World Without End

“Yes.”

He recalled her own bereavement. “But you know what it is to lose your spouse.”

“I was fortunate to have my beloved William for twenty-one years.”

“You must be lonely.” This might not be the moment to propose, but he thought to edge the conversation towards the subject.

“Indeed. I lost my three men – William and our two sons. The castle seems so empty.”

“But not for long, perhaps.”

She stared at him as if she could not believe her ears, and he realized he had said something offensive. She turned away and spoke to Bishop Henri on her other side.

On Ralph’s right was Philippa’s daughter, Odila. “Would you like some of this pasty?” he said to her. “It’s made with peacocks and hares.” She nodded, and he cut her a slice. “How old are you?” he asked.

“I’ll be fifteen this year.”

She was tall, and had her mother’s figure already, a full bosom and wide, womanly hips. “You seem older,” he said, looking at her breasts.

He intended it as a compliment – young people generally wanted to seem older – but she blushed and looked away.

Ralph looked down at his trencher and speared a chunk of pork cooked with ginger. He ate it moodily. He was not very good at what Gregory called wooing.

Caris was seated on the left of Bishop Henri, with Merthin, as alderman, on her other side. Next to Merthin was Sir Gregory Longfellow, who had come for the funeral of Earl William three months ago and had not yet left the neighbourhood. Caris had to suppress her disgust at being at a table with the murdering Ralph and the man who had, almost certainly, put him up to it. But she had work to do at this di

She poured the bishop a goblet of clear red Gascon wine, and he took a long draught. He wiped his mouth and said: “You preach a good sermon.”

“Thank you,” she said, noting the ironic reproof that underlay his compliment. “Life in this town is degenerating into disorder and debauchery, and if we’re to put it right we need to inspire the townspeople. I’m sure you agree.”

“It’s a little late to ask whether I agree with you. However, I do.” Henri was a pragmatist who did not re-fight lost battles. She had been counting on that.

She served herself some heron roasted with pepper and cloves, but did not begin to eat: she had too much to say. “There’s more to my plan than the walls and the constabulary.”

“I thought there might be.”

“I believe that you, as the bishop of Kingsbridge, should have the tallest cathedral in England.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Two hundred years ago this was one of England’s most important priories. It should be so again. A new church tower would symbolize the revival – and your eminence among bishops.”

He smiled wryly, but he was pleased. He knew he was being flattered, and he liked it.

Caris said: “The tower would also serve the town. Being visible from a distance, it would help pilgrims and traders find their way here.”

“How would you pay for it?”

“The priory is wealthy.”

He was surprised again. “Prior Godwyn complained of money problems.”

“He was a hopeless manager.”

“He struck me as rather competent.”

“He struck a lot of people that way, but he made all the wrong decisions. Right at the start he refused to repair the fulling mill, which would have brought him an income; but he spent money on this palace, which returned him nothing.”

“And how have things changed?”

“I’ve sacked most of the bailiffs and replaced them with younger men who are willing to make changes. I’ve converted about half the land to grazing, which is easier to manage in these times of labour shortage. The rest I’ve leased for cash rents with no customary obligations. And we’ve all benefited from inheritance taxes and from the legacies of people who died without heirs because of the plague. The monastery is now as rich as the nu

“So all the tenants are free?”

“Most. Instead of working one day a week on the demesne farm, and carting the landlord’s hay, and folding their sheep on the landlord’s field, and all those complicated services, they just pay money. They like it better and it certainly makes our life simpler.”

“A lot of landlords – abbots especially – revile that type of tenancy. They say it ruins the peasantry.”

Caris shrugged. “What have we lost? The power to impose petty variations, favouring some serfs and persecuting others, keeping them all subservient. Monks and nuns have no business tyra

The bishop looked suspicious. “So you feel the priory can pay for a new tower?”

He had been expecting her to ask him for money, she guessed. “Yes – with some assistance from the town’s merchants. And that’s where you can help us.”

“I thought there must be something.”

“I’m not asking you for money. What I want from you is worth more than money.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“I want to apply to the king for a borough charter.” As she said the words, Caris felt her hands begin to shake. She was taken back to the battle she had fought with Godwyn, ten years ago, that had ended in her being accused of witchcraft. The issue then had been the borough charter, and she had nearly died fighting for it. Circumstances now were completely different, but the charter was no less important. She put down her eating knife and clasped her hands together in her lap to keep them still.

“I see,” said Henri noncommittally.

Caris swallowed hard and went on. “It’s essential for the regeneration of the town’s commercial life. For a long time Kingsbridge has been held back by the dead hand of priory rule. Priors are cautious and conservative, and instinctively say no to any change or i

“A borough charter.”

“The town would have its own court, set its own regulations, and be ruled by a proper guild, rather than the parish guild we have now, which has no real power.”

“But would the king grant it?”

“Kings like boroughs, which pay lots of taxes. But, in the past, the prior of Kingsbridge has always opposed a charter.”

“You think priors are too conservative.”

“Timid.”

“Well,” said the bishop with a laugh, “timidity is a thing you’ll never be accused of.”

Caris pressed her point. “I think a charter is essential if we’re to build the new tower.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“So, do you agree?”

“To the tower, or the charter?”

“They go together.”

Henri seemed amused. “Are you making a deal with me, Mother Caris?”

“If you’re willing.”

“All right. Build me a tower, and I’ll help you get a charter.”

“No. It has to be the other way around. We need the charter first.”

“So I must trust you.”

“Is that difficult?”

“To be honest, no.”

“Good. Then we’re agreed.”

“Yes.”

Caris leaned forward and looked past Merthin. “Sir Gregory?”

“Yes, Mother Caris?”

She forced herself to be polite to him. “Have you tried this rabbit in sugar gravy? I recommend it.”

Gregory accepted the bowl and took some. “Thank you.”

Caris said to him: “You will recall that Kingsbridge is not a borough.”

“I certainly do.” Gregory had used that fact, more than a decade ago, to outmanoeuvre Caris in the royal court in the dispute over the fulling mill.