He realized that he had hardly spoken to her since Easter Sunday, two weeks ago, when he had taken her by the arm and pulled her away from her disreputable friends outside the White Horse. She had sulked upstairs while the family ate dinner, and had not emerged even when Sam was arrested. She had still been in a snit a few days later, when Merthin and Caris had kissed her goodbye and set out for Shiring.
Guilt stabbed him. He had treated her harshly, and driven her away. Was Silvia’s ghost watching, and despising him for his failure to care for their daughter?
The thought of Lolla’s disreputable friends came back to him. “That fellow Jake Riley is behind this,” he said. “Have you spoken to him, Arn?”
“No, master.”
“I’d better do that right away. Do you know where he lives?”
“He lodges next to the fishmonger’s behind St Paul’s church.”
Caris said to Merthin: “I’ll go with you.”
They crossed the bridge back into the city and headed west. The parish of St Paul took in the industrial premises along the waterfront: abattoirs, leather tanners, sawmills, manufactories, and the dyers that had sprung up like September mushrooms since the invention of Kingsbridge Scarlet. Merthin headed for the squat tower of St Paul’s church, visible over the low roofs of the houses. He found the fish shop by smell, and knocked at a large, run-down house next door.
It was opened by Sal Sawyers, poor widow of a jobbing carpenter who had died in the plague. “Jake comes and goes, alderman,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for a week. He can do as he pleases, so long as he pays the rent.”
Caris said: “When he left, was Lolla with him?”
Sal warily looked sideways at Merthin. “I don’t like to criticize,” she said.
Merthin said: “Please just tell me what you know. I won’t be offended.”
“She’s usually with him. She does anything Jake wants, I’ll say no more than that. If you look for him, you’ll find her.”
“Do you know where he might have gone?”
“He never says.”
“Can you think of anyone who might know?”
“He doesn’t bring his friends here, except for her. But I believe his pals are usually to be found at the White Horse.”
Merthin nodded. “We’ll try there. Thank you, Sal.”
“She’ll be all right,” Sal said. “She’s just going through a wild phase.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Merthin and Caris retraced their steps until they came to the White Horse, on the riverside near the bridge. Merthin recalled the orgy he had witnessed here at the height of the plague, when the dying Davey Whitehorse had given away all his ale. The place had stood empty for several years afterwards, but now it was once again a busy tavern. Merthin often wondered why it was popular. The rooms were cramped and dirty, and there were frequent fights. About once a year someone was killed there.
They went into a smoky parlour. It was mid-afternoon, but there were a dozen or so desultory drinkers sitting on benches. A small group was clustered around a backgammon board, and several small piles of silver pennies on the table indicated that money was being wagered on the outcome. A red-cheeked prostitute called Joy looked up hopefully at the newcomers, then saw who they were and relapsed into bored indolence. In a corner, a man was showing a woman an expensive-looking coat, apparently offering it for sale; but when he saw Merthin he folded the garment quickly and put it out of sight, and Merthin guessed it was stolen property.
The landlord, Evan, was eating a late dinner of fried bacon. He stood up, wiping his hands on his tunic, and said nervously: “Good day to you, alderman – an honour to have you in the house. May I draw you a pot of ale?”
“I’m looking for my daughter, Lolla,” Merthin said briskly.
“I haven’t seen her for a week,” said Evan.
Sal had said exactly the same about Jake, Merthin recalled. He said to Evan: “She may be with Jake Riley.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that they’re friendly,” Evan said tactfully. “He’s been gone about the same length of time.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“He’s a close-lipped type, is Jake,” said Evan. “If you asked him how far it was to Shiring, he’d shake his head and frown and say it was none of his business to know such things.”
The whore, Joy, had been listening to the conversation, and now she chipped in. “He’s open-handed, though,” she said. “Fair’s fair.”
Merthin gave her a hard look. “And where does his money come from?”
“Horses,” she said. “He goes around the villages buying foals from peasants, and sells them in the towns.”
He probably stole horses from unwary travellers, too, Merthin thought sourly. “Is that what he’s doing now – buying horses?”
Evan said: “Very likely. The big fair season is coming up. He could be acquiring his stock-in-trade.”
“And perhaps Lolla went with him.”
“Not wishing to give offence, alderman, but it’s quite likely.”
“It’s not you who has given offence,” Merthin said. He nodded a curt farewell and left the tavern, with Caris following.
“That’s what she’s done,” he said angrily. “She’s gone off with Jake. She probably thinks it’s a great adventure.”
“I’m afraid I think you’re right,” Caris said. “I hope she doesn’t become pregnant.”
“I wish that was the worst I feared.”
They headed automatically for home. Crossing the bridge, Merthin stopped at the highest point and looked out over the suburban rooftops to the forest beyond. His little girl was somewhere out there with a shady horse dealer. She was in danger, and there was nothing he could do to protect her.
When Merthin went to the cathedral the next morning, to check on the new tower, he found that all work had stopped. “Prior’s orders,” said Brother Thomas when Merthin questioned him. Thomas was almost sixty years old, and showing his age. His soldierly physique was bent and he shuffled around the precincts unsteadily. “There’s been a collapse in the south aisle,” he added.
Merthin glanced at Bartelmy French, a gnarled old mason from Normandy, who was sitting outside the lodge sharpening a chisel. Bartelmy shook his head in silent negation.
“That collapse was twenty-four years ago, Brother Thomas,” Merthin said.
“Ah, yes, you’re right,” said Thomas. “My memory’s not as good as it used to be, you know.”
Merthin patted his shoulder. “We’re all getting older.”
Bartelmy said: “The prior is up the tower, if you want to see him.”
Merthin certainly did. He went into the north transept, stepped through a small archway, and climbed a narrow spiral stair within the wall. As he passed from the old crossing into the new tower, the colour of the stones changed from the dark grey of storm clouds to the light pearl of the morning sky. It was a long climb: the tower was already more than three hundred feet high. However, he was used to it. Almost every day for eleven years he had climbed a stair that was higher each time. It occurred to him that Philemon, who was quite fat nowadays, must have had a compelling reason to drag his bulk up all these steps.
Near the top, Merthin passed through a chamber that housed the great wheel, a wooden winding mechanism twice as high as a man, used for hoisting stones, mortar and timber up to where they were needed. When the spire was finished the wheel would be left here permanently, to be used for repair work by future generations of builders, until the trumpets sounded on the Day of Judgement.
He emerged on top of the tower. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing, though none had been noticeable at ground level. A leaded walkway ran around the inside of the tower’s summit. Scaffolding stood around an octagonal hole, ready for the masons who would build the spire. Dressed stones were piled nearby, and a heap of mortar was drying up wastefully on a wooden board.