World Without End

Merthin listened to Davey’s story with amazement and pleasure. He admired the lad for his enterprise in buying madder seeds and cultivating them to produce the costly dye. He was not surprised to learn that Ralph had tried to scuttle the project: Ralph was like most noblemen in his contempt for anything co

“When the miller washed the grindstone afterwards, his dog drank some of the water that ran off,” Davey told Merthin. “The dog pissed red for a week, so we know the dye works!”

Now he was here with a handcart loaded with old four-gallon flour sacks full of what he believed to be precious madder dye.

Merthin told him to pick up one of the sacks and bring it to the gate. When they got there, he called out to the sentry on the other side. The man climbed to the battlements and looked down. “This sack is for Madge Webber,” Merthin shouted up. “Make sure she gets it personally, would you, sentry?”

“Very good, alderman,” said the sentry.

As always, a few plague victims from the villages were brought to the island by their relatives. Most people now knew there was no cure for the plague and simply let their loved ones die, but a few were ignorant or optimistic enough to hope that Caris could work a miracle. The sick were left outside the hospital doors, like supplies at the city gate. The nuns came out for them at night when the relatives had gone. Now and again a lucky survivor emerged in good health, but most patients went out through the back door and were buried in a new graveyard on the far side of the hospital building.

At midday Merthin invited Davey to di

Merthin thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I wanted to be a squire and spend my life as a knight fighting for the king. I was heartbroken when they apprenticed me to a carpenter. However, in my case it worked out quite well.”

Davey was not pleased by this anecdote.

In the afternoon access to the i

There was no message from Madge about the dye.

Merthin had a second visitor that day. Towards the end of the afternoon, as trading petered out, Canon Claude arrived.

Claude’s friend and patron, Bishop Henri, was now installed as archbishop of Monmouth. However, his replacement as bishop of Kingsbridge had not been chosen. Claude wanted the position, and had been to London to see Sir Gregory Longfellow. He was on his way back to Monmouth, where he would continue to work as Henri’s right-hand man for the moment.

“The king likes Philemon’s line on taxation of the clergy,” he said over cold rabbit pie and a goblet of Merthin’s best Gascon wine. “And the senior clergy liked the sermon against dissection and the plan to build a Lady chapel. On the other hand, Gregory dislikes Philemon – says he can’t be trusted. The upshot is, the king has postponed a decision by ruling that the monks of Kingsbridge ca

Merthin said: “I assume the king sees little point in selecting a bishop while the plague rages and the city is closed.”

Claude nodded agreement. “I did achieve something, albeit small,” he went on. “There is a vacancy for an English ambassador to the pope. The appointee has to live in Avignon. I suggested Philemon. Gregory seemed intrigued by the idea. At least, he didn’t rule it out.”

“Good!” The thought of Philemon being sent so far away lifted Merthin’s spirits. He wished there were something he could do to weigh in on Claude’s side; but he had already written to Gregory pledging the support of the guild, and that was the limit of his influence.

“One more piece of news – sad news, in fact,” Claude said. “On my way to London, I went to St-John-in-the-Forest. Henri is still abbot, technically, and he sent me to reprimand Philemon for decamping without permission. Waste of time, really. Anyway, Philemon has adopted Caris’s precautions, and would not let me in, but we talked through the door. So far, the monks have escaped the plague. But your old friend Brother Thomas has died of old age. I’m sorry.”

“God rest his soul,” Merthin said sadly. “He was very frail towards the end. His mind was going, too.”

“The move to St John probably didn’t help him.”

“Thomas encouraged me when I was a young builder.”

“Strange how God sometimes takes the good men from us and leaves the bad.”

Claude left early the next morning.

As Merthin was going through his daily routine, one of the carters came back from the city gate with a message. Madge Webber was on the battlements and wanted to talk to Merthin and Davey.

“Do you think she’ll buy my madder?” Davey said as they walked across the i

Merthin had no idea. “I hope so,” he said.

They stood side by side in front of the closed gate and looked up. Madge leaned over the wall and shouted down: “Where did this stuff come from?”

“I grew it,” Davey said.

“And who are you?”

“Davey from Wigleigh, son of Wulfric.”

“Oh – Gwenda’s boy?”

“Yes, the younger one.”

“Well, I’ve tested your dye.”

“It works, doesn’t it?” Davey said eagerly.

“It’s very weak. Did you grind the roots whole?”

“Yes – what else would I have done?”

“You’re supposed to remove the hulls before grinding.”

“I didn’t know that.” Davey was crestfallen. “Is the powder no good?”

“As I said, it’s weak. I can’t pay the price of pure dye.”

Davey looked so dismayed that Merthin’s heart went out to him.

Madge said: “How much have you got?”

“Nine more four-gallon sacks like the one you have,” Davey said despondently.

“I’ll give you half the usual price – three shillings and sixpence a gallon. That’s fourteen shillings a sack, so exactly seven pounds for ten sacks.”

Davey’s face was a picture of delight. Merthin wished Caris were with him just to share it. “Seven pounds!” Davey repeated.

Thinking he was disappointed, Madge said: “I can’t do better than that – the dye just isn’t strong enough.”

But seven pounds was a fortune to Davey. It was several years’ wages for a labourer, even at today’s rates. He looked at Merthin. “I’m rich!” he said.

Merthin laughed and said: “Don’t spend it all at once.”

The next day was Sunday. Merthin went to the morning service at the island’s own little church of St Elizabeth of Hungary, patron saint of healers. Then he went home and got a stout oak spade from his gardener’s hut. With the spade over his shoulder, he walked across the outer bridge, through the suburbs and into his past.

He tried hard to remember the route he had taken through the forest thirty-four years ago with Caris, Ralph and Gwenda. It seemed impossible. There were no pathways other than deer runs. Saplings had become mature trees, and mighty oaks had been felled by the king’s woodcutters. Nevertheless, to his surprise there were still recognizable landmarks: a spring gurgling up out of the ground where he remembered the ten-year-old Caris kneeling to drink; a huge rock that she said looked as if it must have fallen from heaven; a steep-sided little valley with a boggy bottom where she had got mud in her boots.