“Bloody fools,” Lolla repeated. She was learning English.
He rode on to the bridge. The roadbed had been finished properly, he was happy to see, and he was pleased with the design of the parapet, a sturdy barrier with a carved capstone that recalled the mouldings in the cathedral.
Leper Island was still overrun with rabbits. Merthin continued to hold a lease on the island. In his absence, Mark Webber had been collecting rents from tenants, paying the nominal rent due to the priory every year, subtracting an agreed collection fee and sending the balance annually to Merthin in Florence via the Caroli family. After all the deductions it was a small sum, but it grew a little every year.
Merthin’s house on the island had an occupied look, the shutters open, the doorstep swept. He had arranged for Jimmie to live there. The boy must now be a man, he thought.
At the near end of the second span, an old man Merthin did not recognize sat in the sun collecting the tolls. Merthin paid him a penny. The man gave him a hard stare, as if trying to recall where he had seen him before, but he said nothing.
The town was both familiar and strange. Because it was almost the same, the changes struck Merthin as miraculous, as if they had happened overnight: a row of hovels knocked down and replaced by fine houses; a busy inn where once there had been a big gloomy house occupied by a wealthy widow; a well dried up and paved over; a grey house painted white.
He went to the Bell inn on the main street next to the priory gates. It was unchanged: a tavern in such a good location would probably last hundreds of years. He left his horses and baggage with an ostler and went inside, holding hands with Lolla.
The Bell was like taverns everywhere: a big front room furnished with rough tables and benches, and a back area where the barrels of beer and wine were racked and food was cooked. Because it was popular and profitable, the straw on the floor was changed frequently and the walls were freshly whitewashed, and in winter a huge fire blazed. Now, in the heat of summer, all the windows were open, and a mild breeze blew through the front room.
After a moment, Bessie Bell came out from the back. Nine years ago she had been a curvy girl; now she was a voluptuous woman. She looked at him without recognition, but he saw her appraise his clothes and judge him an affluent customer. “Good day to you, traveller,” she said. “What can we do to make you and your child comfortable?”
Merthin grinned. “I’d like to take your private room, please, Bessie.”
She knew him as soon as he spoke. “My soul!” she cried. “It’s Merthin Bridger!” He put out his hand to shake, but she threw her arms around him and hugged him. She had always had a soft spot for him. She released him and studied his face. “Such a beard you’ve grown! I would have recognized you sooner otherwise. Is this your little girl?”
“Her name is Lolla.”
“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing! Your mother must be beautiful.”
Merthin said: “My wife died.”
“How sad. But Lolla is young enough to forget. My husband died, too.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“I met him after you left. Richard Brown, from Gloucester. I lost him a year ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“My father’s gone to Canterbury, on a pilgrimage, so I’m running this tavern all on my own, at the moment.”
“I always liked your father.”
“He was fond of you, too. He always takes to men with a bit of spirit. He was never very keen on my Richard.”
“Ah.” Merthin felt the conversation had become too intimate, too fast. “What news of my parents?”
“They’re not here in Kingsbridge. They’re staying at your brother’s new home in Tench.”
Merthin had heard, through Buonaventura, that Ralph had become lord of Tench. “My father must be very pleased.”
“Proud as a peacock.” She smiled, then looked concerned. “You must be hungry and tired. I’ll tell the boys to take your bags upstairs, then I’ll bring you a tankard of ale and some pottage.” She turned to go into the back room.
“That’s kind, but…”
Bessie paused at the door.
“If you would give Lolla some soup, I’d be grateful. There’s something I have to do.”
Bessie nodded. “Of course.” She bent down to Lolla. “Do you want to come with Auntie Bessie? I expect you could eat a piece of bread. Do you like new bread?”
Merthin translated the question into Italian, and Lolla nodded happily.
Bessie looked at Merthin. “Going to see Sister Caris, are you?”
Absurdly, he felt guilty. “Yes,” he said. “She’s still here, then?”
“Oh, yes. She’s guest master at the nunnery now. I’ll be surprised if she isn’t prioress one day.” She took Lolla’s hand and led her into the back room. “Good luck,” she called over her shoulder.
Merthin went out. Bessie could be a little suffocating, but her affection was sincere, and it warmed his heart to be welcomed back with such enthusiasm. He entered the priory grounds. He paused to look at the soaring west front of the cathedral, almost two hundred years old now and as awe-inspiring as ever.
He noticed a new stone building to the north of the church, beyond the graveyard. It was a medium-sized palace, with an imposing entrance and an upper storey. It had been built close to where the old timber prior’s house used to be, so presumably it had replaced that modest building as the residence of Godwyn. He wondered where Godwyn had found the money.
He went closer. The palace was very grand, but Merthin did not like the design. None of the levels related in any way to the cathedral that loomed over it. The details were careless. The top of the ostentatious doorcase blocked part of an upper-storey window. Worst of all, the palace was built on a different axis from that of the church, so that it stood at an awkward angle.
It was Elfric’s work, no doubt of that.
A plump cat sat on the doorstep in the sun. It was black with a white tip to its tail. It glared malevolently at Merthin.
He turned away and walked slowly to the hospital. The cathedral green was quiet and deserted: there was no market today. The excitement and apprehension rose again in his stomach. He might see Caris at any moment. He reached the entrance and went in. The long room looked brighter and smelled fresher than he remembered: everything had a scrubbed look. There were a few people lying on mattresses on the floor, most of them elderly. At the altar a young novice was saying prayers aloud. He waited for her to finish. He was so anxious that he was sure he felt more ill than the patients on the beds. He had come a thousand miles for this moment. Was it a wasted journey?
At last the nun said “Amen” for the last time and turned around. He did not know her. She approached him and said politely: “May God bless you, stranger.”
Merthin took a deep breath. “I’ve come to see Sister Caris,” he said.
The nuns’ chapter meetings now took place in the refectory. In the past they had shared with the monks the elegant octagonal chapter house at the north-east corner of the cathedral. Sadly, mistrust between monks and nuns was now so great that the nuns did not want to risk the monks’ eavesdropping on their deliberations. So they met in the long bare room where they took their meals.
The nunnery officials sat behind a table, Mother Cecilia in the middle. There was no sub-prioress: Natalie had died a few weeks ago, at the age of fifty-seven, and Cecilia had not yet replaced her. On Cecilia’s right was the treasurer, Beth, and her matricularius, Elizabeth, formerly Elizabeth Clerk. On Cecilia’s left were the cellarer, Margaret, in charge of all supplies, and her subordinate Caris, the guest master. Thirty nuns sat on rows of benches facing the senior officials.