“It’s a pleasure to have you here, alderman.”
Merthin and Edmund stepped out into a light drizzle. Instead of heading for the cathedral, Merthin led Edmund towards the river. Edmund’s lopsided stride was instantly recognizable, and every second person on the street greeted him with a friendly word or a respectful bow.
Merthin suddenly felt nervous. He had been thinking about the bridge design for months. While he worked at St Mark’s, supervising the carpenters who were constructing the new roof as the old was demolished, he mulled over the greater challenge of the bridge. Now for the first time his ideas would come under scrutiny by someone else.
As yet, Edmund had no idea how radical Merthin’s plan was.
The muddy street wound downhill through houses and workshops. The city ramparts had fallen into disrepair during two centuries of civil peace, and in some places all that remained were humps of earth that now formed parts of garden walls. At the river’s edge were industries that used large quantities of water, especially wool dyers and leather tanners.
Merthin and Edmund emerged on to the muddy foreshore between a slaughterhouse that gave off a strong smell of blood and a smithy where hammers clanged on iron. Directly in front of them, across a narrow stretch of water, was Leper Island. Edmund said: “Why are we here? The bridge is a quarter of a mile upstream.”
“It was,” said Merthin. He took a breath and said: “I think we should build the new one here.”
“A bridge to the island?”
“And another from the island to the far shore. Two small bridges instead of one big one. Much cheaper.”
“But people will have to walk across the island from one bridge to the other.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a leper colony!”
“There’s only one leper left. He can be moved elsewhere. The disease seems to be dying out.”
Edmund looked thoughtful. “So everyone who comes to Kingsbridge will arrive at this spot, where we’re standing.”
“We’ll have to build a new street, and knock down some of these buildings – but the cost will be small by comparison with the money saved on the bridge.”
“And on the other side…”
“A pasture that belongs to the priory. I can see the whole layout when I’m on the roof of St Mark’s. That’s how come I thought of it.”
Edmund was impressed. “That’s very clever. I wonder why the bridge wasn’t put here originally.”
“The first bridge was erected hundreds of years ago. The river probably had a different shape then. River banks must move their position as the centuries go by. The channel between the island and the pasture could have been wider at one time. Then there would have been no advantage in building here.”
Edmund peered across the water, and Merthin followed his gaze. The leper colony was a scatter of tumbledown wooden buildings spread over three or four acres. The island was too rocky for cultivation, but there were some trees and scrubby grass. The place was infested with rabbits, which the townspeople would not eat because of a superstition that they were the souls of dead lepers. At one time the ostracized inhabitants had kept their own chickens and pigs. Now, however, it was simpler for the priory to supply food to the last remaining inhabitant. “You’re right,” Edmund said. “There hasn’t been a new case of leprosy in the town for at least ten years.”
“I’ve never seen a leper,” Merthin said. “As a child, I thought people were saying ‘leopard’. I imagined that island to be occupied by spotted lions.”
Edmund laughed. Turning his back on the river, he looked at the buildings around. “There will be some political work to do,” he mused. “The people whose homes must be demolished will have to be convinced that they’re the lucky ones, being moved to new and better houses while their neighbours missed out. And the island may have to be cleansed with holy water to convince people that it’s safe. But we can handle all that.”
“I’ve drawn both bridges with pointed arches, like the cathedral,” Merthin said. “They will be beautiful.”
“Show me.”
They left the riverside and walked uphill through the town to the priory. The cathedral dripped with rain under a layer of low cloud like smoke from a damp fire. Merthin was looking forward to seeing his drawings again – he had not been to the loft for a week or so – and to explaining them to Edmund. He had thought a great deal about the way the current had undermined the old bridge, and how he could protect the new one from the same fate.
He led Edmund through the north porch and up the spiral staircase. His wet shoes slipped on the worn stone steps. Edmund energetically hauled his withered leg up behind him.
Several lamps were burning in the mason’s loft. At first Merthin was pleased, for that meant they would be able to see his drawings more clearly. Then he saw Elfric working on the tracing floor.
He felt momentarily frustrated. The enmity between himself and his former master was as great as ever. Elfric had failed to prevent townspeople from employing Merthin, but he continued to block Merthin’s application to join the carpenters’ guild – leaving Merthin in an anomalous position, illegitimate but accepted. Elfric’s attitude was pointless, but spiteful.
Elfric’s presence here would put a damper on Merthin’s conversation with Edmund. He told himself not to be so sensitive. Why should it not be Elfric who was made uncomfortable?
He held the door for Edmund, and together they crossed the room to the tracing floor. Then he suffered a shock.
Elfric was bent over the tracing floor, drawing with a pair of compasses – on a fresh layer of plaster. He had re-covered the floor, totally obliterating Merthin’s drawings.
Merthin said incredulously: “What have you done?”
Elfric looked contemptuously at him and went on with his drawing, saying nothing.
“He’s wiped out my work,” Merthin said to Edmund.
“What’s your explanation, man?” Edmund demanded.
Elfric could not ignore his father-in-law. “There’s nothing to explain,” he said. “A tracing floor has to be renewed at intervals.”
“But you’ve covered over important designs!”
“Have I? The prior has not commissioned this boy to make any drawings, and the boy has not asked permission to use the tracing floor.”
Edmund was never slow to anger, and Elfric’s cool insolence was getting under his skin. “Don’t act stupid,” he said. “I asked Merthin to prepare drawings for the new bridge.”
“I’m sorry, but only the prior has authority to do that.”
“Damn it, the guild is providing the money.”
“A loan, to be repaid.”
“It still gives us the right to a say on the design.”
“Does it? You’ll have to speak to the prior about that. I don’t think he’ll be impressed by your choice of an inexperienced apprentice as your designer, though.”
Merthin was looking at the drawings Elfric had scratched in the new plaster. “I suppose this is your bridge design,” he said.
“Prior Godwyn has commissioned me to build it,” Elfric said.
Edmund was shocked. “Without asking us?”
Elfric said resentfully: “What’s the matter – don’t you want the work to go to your own daughter’s husband?”
“Round arches,” Merthin said, still studying Elfric’s drawing. “And narrow openings. How many piers will you have?”
Elfric was reluctant to answer, but Edmund was staring expectantly at him. “Seven,” he said.
“The wooden bridge only had five!” Merthin said. “Why are they so thick, and the openings so narrow?”
“To bear the weight of a stone-paved roadway.”
“You don’t need thick piers for that. Look at this cathedral – its columns bear the entire weight of the roof, but they’re slim and widely spaced.”
Elfric sneered. “No one’s going to drive a cart across the roof of a church.”