World Without End

by Ken Follett

  "A bishop more in sympathy with the people of Kingsbridge than Philemon."

  Gregory looked hard at him. "Are you trying to blackmail the king of England?"

  Merthin knew this was the point of danger. "We Kingsbridge folk are merchants and craftsmen," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "We buy, we sell, we make deals. I'm just trying to make a bargain with you. I want to sell you something, and I've told you my price. There's no blackmail, no coercion. I make no threats. If you don't want what I'm selling, that will be the end of the matter."

  They reached the altar. Gregory stared at the crucifix that surmounted it. Merthin knew exactly what he was thinking. Should he have Merthin arrested, taken to London, and tortured until he revealed the whereabouts of the document? Or would it be simpler and more convenient to the king just to nominate a different man as bishop of Kingsbridge?

  There was a long silence. The cathedral was cold, and Merthin pulled his cloak closer around him. At last Gregory said: "Where is the document?"

  "Close by. I'll take you there."

  "Very well."

  "And our bargain?"

  "If the document is what you believe it to be, I will honor my side of the arrangement."

  "And make Canon Claude bishop?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you," said Merthin. "We'll need to walk a little way into the woods."

  They went side by side down the main street and across the bridge, their breath making clouds in the air. A wintry sun shone with little warmth as they walked into the forest. Merthin found the way easily this time, having followed the same route only a few weeks earlier. He recognized the little spring, the big rock, and the boggy valley. They came quickly to the clearing with the broad oak tree, and he went straight to the spot where he had dug up the scroll.

  He was dismayed to see that someone else had got here first.

  He had carefully smoothed the loose earth and covered it with leaves but, despite that, someone had found the hiding place. There was a hole a foot deep, and a pile of recently excavated earth beside it. And the hole was empty.

  He stared at the hole, appalled. "Oh, hell," he said.

  Gregory said: "I hope this isn't some kind of charade--"

  "Let me think," Merthin snapped.

  Gregory shut up.

  "Only two people knew about this," Merthin said, thinking aloud. "I haven't told anyone, so Thomas must have. He was getting senile before he died. I think he spilled the beans."

  "But to whom?"

  "Thomas spent the last few months of his life at St.-John-in-the-Forest, and the monks were keeping everyone else out, so it must have been a monk."

  "How many are there?"

  "Twenty or so. But not many would know enough about the background to understand the significance of an old man's mumblings about a buried letter."

  "That's all very well, but where is it now?"

  "I think I know," said Merthin. "Give me one more chance."

  "Very well."

  They walked back to the town. As they crossed the bridge, the sun was setting over Leper Island. They went into the darkening cathedral, walked to the southwest tower, and climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the little room where the costumes for the mystery play were kept.

  Merthin had not been here for eleven years, but dusty storerooms did not change much, especially in cathedrals, and this was the same. He found the loose stone in the wall and pulled it out.

  All Philemon's treasures were behind the stone, including the love note carved in wood. And there, among them, was a bag made of oiled wool. Merthin opened the bag and drew from it a vellum scroll.

  "I thought so," he said. "Philemon got the secret out of Thomas when Thomas was losing his mind." No doubt Philemon was keeping the letter to be used as a bargaining counter if the decision on the bishopric went the wrong way--but now Merthin could use it instead.

  He handed the scroll to Gregory.

  Gregory unrolled it. A look of awe came over his face as he read. "Dear God," he said. "Those rumors were true." He rolled it up again. He had the look of a man who has found something he has been seeking for many years.

  "Is it what you expected?" Merthin said.

  "Oh, yes."

  "And the king will be grateful?"

  "Profoundly."

  "So your part of the bargain...?"

  "Will be kept," said Gregory. "You shall have Claude as your bishop."

  "Thank God," said Merthin.

  Eight days later, early in the morning, Caris was at the hospital, teaching Lolla how to tie a bandage, when Merthin came in. "I want to show you something," he said. "Come to the cathedral."

  It was a bright, cold winter's day. Caris wrapped herself in a heavy red cloak. As they were crossing the bridge into the city, Merthin stopped and pointed. "The spire is finished," he said.

  Caris looked up. She could see its shape through the spiderweb of flimsy scaffolding that still surrounded it. The spire was immensely tall and graceful. As her eye followed its upward taper, Caris had the feeling that it might go on forever.

  She said: "And is it the tallest building in England?"

  He smiled. "Yes."

  They walked up the main street and into the cathedral. Merthin led the way up the staircase within the walls of the central tower. He was used to the climb, but Caris was panting by the time they emerged into the open air at the summit of the tower, on the walkway that ran around the base of the spire. Up here the breeze was stiff and cold.

  They looked at the view while Caris caught her breath. All Kingsbridge was laid out to the north and west: the main street, the industrial district, the river, and the island with the hospital. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys. Miniature people hurried through the streets, walking or riding or driving carts, carrying tool bags or baskets of produce or heavy sacks; men and women and children, fat and thin, their clothing poor and worn or rich and heavy, mostly brown and green but with flashes of peacock blue and scarlet. The sight of them all made Caris marvel: each individual had a different life, every one of them rich and complex, with dramas in the past and challenges in the future, happy memories and secret sorrows, and a crowd of friends and enemies and loved ones.

  "Ready?" Merthin said.

  Caris nodded.

  He led her up the scaffolding. It was an insubstantial affair of ropes and branches, and it always made her nervous, though she did not like to say so: if Merthin could climb it, so could she. The wind made the whole structure sway a little, and the skirts of Caris's robe flapped around her legs like the sails of a ship. The spire was as tall again as the tower, and the climb up the rope ladders was strenuous.

  They stopped halfway for a rest. "The spire is very plain," Merthin said, not needing to catch his breath. "Just a roll molding at the angles." Caris realized that other spires she had seen featured decorative crochets, bands of colored stone or tile, and windowlike recesses. The simplicity of Merthin's design was what made it seem to go on forever.

  Merthin pointed down. "Hey, look what's happening!"

  "I'd rather not look down..."

  "I think Philemon is leaving for Avignon."

  She had to see that. She was standing on a broad platform of planks, but all the same she had to hold on tight with both hands to the upright pole to convince herself that she was not falling. She swallowed hard and directed her gaze down the perpendicular side of the tower to the ground below.

  It was worth the effort. A charette drawn by two oxen was outside the prior's palace. An escort consisting of a monk and a man-at-arms, both on horseback, waited patiently. Philemon stood beside the charette while the monks of Kingsbridge came forward, one by one, and kissed his hand.

  When they had all done, Brother Sime handed him a black-and-white cat, and Caris recognized the descendant of Godwyn's cat Archbishop.

  Philemon climbed into the carriage and the driver whipped the oxen. The vehicle lumbered slowly out of the gate and down the main street. Caris and Merthin w
atched it cross the double bridge and disappear into the suburbs.

  "Thank God he's gone," said Caris.

  Merthin looked up. "Not much farther to the top," he said. "Soon you will be higher off the ground than any woman in England has ever stood." He began to climb again.

  The wind grew stronger but, despite her anxiety, Caris felt exhilarated. This was Merthin's dream, and he had made it come true. Every day for hundreds of years people for miles around would look at this spire and think how beautiful it was.

  They reached the top of the scaffolding and stood on the stage that encircled the peak of the spire. Caris tried to forget that there was no railing around the platform to stop them falling off.

  At the point of the spire was a cross. It had looked small from the ground, but now Caris saw that it was taller than she.

  "There's always a cross at the top of a spire," Merthin said. "That's conventional. Aside from that, practise varies. At Chartres, the cross bears an image of the sun. I've done something different."

  Caris saw that, at the foot of the cross, Merthin had placed a life-size stone angel. The kneeling figure was not gazing up at the cross, but out to the west, over the town. Looking more closely, Caris saw that the angel's features were not conventional. The small round face was clearly female, and looked vaguely familiar, with neat features and short hair.

  Then she realized that the face was her own.

  She was amazed. "Will they let you do that?" she said.

  Merthin nodded. "Half the town thinks you're an angel already."

  "I'm not, though," she said.

  "No," he said with the familiar grin that she loved so much. "But you're the closest they've seen."

  The wind blustered suddenly. Caris grabbed Merthin. He held her tightly, standing confidently on spread feet. The gust died away as quickly as it had come, but Merthin and Caris remained locked together, standing there at the top of the world, for a long time afterward.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My principal historical consultants were Sam Cohn, Geoffrey Hindley, and Marilyn Livingstone. The weakness in the foundations of Kingsbridge Cathedral is loosely based on that of the cathedral of Santa Maria in Vitoria-Gasteiz, Spain, and I'm grateful to the staff of the Fundacion Catedral Santa Maria for help and inspiration, especially Carlos Rodriguez de Diego, Gonzalo Arroita, and interpreter Luis Rivero. I was also helped by the staff of York Minster, especially John David. Martin Allen of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England, kindly allowed me to handle coins from the reign of Edward III. At Le Mont St. Michel in France I was helped by Soeur Judith and Frere Francois. As always, Dan Starer of Research for Writers in New York City helped with the research. My literary advisors included Amy Berkower, Leslie Gelbman, Phyllis Grann, Neil Nyren, Imogen Taylor, and Al Zuckerman. I was also helped by comments and criticisms from friends and family, especially Barbara Follett, Emanuele Follett, Marie-Claire Follett, Erica Jong, Tony McWalter, Chris Manners, Jann Turner, and Kim Turner.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ken Follett is the author of seventeen bestselling books, from the groundbreaking Eye of the Needle to, most recently, Jackdaws, Hornet Flight, and Whiteout. He lives in England with his wife, Barbara Follett.