Epic Historial Collection (209 page)

Edmund normally chaired these meetings, sitting on a big wooden throne on a raised platform at the front. Today, however, there were two chairs on the platform. Edmund sat in one and, when Prior Godwyn arrived, Edmund invited him to take the other. Godwyn was accompanied by all the senior monks, and Merthin was pleased to see Thomas among them. Philemon was also in the entourage, lanky and awkward, and Merthin wondered briefly what on earth Godwyn had brought him for.

Godwyn was looking pained. Opening the proceedings, Edmund was careful to acknowledge that the prior was in charge of the bridge, and the choice of design was ultimately his. But everyone knew that, in fact, Edmund had taken the decision out of Godwyn's hands by calling this meeting. Provided there was a clear consensus tonight, Godwyn would have great difficulty in going against the expressed will of the merchants in a matter of commerce rather than religion. Edmund asked Godwyn to begin with a prayer, and Godwyn obliged, but he knew he had been outmaneuvered, and that was why he looked as if there was a bad smell.

Edmund stood up and said: “These two designs have been costed by Elfric and Merthin, who have used the same methods of calculation.”

Elfric interjected: “Of course we have—he learned them from me.” There was a ripple of laughter from the older men.

It was true. There were formulae for calculating costs per square foot of wall, per cubic yard of infill, per foot of a roof span, and for more intricate work such as arches and vaulting. All builders used the same methods, though with their individual variations. The bridge calculations had been complex, but easier than for a building such as a church.

Edmund went on: “Each man has checked the other's calculations, so there is no room for dispute.”

Edward Butcher called out: “Yes—all builders overcharge by the same amount!” That got a big laugh. Edward was popular with the men for his quick wit, and with the women for his good looks and brown bedroom eyes. He was not so popular with his wife, who knew about his infidelities and had recently attacked him with one of his own heavy knives; he still had a bandage on his left arm.

“Elfric's bridge will cost two hundred and eighty-five pounds,” Edmund said as the laughter died away. “Merthin's comes out at three hundred and seven. The difference is twenty-two pounds, as most of you will have worked out faster than me.” There was a quiet chuckle at that: Edmund was often teased for having his daughter do his arithmetic for him. He still used the old Latin numerals, because he could not get used to the new Arabic digits that made calculation so much easier.

A new voice said: “Twenty-two pounds is a lot of money.” It was Bill Watkin, the builder who had refused to hire Merthin, looking like one of the monks with his bald dome.

Dick Brewer said: “Yes, but Merthin's bridge is twice as wide. It ought to cost twice as much—but it doesn't, because it's a cleverer design.” Dick was fond of his own product, ale, and in consequence had a protruding round belly like a pregnant woman.

Bill rejoined: “How many days a year do we need a bridge wide enough for two carts?”

“Every market day and all of Fleece Fair week.”

“Not so,” said Bill. “It's only for an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon.”

“I've waited two hours with a cartload of barley before now.”

“You should have the sense to bring your barley in on quiet days.”

“I bring barley in every day.” Dick was the largest brewer in the county. He owned a huge copper kettle that held five hundred gallons, in consequence of which his tavern was called the Copper.

Edmund interrupted this spat. “There are other problems caused by delays on the bridge,” he said. “Some traders go to Shiring, where there's no bridge and no queue. Others do their business while waiting in line, then go home without ever entering the town, and save themselves the bridge toll and the market taxes. It's forestalling, and it's illegal, but we've never succeeded in stopping it. And then there's the question of how people think of Kingsbridge. Right now we're the town whose bridge collapsed. If we're going to attract back all the business we're losing, we need to change that. I'd like us to become known as the town with the best bridge in England.”

Edmund was hugely influential, and Merthin began to scent victory.

Betty Baxter, an enormously fat woman in her forties, stood up and pointed to something on Merthin's drawing. “What's this, here in the middle of the bridge parapet, over the pier?” she said. “There's a little pointed bit that sticks out over the water, like a viewing platform. What is it for, fishing?” The others laughed.

“It's a pedestrian refuge,” Merthin answered. “If you're walking over the bridge, and suddenly the earl of Shiring rides across with twenty mounted knights, you can step out of their way.”

Edward Butcher said: “I hope it's big enough to fit Betty in.”

Everyone laughed, but Betty persisted with her questioning. “Why is the pier underneath it pointed like that all the way down to the water? Elfric's piers aren't pointed.”

“To deflect debris. Look at any river bridge—you'll see the piers are chipped and cracked. What do you think causes that damage? It must be the large pieces of wood—tree trunks, or timbers from demolished buildings—that you see floating downstream and crashing into piers.”

“Or Ian Boatman when he's drunk,” said Edward.

“Boats or debris, they will cause less damage to my pointed piers. Elfric's will suffer the full impact.”

Elfric said: “My walls are too strong to be knocked down by bits of wood.”

“On the contrary,” said Merthin. “Your arches are narrower than mine, therefore the water will be drawn through them faster, and the debris will strike the piers with greater force, causing more damage.”

He could see from Elfric's face that the older man had not even thought of that. But the audience were not builders—how could they judge what was right?

Around the base of each pier, Merthin had drawn a pile of rough stones, known to builders as riprap. This would prevent the current undermining his piers the way it had those of the old wooden bridge. But no one asked him about the riprap, so he did not explain it.

Betty had more questions. “Why is your bridge so long? Elfric's begins at the water's edge. Yours starts several yards inland. Isn't that unnecessary expense?”

“My bridge is ramped at both ends,” Merthin explained. “That's so that you step off the bridge onto dry land, instead of a swamp. No more oxcarts getting bogged down on the beach and blocking the bridge for an hour.”

“Cheaper to put down a paved road,” said Elfric.

Elfric was beginning to sound desperate. Then Bill Watkin stood up. “I'm having trouble deciding who's right and who's wrong,” he said. “When these two argue, it's difficult to make up your mind. And I'm a builder—it must be worse for those who aren't.” There was a murmur of agreement. Bill went on: “So I think we should look at the men, not the designs.”

Merthin had been afraid of this. He listened with increasing despair.

“Which of the two do you know best?” said Bill. “Which can you rely on? Elfric has been a builder in this town, man and boy, for twenty years. We can look at houses he's put up and see they're still standing. We can see the repairs he's done on the cathedral. On the other hand, here's Merthin—a clever lad, we know, but a bit of a tearaway, and never finished his apprenticeship. There's not a lot to indicate that he's capable of taking charge of the largest building project Kingsbridge has seen since the construction of the cathedral. I know which one I trust.” He sat down.

Several men voiced their approval. They would not judge the designs—they would decide on personalities. It was maddeningly unfair.

Then Brother Thomas spoke up. “Has anyone in Kingsbridge ever been involved in a project that involved building below water level?”

Merthin knew the answer was no. He felt a surge of hope. This could rescue it for him.

Thomas went on: “I would like to know how both men would handle that problem.”

Merthin was ready with his solution—but he was afraid that if he spoke first Elfric would simply echo him. He compressed his lips, hoping that Thomas—who usually helped him—would get the message.

Thomas caught Merthin's eye, and said: “Elfric, what would you do?”

“The answer is simpler than you think,” Elfric said. “You just have to drop loose rubble into the river at the point where your pier will stand. The rubble rests on the river bottom. You put more and more in until the pile is visible above water level. Then you build your pier on that foundation.”

As Merthin had expected, Elfric had come up with the crudest solution to the problem. Now Merthin said: “There are two snags with Elfric's method. One is that a pile of rubble is no more stable under water than on land. Over time, it will shift and drop, and when that happens the bridge will subside. If you want a bridge to last only a few years, fine. But I think we should build for the long term.”

He heard a quiet rumble of concurrence.

“The second problem is the shape of the pile. It will naturally slope outwards below the waterline, restricting the passage of boats, especially when the river is low. And Elfric's arches are already narrow.”

Elfric said irritably: “What would you do instead?”

Merthin suppressed a smile. That was what he had wanted to hear—Elfric admitting that he did not know a better answer. “I'll tell you,” he said. And I'll show everyone that I know better than the idiot who chopped my door to pieces, he thought. He looked around. They were all listening. Their decision hung on what he would say next.

He took a deep breath. “First, I would take a pointed wooden stake and pile-drive it into the riverbed. Then I would bang in another next to it, touching; then another. In that way I would build a ring of stakes around the place in the river where I want to put my pier.”

“A ring of stakes?” Elfric jeered. “That will never keep the water out.”

Brother Thomas, who had asked the question, said: “Listen to him, please. He listened to you.”

Merthin said: “Next, I would build a second ring inside the first, with a gap between them of half a foot.” He sensed that he had his audience's attention now.

“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.”