Epic Historial Collection (331 page)

Davey said: “Mother, you're spoiling the wedding.”

Gwenda was too enraged to listen. “She always does this. She jilted him twenty-three years ago, but she's never let him go!”

Annet began to cry. Gwenda was not surprised. Annet's tears were just another means of getting her way.

Wulfric reached out to pat Annet's shoulder, and Gwenda snapped: “Don't touch her!” He jerked back his hand as if burned.

“You don't understand,” Annet sobbed.

“I understand you all too well,” Gwenda said.

“No, you don't,” Annet said. She wiped her eyes and gave Gwenda a surprisingly direct, candid look. “You don't understand that you have won. He's yours. You don't know how he adores you, respects you, admires you. You don't see the way he looks at you when you're speaking to someone else.”

Gwenda was taken aback. “Well,” she mumbled, but she did not know what else to say.

Annet went on: “Does he eye younger women? Does he ever sneak away from you? How many nights have you slept apart in the last twenty years—two? Three? Can't you see that he will never love another woman as long as he lives?”

Gwenda looked at Wulfric and realized that all this was true. In fact it was obvious. She knew it and so did everyone. She tried to remember why she was so angry with Annet, but somehow the logic of it had slipped her mind.

The dancing had stopped and Aaron had put down his pipes. All the villagers now gathered around the two women, mothers of the bridal couple.

Annet said: “I was a foolish and selfish girl, and I made a stupid decision, and lost the best man I've ever met. And you got him. Sometimes I can't resist the temptation to pretend it happened the other way around, and he's mine. So I smile at him, and I pat his arm; and he's kind to me because he knows he broke my heart.”

“You broke your own heart,” Gwenda said.

“I did. And you were the lucky girl who benefited from my folly.”

Gwenda was dumbfounded. She had never looked at Annet as a sad person. To her, Annet had always been a powerful, threatening figure, ever scheming to take Wulfric back. But that was never going to come to pass.

Annet said: “I know it annoys you when Wulfric is nice to me. I'd like to say it won't happen again, but I know my own weakness. Do you have to hate me for it? Don't let this spoil the joy of the wedding and of the grandchildren we both want. Instead of regarding me as your lifelong enemy, couldn't you think of me as a bad sister, who sometimes misbehaves and makes you cross, but still has to be treated as one of the family?”

She was right. Gwenda had always thought of Annet as a pretty face with an empty head, but on this occasion Annet was the wiser of the two, and Gwenda felt humbled. “I don't know,” she said. “Perhaps I could try.”

Annet stepped forward and kissed Gwenda's cheek. Gwenda felt Annet's tears on her face. “Thank you,” Annet said.

Gwenda hesitated, then put her arms around Annet's bony shoulders and hugged her.

All around them, the villagers clapped and cheered.

A moment later, the music began again.

 

Early in November, Philemon arranged a service of thanksgiving for the end of the plague. Archbishop Henri came with Canon Claude. So did Sir Gregory Longfellow.

Gregory must have come to Kingsbridge to announce the king's choice of bishop, Merthin thought. Formally, he would tell the monks that the king had nominated a certain person, and it would be up to the monks to elect that person or someone else; but, in the end, the monks usually voted for whomever the king had chosen.

Merthin could read no message in Philemon's face, and he guessed that Gregory had not yet revealed the king's choice. The decision meant everything to Merthin and Caris. If Claude got the job, their troubles were over. He was moderate and reasonable. But if Philemon became bishop, they faced more years of squabbling and lawsuits.

Henri took the service, but Philemon preached the sermon. He thanked God for answering the prayers of Kingsbridge monks and sparing the town from the worst effects of the plague. He did not mention that the monks had fled to St.-John-in-the-Forest and left the townspeople to fend for themselves; nor that Caris and Merthin had helped God to answer the monks' prayers by closing the town gates for six months. He made it sound as if he had saved Kingsbridge.

“It makes my blood boil,” Merthin said to Caris, not troubling to keep his voice down. “He's completely twisting the facts!”

“Relax,” she said. “God knows the truth, and so do the people. Philemon isn't fooling anyone.”

She was right, of course. After a battle, the soldiers on the winning side always thanked God, but all the same they knew the difference between good generals and bad.

After the service, Merthin as alderman was invited to dine at the prior's palace with the archbishop. He was seated next to Canon Claude. As soon as grace had been said, a general hubbub of conversation broke out, and Merthin spoke to Claude in a low, urgent voice. “Does the archbishop know yet who the king has chosen as bishop?”

Claude replied with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Is it you?”

Claude's head shake was equally minimal.

“Philemon, then?”

Again the tiny nod.

Merthin's heart sank. How could the king pick a fool and coward such as Philemon in preference to someone as competent and sensible as Claude? But he knew the answer: Philemon had played his cards well. “Has Gregory instructed the monks yet?”

“No.” Claude leaned closer. “He will probably tell Philemon informally tonight after supper, then speak to the monks in chapter tomorrow morning.”

“So we've got until the end of the day.”

“For what?”

“To change his mind.”

“You won't do that.”

“I'm going to try.”

“You'll never succeed.”

“Bear in mind that I'm desperate.”

Merthin toyed with his food, eating little and fighting to keep his patience, until the archbishop rose from the table; then he spoke to Gregory. “If you would walk with me in the cathedral, I would speak to you about something I feel sure will interest you deeply,” he said, and Gregory nodded assent.

They paced side by side up the nave, where Merthin could be sure no one was lurking close enough to hear. He took a deep breath. What he was about to do was dangerous. He was going to try to bend the king to his will. If he failed, he could be charged with treason—and executed.

He said: “There have long been rumors that a document exists, somewhere in Kingsbridge, that the king would dearly love to destroy.”

Gregory was stone-faced, but he said: “Go on.” That was as good as confirmation.

“This letter was in the possession of a knight who has recently died.”

“Has he!” said Gregory, startled.

“You obviously know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Gregory answered like a lawyer. “Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I do.”

“I would like to do the king the service of restoring that document to him—whatever it may be.” He knew perfectly well what it was, but he could adopt a cautious pretense of ignorance as well as Gregory.

“The king would be grateful,” said Gregory.

“How grateful?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“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.