Pillars of the Earth, book 2 50 страница

“The door isn’t open wide. I would have to renounce my vows. Mother Cecilia-”

“We’ll have to work on all these problems. Let’s begin right away.”

She looked miserable. “I’m not sure.”

She was torn, he could see. It amazed him. “Is this you?” he said incredulously. “You used to hate the hypocrisy and falsehood that you saw in the priory. Lazy, greedy, dishonest, tyrannical-”

“That’s still true of Godwyn and Philemon.”

“Then leave.”

“And do what?”

“Marry me, of course.”

“Is that all?”

Once again he was bewildered. “It’s all I want.”

“No, it’s not. You want to design palaces and castles. You want to build the tallest building in England.”

“If you need someone to take care of…”

“What?”

“I’ve got a little girl. Her name is Lolla. She’s three.”

That seemed to settle Caris’s mind. She sighed. “I’m a senior official in a convent of thirty-five nuns, ten novices and twenty-five employees, with a school and a hospital and a pharmacy – and you’re asking me to throw all that up to nursemaid one little girl I’ve never met.”

He gave up arguing. “All I know is that I love you and I want to be with you.”

She laughed humourlessly. “If you had said that and nothing else, you might have talked me into it.”

“I’m confused,” he said. “Are you refusing me, or not?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Merthin lay awake much of the night. He was accustomed to bedding down in taverns, and the sounds Lolla made in her sleep only soothed him; but tonight he could not stop thinking about Caris. He was shocked by her reaction to his return. He realized, now, that he had never thought logically about how she would feel when he reappeared. He had indulged in unrealistic nightmares about how she might have changed, and in his heart he had hoped for a joyous reconciliation. Of course she had not forgotten him; but he could have figured out that she would not have spent nine years moping for him: she was not the type.

All the same, he would never have guessed that she would be so committed to her work as a nun. She had always been more or less hostile to the church. Given how dangerous it was to criticize religion in any way, she might well have concealed the true depth of her scepticism even from him. So it was a terrible shock to find her reluctant to leave the nunnery. He had anticipated fear of Bishop Richard’s death sentence, or anxiety about being permitted to renounce her vows, but he had not suspected she might have found life in the priory so fulfilling that she hesitated to leave it to become his wife.

He felt angry with her. He wished he had said: “I’ve travelled a thousand miles to ask you to marry me – how can you say you’re not sure?” He thought of a lot of biting remarks he might have made. Perhaps it was a good thing they had not occurred to him then. Their conversation had ended with her asking him to give her time to get over the shock of his sudden return and think about what she wanted to do. He had consented – he had no alternative – but it had left him hanging in agony like a man crucified.

Eventually he drifted into a troubled sleep.

Lolla woke him early, as usual, and they went down to the parlour tor porridge. He repressed the impulse to go straight to the hospital and speak to Caris again. She had asked for time, and it would do his cause no good to pester her. It occurred to him that there might be more shocks in store for him, and that he had better try to catch up with what had been happening in Kingsbridge. So after breakfast he went to see Mark Webber.

The Webber family lived on the main street in a large house they had bought soon after Caris got them started in the cloth business. Merthin remembered the days when they and their four children had lived in one room that was not much bigger than the loom on which Mark worked. Their new house had a large stone-built ground floor used as a storeroom and shop. The living quarters were in the timber-built upper storey. Merthin found Madge in the shop, checking a cartload of scarlet cloth that had just arrived from one of their out-of-town mills. She was almost forty now, with strands of grey in her dark hair. A short woman, she had become quite plump, with a prominent bosom and a vast behind. She made Merthin think of a pigeon, but an aggressive one, because of her jutting chin and assertive manner.

With her were two youngsters, a beautiful girl of about seventeen and a strapping boy a couple of years older. Merthin recalled her two older children – Dora, a thin girl in a ragged dress, and John, a shy boy – and realized that these were the same, grown up. Now John was effortlessly lifting the heavy bales of cloth while Dora counted them by notching a stick. It made Merthin feel old. I’m only thirty-two, he thought; but that seemed old when he looked at John.

Madge gave a cry of surprise and pleasure when she saw him. She hugged him and kissed his bearded cheeks, then made a fuss of Lolla. “I thought she could come and play with your children,” Merthin said ruefully. “Of course they’re much too old.”

“Dennis and Noah are at the priory school,” she said. “They’re thirteen and eleven. But Dora will entertain Lolla – she loves children.”

The young woman picked Lolla up. “The cat next door has kittens,” she said. “Do you want to see them?”

Lolla replied with a stream of Italian, which Dora took for assent, and they went off.

Madge left John to finish unloading the cart and took Merthin upstairs. “Mark has gone to Melcombe,” she said. “We export some of our cloth to Brittany and Gascony. He should be back today or tomorrow.”

Merthin sat in her parlour and accepted a cup of ale. “Kingsbridge seems to be prospering,” he said.

“The trade in fleeces has declined,” she said. “It’s because of war taxes. Everything has to be sold through a handful of large traders so that the king can collect his share. There are still a few dealers here in Kingsbridge – Petranilla carries on the business Edmund left – but it’s nothing like it used to be. Luckily, the trade in finished cloth has grown to replace it, in this town at least.”

“Is Godwyn still prior?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is he still making difficulties?”

“He’s so conservative. He objects to any change and vetoes all progress. For example, Mark proposed opening the market on Saturday as well as Sunday, as an experiment.”

“What possible objection could Godwyn have to that?”

“He said it would enable people to come to market without going to church, which would be a bad thing.”

“Some of them might have gone to church on Saturday too.”

“Godwyn’s cup is always half empty, never half full.”

“Surely the parish guild opposes him?”

“Not very often. Elfric is alderman now. He and Alice got almost everything Edmund left.”

“The alderman doesn’t have to be the richest man in town.”

“But he usually is. Remember, Elfric employs lots of craftsmen – carpenters, stonemasons, mortar makers, scaffolders – and buys from everyone who trades in building materials. The town is full of people who are more or less bound to support him.”

“And Elfric has always been close to Godwyn.”

“Exactly. He gets all the priory’s building work – which means every public project.”

“And he’s such a shoddy builder!”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Madge said in a musing tone. “You’d think Godwyn would want the best man for the job. But he doesn’t. For him, it’s all about who will be compliant, who will obey his wishes unquestioningly.”

Merthin felt a bit depressed. Nothing had changed: his enemies were still in power. It might prove difficult for him to resume his old life. “No good news for me there, then.” He stood up. “I’d better take a look at my island.”

“I’m sure Mark will seek you out as soon as he returns from Melcombe.”

Merthin went next door for Lolla, but she was having such a good time that he left her with Dora, and strolled through the town to the riverside. He took another look at the cracks in his bridge, but he did not need to study them long: the cause was obvious. He made a tour of Leper Island. Little had changed: there were a few wharves and storehouses at the west end and just one house, the one he had lent to Jimmie, at the east end, beside the road that led from one span of the bridge to the other.

When he first took possession of the island, he had had ambitious plans for developing it. Nothing had happened, of course, during his exile. Now he thought he could do something. He paced the ground, making rough measurements and visualizing buildings and even streets, until it was time for the midday meal.

He picked Lolla up and returned to the Bell. Bessie served a tasty pork stew thickened with barley. The tavern was quiet, and Bessie joined them for dinner, bringing a jug of her best red wine. When they had eaten, she poured him another cup, and he told her about his ideas. “The road across the island, from one bridge to the other, is an ideal place to put shops,” he said.

“And taverns,” she pointed out. “This place and the Holly Bush are the busiest inns in town simply because they are close to the cathedral. Any place where people are continually passing by is a good location for a tavern.”

“If I built a tavern on Leper Island, you could run it.”

She gave him a direct look. “We could run it together.”

He smiled at her. He was full of her good food and wine, and any man would have loved to tumble into bed with her and enjoy her soft, round body; but it was not to be. “I was very fond of my wife, Silvia,” he said. “But, all the time we were married, I kept thinking about Caris. And Silvia knew it.”

Betty looked away. “That’s sad.”

“I know. And I’ll never do it to another woman. I won’t get married again, unless it’s to Caris. I’m not a good man, but I’m not that bad.”

“Caris may never marry you.”

“I know.”

She stood up, picking up their bowls. “You are a good man,” she said. “Too good.” She returned to the kitchen.

Merthin put Lolla to bed for a nap, then sat on a bench in front of the tavern, looking down the hillside at Leper Island, sketching on a big slate, enjoying the September sunshine. He did not get much work done because every other person who walked past wanted to welcome him home and ask what he had been doing for the last nine years.

Late in the afternoon he saw the massive figure of Mark Webber coming up the hill driving a cart bearing a barrel. Mark had always been a giant but now, Merthin observed, he was a plump giant.

Merthin shook his enormous hand. “I’ve been to Melcombe,” Mark said. “I go every few weeks.”

“What’s in the barrel?”

“Wine from Bordeaux, straight off the ship – which also brought news. You know that Princess Joan was on her way to Spain?”

“Yes.” Every well-informed person in Europe knew that the fifteen-year-old daughter of King Edward was to marry Prince Pedro, heir to the throne of Castile. The marriage would forge an alliance between England and the largest of the Iberian kingdoms, ensuring that Edward could concentrate on his interminable war against France without worrying about interference from the south.

“Well,” said Mark, “Joan died of the plague in Bordeaux.”

Merthin was doubly shocked: partly because Edward’s position in France had suddenly become shaky, but mainly because the plague had spread so far. “They have the plague in Bordeaux?”

“Bodies piled in the streets, the French sailors told me.”

Merthin was unnerved. He had thought he had left la moria grande behind him. Surely it would not come as far as England? He did not fear it personally: no one had ever caught it twice, so he was safe, and Lolla was among those who for some reason did not succumb to it. But he was afraid for everyone else – especially Caris.

Mark had other things on his mind. “You’ve returned at just the right time. Some of the younger merchants are getting fed up with Elfric as alderman. A lot of the time he’s just a dogsbody for Godwyn. I’m planning to challenge him. You could be influential. There’s a meeting of the parish guild tonight – come along and we’ll get you admitted right away.”

“Won’t it matter that I never finished my apprenticeship?”

“After what you’ve built, here and abroad? Hardly.”

“All right” Merthin needed to be a guild member if he was going to develop the island. People always found reasons to object to new buildings, and he might need support himself. But he was not as confident of his acceptance as Mark.

Mark took his barrel home and Merthin went inside to give Lolla her supper. At sundown Mark returned to the Bell, and Merthin walked with him up the main street as the warm afternoon turned into a chilly evening.

The guild hall had seemed like a fine building to Merthin years ago, when he had stood here and presented his bridge design to the parish guild. But it appeared awkward and shabby now that he had seen the grand public buildings of Italy. He wondered what men such as Buonaventura Caroli and Loro Fiorentino must think of its rough stone undercroft, with the prison and the kitchen, and its main hall with a row of pillars running awkwardly down the middle to support the roof.

Mark introduced him to a handful of men who had arrived in Kingsbridge, or had come to prominence, in Merthin’s absence. However, most of the faces were familiar, albeit a little older. Merthin greeted those few he had not already encountered in the last two days. Among these was Elfric, ostentatiously dressed in a brocade surcoat made with silver thread. He showed no surprise – someone had obviously told him Merthin was back – but glared with undisguised hostility.

Also present were Prior Godwyn and his sub-prior, Brother Philemon. Godwyn at forty-two was looking more like his uncle Anthony, Merthin observed, with downsloping lines of querulous discontent around his mouth. He put on a pretence of affability that might have fooled someone who did not know him. Philemon, too, had changed. He was no longer lean and awkward. He had filled out like a prosperous merchant, and carried himself with an air of arrogant self-assurance

A handsome, dark-haired young man crossed himself when he saw Merthin, then revealed that he was Merthin’s former protege, Jimmie, now known as Jeremiah Builder. Merthin was delighted to find that he was doing well enough to belong to the parish guild. However, it seemed he was still as superstitious as ever.

Mark mentioned the news about Princess Joan to everyone he spoke to. Merthin answered one or two anxious questions about the plague, but the Kingsbridge merchants were more concerned that the collapse of the alliance with Castile would prolong the French war, which was bad for business.

Elfric sat on the big chair in front of the giant woolsack scales and opened the meeting. Mark immediately proposed that Merthin should be admitted as a member.

Not surprisingly, Elfric objected. “He was never a member of the guild because he did not finish his apprenticeship.”

“Because he wouldn’t marry your daughter, you mean,” said one of the men, and they all laughed. Merthin took a few moments to identify the speaker: it was Bill Watkin, the house builder, the black hair around his bald dome now turning grey.

“Because he is not a craftsman of the required standard,” Elfric persisted stubbornly.

“How can you say that?” Mark protested. “He has built houses, churches, palaces-”

“And our bridge, which is cracking after only eight years.”

“You built that, Elfric.”

“I followed Merthin’s design exactly. Clearly the arches are not strong enough to bear the weight of the roadbed and the traffic upon it. The iron braces I have installed have not been sufficient to prevent the cracks widening. Therefore I propose to reinforce the arches either side of the central pier, on both bridges, with a second course of masonry, doubling their thickness. I thought this subject might come up tonight, so I have prepared estimates of the cost.”

Elfric must have started to plan this attack the moment he heard that Merthin was back in town. He had always seen Merthin as an enemy: nothing had changed. However, he had failed to understand the problem with the bridge, and that gave Merthin his chance.

He spoke to Jeremiah in a low voice. “Would you do something for me?”

“After all you did for me? Anything!”

“Run to the priory now and ask to speak to Sister Caris urgently. Tell her to find the original drawing I made for the bridge. It should be in the priory library. Bring it here right away.”

Jeremiah slipped out of the room.

Elfric went on: “I must tell guildsmen that I have already spoken to Prior Godwyn, who says the priory cannot afford to pay for this repair. We will have to finance it, as we financed the original cost of building the bridge, and be repaid out of penny tolls.”

They all groaned. There followed a long and bad-tempered discussion about how much money each member of the guild should put up. Merthin felt animosity building up towards him in the room. This was undoubtedly what Elfric had intended. Merthin kept looking at the door, willing Jeremiah to reappear.

Bill Watkin said: “Maybe Merthin should pay for the repairs, if it’s his design that’s at fault.”

Merthin could not stay out of the discussion any longer. He threw caution to the winds. “I agree,” he said.

There was a startled silence.

“If my design has caused the cracks, I’ll repair the bridge at my own expense,” he went on recklessly. Bridges were costly: if he was wrong about the problem, it could cost half his fortune.

Bill said: “Handsomely said, I’m sure.”

Merthin said: “But I have something to say, first, if guildsmen will permit.” He looked at Elfric.

Elfric hesitated, obviously trying to think of a reason for refusing; but Bill said: “Let him speak,” and there was a chorus of assent.

Elfric nodded reluctantly.

“Thank you,” said Merthin. “When an arch is weak, it cracks in a characteristic pattern. The stones at the top of the arch are pressed downwards, so that their lower edges splay apart, and a crack appears at the crown of the arch on the intrados – the underside.”

“That’s true,” said Bill Watkin. “I’ve seen that sort of crack many a time. It’s not usually fatal.”

Merthin went on: “This is not the type of cracking you’re seeing on the bridge. Contrary to what Elfric said, those arches are strong enough: the thickness of the arch is one twentieth of its diameter at the base, which is the standard proportion, in every country.”

The builders in the room nodded. They all knew that ratio.

“The crown is intact. However, there are horizontal cracks at the springing of the arch either side of the central pier.”

Bill spoke again. “You sometimes see that in a quadripartite vault.”

“Which this bridge is not,” Merthin pointed out. “The vaults are simple.”

“What’s causing it, then?”

“Elfric did not follow my original design.”

Elfric said: “I did!”

“I specified a pile of large, loose stones at both ends of the piers.”

“A pile of stones?” Elfric said mockingly. “And you say that’s what was going to keep your bridge upright?”

“Yes, I do,” Merthin said. He could tell that even the builders in the room agreed with Elfric’s scepticism. But they did not know about bridges, which were different from any other kind of building because they stood in water. “The piles of stones were an essential part of the design.”

“They were never in the drawings.”

“Would you like to show us my drawings, Elfric, to prove your point?”

“The tracing floor is long gone.”

“I did a drawing on parchment. It should be in the priory library.”

Elfric looked at Godwyn. At that moment the complicity between the two men was blatant, and Merthin hoped the rest of the guild could see it. Godwyn said: “Parchment is costly. That drawing was scraped and reused long ago.”

Merthin nodded as if he believed Godwyn. There was still no sign of Jeremiah. Merthin might have to win the argument without the help of the original plans. “The stones would have prevented the problem that is now causing the cracks,” he said.

Philemon put in: “You would say that, wouldn’t you? But why should we believe you? It’s just your word against Elfric’s.”

Merthin realized he would have to stick his neck out. All or nothing, he thought. “I will tell you what the problem is, and prove it to you, in daylight, if you will meet me at the riverside tomorrow at dawn.”

Elfric’s face showed that he wanted to refuse this challenge, but Bill Watkin said: “Fair enough! We’ll be there.”

“Bill, can you bring two sensible boys who are good swimmers and divers?”

“Easy.”

Elfric had lost control of the meeting, and Godwyn intervened, revealing himself as the puppetmaster. “What kind of a mockery are you planning?” he said angrily.

But it was too late. The others were curious now. “Let him make his point,” said Bill. “If it’s a mockery, we’ll all know soon enough.”

Just then, Jeremiah came in. Merthin was pleased to see that he was carrying a wooden frame with a large sheet of parchment stretched across it. Elfric stared at Jeremiah, shocked.

Godwyn looked pale and said: “Who gave you that?”

“A revealing question,” Merthin commented. “The lord prior doesn’t ask what the drawing shows, nor where it came from – he seems to know all that already. He just wonders who handed it over.”

Bill said: “Never mind all that. Show us the drawing, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah stood in front of the scales and turned the frame round so that everyone could see the drawing. There at the ends of the piers were the piles of stones Merthin had spoken of.

Merthin stood up. “In the morning, I’ll explain how they work.”

*

Summer was turning into autumn, and it was chilly on the river bank at dawn. News had somehow got around that a drama would take place and, as well as the members of the parish guild, there were two or three hundred people waiting to see the clash between Merthin and Elfric. Even Caris was there. This was no longer merely an argument about an engineering problem, Merthin realized. He was the youngster challenging the authority of the old bull, and the herd understood that.

Bill Watkin produced two lads of twelve or thirteen, stripped to their undershorts and shivering. It turned out they were Mark Webber’s younger sons, Dennis and Noah. Dennis, the thirteen-year-old, was short and chunky, like his mother. He had red-brown hair the colour of leaves in autumn. Noah, the younger by two years, was taller, and would probably grow up to be as big as Mark. Merthin identified with the short redhead. He wondered whether Dennis was embarrassed, as Merthin himself had been at that age, to have a younger brother who was bigger and stronger.

Merthin thought Elfric might object to Mark’s sons being the divers, on the grounds that they might have been briefed in advance by their father and told what to say. However, Elfric said nothing. Mark was too transparently honest for anyone to suspect him of such duplicity, and perhaps Elfric realized that – or, more likely, Godwyn realized it.

Merthin told the boys what to do. “Swim out to the central pier, then dive. You’ll find the pier is smooth for a long way down. Then there’s the foundation, a great lump of stones held together with mortar. When you reach the river bed, feel underneath the foundation. You probably won’t be able to see anything – the water will be too muddy. But hold your breath for as long as you can and investigate thoroughly all around the base. Then come up to the surface and tell us exactly what you find.”

They both jumped into the water and swam out. Merthin spoke to the assembled townspeople. “The bed of this river is not rock but mud. The current swirls around the piers of a bridge and scours the mud out from underneath the pillars, leaving a depression filled only with water. This happened to the old wooden bridge. The oak piers were not resting on the river bed at all, but hanging from the superstructure. That’s why the bridge collapsed. To prevent the same thing happening to the new bridge, I specified piles of large rough stones around the feet of the piers. Such piles break up the current so that its action is haphazard and weak. However, the piles were not installed and so the piers have been undermined. They are no longer supporting the bridge, but hanging from it – and that’s why there are cracks where the pier joins the arch.”

Elfric snorted sceptically, but the other builders looked intrigued. The two boys reached midstream, touched the central pier, took deep breaths and disappeared.

Merthin said: “When they come back, they will tell us that the pier is not resting on the river bed, but hanging over a depression, filled with water, large enough for a man to climb into.”

He hoped he was right.

Both boys stayed under water for a surprisingly long time. Merthin found himself feeling breathless, as it were in sympathy with them. At last a wet head of red hair broke the surface, then a brown one. The two boys conversed briefly, nodding, as if establishing that they had both observed the same thing. Then they struck out for the shore.

Merthin was not completely sure of his diagnosis, but he could think of no other explanation for the cracks. And he had felt the need to appear supremely confident. If he now turned out to be wrong, he would look all the more foolish.

The boys reached the bank and waded out of the water, panting. Madge gave them blankets which they pulled around their shaking shoulders. Merthin allowed them a few moments to catch their breath, then said: “Well? What did you find?”

“Nothing,” said Dennis, the elder.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“There’s nothing there, at the bottom of the pillar.”

Elfric looked triumphant. “Just the mud of the river bed, you mean.”

“No!” said Dennis. “No mud – just water.”

Noah put in: “There’s a hole you could climb into – easily! That big pillar is just hanging in the water, with nothing under it.”

Merthin tried not to look relieved.

Elfric blustered: “There’s still no authority for saying a pile of loose stones would have solved the problem.” But no one was listening to him. In the eyes of the crowd, Merthin had proved his point. They gathered around him, commenting and questioning. After a few moments, Elfric walked away alone.

Merthin felt a momentary pang of compassion. Then he recalled how, when he was an apprentice, Elfric had hit him across the face with a length of timber; and his pity evaporated into the cold morning air.

The following morning, a monk came to see Merthin at the Bell. When he pulled back his hood, Menhin did not at first recognize him. Then he saw that the monk’s left arm was cut off at the elbow, and he realized it was Brother Thomas, now in his forties, with a grey beard and deep-set lines around his eyes and mouth. Was his secret still dangerous after all these years, Merthin wondered? Would Thomas’s life be in danger, even now, if the truth came out?

But Thomas had not come to talk about that. “You were right about the bridge,” he said.

Merthin nodded. There was a sour satisfaction in it. He had been right, but Prior Godwyn had fired him, and in consequence his bridge would never be perfect. “I wanted to explain the importance of the rough stones, back then,” he said. “But I knew Elfric and Godwyn would never listen to me. So I told Edmund Wooler, then he died.”

“You should have told me.”

“I wish I had.”

“Come with me to the church,” Thomas said. “Since you can read so much from a few cracks, I’d like to show you something, if I may.”

He led Merthin to the south transept. Here and in the south aisle of the choir Elfric had rebuilt the arches, following the partial collapse eleven years ago. Merthin saw immediately what Thomas was worrying about: the cracks had reappeared.

“You said they would come back,” Thomas said.

“Unless you discovered the root cause of the problem, yes.”

“You were right. Elfric was wrong twice.”

Merthin felt a spark of excitement. If the tower needed rebuilding… “You understand that, but does Godwyn?”

Thomas did not answer the question. “What do you think the root cause might be?”

Menhin concentrated on the immediate problem. He had thought about this, on and off, for years. “This is not the original tower, is it?” he said. “According to Timothy’s Book, it has been rebuilt, and made higher.”

“About a hundred years ago, yes – when the raw wool business was booming. Do you think they made it too high?”

“It depends on the foundations.” The site of the cathedral sloped gently to the south, towards the river, and that might be a factor. He walked through the crossing, under the tower, to the north transept. He stood at the foot of the massive pillar at the north-east corner of the crossing and looked up at the arch that stretched over his head, across the north aisle of the choir, to the wall.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04