Suddenly she caught a look from Gwenda. Her eyes widened, an expression of panic crossed her face, and she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was gone in an instant, but the message was unmistakable: Shut up! Caris clamped her teeth together.
“Who?” said Julie innocently.
Caris hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say. At last she was inspired. “Philemon, Gwenda’s brother,” she said.
“Of course,” said Julie. “Someone should tell him to come and see his new nephew.”
Caris was bewildered. So the baby was not Wulfric’s? Then whose? It could not be Merthin’s. He might have lain with Gwenda – he was certainly vulnerable to temptation – but he could never have kept it secret from Caris afterwards. If not Merthin…
Caris was struck by a dreadful thought. What had gone on that day when Gwenda went to plead with Ralph for Wulfric’s inheritance? Could the baby be Ralph’s? It was too grim to contemplate.
She looked at Gwenda, then at the baby, then at Wulfric. Wulfric was smiling with joy, though his face was still wet with tears. He had no suspicions.
Julie said: “Have you thought about the baby’s name?”
“Oh, yes,” said Wulfric. “I want to name him Samuel.”
Gwenda nodded, looking down at the baby’s face. “Samuel,” she said. “Sammy. Sam.”
“After my father,” Wulfric said happily.
One year after the death of Anthony, Kingsbridge Priory was a different place, Godwyn thought, with satisfaction, as he stood in the cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair.
The main difference was the separation of monks and nuns. They no longer mingled in the cloisters, the library or the scriptorium. Even here in the church, a new carved-oak screen running down the centre of the choir prevented them from looking at one another during the services. Only in the hospital were they sometimes forced to mix.
In his sermon, Prior Godwyn said the collapse of the bridge a year ago had been God’s punishment for laxity in the monks and nuns, and for sin among the townspeople. The new spirit of rigour and purity at the priory, and piety and submission in the town, would lead to a better life for all, in this world and the hereafter. He felt it went down quite well.
Afterwards he had dinner with Brother Simeon, the treasurer, in the prior’s house. Philemon served them stewed eel and cider. “I want to build a new prior’s house,” Godwyn said.
Simeon’s long, thin face seemed to get longer. “Any particular reason?”
“I’m sure I am the only prior in Christendom who lives in a house like a leather tanner’s. Think of the people who have been guests here in the last twelve months – the earl of Shiring, the bishop of Kingsbridge, the earl of Monmouth – this building isn’t appropriate for such folk. It gives a poor impression of us and of our order. We need a magnificent building to reflect the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory.”
“You want a palace,” said Simeon.
Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon’s tone of voice, as if Godwyn’s aim was to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It’s not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”
“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can’t afford it.”
Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”
“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”
Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”
Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition, and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look, and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer – and make an interesting contribution.
“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there’s no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”
Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”
“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain. Many of our serfs struggled to stay alive. It’s hard to force them to pay their rents when they’re hungry-”
“They must pay, all the same,” Godwyn said. “Monks get hungry too.”
Philemon spoke again. “If the bailiff of a village says that a serf has defaulted on his rent, or that part of the land is untenanted therefore no rent is due, you haven’t really got any way of checking that he’s telling the truth. Bailiffs can be bribed by serfs.”
Godwyn felt frustrated. He had had numerous conversations like this in the past year. He had been determined to tighten up control of the priory’s finances, but every time he tried to change things he ran into barriers. “Have you got a suggestion?” he said irritably to Philemon.
“Send an inspector on a tour of the villages. Let him speak to bailiffs, look at the land, go into the cottages of serfs who are said to be starving.”
“If the bailiff can be bribed, so can the inspector.”
“Not if he’s a monk. What use have we for money?”
Godwyn recalled Philemon’s old inclination to stealing. It was true that monks had no use for personal money, at least in theory, but that did not mean they were incorruptible. However, a visit from the prior’s inspector would certainly put bailiffs on their toes. “It’s a good idea,” Godwyn said. “Would you like to be the inspector?”
“I’d be honoured.”
“Then it’s settled.” Godwyn turned back to Simeon. “All the same, we still have a huge income.”
“And huge costs,” Simeon replied. “We pay a subvention to our bishop. We feed, clothe and house twenty-five monks, seven novices and nineteen pensioners of the priory. We employ thirty people as cleaners, cooks, stable boys and so on. We spend a fortune on candles. Monks’ robes-”
“All right, I’ve grasped your point,” Godwyn said impatiently. “But I still want to build a palace.”
“Where will you go for the money, then?”
Godwyn sighed. “Where we always go, in the end. I’ll ask Mother Cecilia.”
He saw her a few minutes later. Normally he would have asked her to come to him, as a sign of the superiority of the male within the church; but on this occasion he thought it best to flatter her.
The prioress’s house was an exact copy of the prior’s, but it had a different feel. There were cushions and rugs, flowers in a bowl on the table, embroidered samplers on the wall illustrating Bible stories and texts, and a cat asleep in front of the fireplace. Cecilia was finishing a dinner of roast lamb and dark-red wine. She put on a veil when Godwyn arrived, in accordance with a rule Godwyn had introduced, for occasions when monks had to talk to nuns.
He found Cecilia difficult to read, veiled or not. She had formally welcomed his election as prior, and had gone along unprotestingly with his stricter rules about separation of monks and nuns, making only the occasional practical point about the efficient running of the hospital. She had never opposed him, and yet he felt she was not really on his side. It seemed he was no longer able to charm her. When he was younger he had been able to make her laugh like a girl. Now she was no longer susceptible – or perhaps he had lost the knack.
Small talk was difficult with a woman in a veil, so he plunged straight into his topic. “I think we should build two new houses for entertaining noble and high-ranking guests,” he said. “One for men, one for women. They would be called the prior’s house and the prioress’s house, but their main purpose would be to accommodate visitors in the style to which they’re accustomed.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” Cecilia said. As ever, she was compliant without being enthusiastic.
“We should have impressive stone buildings,” Godwyn went on. “After all, you have been prioress here for more than a decade – you are one of the most senior nuns in the kingdom.”
“We want the guests to be impressed, not by our wealth, but by the holiness of the priory and the piety of the monks and nuns, of course,” she said.
“Indeed – but the buildings should symbolize that, as the cathedral symbolizes the majesty of God.”
“Where do you think the new buildings should be sited?”
This was good, Godwyn thought – she was already getting down to details. “Close to where the old houses are now.”
“So, yours near the east end of the church, next to the chapter house, and mine down here by the fishpond.”
It crossed Godwyn’s mind that she might be mocking him. He could not see her expression. Imposing a veil on women had its disadvantages, he reflected. “You might prefer a new location,” he said.
“Yes, I might.”
There was a short silence. Godwyn was finding it hard to broach the subject of money. He was going to have to change the rule about veils – make an exception for the prioress, perhaps. It was just too difficult to negotiate like this.
He was forced to plunge again. “Unfortunately, I would not be able to make any contribution to the building costs. The monastery is very poor.”
“To the cost of the prioress’s house, you mean?” she said. “I wouldn’t expect it.”
“No, actually, I meant the cost of the prior’s house.”
“Oh. So you want the nunnery to pay for your new house as well as mine.”
“I’m afraid I would have to ask you that, yes. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Well, if it’s for the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory…”
“I knew you would see it that way.”
“Let me see… Right now I’m building new cloisters for the nuns, as we no longer share with the monks.”
Godwyn made no comment. He was irritated that Cecilia had employed Merthin to design the cloisters, rather than the cheaper Elfric, which was a wasteful extravagance; but this was not the moment to say so.
Cecilia went on: “And when that’s done, I need to build a nuns’ library and buy some books for it, as we can’t use your library any more.”
Godwyn tapped his foot impatiently. This seemed irrelevant.
“And then we need a covered walkway to the church, as we now take a different route to that used by the monks, and we have no protection in bad weather.”
“Very reasonable,” Godwyn commented, though he wanted to say: Stop dithering!
“So,” she said with an air of finality, “I think we could consider this proposal in three years’ time.”
“Three years? I want to start now!”
“Oh, I don’t think we can contemplate that.”
“Why not?”
“We have a budget for building, you see.”
“But isn’t this more important?”
“We must stick to our budget.”
“Why?”
“So that we remain financially strong and independent,” she said; then she added pointedly: “I wouldn’t like to go begging.”
Godwyn did not know what to say. Worse, he had a ghastly feeling that she was laughing at him behind the veil. He could not stand to be laughed at. He stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Mother Cecilia,” he said coldly. “We’ll talk about this again.”
“Yes,” she said, “in three years’ time. I look forward to it.”
Now he was sure she was laughing. He turned away and left as quickly as he could.
Back in his own house, he threw himself in a chair, fuming. “I hate that woman,” he said to Philemon, who was still there.
“She said no?”
“She said she would consider it in three years’ time.”
“That’s worse than a no,” said Philemon. “It’s a three-year no.”
“We’re always in her power, because she has money.”
“I listen to the talk of the older men,” Philemon said, apparently irrelevantly. “It’s surprising how much you learn.”
“What are you getting at?”
“When the priory first built mills and dug fishponds and fenced oft rabbit warrens, the priors made a law that townspeople had to use the monks’ facilities, and pay for them. They weren’t allowed to grind their corn at home, or full cloth by treading it, nor could they have their own ponds and warrens – they had to buy from us. The law ensured that the priory got back its costs.”
“But the law fell out of use?”
“It changed. Instead of a prohibition, people were allowed their own facilities if they paid a fine. Then that fell out of use, in Prior Anthony’s time.”
“And now there’s a hand mill in every house.”
“And all the fishmongers have ponds, there are half a dozen warrens, and dyers full their own cloth by making their wives and children tread it, instead of bringing it to the priory’s fulling mill.”
Godwyn was excited. “If all those people paid a fine for the privilege of having their own facilities…”
“It could be quite a lot of money.”
“They would squeal like pigs.” Godwyn frowned. “Can we prove what we say?”
“There are plenty of people who remember the fines. But it’s bound to be written in the priory records somewhere – probably in Timothy’s Book.”
“You’d better find out exactly how much the fines were. If we’re resting on the ground of precedent, we’d better get it right.”
“If I may make a suggestion…”
“Of course.”
“You could announce the new regime from the pulpit of the cathedral on Sunday morning. That would serve to emphasize that it’s the will of God.”
“Good idea,” said Godwyn. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“I’ve got the solution,” Caris said to her father.
He sat back in the big wooden seat at the head of the table, a slight smile on his face. She knew that look. It was sceptical, but willing to listen. “Go on,” he said.
She was a little nervous. She felt sure her idea would work – saving her father’s fortune and Merthin’s bridge – but could she convince Edmund? “We take our surplus wool and have it woven into cloth and dyed,” she said simply. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
“Wool merchants often try that in hard times,” he said. “But tell me why you think it would work. What would it cost?”
“For cleaning, spinning and weaving, four shillings per sack.”
“And how much cloth would that make?”
“A sack of poor-quality wool, that you bought for thirty-six shillings and wove for four more shillings, would make forty-eight yards of cloth.”
“Which you would sell for…?”
“Undyed, brown burel sells for a shilling a yard, so forty-eight shillings – eight more than we would have paid out.”
“It’s not much, considering the work we would have put in.”
“But that’s not the best of it.”
“Keep going.”
“Weavers sell their brown burel because they’re in a hurry to get the money. But if you spend another twenty shillings fulling the cloth, then dyeing and finishing it, you can get double the price – two shillings a yard, ninety-six shillings for the whole lot – thirty-six shillings more than you paid!”
Edmund looked dubious. “If it’s so easy, why don’t more people do it?”
“Because they don’t have the money to lay out.”
“Nor do I!”
“You’ve got three pounds from Guillaume of London.”
“Am I to have nothing with which to buy wool next year?”
“At these prices, you’re better off out of the business.”
He laughed. “By the saints, you’re right. Very well, try it out with some cheap stuff. I’ve got five sacks of coarse Devon wool that the Italians never want. I’ll give you a sack of that, and see if you can do what you say.”
*
Two weeks later, Caris found Mark Webber smashing up his hand mill.
She was shocked to see a poor man destroying a valuable piece of equipment – so much so that, for a moment, she forgot her own troubles.
The hand mill consisted of two stone discs, each slightly roughened on one face. The smaller sat on the larger, fitting perfectly into a shallow indentation, rough side to rough. A protruding wooden handle enabled the upper stone to be turned while the lower remained still. Ears of grain placed between the two stones would be rapidly ground to flour.
Most Kingsbridge people of the lower class had a hand mill. The very poor could not afford one, and the affluent did not need one – they could buy flour already ground by a miller. But for families such as the Webbers, who needed every penny they earned to feed their children, a hand mill was a money-saving godsend.
Mark had laid his on the ground in front of his small house. He had borrowed from somewhere a long-handled sledgehammer with an iron head. Two of his children were watching, a thin girl in a ragged dress and a naked toddler. He lifted the hammer over his head and swung it in a long arc. It was a sight to see: he was the biggest man in Kingsbridge, with shoulders like a carthorse. The stone crazed like an eggshell and fell into pieces.
Caris said: “What on earth are you doing?”
“We must grind corn at the prior’s watermills, and forfeit one sack in twenty-four as a fee,” Mark replied.
He seemed phlegmatic about it, but she was horrified. “I thought the new rules applied only to unlicensed windmills and watermills.”
“Tomorrow I have to go around with John Constable, searching People’s homes, breaking up illicit hand mills. I can’t have them saying I’ve got one of my own. That’s why I’m doing this in the street, where everyone can see.”
“I didn’t realize Godwyn intended to take the bread out of the mouths of the poor,” Caris said grimly.
“Luckily for us, we’ve got some weaving to do – thanks to you.”
Caris turned her mind to her own business. “How are you getting on?”
“Finished.”
“That was quick!”
“It takes longer in winter. But in summer, with sixteen hours of daylight, I can weave six yards in a day, with Madge helping.”
“Wonderful!”
“Come inside and I’ll show you.”
His wife Madge was standing over the cooking fire at the back of the one-room house, with a baby on one arm and a shy boy at her side. Madge was shorter than her husband by more than a foot, but her build was chunky. She had a large bust and a jutting behind, and she made Caris think of a plump pigeon. Her protruding jaw gave her an aggressive air that was not entirely misleading. Although combative, she was good-hearted, and Caris liked her. She offered her visitor a cup of cider, which Caris refused, knowing the family could not afford it.
Mark’s loom was a wooden frame, more than a yard square, on a stand. It took up most of the living space. Behind it, close to the back door, was a table with two benches. Obviously they all slept on the floor around the loom.
“I make narrow dozens,” Mark explained. “A narrow dozen is a cloth a yard wide and twelve yards long. I can’t make broadcloth, because I haven’t room for such a wide loom.” Four rolls of brown burel were stacked against the wall. “One sack of wool makes four narrow dozens,” he said.
Caris had brought him the raw fleeces in a standard woolsack. Madge had arranged for the wool to be cleaned, sorted and spun into yarn. The spinning was done by the poor women of the town, and the cleaning and sorting by their children.
Caris felt the cloth. She was excited: she had completed the first stage of her plan. “Why is it so loosely woven?” she asked.
Mark bristled. “Loose? My burel is the tightest weave in Kingsbridge!”
“I know – I didn’t mean to sound critical. But Italian cloth feels so different – yet they make it from our wool.”
“Partly it depends on the weaver’s strength, and how hard he can press down the batten to pack the wool.”
“I don’t think the Italian weavers are all stronger than you.”
“Then it’s their machines. The better the loom, the closer the weave.”
“I was afraid of that.” The implication was that Caris could not compete with high-quality Italian wool unless she bought Italian looms, which seemed impossible.
One problem at a time, she told herself. She paid Mark, counting out four shillings, of which he would have to give about half to the women who had done the spinning. Caris had made eight shillings profit, Theoretically. Eight shillings would not pay for much work on the bridge. And at this rate it would take years to weave all her father’s surplus wool. “Is there any way we can produce cloth faster?” she said to Mark.
Madge answered. “There are other weavers in Kingsbridge, but most of them are committed to work for existing cloth merchants. I can find you more outside the town, though. The larger villages often have a weaver with a loom. He usually makes cloth for the villagers from their own yarn. Such men can easily switch to another job, if the money’s good.”
Caris concealed her anxiety. “All right,” she said. “I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, will you deliver these cloths to Peter Dyer for me?”
“Of course. I’ll take them now.”
Caris went home for dinner, deep in thought. To make any real difference, she would have to spend most of what money her father had left. If things went wrong, they would be even worse off. But what was the alternative? Her plan was risky, but no one else had any kind of plan at all.
When she arrived home, Petranilla was serving a mutton stew. Edmund sat at the head of the table. The financial setback of the Fleece Fair seemed to have affected him more severely than Caris would have expected. His normal exuberance was subdued, and he often appeared thoughtful, not to say distracted. Caris was worried about him.
“I saw Mark Webber smashing up his hand mill,” she said as she sat down. “Where’s the sense in that?”
Petranilla put her nose in the air. “Godwyn is entirely within his rights,” she said.
“Those rights are out of date – they haven’t been enforced for years. Where else does a priory do such things?”
“In St Albans,” Petranilla said triumphantly.
Edmund said: “I’ve heard of St Albans. The townspeople periodically riot against the monastery.”
“Kingsbridge Priory is entitled to recoup the money it spent building mills,” Petranilla argued. “Just as you, Edmund, want to get back the money you’re putting into the bridge. How would you feel if someone built a second bridge?”
Edmund did not answer her, so Caris did. “It would depend entirely on how soon it happened,” she said. “The priory’s mills were built hundreds of years ago, as were the warrens and fishponds. No one has the right to hold back the development of the town for ever.”
“The prior has a right to collect his dues,” she said stubbornly.
“Well, if he carries on like this, there will be no one to collect dues from. People will go and live in Shiring. They’re allowed hand mills there.”
“Don’t you understand that the needs of the priory are sacred?” Petranilla said angrily. “The monks serve God! By comparison with that, the lives of the townspeople are insignificant.”
“Is that what your son Godwyn believes?”
“Of course.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Don’t you believe the prior’s work is sacred?”
Caris had no answer to that, so she just shrugged, and Petranilla looked triumphant.
The dinner was good, but Caris was too tense to eat much. As soon as the others had finished, she said: “I have to go and see Peter Dyer.”
Petranilla protested: “Are you going to spend more? You’ve already given Mark Webber four shillings of your father’s money.”
“Yes – and the cloth is worth twelve shillings more than the wool was, so I’ve made eight shillings.”
“No, you haven’t,” Petranilla said. “You haven’t sold the cloth yet.”
Petranilla was expressing doubts that Caris shared, in her more pessimistic moments, but she was stung into denial. “I will sell it, though – especially if it’s dyed red.”
“And what will Peter charge for dyeing and fulling four narrow dozens?”
“Twenty shillings – but the red cloth will be worth double the brown burel, so we’ll make another twenty-eight shillings.”
“If you sell it. And if you don’t?”
“I’ll sell it.”
Her father intervened. “Let her be,” he said to Petranilla. “I’ve told her she can give this a try.”
*
Shiring Castle stood on top of a hill. It was the home of the county sheriff. At the foot of the hill stood the gallows. Whenever there was a hanging, the prisoner was brought down from the castle on a cart, to be hanged in front of the church.
The square in which the gallows stood was also the market place. The Shiring Fair was held here, between the guild hall and a large timber building that was the wool exchange. The bishop’s palace and numerous taverns also stood around the square.
This year, because of the troubles at Kingsbridge, there were more stalls than ever, and the fair spilled into the streets off the market place. Edmund had brought forty sacks of wool on ten carts, and could get more brought from Kingsbridge before the end of the week, if necessary.
To Caris’s dismay, it was not necessary. He sold ten sacks on the first day, then nothing until the end of the fair, when he sold another ten by reducing the price below what he had paid. She could not remember seeing him so down.
She put her four lengths of dull brownish-red cloth on his stall and, over the week, yard by yard, she sold three of the four. “Look at it this way,” she said to her father on the last day of the fair. “Before, you had a sack of unsaleable wool and four shillings. Now, you’ve got thirty-six shillings and a length of cloth.”
But her cheerfulness was only for his benefit. She was deeply depressed. She had boasted bravely that she could sell cloth. The result was not a complete failure, but it was no triumph. If she could not sell the cloth for more than it cost, then she did not have the solution to the problem. What was she going to do? She left the stall and went to survey other cloth sellers.
The best cloth came from Italy, as always. Caris stopped at the stall of Loro Fiorentino. Cloth merchants such as Loro were not wool buyers, though they often worked closely with buyers. Caris knew that Loro gave his English takings to Buonaventura, who used it to pay English merchants for their raw wool. Then, when the wool reached Florence, Buonaventura’s family would sell it, and with the proceeds pay back Loro’s family. That way, they all avoided the hazards of transporting barrels of gold and silver coins across Europe.
Loro had on his stall only two rolls of cloth, but the colours were much brighter than anything the local people could produce. “Is this all you brought?” Caris asked him.
“Of course not. I’ve sold the rest.”
She was surprised. “Everyone else is having a bad fair.”
He shrugged. “The finest cloth always sells.”
An idea was taking shape in Caris’s head. “How much is the scarlet?”
“Only seven shillings per yard, mistress.”
That was seven times the price of burel. “But who can afford it?”
“The bishop took a lot of my red, Lady Philippa some blue and green, a few daughters of the brewers and bakers in town, some lords and ladies from the villages round about… Even when times are hard, someone is prospering. This vermilion will be so beautiful on you.” With a swift motion, he unrolled the bale and draped a length over Caris’s shoulder. “Marvellous. See how everyone is looking at you already.”
She smiled. “I can see why you sell so much.” She handled the cloth. It was closely woven. She already had a cloak of Italian scarlet, the one that she had inherited from her mother. It was her favourite garment. “What dye do they use to get this red?”
“Madder, the same as everyone.”
“But how do they make it so bright?”
“It’s no secret. They use alum. It brightens the colour and also fixes it, so it won’t fade. A cloak in this colour, for you, would be wonderful, a joy for ever.”
“Alum,” she repeated. “Why don’t English dyers use it?”
“It’s very expensive. It comes from Turkey. Such luxury is only for special women.”
“And the blue?”
“Like your eyes.”
Her eyes were green, but she did not correct him. “It’s such a deep colour.”
“English dyers use woad, but we get indigo from Bengal. Moorish traders bring it from India to Egypt, and then our Italian merchants buy it in Alexandria.” He smiled. “Think how far it has travelled – to complement your outstanding beauty.”
“Yes,” said Caris. “Just think of that.”
*
The riverside workshop of Peter Dyer was a house as big as Edmund’s, but built of stone, and with no interior walls or floors – just a shell. Two iron cauldrons stood over great fires. Beside each was a hoist, like the ones Merthin made for building work. These were used to lift huge sacks of wool or cloth and lower them into the vats. The floors were permanently wet and the air was thick with steam. The apprentices worked barefoot, in their underdrawers because of the heat, their faces running with sweat, their hair gleaming with damp. There was an acrid smell that bit at the back of Caris’s throat.
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