by Ken Follett
"It still won't be waterproof," said Elfric.
Edmund said: "Shut up, Elfric, this is interesting."
Merthin went on: "Then I would pour a clay mortar into the gap between the two rings. The mixture would displace the water, being heavier. And it would plug any chinks between the wood stakes, making the ring watertight. This is called a cofferdam."
The room was quiet.
"Finally, I would remove the water from inside by bucket, exposing the riverbed, and build a mortared stone foundation."
Elfric was dumbstruck. Both Edmund and Godwyn were staring at Merthin.
Thomas said: "Thank you both. Speaking for myself, that makes the decision an easy one."
"Yes, said Edmund. "I rather think it does."
Caris was surprised that Godwyn had wanted Elfric to design the bridge. She understood that Elfric would seem a safer choice--but Godwyn was a reformer, not a conservative, and she had expected him to be enthusiastic about Merthin's clever, radical design. Instead he had timidly favored the cautious option.
Fortunately, Edmund had been able to outmaneuver Godwyn, and now Kingsbridge would have a well-built, beautiful bridge that would allow two carts to cross at the same time. But Godwyn's eagerness to appoint the unimaginative sycophant rather than the bold man of talent was an ominous sign for the future.
And Godwyn had never been a good loser. When he was a boy Petranilla had taught him to play chess, letting him win to encourage him, and he had challenged his uncle Edmund; but after being beaten twice he had sulked and refused to play again. He was in the same mood after the meeting in the guildhall, she could tell. It was probably not that he was particularly attracted to Elfric's design. But he undoubtedly resented having the decision taken out of his hands. Next day, when she and her father went to the prior's house, she anticipated trouble.
Godwyn greeted them coolly and did not offer any refreshment. As always, Edmund pretended not to notice slights. "I want Merthin to start work on the bridge immediately," he said as he sat down at the table in the hall. "I have pledges of money for the full amount of Merthin's budget--"
"From whom?" Godwyn interrupted.
"The town's wealthiest traders."
Godwyn continued to look inquiringly at Edmund.
Edmund shrugged and said: "Fifty pounds from Betty Baxter, eighty from Dick Brewer, seventy from myself, and ten pounds each from eleven others."
"I didn't know our citizens possessed such riches," Godwyn said. He seemed both awestruck and envious. "God has been kind."
Edmund added: "Kind enough to reward people for a lifetime's hard work and worry."
"No doubt."
"Which is why I need to give them reassurances about the return of their money. When the bridge is built, the tolls will come to the parish guild, which will use them to repay loans--but who will collect the pennies as the passengers cross the bridge? I think it has to be a servant of the guild."
"I never agreed to this," Godwyn said.
"I know, that's why I'm raising it now."
"I mean, I never agreed to pay the tolls to the parish guild."
"What?"
Caris stared at Godwyn, flabbergasted. Of course he had agreed to it--what was he talking about? He had spoken to her as well as to Edmund and assured them that Brother Thomas--
"Oh," she said. "You promised that Thomas would build the bridge, if he was elected prior. Then, when Thomas withdrew and you became the candidate, we assumed..."
"You assumed," Godwyn said. A smirk of triumph played about his lips.
Edmund could barely contain himself. "This is not square dealing, Godwyn!" he said in a choked voice. "You knew what the understanding was!"
"I knew no such thing, and you should call me Father Prior."
Edmund's voice got louder. "Then we're back where we were with Prior Anthony three months ago! Except that now, instead of an inadequate bridge, we have no bridge at all. Don't imagine it will be built at no cost to you. Citizens may lend their life savings to the priory, on the security of income from the bridge tolls, but they will not give their money away...Father Prior."
"Then they must manage without a bridge. I have only just become prior--how can I start by alienating a right that has belonged to my priory for hundreds of years?"
"But it's only temporary!" Edmund exploded. "And if you don't do this no one will gain any money from bridge tolls because there will be no cursed bridge!"
Caris was furious, but she bit her tongue and tried to figure out what Godwyn was up to. He was getting his revenge for last night, but did he really mean it? "What do you want?" she said to him.
Edmund looked surprised by the question, but he said nothing: the reason he brought Caris with him to meetings was that she often saw things he missed, and asked questions he had not thought of.
"I don't know what you mean," Godwyn replied.
"You've pulled a surprise," she said. "You've caught us wrong-footed. Very well. We admit we made an assumption that may have been unwarranted. But what's your purpose? Just to make us feel stupid?"
"You asked for this meeting, not I."
Edmund burst out: "What kind of way is that to talk to your uncle and your cousin?"
"Just a minute, Papa," Caris said. Godwyn did have a secret agenda, she felt sure, but he did not want to admit it. All right, she thought, I'll have to guess it. "Give me a minute to think," she said. Godwyn still wanted the bridge--he had to, nothing else made sense. The business about alienating the priory's ancient rights was rhetoric, the kind of pompous prating that all students were taught at Oxford. Did he want Edmund to break down and agree to Elfric's design? She did not think so. Godwyn clearly resented the way Edmund had appealed over his head to the citizenry, but he must see that Merthin was offering twice as much bridge for almost the same money. So what else could it be?
Perhaps he just wanted a better deal.
He had looked hard at the priory's finances, she guessed. Having railed comfortably against Anthony's inefficiency for many years, he was now confronted with the reality of having to do the job better himself. Perhaps it was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. Perhaps he was not as clever about money and management as he had thought. In desperation, he wanted the bridge and the money from tolls. But how did he think that could happen?
She said: "What could we offer you that would make you change your mind?"
"Build the bridge without taking the tolls," he said instantly.
So that was his agenda. You always were a bit sneaky, Godwyn, she thought.
A flash of inspiration struck her, and she said: "How much money are we talking about?"
Godwyn looked suspicious. "Why do you want to know that?"
Edmund said: "We can work it out. Not counting citizens, who don't pay the toll, about a hundred people cross the bridge every market day, and carts pay twopence. It's much less now, with the ferry, of course."
Caris said: "Say a hundred and twenty pennies a week, or ten shillings, which comes to twenty-six pounds a year."
Edmund said: "Then, during Fleece Fair week, about a thousand on the first day, and another two hundred each subsequent day."
"That's two thousand two hundred, plus carts, call it two thousand four hundred pennies, which is ten pounds. Total, thirty-six pounds a year." Caris looked at Godwyn. "Is that about right?"
"Yes," he acknowledged grudgingly.
"So, what you want from us is thirty-six pounds a year."
"Yes."
"Impossible!" said Edmund.
"Not necessarily," Caris said. "Suppose the priory were to grant the parish guild a lease on the bridge--" Thinking on her feet, she added: "Plus an acre of ground at either end, and the island in the middle--for thirty-six pounds a year, in perpetuity." Once the bridge was built, that land would be priceless, she knew. "Would that give you what you want, Father Prior?"
"Yes."
Godwyn clearly thought he was getting thirty-six pounds a year for something wort
hless. He had no idea how much rent could be charged for a plot of land at the end of a bridge. The worst negotiator in the world is a man who believes he's clever, Caris thought.
Edmund said: "But how would the guild recoup the cost of construction?"
"With Merthin's design, the number of people and carts crossing should rise. Theoretically it could double. Everything over thirty-six pounds is the guild's. Then we could put up buildings either side to service travelers--taverns, stables, cook shops. They should be profitable--we could charge a good rent."
"I don't know," said Edmund. "It seems very risky to me."
For a moment, Caris felt furious with her father. She had come up with a brilliant solution, and he seemed to be finding unnecessary fault with it. Then she realized he was faking. She could see the light of enthusiasm in his eyes, not quite concealed. He loved the idea, but he did not want Godwyn to know how keen he was. He was hiding his feelings, for fear the prior would try to negotiate a better bargain. It was a ploy father and daughter had used before, when bargaining over wool.
Having figured out what he was up to, Caris played along, pretending to share his misgivings. "I know it's hazardous," she said gloomily. "We could lose everything. But what alternative do we have? We've got our backs to the wall. If we don't build the bridge, we'll go out of business."
Edmund shook his head dubiously. "All the same, I can't agree to this on behalf of the guild. I'll have to talk to the people who are putting up the money. I can't say what their reply will be." He looked Godwyn in the eye. "But I'll do my best to persuade them, if this is your best offer."
Godwyn had not actually made an offer, Caris reflected; but he had forgotten that. "It is," he said firmly.
Got you, Caris thought triumphantly.
"You're really very shrewd," Merthin said.
He was lying between Caris's legs, his head on her thigh, toying with her pubic hair. They had just made love for the second time ever, and he had found it even more joyous than the first. As they dozed in the pleasant daydream of satisfied lovers, she had told him about her negotiation with Godwyn. He was impressed.
Caris said: "The best of it is, he thinks he's driven a hard bargain. In fact, a perpetual lease on the bridge and the land around it is priceless."
"All the same, it's a bit dismaying if he's going to be no better at managing the priory's money than your uncle Anthony was."
They were in the forest, in a clearing hidden by brambles and shaded by a stand of tall beech trees, where a stream ran over rocks to form a pool. It had probably been used by lovers for hundreds of years. They had stripped naked and bathed in the pool before making love on the grassy bank. Anyone traveling clandestinely through the woods would skirt the thicket, so they were not likely to be discovered, unless by children picking blackberries--which was how Caris had originally discovered the glade, she told Merthin.
Now he said idly: "Why did you ask for that island?"
"I'm not sure. It's obviously not as valuable as the land at either end of the bridge, and it's no good for cultivation, but it could still be developed. The truth is, I guessed he wouldn't object, so I just threw it in."
"Will you take over your father's wool business one day?"
"No."
"So definite? Why?"
"It's too easy for the king to tax the wool trade. He has just imposed an extra duty of a pound per sack of wool--that's on top of the existing tax of two-thirds of a pound. The price of wool is now so high that the Italians are looking for wool from other countries, such as Spain. The business is too much at the mercy of the monarch."
"Still, it's a living. What else would you do?" Merthin was edging the conversation toward marriage, a subject she never raised.
"I don't know." She smiled. "When I was ten, I wanted to be a doctor. I thought that if I had known about medicine I could have saved my mother's life. They all laughed at me. I didn't realize only men could be physicians."
"You could be a wise woman, like Mattie."
"That would shock the family. Imagine what Petranilla would say! Mother Cecilia thinks it's my destiny to be a nun."
He laughed. "If she could see you now!" He kissed the soft inside of her thigh.
"She'd probably want to do what you're doing," Caris said. "You know what people say about nuns."
"Why would she think you wanted to join the convent?"
"It's because of what we did after the bridge collapsed. I helped her take care of the injured. She said I had a natural gift for it."
"You have. Even I could see it."
"I just did what Cecilia said."
"But people seemed to feel better as soon as you spoke to them. And then you always listened to what they had to say before telling them what they should do."
She stroked his cheek. "I couldn't be a nun. I'm too fond of you."
Her triangle of hair was reddish-brown with golden lights. "You've got a little mole," he said. "Right here, on the left, beside the cleft."
"I know. It's been there since I was a little girl. I used to think it was ugly. I was so pleased when my hair grew, because I thought that meant my husband wouldn't see it. I never imagined anyone would look as closely as you."
"Friar Murdo would call you a witch--you'd better not let him see it."
"Not if he were the last man on earth."
"This is the blemish that saves you from blasphemy."
"What are you talking about?"
"In the Arab world, every work of art has a tiny flaw, so that it doesn't sacrilegiously compete with the perfection of God."
"How do you know that?"
"One of the Florentines told me. Listen, do you think the parish guild will want the island?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I'd like to own it."
"Four acres of rock and rabbits. Why?"
"I'd build a dock and a builder's yard. Stone and timber coming by river could be delivered directly to my dock. When the bridge is finished, I'd build a house on the island."
"Nice idea. But they wouldn't give it to you free."
"How about as part payment for building the bridge? I could take, say, half wages for two years."
"You charge four pence a day...so the price of the island would be just over five pounds. I should think the guild would be pleased to get that much for barren land."
"Do you think it's a good idea?"
"I think you could build houses there and rent them, as soon as the bridge is finished and people can travel to and from the island easily."
"Yes," said Merthin thoughtfully. "I'd better talk to your father about it."
26
Returning to Earlscastle at the end of a day's hunting, when all the men in Earl Roland's entourage were in a good mood, Ralph Fitzgerald was happy.
They crossed the drawbridge like an invading army, knights and squires and dogs. Rain was falling in a light drizzle, coolly welcome to the men and animals, who were hot and tired and content. They had taken several summer-fat hinds that would make good eating, plus a big old stag, too tough for anything but dog meat, killed for its magnificent antlers.
They dismounted in the outer compound, within the lower circle of the figure-eight moat. Ralph unsaddled Griff, murmured a few words of thanks in his ear, fed him a carrot, and handed him to a groom to be rubbed down. Kitchen boys dragged away the bloody carcasses of the deer. The men were noisily recalling the day's incidents, boasting and jeering and laughing, remembering remarkable jumps and dangerous falls and hairsbreadth escapes. Ralph's nostrils filled with a smell he loved, a mixture of sweating horses, wet dogs, leather, and blood.
Ralph found himself next to Lord William of Caster, the earl's elder son. "A great day's sport," he said.
"Tremendous," William agreed. He pulled off his cap and scratched his balding head. "I'm sorry to lose old Bruno, though."
Bruno, the leader of the dog pack, had gone in for the kill a few moments too early. When the stag was too exhausted to run any fa
rther, and turned to face the hounds, its heaving shoulders covered with blood, Bruno had leaped for its throat--but, with a last burst of defiance, the deer had dipped its head and swung its muscular neck and impaled the soft belly of the dog on the points of its antlers. The effort finished the beast off, and a moment later the other dogs were tearing it apart; but, as it thrashed its life away, Bruno's guts unraveled across the antlers like a tangled rope, and William had had to put him out of his misery, slashing his throat with a long dagger. "He was a brave dog," Ralph said, and put a hand on William's shoulder in commiseration.
"Like a lion," William agreed.
On the spur of the moment, Ralph decided to speak about his prospects. There would never be a better moment. He had been Roland's man for seven years; he was brave and strong; and he had saved his lord's life after the bridge collapsed--yet he had been given no promotion, and was still a squire. What more could be asked of him?
Yesterday he had met his brother, by chance, at a tavern on the road from Kingsbridge to Shiring. Merthin, on his way to the priory's quarry, had been full of news. He was going to build the most beautiful bridge in England. He would be rich and famous. Their parents were thrilled. It had made Ralph feel even more frustrated.
Now, speaking to Lord William, he could not think of a neat way to introduce the subject that was on his mind, so he just plunged in. "It's three months since I saved your father's life at Kingsbridge."
"Several people claim that honor," William said. The harsh look that came over his face reminded Ralph strongly of Roland.
"I pulled him out of the water."
"And Matthew Barber mended his head, and the nuns changed his bandages, and the monks prayed for him. God saved his life, though."
"Amen," Ralph said. "All the same, I was hoping for some sign of favor."
"My father's a hard man to please."
William's brother, Richard, was standing nearby, red-faced and sweating, and he overheard the remark. "That's as true as the Bible," he said.
"Don't complain," William said. "Our father's hardness made us strong."
"As I recall, it made us miserable."
William turned away, probably not wanting to argue the point in front of an underling.
When the horses were stabled, the men drifted across the compound, past the kitchens and barracks and chapel, to a second drawbridge that led to a small inner compound, the top loop of the figure eight. Here the earl lived in a traditional keep, with ground-floor storerooms, a great hall above, and a small upper story for the earl's private bedchamber. A colony of rooks inhabited the high trees around the keep, and strutted on the battlements like sergeants, cawing their dissatisfaction. Roland was in the great hall, having changed out of his dirty hunting clothes into a purple robe. Ralph stood near the earl, determined to raise the question of his promotion at the first opportunity.