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“Those rights are out of date – they haven’t been enforced for years.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.”