. He found it difficult to make decisions, because his mind kept wandering to Caris and Griselda.

  He had hardly been able to bring himself to speak to Caris all week. He felt so ashamed of himself. Every time he saw Caris, he thought of how he had embraced Griselda, and kissed her, and done with her the most loving act of human life--a girl he did not like, let alone love. Although he had formerly spent many happy hours imagining the moment when he would do that with Caris, now the prospect was filled with dread. There was nothing wrong with Griselda--well, there was, but that was not what disturbed him. He would have felt the same if it had been any woman other than Caris. He had taken away the meaning of the act by doing it with Griselda. And now he could not face the woman he loved.

  While he was staring at his work, trying to stop thinking about Caris and decide whether the door was finished or not, Elizabeth Clerk walked into the north porch. She was a pale, thin beauty of twenty-five with a cloud of fair curls. Her father had been the bishop of Kingsbridge before Richard. He had lived, like Richard, in the bishop's palace at Shiring, but on his frequent visits to Kingsbridge he had fallen for a serving wench at the Bell--Elizabeth's mother. Because of her illegitimacy, Elizabeth was sensitive about her social position, alert to the least slight and quick to take offense. But Merthin liked her because she was clever, and because when he was eighteen she had kissed him and let him feel her breasts, which were high on her chest and flat, as if molded from shallow cups, with nipples that hardened at the gentlest touch. Their romance had ended over something that seemed trivial to him and unforgivable to her--a joke he had made about randy priests--but he still liked her.

  She touched his shoulder and looked at the door. Her hand went to her mouth, and she drew in her breath. "They seem alive!" she said.

  He was thrilled. Her praise was not lightly given. All the same, he felt an impulse to be modest. "It's only that I've made each one individual. On the old door, the virgins were identical."

  "It's more than that. They look as if they might step forward and talk to us."

  "Thank you."

  "But it's so different from everything else in the cathedral. What will the monks say?"

  "Brother Thomas likes it."

  "What about the sacrist?"

  "Godwyn? I don't know what he'll think. But if there's a fuss I'll appeal to Prior Anthony--who won't want to commission another door and pay twice."

  "Well," she said thoughtfully, "the Bible doesn't say that they were all alike, of course--just that five had the sense to get ready well in advance, and the other five left arrangements until the last minute and ended up missing the party. But what about Elfric?"

  "It's not for him."

  "He's your master."

  "He only cares about getting the money."

  She was not convinced. "The problem is that you're a better craftsman than he. That's been obvious for a couple of years, and everyone knows it. Elfric would never admit it, but that's why he hates you. He may make you regret this."

  "You always see the black side."

  "Do I?" She was offended. "Well, we'll see
if I'm right. I hope I'm wrong." She turned to go.

  "Elizabeth?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm really pleased you think it's good."

  She did not reply, but she seemed a bit mollified. She waved good-bye and left.

  Merthin decided the door was finished. He wrapped it in coarse sacking. He would have to show it to Elfric, and now was as good a time as any: the rain had stopped, for a while at least.

  He got one of the laborers to help him carry the door. The builders had a technique for carrying heavy, awkward objects. They laid two stout poles on the ground, parallel, then placed boards crosswise on the poles in the center to provide a firm base. They manhandled the object onto the boards. Then they stood between the poles, one man at each end, and lifted. The arrangement was called a stretcher, and it was also used for carrying sick people to the hospital.

  Even so, the door was very heavy. However, Merthin was used to difficult lifting. Elfric had never allowed him to make an excuse of his slight stature, and the result was that he had become surprisingly strong.

  The two men reached Elfric's house and carried the door inside. Griselda was sitting in the kitchen. She seemed to be getting more voluptuous by the day--her large breasts appeared to be growing even bigger. Merthin hated to be at odds with people, so he tried to be friendly. "Do you want to see my door?" he said as they passed her.

  "Why would I want to look at a door?"

  "It's carved. The story of the wise and foolish virgins."

  She gave a humorless laugh. "Don't tell me about virgins."

  They carried it through to the yard. Merthin did not understand women. Griselda had been cold to him ever since they had made love. If that was how she felt, why had she done it? She was making it clear she did not want to do it again. He could have reassured her that he felt the same way--in fact he loathed the prospect--but that would be insulting, so he said nothing.

  They put down the stretcher and Merthin's helper left. Elfric was in the yard, his brawny body bent over a stack of timber, counting planks, tapping each beam with a piece of square-cut wood a couple of feet long, sticking his tongue into his cheek as he did whenever he faced a mental challenge. He glared at Merthin and carried on, so Merthin said nothing, but unwrapped the door and stood it up against a pile of stone blocks. He was extraordinarily proud of what he had done. He had followed the traditional pattern, but at the same time he had done something original that made people gasp. He could hardly wait to see the door installed in the church.

  "Forty-seven," Elfric said, then he turned to Merthin.

  "I finished the door," Merthin said proudly. "What do you think?"

  Elfric looked at the door for a moment. He had a big nose, and his nostrils twitched in surprise. Then, without warning, he hit Merthin across the face with the stick he had been using to count. It was a solid piece of wood and the blow was hard. Merthin cried out in sudden agony, staggered back, and fell to the ground.

  "You piece of filth!" Elfric yelled. "You defiled my daughter!"

  Merthin tried to sputter a protest, but his mouth was full of blood.

  "How dare you!" Elfric bellowed.

  As if at a signal, Alice appeared from inside the house. "Snake!" she screamed. "You slithered into our home and deflowered our little girl!"

  They were pretending to be spontaneous, but they must have planned this, Merthin thought. He spat blood and said: "Deflowered? She was no virgin!"

  Elfric lashed out again with his improvised club. Merthin rolled out of the way, but the blow landed painfully on his shoulder.

  Alice said: "How could you do this to Caris? My poor sister--when she finds out, it will break her heart."

  Merthin was stung into a response. "And you'll be sure to tell her, won't you, you bitch."

  "Well, you're not going to marry Griselda in secret," Alice said.

  Merthin was astonished. "Marry? I'm not marrying her. She hates me!"

  With that, Griselda appeared. "I certainly don't want to marry you," she said. "But I'll have to. I'm pregnant."

  Merthin stared at her. "That's not possible--we only did it once."

  Elfric laughed harshly. "It only takes once, you young fool."

  "I'm still not marrying her."

  "If you don't, you'll be sacked," Elfric said.

  "You can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't care, I'm not going to marry her."

  Elfric dropped the club and picked up an axe.

  Merthin said: "Jesus Christ!"

  Alice took a step forward. "Elfric, don't commit murder."

  "Get out of the way, woman." Elfric lifted the axe.

  Merthin, still on the ground, scooted away, in fear of his life.

  Elfric brought the axe down, not on Merthin, but on his door.

  Merthin shouted: "No!"

  The sharp blade sank into the face of the long-haired virgin and split the wood along the grain.

  Merthin yelled: "Stop it!"

  Elfric lifted the axe again and brought it down even harder. It split the door in two.

  Merthin got to his feet. To his horror, he felt his eyes fill with tears. "You have no right!" He was trying to shout, but his voice came out in a whisper.

  Elfric lifted the axe and turned toward him. "Stay back, boy--don't tempt me."

  Merthin saw a mad light in Elfric's eye, and backed away.

  Elfric brought the axe down on the door again.

  Merthin stood and watched with tears pouring down his face.

  11

  The two dogs, Skip and Scrap, greeted one another with joyful enthusiasm. They were from the same litter, though they did not look similar: Skip was a brown boy dog and Scrap a small black female. Skip was a typical village dog, lean and suspicious, whereas the city-dwelling Scrap was plump and contented.

  It was ten years since Gwenda had picked Skip out of a litter of mongrel puppies, on the floor of Caris's bedroom in the wool merchant's big house, the day Caris's mother died. Since then, Gwenda and Caris had become close friends. They met only two or three times a year, but they shared their secrets. Gwenda felt she could tell Caris everything, and the information would never get back to her parents or anyone else in Wigleigh. She assumed Caris felt the same: because Gwenda did not talk to any other Kingsbridge girls, there could be no risk of her letting something slip in a careless moment.

  Gwenda arrived in Kingsbridge on the Friday of Fleece Fair week. Her father, Joby, went to the fairground in front of the cathedral to sell the furs of squirrels he had trapped in the forest near Wigleigh. Gwenda went straight to Caris's house, and the two dogs were reunited.

  As always, Gwenda and Caris talked about boys. "Merthin is in a strange mood," Caris said. "On Sunday he was his normal self, kissing me in church--then, on Monday, he could hardly look me in the eye."

  "He's feeling guilty about something," Gwenda said immediately.

  "It's probably connected with Elizabeth Clerk. She's always had her eye on him, though she's a cold bitch and much too old for him."

  "Have you and Merthin done it yet?"

  "Done what?"

  "You know...When I was little, I used to call it grunting, because that was the noise grown-ups made while they were doing it."

  "Oh, that? No, not yet."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Don't you want to?"

  "Yes, but...don't you worry about spending your life doing some man's bidding?"

  Gwenda shrugged. "I don't like the idea but, on the other hand, I don't worry about it."

  "What about you? Have you done it yet?"

  "Not properly. I said yes to a boy from the next village, years ago, just to see what it was like. It's a nice warm glow, like drinking wine. That was the only time. But I'd let Wulfric do it any time he liked."

  "Wulfric? This is new!"

  "I know. I mean, I've known him since we were small, when he used to pull my hair and run away. Then one day, soon after Chri
stmas, I looked at him as he came into church, and I realized he'd become a man. Well, not just a man, but a really gorgeous man. He had snow in his hair and a sort of mustard-colored scarf around his neck, and he just looked glowing."

  "Do you love him?"

  Gwenda sighed. She did not know how to say what she felt. It was not just love. She thought about him all the time, and she did not know how she could live without him. She daydreamed about kidnapping him and locking him up in a hut deep in the forest so that he could never escape from her.

  "Well, the look on your face answers my question," Caris said. "Does he love you?"

  Gwenda shook her head. "He never even speaks to me. I wish he'd do something to show that he knows who I am, even if it was only pulling my hair. But he's in love with Annet, the daughter of Perkin. She's a selfish cow, but he adores her. Her father and his are the two wealthiest men in the village. Her father raises laying hens and sells them, and his father has fifty acres."

  "You make it sound hopeless."

  "I don't know. What's hopeless? Annet might die. Wulfric might suddenly realize he's always loved me. My father might be made earl and order him to marry me."

  Caris smiled. "You're right. Love is never hopeless. I'd like to see this boy."

  Gwenda stood up. "I was hoping you'd say that. Let's go and find him."

  They left the house, the dogs following at their heels. The rainstorms that had lashed the town earlier in the week had given way to occasional showers, but the main street was still a stream of mud. Because of the fair, the mud was mixed with animal droppings, rotten vegetables, and all the litter and filth of a thousand visitors.

  As they splashed through the disgusting puddles, Caris asked about Gwenda's family.

  "The cow died," Gwenda said. "Pa needs to buy another, but I don't know how he's going to do it. He only has a few squirrel furs to sell."

  "A cow costs twelve shillings this year," Caris said with concern. "That's a hundred and forty-four silver pennies." Caris always did arithmetic in her head: she had learned Arabic numbers from Buonaventura Caroli, and she said that made it easy.

  "For the last few winters that cow has kept us alive--especially the little ones." The pain of extreme hunger was familiar to Gwenda. Even with the cow to give milk, four of Ma's babies had died. No wonder Philemon had longed to be a monk, she thought: it was worth almost any sacrifice to have hearty meals provided every day without fail.