Pillars of the Earth, book 2 20 страница

He stood up. It was time to put his skill to the test.

He had built a normal hoist with one innovative feature. Like all hoists, it had a rope that ran through a series of pulleys. On top of the church wall, at the edge of the roof, Merthin had built a timber structure like a gallows, with an arm that reached across the roof. The rope ran out to the end of the arm. At the other end of the rope, on the ground in the graveyard, was a treadwheel, which wound up the rope when operated by the boy, Jimmie. All this was standard. The innovation was that the gallows incorporated a swivel, so that the arm could swing.

To save himself from the fate of Howell Tyler, Merthin had a belt under his arms that was tied to a sturdy stone pinnacle: if he fell, he would not fall far. So protected, he had removed the slates from a section of the roof then tied the rope of the hoist to a timber. Now he called down to Jimmie: “Turn the wheel!”

Then he held his breath. He was sure it would work – it had to – but, all the same, this was a moment of high anxiety.

Jimmie, inside the great treadmill on the ground, began to walk. The wheel could move only one way. It had a brake pressing on its asymmetric teeth: one side of each tooth was gently angled, so that the brake moved gradually along the slope; but the other side was vertical, so that any reverse movement was immediately arrested.

As the wheel turned, the roof timber rose.

When the timber was clear of the roof structure, Merthin shouted: “Whoa!”

Jimmie stopped, the brake engaged, and the timber hung in the air, swinging gently. So far, so good. The next part was where things might go wrong.

Merthin turned the hoist, so that its arm began to swing. He watched it, holding his breath. New strains were brought to bear on the structure as the weight of the load moved its position. The wood of the hoist creaked. The arm swung through half a circle, bringing the timber from its original location over the roof to a new point over the graveyard. There was a collective murmur of wonder from the crowd: they had never seen a hoist that could swivel.

“Let it down!” Merthin called.

Jimmie operated the brake, allowing the load to fall jerkily, a foot at a time, as the wheel turned and the rope unwound.

Everyone watched in silence. When the timber touched the ground there was a round of applause.

Jimmie detached the timber from the rope.

Merthin permitted himself a moment of triumph. It had worked.

He climbed down the ladder. The crowd cheered. Caris kissed him. Father Joffroi shook his hand. “It’s a marvel,” the priest said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No one has,” Merthin said proudly. “I invented it.”

Several more men congratulated him. Everyone was pleased to have been among the first to witness the phenomenon – all but Elfric, looking cross at the back of the crowd.

Merthin ignored him. He said to Father Joffroi: “Our agreement was that you would pay me if it worked.”

“Gladly,” said Joffroi. “I owe you eight shillings so far, and the sooner I have to pay you for removing the rest of the timbers and rebuilding the roof, the happier I’ll be.” He opened the wallet at his waist and took out some coins tied up in a rag.

Elfric said loudly: “Wait a moment!”

Everyone looked at him.

“You can’t pay this boy, Father Joffroi,” he said. “He’s not a qualified carpenter.”

Surely this could not happen, Merthin thought. He had done the work – it was too late now to deny him the wages. But Elfric cared nothing for fairness.

“Nonsense!” said Joffroi. “He’s done what no other carpenter in town could do.”

“All the same, he’s not in the guild.”

“I wanted to join,” Merthin put in. “You would not admit me.”

“That’s the prerogative of the guild.”

Joffroi said: “I say that’s unjust – and many people in town would agree. He’s done six and a half years of his apprenticeship, with no wages but his food and a bed on the kitchen floor, and everyone knows he’s been doing the work of a qualified carpenter for years. You should not have turned him out without his tools.”

There was a murmur of assent from the men gathered around. Elfric was generally thought to have gone a bit too far.

Elfric said: “With due respect to your reverence, that is for the guild to decide, not you.”

“All right.” Joffroi folded his arms. “You tell me not to pay Merthin – even though he is the only man in town who can repair my church without closing it. I defy you.” He handed the coins to Merthin. “Now you can take the case to court.”

“The prior’s court.” Elfric’s face twisted in spite. “When a man has a grievance against a priest, is he likely to get a fair hearing in a court run by monks?”

There was some sympathy in the crowd for this. They knew of too many instances where the prior’s court had unjustly favoured the clergy.

But Joffroi shot back: “Can an apprentice get a fair hearing in a guild run by masters?”

The crowd laughed at that: they appreciated clever arguments.

Elfric looked crushed. Whatever the court, he could win a dispute between himself and Merthin, but he could not so easily prevail against a priest. Resentfully, he said: “It’s a bad day for the town when apprentices defy their masters and priests support the boys.” But he sensed he had lost, and he turned away.

Merthin felt the weight of the coins in his hand: eight shillings, ninety-six silver pennies, two-fifths of a pound. He knew he should count them, but he was too happy to bother. He had earned his first wages.

He turned to Edmund. “This is your money,” he said.

“Pay me five shillings now, the rest later,” Edmund said generously. “Keep some money for yourself – you deserve it.”

Merthin smiled. That would leave him three shillings to spend – more money than he had ever had in his life. He did not know what to do with it. Perhaps he would buy his mother a chicken.

It was midday, and the crowd began to disperse, heading home for dinner. Merthin went with Caris and Edmund. He felt his future was secure. He had proved himself as a carpenter, and few people would hesitate to employ him now that Father Joffroi had set the precedent. He could earn a living. He could have a house of his own.

He could get married.

Petranilla was waiting for them. As Merthin counted out five shillings tor Edmund, she put on the table a fragrant dish of fish baked with herbs. In celebration of Merthin’s triumph, Edmund poured sweet Rhenish wine into cups for all of them.

But Edmund was not a man to linger over the past. “We must get on with the new bridge,” he said impatiently. “Five weeks have gone by and nothing has been done!”

Petranilla said: “I hear the earl’s health is rapidly returning to normal, so perhaps the monks will hold the election soon. I must ask Godwyn – but I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when Blind Carlus fell over during the service.”

“I’d like to have a bridge design ready,” Edmund said. “Then work could begin as soon as the new prior is elected.”

Merthin’s ears pricked up. “What have you got in mind?”

“We know it has to be a stone bridge. I want it wide enough for two carts to pass.”

Merthin nodded. “And it should be ramped at both ends, so that people will step off the bridge on to dry ground, not a muddy beach.”

“Yes – excellent.”

Caris said: “But how do you build stone walls in the middle of a river?”

Edmund said: “I’ve no idea, but it must be possible. There are lots of stone bridges.”

Merthin said: “I’ve heard men talk about this. You have to build a special structure called a coffer dam to keep the water out of the area where you’re building. It’s quite simple, but they say you have to be very careful to make sure it’s watertight.”

Godwyn came in, looking anxious. He was not supposed to make social calls in the town – in theory, he could leave the priory only on a specific errand. Merthin wondered what had happened.

“Carlus withdrew his name from the election,” he said.

“Good news!” Edmund said. “Have a cup of this wine.”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Godwyn said.

“Why not? That leaves Thomas as the only candidate – and Thomas wants to build the new bridge. Our problem is solved.”

“Thomas is no longer the only candidate. The earl is nominating Saul Whitehead.”

“Oh.” Edmund was thoughtful. “Is that necessarily bad?”

“Yes. Saul is well liked and has shown himself a competent prior of St-John-in-the-Forest. If he accepts the nomination, he’s likely to get the votes of former supporters of Carlus – which means he could win. Then, as the earl’s nominee, and his cousin too, Saul is likely to do his sponsor’s bidding – and the earl may oppose the building of the new bridge, on the grounds that it might take business away from Shiring market.”

Edmund looked worried. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I hope so. Someone has to go to St John to tell Saul the news and bring him to Kingsbridge. I’ve volunteered for that job, and I’m hoping there’s some way I can persuade him to refuse.”

Petranilla spoke. “That may not solve the problem,” she said. Merthin listened carefully to her: he did not like her, but she was clever. She went on: “The earl might nominate another candidate. Any nominee of his could oppose the bridge.”

Godwyn nodded agreement. “So, assuming I can keep Saul out of the contest, we must make sure the earl’s second choice is someone who can’t possibly get elected.”

“Who do you have in mind?” his mother asked.

“Friar Murdo.”

“Excellent.”

Caris said: “But he’s awful!”

“Exactly,” Godwyn said. “Greedy, drunken, a sponger, a self-righteous rabble-rouser. The monks will never vote for him. That’s why we want him to be the earl’s candidate.”

Godwyn was like his mother, Merthin realized, in having a talent for this kind of plotting.

Petranilla said: “How shall we proceed?”

“First, we need to persuade Murdo to put his name forward.”

“That won’t be hard. Just tell him he’s in with a chance. He’d love to be prior.”

“Agreed. But I can’t do it. Murdo would immediately suspect my motives. Everyone knows I’m backing Thomas.”

“I’ll speak to him,” said Petranilla. “I’ll tell him you and I are at odds, and I don’t want Thomas. I’ll say the earl is looking for someone to nominate, and Murdo could be the right man. He’s popular in the town, especially among the poor and ignorant, who labour under the delusion that he’s one of them. All he needs to do, to get the nomination, is make it clear that he’s willing to be the earl’s pawn.”

“Good.” Godwyn stood up. “I’ll try to be present when Murdo speaks to Earl Roland.” He kissed his mother’s cheek and went out.

The fish was all gone. Merthin ate his bread trencher, rich with juices. Edmund offered him more wine, but he declined: he was afraid he might fall off the roof of St Mark’s this afternoon if he drank too much. Petranilla went into the kitchen and Edmund retired to the parlour to sleep. Merthin and Caris were left alone.

He moved to sit on the bench next to her, and kissed her.

She said: “I’m so proud of you.”

He glowed. He was proud of himself. He kissed her again, this time with a long, moist kiss that gave him an erection. He touched her breast through the linen of her robe, squeezing her nipple gently with his fingertips.

She touched his erection and giggled. “Do you want me to bring you off?” she whispered.

She did that sometimes late in the evening, when her father and Petranilla were asleep, and Merthin and she were alone on the ground floor of the house. But this was broad daylight, and someone could walk in at any moment. “No!” he said.

“I could do it quickly.” She tightened her grasp.

“I’m too embarrassed.” He stood up and moved to the other side of the table.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe we won’t have to do this much longer.”

“Do what?”

“Hide, and worry about people walking in.”

She looked hurt. “Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I do! But it would be nicer for us to be alone. I could take a house, now that I’m getting paid.”

“You’ve only been paid once.”

“That’s true… but you seem very pessimistic all of a sudden. Have I said something wrong?”

“No, but… why do you want to change the way things are?”

He was baffled by this question. “I just want more of the same, in private.”

She looked defiant. “I’m happy now.”

“Well, so am I… but nothing goes on for ever.”

“Why not?”

He felt as if he were explaining something to a child. “Because we can’t spend the rest of our lives living with our parents and stealing kisses when no one’s looking. We have to get a home of our own, and live as man and wife, and sleep together every night, and have real sex instead of bringing each other off, and raise a family.”

“Why?” she said.

“I don’t know why,” he said in exasperation. “That’s the way it is, and I’m not going to try to explain any more, because I think you’re determined not to understand; or, at least, to pretend you don’t understand.”

“All right.”

“And besides, I have to go back to work.”

“Go on, then.”

This was incomprehensible. He had been frustrated, during the last half year, by not being able to marry Caris, and he had assumed she felt the same. Now it seemed she did not. Indeed, she resented his assumption. But did she really believe that they could continue this adolescent relationship indefinitely?

He looked at her, trying to read her face, and saw only a sulky obstinacy there. He turned away and went out through the door.

He hesitated on the street outside. Perhaps he should go back in and make her say what was on her mind. But, remembering the look on her face, he knew this was not the moment to try to make her do anything. So he walked on, heading for St Mark’s, thinking: How did such a wonderful day turn so bad?

Godwyn was preparing Kingsbridge Cathedral for the big wedding. The church had to look its best. In addition to the earl of Monmouth and the earl of Shiring, there would be several barons and hundreds of knights in attendance. Broken flagstones had to be replaced, chipped masonry repaired, crumbling mouldings carved anew, walls whitewashed, pillars painted and everything scrubbed clean.

“And I want the repairs to the south aisle of the chancel finished,” Godwyn said to Elfric as they walked through the church.

“I’m not sure that’s possible-”

“It must be done. We can’t have scaffolding in the chancel during a wedding of this importance.” He saw Philemon waving urgently at him from the south transept door. “Excuse me.”

“I haven’t got the men!” Elfric called after him.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to sack them,” Godwyn said over his shoulder.

Philemon was looking excited. “Friar Murdo is asking to see the earl,” he said.

“Good!” Petranilla had spoken to the friar last night, and this morning Godwyn had instructed Philemon to lurk near the hospital and watch out for Murdo. He had been expecting an early visit.

He hurried to the hospital, with Philemon in tow. He was relieved to see that Murdo was still waiting in the big room on the ground floor. The fat friar had smartened up his appearance: his face and hands were clean, the fringe of hair around his tonsure was combed, and he had sponged the worst of the stains off his robe. He did not look like a prior, but he almost looked like a monk.

Godwyn ignored him and went up the stairs. Standing guard outside the earl’s room he saw Merthin’s brother, Ralph, who was one of the earl’s squires. Ralph was handsome, except for a broken nose, a recent injury. Squires were always breaking bones. “Hello, Ralph,” Godwyn said amiably. “What happened to your nose?”

“I had a fight with a peasant bastard.”

“You should have got it set properly. Did that friar come up here?”

“Yes. They asked him to wait.”

“Who’s with the earl?”

“Lady Philippa and the clerk, Father Jerome.”

“Ask if they’ll see me.”

“Lady Philippa says the earl must not see anyone.”

Godwyn gave Ralph a man-to-man grin. “But she’s only a woman.”

Ralph grinned back, then opened the door and put his head inside. “Brother Godwyn, the sacrist?” he said.

There was a pause, and then Lady Philippa stepped out and closed the door behind her. “I told you no visitors,” she said angrily. “Earl Roland is not getting the rest he needs.”

Ralph said: “I know, my lady, but Brother Godwyn wouldn’t bother the earl unnecessarily.”

Something in Ralph’s tone made Godwyn look at him. Although Ralph’s words were mundane, the expression on his face was adoring. Godwyn noticed, then, how voluptuous Philippa was. She wore a dark-red dress belted at the waist, and the fine wool clung to her breasts and hips. She looked like a statue representing Temptation, Godwyn thought, and he wished, yet again, that he could find a way to ban women from the priory. It was bad enough if a squire fell in love with a married woman, but for a monk to do the same would be a catastrophe.

“I regret the need to trouble the earl,” Godwyn said. “But there’s a friar waiting downstairs to see him.”

“I know – Murdo. Is his business so urgent?”

“On the contrary. But I need to forewarn the earl what to expect.”

“So you know what the friar is going to say?”

“I believe I do.”

“Well, I think it’s best if the two of you see the earl together.”

Godwyn said: “But-” then pretended to stifle a protest.

Philippa looked at Ralph. “Get the friar up here, please.”

Ralph summoned Murdo, and Philippa ushered him and Godwyn into the room. Earl Roland was on the bed, fully dressed as before, but this time he was sitting up, his bandaged head cushioned with feather pillows. “What’s this?” he said with his usual bad temper. “A meeting of the chapter? What do you monks want?”

Looking at his visage directly for the first time since the bridge collapse, Godwyn was shocked to see that the entire right side of his face was paralysed: the eyelid drooped, the cheek hardly moved and the mouth was slack. What made it so startling was that the left side was animated. When Roland spoke the left side of his forehead frowned, his left eye opened wide and seemed to blaze with authority, and he spoke vehemently out of the left side of his mouth. The doctor in Godwyn was fascinated. He knew that head injuries could have unpredictable effects, but he had never heard of this particular manifestation.

“Don’t gawk at me,” the earl said impatiently. “You look like a pair of cows staring over a hedge. State your business.”

Godwyn pulled himself together. He had to tread carefully over the next few minutes. He knew that Roland would reject Murdo’s application to be nominated as prior. All the same, he wanted to plant in Roland’s mind the idea of Murdo as a possible alternative to Saul Whitehead. Therefore Godwyn’s job was to strengthen Murdo’s application. He would do this, paradoxically, by objecting to Murdo, thereby showing Roland that Murdo would owe no allegiance to the monks – for Roland wanted a prior who served him alone. But, on the other hand, Godwyn must not protest too strongly, for he did not want the earl to realize what a truly hopeless candidate Murdo actually was. It was a tortuous path to walk.

Murdo spoke first, in his sonorous pulpit voice. “My lord, I come to ask you to consider me for the position of prior of Kingsbridge. I believe-”

“Not so loud, for the love of the saints,” Roland protested.

Murdo lowered his voice. “My lord, I believe that I-”

“Why do you want to be prior?” Roland said, interrupting him again. “I thought a friar was a monk without a church – by definition.” This point of view was old-fashioned. Friars originally were travellers who held no property, but nowadays some of the fraternal orders were as wealthy as traditional monks. Roland knew this, and was just being provocative.

Murdo gave the standard answer. “I believe that God accepts both forms of sacrifice.”

“So you’re willing to turn your coat.”

“I have come to think that the talents he gave me could be put to better use in a priory, so yes, I would be happy to embrace the Rule of St Benedict.”

“But why should I consider you?”

“I am also an ordained priest.”

“No shortage of those.”

“And I have a following in Kingsbridge and the surrounding countryside such that, if I may be allowed to boast, I must be the most influential man of God in the area.”

Father Jerome spoke for the first time. He was a confident young man with an intelligent face, and Godwyn sensed that he was ambitious. “It’s true,” he said. “The friar is extraordinarily popular.”

He was not popular with the monks, of course – but neither Roland nor Jerome knew that, and Godwyn was not about to enlighten them.

Nor was Murdo. He bowed his head and said unctuously: “I thank you from my heart, Father Jerome.”

Godwyn said: “He is popular with the ignorant multitude.”

“As was our Saviour,” Murdo shot back.

“Monks should lead lives of poverty and self-denial,” Godwyn said.

Roland put in: “The friar’s clothes look poor enough. And as for self-denial, it seems to me that Kingsbridge monks eat better than many peasants.”

“Friar Murdo has been seen drunk in taverns!” Godwyn protested.

Murdo said: “St Benedict’s Rule permits monks to drink wine.”

“Only if they are sick, or labouring in the fields.”

“I preach in the fields.”

Murdo was a formidable opponent in an argument, Godwyn noted. He was glad that he did not actually want to win this one. He turned to Roland. “All I can say is that as the sacrist here I strongly counsel your lordship against nominating Murdo as prior of Kingsbridge.”

“Noted,” Roland said coldly.

Philippa gave Godwyn a look of mild surprise, and he realized he had yielded a little too easily. But Roland had not noticed: he did not deal in nuances.

Murdo had not finished. “The prior of Kingsbridge must serve God, of course; but, in all things temporal, he should be guided by the king, and the king’s earls and barons.”

That was about as plain as could be, Godwyn thought. Murdo might as well have said: “I will be your man.” It was an outrageous declaration. The monks would be horrified. It would wipe out any support there might have been among them for Murdo’s candidacy.

Godwyn made no comment, but Roland looked inquiringly at him. “Anything to say to that, sacrist?”

“I’m sure the friar did not mean to say that the priory of Kingsbridge should be in subjection to the earl of Shiring in any matter, temporal or otherwise – did you, Murdo?”

“I have said what I have said,” Murdo replied in his pulpit voice.

“Enough,” said Roland, bored now with the game. “You’re wasting your time, both of you. I shall nominate Saul Whitehead. Off you go.”

*

St-John-in-the-Forest was a miniature version of Kingsbridge Priory. The church was small, as were the stone-built cloisters and dormitory; the rest of the buildings were simple wood-frame structures. There were eight monks and no nuns. In addition to their lives of prayer and meditation, they grew most of their own food and made a goat’s cheese that was famous throughout south-west England.

Godwyn and Philemon had been riding for two days, and it was early evening when the road emerged from the forest and they saw a wide acreage of cleared land with the church in the middle. Godwyn knew at once that his fears were true, and reports that Saul Whitehead was doing a good job as prior of this cell were, if anything, understated. There was a look of order and neatness about everything: the hedges trimmed, the ditches straight, the trees planted at measured intervals in the orchard, the fields of ripening grain free of weeds. He felt sure he would find that the services were held at the correct times and conducted reverently. He had to hope that Saul’s evident fitness for leadership had not made him ambitious.

As they rode along the path through the fields, Philemon said: “Why is the earl so keen to make his cousin prior of Kingsbridge?”

“For the same reason that he had his younger son made bishop of Kingsbridge,” Godwyn replied. “Bishops and priors are powerful. The earl wants to make sure that any influential man in his neighbourhood is an ally, not an enemy.”

“What might they quarrel about?”

Godwyn was interested to see that young Philemon was beginning to be intrigued by the chess game of power politics. “Land, taxes, rights, privileges… for example, the prior might want to build a new bridge at Kingsbridge, to bring more business to the Fleece Fair; and the earl might oppose such a scheme, on the grounds that it would take business away from his own fair at Shiring.”

“But I don’t really see how the prior could fight against the earl. A prior has no soldiers…”

“A clergyman can influence the mass of the people. If he preaches a sermon against the earl, or calls upon the saints to bring misfortune to the earl, people will begin to believe that the earl is cursed. Then they will discount his power, mistrust him, and expect all his projects to be doomed. It can be very hard for a nobleman to oppose a truly determined cleric. Look what happened to King Henry II after the murder of Thomas Becket.”

They rode into the farmyard and dismounted. The horses immediately drank from the trough. There was no one about but a monk with his robe hitched up mucking out a pigsty behind the stables. He was sure to be a youngster, doing a job like that. Godwyn called to him. “Hey, you, lad! Come and help us with our horses.”

“Righto!” the monk called back. He finished cleaning out the sty with a few more passes of his rake, then leaned the tool up against the stable wall and walked towards the newcomers. Godwyn was about to tell him to get a move on when he recognized the blond fringe of Saul.

Godwyn disapproved. A prior should not muck out a pigsty. Ostentatious humility was, after all, ostentation. However, in this case Saul’s meekness might suit Godwyn’s purpose.

He gave Saul a friendly smile. “Hello, brother. I didn’t mean to order the prior to unsaddle my horse.”

“Why not?” said Saul. “Someone must do it, and you’ve been travelling all day.” Saul led the horses into the stable. “The brothers are in the fields,” he called out. “But they’ll be back soon for Evensong.” He re-emerged. “Come into the kitchen.”

They had never been close. Godwyn could not help feeling criticized by Saul’s piety. Saul was never unfriendly, but with quiet determination he simply did things differently. Godwyn had to take care not to become irritated. He felt stressed enough already.

Godwyn and Philemon followed Saul across the farmyard and into a one-storey building with a high roof. Although made of wood, it had a stone fireplace and chimney. They sat gratefully on a rough bench at a scrubbed table. Saul drew two generous cups of ale from a large barrel.

He sat opposite them. Philemon drank thirstily, but Godwyn just sipped. Saul offered no food, and Godwyn guessed they would get nothing more until after Evensong. He felt too tense to eat, anyway.

This was another delicate moment, he reflected anxiously. He had had to protest against Murdo’s nomination in such a way as not to dissuade Roland. Now he had to invite Saul to stand in a way that he could not possibly accept. He knew what he was going to say, but he had to say it right. If he made a false step, Saul would become suspicious, and then anything could happen.

Saul gave him no time for further worry. “What brings you here, brother?” he said.

“Earl Roland has recovered his wits.”

“I thank God.”

“This means we can hold the election for prior.”

“Good. We should not go too long without one.”

“But who should it be?”

Saul sidestepped the question. “Have any names been put forward?”

“Brother Thomas, the matricularius.”

“He’d be a good manager. No one else?”

Godwyn told a half-truth. “Not formally.”

“What about Carlus? When I came to Kingsbridge for Prior Anthony’s funeral, the sub-prior was the leading candidate.”

“He feels he is not capable of the job.”

“Because of his blindness?”

“Perhaps.” Saul did not know about Carlus falling over during the service for St Adolphus’s birthday. Godwyn decided not to tell him. “At any rate, he has thought and prayed about it, and made his decision.”

“Has the earl not made a nomination?”

“He’s thinking about it.” Godwyn hesitated. “That’s why we’re here. The earl is… considering nominating you.” This was not really a lie, Godwyn told himself; just a misleading emphasis.

“I’m honoured.”

Godwyn studied him. “But not completely surprised, perhaps?”

Saul flushed. “Forgive me. The great Philip was in charge here at St John and then became prior of Kingsbridge, and others have followed the same route. That is not to say that I’m worthy as they were, of course. But the thought had crossed my mind, I confess.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04