World Without End

“Don’t speak to me!” she yelled. Then she burst into tears and stomped up the stairs.

Merthin said: “Sometimes I wish we lived in one room – then she wouldn’t be able to pull that trick.”

“You weren’t very gentle with her,” Caris said with mild disapproval.

“What am I supposed to do?” Merthin said. “She talks as if she’s done nothing wrong!”

“She knows the truth, though. That’s why she’s crying.”

“Oh, hell,” he said.

There was a knock, and a novice monk put his head around the door. “Pardon me for disturbing you, alderman,” he said. “Sir Gregory Longfellow is at the priory, and would be grateful for a word with you, as soon as is convenient.”

“Damn,” said Merthin. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” the novice said, and left.

Merthin said to Caris: “Perhaps it’s just as well to give her time to cool off.”

“You, too,” Caris said.

“You’re not taking her side, are you?” he said with a touch of irritation.

She smiled and touched his arm. “I’m on your side, always,” she said. “But I remember what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old girl. She’s as worried as you are about her relationship with Jake. But she’s not admitting it, even to herself, because that would wound her pride. So she resents you for speaking the truth. She has constructed a fragile defence around her self-esteem, and you just tear it down.”

“What should I do?”

“Help her build a better fence.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I’d better go and see Sir Gregory.” Merthin stood up.

Caris put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “You’re a good man doing your best, and I love you with all my heart,” she said.

That took the edge off his frustration, and he felt himself calm down as he strode across the bridge and up the main street to the priory. He did not like Gregory. The man was sly and unprincipled, willing to do anything for his master the king, just as Philemon had been when he served Godwyn as prior. Merthin wondered uneasily what Gregory wanted to discuss with him. It was probably taxes – always the king’s worry.

Merthin went first to the prior’s palace where Philemon, looking pleased with himself, told him that Sir Gregory was to be found in the monks’ cloisters to the south of the cathedral. Merthin wondered what Gregory had done to win himself the privilege of holding audience there.

The lawyer was getting old. His hair was white, and his tall figure was stooped. Deep lines had appeared like brackets either side of that sneering nose, and one of the blue eyes was cloudy. But the other eye saw sharply enough, and he recognized Merthin instantly, though they had not met for ten years. “Alderman,” he said. “The archbishop of Monmouth is dead.”

“Rest his soul,” Merthin said automatically.

“Amen. The king asked me, as I was passing through his borough of Kingsbridge, to give you his greetings, and tell you this important news.”

“I’m grateful. The death is not unexpected. The archbishop has been ill.” The king certainly had not asked Gregory to meet with Merthin purely to give him interesting information, he thought suspiciously.

“You’re an intriguing man, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Gregory said expansively. “I first met your wife more than twenty years ago. Since then I’ve seen the two of you slowly but surely take control of this town. And you’ve got everything you set your hearts on: the bridge, the hospital, the borough charter, and each other. You’re determined, and you’re patient.”

It was condescending, but Merthin was surprised to detect a grain of respect in Gregory’s flattery. He told himself to remain mistrustful: men such as Gregory praised only for a purpose.

“I’m on my way to see the monks of Abergave

Even I know it’s not that simple, Merthin thought. There’s usually some kind of power struggle. But he said nothing.

Gregory continued: “However, the ritual of the monks” election still goes on, and it is easier to control it than to abolish it. Hence my journey.”

“So you’re going to tell the monks whom to elect,” Merthin said.

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

“And what name will you give them?”

“Didn’t I say? It’s your bishop, Henri of Mons. Excellent man: loyal, trustworthy, never makes trouble.”

“Oh, dear.”

“You’re not pleased?” Gregory’s relaxed air evaporated, and he became keenly attentive.

Merthin realized that this was what Gregory had come for: to find out how the people of Kingsbridge – as represented by Merthin – would feel about what he was pla

Gregory acknowledged this with a dip of his head.

“The departure of Henri obviously puts into question the stability of our relationships.”

“It depends on who replaces him, I should have thought.”

“Indeed,” said Merthin. Now we come to the crux, he thought. He said: “Have you got anyone in mind?”

“The obvious candidate is Prior Philemon.”

“No!” Merthin was aghast. “Philemon! Why?”

“He’s a sound conservative, which is important to the church hierarchy in these times of scepticism and heresy.”

“Of course. Now I understand why he preached a sermon against dissection. And why he wants to build a Lady chapel.” I should have foreseen this, Merthin thought.

“And he has let it be known that he has no problem with taxation of the clergy – a constant source of friction between the king and some of his bishops.”

“Philemon has been pla

“Since the archbishop fell ill, I imagine.”

“This is a catastrophe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Philemon is quarrelsome and vengeful. If he becomes bishop he will create constant strife in Kingsbridge. We have to prevent him.” He looked Gregory in the eye. “Why did you come here to forewarn me?” As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came to him. “You don’t want Philemon either. You didn’t need me to tell you what a troublemaker he is – you knew already. But you can’t just veto him, because he has already won support among senior clergy.” Gregory just smiled enigmatically – which Merthin took to mean he was right. “So what do you want me to do?”

“If I were you,” Gregory said, “I’d start by finding another candidate to put up as the alternative to Philemon.”

So that was it. Merthin nodded pensively. “I’ll have to think about this,” he said.

“Please do.” Gregory stood up, and Merthin realized the meeting was over. “And let me know what you decide,” Gregory added.

Merthin left the priory and walked back to Leper Island, musing. Who could he propose as bishop of Kingsbridge? The townspeople had always got on well with Archdeacon Lloyd, but he was too old – they might succeed in getting him elected only to have to do the whole thing again in a year’s time.

He had not thought of anyone by the time he got home. He found Caris in the parlour and was about to ask her when she pre-empted him. Standing up, with a pale face and a frightened expression, she said: “Lolla’s gone again.”