He looked dubious. “Two years is a short time in the life of a cathedral.”
“There’s no sign of deterioration.”
“That’s what makes it difficult. An invisible weakness can work away for years, unsuspected, until something comes tumbling down.”
“Perhaps there is no weakness.”
“There must be,” he said with a touch of impatience. “There was a reason why that collapse took place two years ago. We never found out what it was, so we haven’t put it right. If it hasn’t been put right, it’s still a weakness.”
“It might have corrected itself spontaneously.”
She was just being argumentative, but he took her seriously. “Buildings don’t usually repair themselves – but you’re right, it’s possible. There might have been some seepage of water, for example from a blocked gargoyle, which somehow became diverted to a less harmful route.”
The monks began to enter in procession, singing, and the congregation went quiet. The nuns appeared from their separate entrance. One of the novice nuns looked up, a beautiful pale face in the line of hooded heads. It was Elizabeth Clerk. She saw Merthin and Caris together, and the sudden malice in her eyes made Caris shudder. Then Elizabeth bowed her head and disappeared back into her anonymous uniform.
“She hates you,” Merthin said.
“She thinks I stopped you marrying her.”
“She’s right.”
“No, she’s not – you could have married anyone you wanted!”
“But I only wanted you.”
“You toyed with Elizabeth.”
“It must have seemed that way to her,” Merthin said regretfully. “But I just liked talking to her. Especially after you turned to ice.”
She felt uncomfortable. “I know. But Elizabeth feels cheated. The way she looks at me makes me nervous.”
“Don’t be afraid. She’s a nun, now. She can’t do you any harm.”
They were quiet for a while, standing side by side, their shoulders touching intimately, watching the ritual. Bishop Richard sat on the throne at the east end, presiding over the service. Merthin liked this sort of thing, Caris knew. He always felt better afterwards, and he said that was what going to church was supposed to do for you. Caris went because people noticed if she stayed away, but she had doubts about the whole business. She believed in God, but she was not sure He revealed His wishes exclusively to men such as her cousin Godwyn. Why would a God want praise, for example? Kings and earls required worship, and the more petty their rank the more deference they demanded. It seemed to her that an almighty God would not care one way or another whether the people of Kingsbridge sang His praises, any more than she cared whether the deer in the forest feared her. She occasionally gave voice to these ideas, but no one took her seriously.
Her thoughts drifted to the future. The signs were good that the king would grant Kingsbridge a borough charter. Her father would probably be the first mayor, if his health recovered. Her cloth business would continue to grow. Mark Webber would be rich. With increased prosperity, the parish guild could build a wool exchange, so that everyone could do business comfortably even in bad weather. Merthin could design the building. Even the priory was going to be better off, though Godwyn would not thank her.
The service came to an end, and the monks and nuns began to process out. A novice monk broke out of line and entered the congregation. It was Philemon. To Caris’s surprise, he approached her. “May I have a word?” he said.
She repressed a shudder. There was something loathsome about Gwenda’s brother. “What about?” she replied, barely politely.
“I want to ask your advice, really,” he said, with an attempt at a charming smile. “You know Mattie Wise.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of her methods?”
She gave him a hard look. Where was this going? She decided she had better defend Mattie anyway. “She has never studied the texts of the ancients, of course. Despite that, her remedies work – sometimes better than those of the monks. I think it’s because she bases her treatments on what has worked previously, rather than on a theory about the humours.”
People standing nearby were listening with curiosity, and some of them now joined in uninvited.
“She gave our Nora a potion that brought her fever down,” said Madge Webber.
John Constable said: “When I broke my arm, her medicine took the pain away while Matthew Barber set the bone.”
Philemon said: “And what kind of spells does she pronounce when she’s making her mixtures?”
“No spells!” Caris said indignantly. “She tells people to pray when they take their medicines, because only God can heal – she says.”
“Could she be a witch?”
“No! It’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Only there has been a complaint to the ecclesiastical court.”
A chill gripped Caris. “From whom?”
“I can’t say. But I’ve been asked to investigate.”
Caris was mystified. Who could Mattie’s enemy be? She said to Philemon: “Well, you of all people know Mattie’s worth – she saved the life of your sister when she gave birth to Sam. Gwenda would have bled to death if not for Mattie.”
“So it seems.”
“Seems? Gwenda’s alive, isn’t she?”
“Yes, of course. So you feel sure Mattie does not call on the devil?”
Caris noticed that he asked the question in a slightly raised voice, as if he wanted to make sure the listeners around heard it. She was puzzled, but she had no doubt of her answer. “Of course I’m sure! I’ll swear an oath if you want.”
“Not necessary,” Philemon said smoothly. “Thank you for your advice.” He inclined his head in a sort of bow, and slithered away.
Caris and Merthin walked towards the exit. “What rubbish!” Caris said. “Mattie a witch!”
Merthin looked troubled. “You would expect Philemon to want evidence against her, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So why did he come to you? He could have guessed that you, of all people, would deny the charge. Why would he be keen to clear her name?”
“I don’t know.”
They passed through the great west doorway and out on to the green. The sun was shining on hundreds of stalls loaded with colourful goods. “It doesn’t make sense,” Merthin said. “And that troubles me.”
“Why?”
“It’s like the cause of weakness in the south aisle. If you can’t see it, it may be working away invisibly to undermine you – and you won’t know it until everything comes crashing down all around.”
The scarlet cloth on Caris’s market stall was not as good as that sold by Loro Fiorentino, although you had to have a sharp eye for wool to see the difference. The weave was not so close, because the Italian looms were somehow superior. The colour was just as bright, but it was not perfectly even over the length of the bale, no doubt because Italian dyers were more skilled. In consequence, she charged one-tenth less than Loro.
All the same, it was easily the best English scarlet that had ever been seen at Kingsbridge, and business was brisk. Mark and Madge sold it retail by the yard, measuring and cutting for individual customers, and Caris dealt with wholesale buyers, negotiating reductions for one bale or six with drapers from Winchester, Gloucester and even London. By midday on Monday she knew she would sell out before the end of the week.
When business slowed down for the dinner break she strolled around the fair. She felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had triumphed over adversity, and so had Merthin. She stopped at Perkin’s stall to talk to the Wigleigh folk. Even Gwenda had triumphed. Here she was, married to Wulfric – something that had seemed impossible – and there was her baby, Sammy, a year old, sitting on the ground, fat and happy. Annet was selling eggs from a tray, as always. And Ralph had gone to France to fight for the king, and might never come back.