World Without End

Near the top, Merthin passed through a chamber that housed the great wheel, a wooden winding mechanism twice as high as a man, used for hoisting stones, mortar and timber up to where they were needed. When the spire was finished the wheel would be left here permanently, to be used for repair work by future generations of builders, until the trumpets sounded on the Day of Judgement.

He emerged on top of the tower. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing, though none had been noticeable at ground level. A leaded walkway ran around the inside of the tower’s summit. Scaffolding stood around an octagonal hole, ready for the masons who would build the spire. Dressed stones were piled nearby, and a heap of mortar was drying up wastefully on a wooden board.

There were no workmen here. Prior Philemon stood on the far side with Harold Mason. They were deep in conversation, but stopped guiltily when Merthin came into view. He had to shout into the wind to make himself heard. “Why have you stopped the building?”

Philemon had his answer ready. “There’s a problem with your design.”

Merthin looked at Harold. “You mean some people can’t understand it.”

“Experienced people say it can’t be built,” Philemon said defiantly.

“Experienced people?” Merthin repeated scornfully. “Who in Kingsbridge is experienced? Who has built a bridge? Who has worked with the great architects of Florence? Who has seen Rome, Avignon, Paris, Rouen? Certainly not Harold here. No offence, Harold, but you’ve never even been to London.”

Harold said: “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s impossible to build an octagonal tower with no formwork.”

Merthin was about to say something sarcastic, but stopped himself. Philemon must have more than this, he realized. The prior had deliberately chosen to fight this battle. Therefore he must have weapons more formidable than the mere opinion of Harold Mason. He had presumably won some support among members of the guild – but how? Other builders who were prepared to say that Merthin’s spire was impossible must have been offered some incentive. That probably meant construction work for them. “What is it?” he said to Philemon. “What are you hoping to build?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Philemon blustered.

“You’ve got an alternative project, and you’ve offered Harold and his friends a piece of it. What’s the building?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A bigger palace for yourself? A new chapter house? It can’t be a hospital, we’ve already got three. Come on, you might as well tell me. Unless you’re ashamed of it.”

Philemon was stung into a response. “The monks wish to build a Lady chapel.”

“Ah.” That made sense. The cult of the Virgin was increasingly popular. The church hierarchy approved because the wave of piety associated with Mary counterbalanced the scepticism and heresy that had afflicted congregations since the plague. Numerous cathedrals and churches were adding a special small chapel at the east end – the holiest part of the building – dedicated to the Mother of God. Merthin did not like the architecture: on most churches, a Lady chapel looked like an afterthought, which of course it was.

What was Philemon’s motive? He was always trying to ingratiate himself with someone – that was his modus operandi. A Lady chapel at Kingsbridge would undoubtedly please conservative senior clergy.

This was the second move Philemon had made in that direction. On Easter Sunday, from the pulpit of the cathedral, he had condemned dissection of corpses. He was mounting a campaign, Merthin realized. But what was its purpose?

Merthin decided to do nothing more until he had figured out what Philemon was up to. Without saying anything further, he left the roof and started down the series of staircases and ladders to the ground.

Merthin arrived home at the di

She shook her head. “There’s no cure for senility.”

“He told me the south aisle had collapsed as if it had happened yesterday.”

“That’s typical. He remembers the distant past but doesn’t know what’s going on today. Poor Thomas. He’ll probably deteriorate quite fast. But at least he’s in a familiar place. Monasteries don’t change much over the decades. His daily routine is probably the same as it has always been. That will help.”

As they sat down to mutton stew with leeks and mint, Merthin explained the morning’s developments. The two of them had been battling Kingsbridge priors for decades: first Anthony, then Godwyn, and now Philemon. They had thought that the granting of the borough charter would put an end to the constant jockeying. It had certainly improved matters, but it seemed Philemon had not given up yet.

“I’m not really worried about the spire,” Merthin said. “Bishop Henri will overrule Philemon, and order the building restarted, just as soon as he hears. Henri wants to be bishop of the tallest cathedral in England.”

“Philemon must know that,” Caris said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he simply wants to make the gesture towards a Lady chapel, and get the credit for trying, while blaming his failure on someone else.”

“Perhaps,” Caris said doubtfully.

In Merthin’s mind there was a more important question. “But what is he really after?”

“Everything Philemon does is driven by the need to make himself feel important,” Caris said confidently. “My guess is he’s after a promotion.”

“What job could he have in mind? The archbishop of Monmouth seems to be dying, but surely Philemon can’t hope for that position?”

“He must know something we don’t.”

Before they could say any more, Lolla walked in.

Merthin’s first reaction was a feeling of relief so powerful that it brought tears to his eyes. She was back, and she was safe. He looked her up and down. She had no apparent injuries, she walked with a spring in her step, and her face showed only the usual expression of moody discontent.

Caris spoke first. “You’re back!” she said. “I’m so glad!”

“Are you?” Lolla said. She often pretended to believe that Caris did not like her. Merthin was not fooled, but Caris could be thrown into doubt, for she was sensitive about not being Lolla’s mother.

“We’re both glad,” Merthin said. “You gave us a scare.”

“Why?” said Lolla. She hung her cloak on a hook and sat at the table. “I was perfectly all right.”

“But we didn’t know that, so we were terribly worried.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Lolla said. “I can take care of myself.”

Merthin suppressed an angry retort. “I’m not sure you can,” he said as mildly as possible.

Caris stepped in to try to lower the temperature. “Where did you go?” she asked. “You’ve been away for two weeks.”

“Different places.”

Merthin said tightly: “Can you give us one or two examples?”

“Mudeford Crossing. Casterham. Outhenby.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“Is this the catechism?” she said petulantly. “Do I have to answer all these questions?”

Caris put a restraining hand on Merthin’s arm and said to Lolla: “We just want to know that you haven’t been in danger.”

Merthin said: “I’d also like to know who you’ve been travelling with.”

“Nobody special.”

“Does that mean Jake Riley?”

She shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Yes,” she said, as if it were a trivial detail.

Merthin had been ready to forgive and embrace her, but she was making that difficult. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: “What sleeping arrangements did you and Jake have?”

“That’s my business!” she cried.

“No, it’s not!” he shouted back. “It’s mine, too, and your stepmother’s. If you’re pregnant, who will care for your baby? Are you confident that Jake is ready to settle down and be a husband and father? Have you talked to him about that?”