Ken Follett - World Without End

He was speaking of the tax, imposed by Parliament from time to time, of one-tenth or one-fifteenth of each individual’s movable property. No one ever paid a tenth, of course – everyone understated their wealth – so the amount payable by each town or county had become fixed, and the burden was shared out more or less fairly, with poor men and lowly peasants paying nothing at all.

Edmund had been expecting this question, and he replied promptly: “One thousand and eleven pounds, sir.”

“And the effect of the loss of the bridge?”

“Today, I estimate that a tenth would raise less than three hundred pounds. But our citizens are continuing to trade in the hope that the bridge will be rebuilt. If that hope were to be dashed in this court today, the annual Fleece Fair and the weekly market would almost disappear, and the yield from a tenth would fall below fifty pounds.”

“Next to nothing, in the scale of the king’s needs,” the judge said. He did not say what they all knew: that the king was in dire need of money because in the last few weeks he had declared war on France.

Roland was needled. “Is this hearing about the king’s finances?” he said scornfully.

Sir Wilbert was not to be browbeaten, even by an earl. “This is the king’s court,” he said mildly. “What would you expect?”

“Justice,” Roland replied.

“And you shall have it.” The judge implied, but did not say: Whether you like it or not. “Edmund Wooler, where is the nearest alternative market?”

“Shiring.”

“Ah. So the business you lose will move to the earl’s town.”

“No, sir. Some will move, but much will vanish. Many Kingsbridge traders will be unable to get to Shiring.”

The judge turned to Roland. “How much does a tenth yield from Shiring?”

Roland conferred briefly with his secretary, Father Jerome, then said: “Six hundred and twenty pounds.”

“And with the increased trade at Shiring market, could you pay one thousand six hundred and twenty pounds?”

“Of course not,” the earl said angrily.

The judge continued in his mild tone. “Then your opposition to this bridge would cost the king dear.”

“I have my rights,” Roland said sulkily.

“And the king has his. Is there any way you could compensate the royal treasury for the loss of a thousand pounds every year or so?”

“By fighting alongside him in France – which wool merchants and monks will never do!”

“Indeed,” said Sir Wilbert. “But your knights will require payment.”

“This is outrageous,” said Roland. He knew he was losing the argument. Godwyn tried not to look triumphant.

The judge did not like his proceedings being called outrageous. He fixed Roland with a look. “When you sent your men-at-arms to blockade the priory’s quarry, I feel sure you did not intend to damage the king’s interests.” He paused expectantly.

Roland sensed a trap, but there was only one answer he could give. “Certainly not.”

“Now that it has been made clear to the court, and to you, how the building of the new bridge serves the king’s purposes, as well as those of Kingsbridge Priory and the town, I imagine you will agree to the reopening of the quarry.”

Godwyn realized Sir Wilbert was being clever. He was forcing Roland to consent to his ruling, making it difficult for him to appeal personally to the king later.

Alter a long pause, Roland said: “Yes.”

“And to the transport of stones through your territory without tax.”

Roland knew he had lost. There was fury in his voice as he said again: “Yes.”

“So ordered,” the judge said. “Next case.”

It was a great victory, but it had probably come too late.

November had turned into December. Building normally stopped about now. Because of the rainy weather, the frosts would come late this year but, even so, there were at most a couple of weeks left. Merthin had hundreds of stones stockpiled at the quarry, cut and shaped and ready to be laid. However, it would take months to cart them all to Kingsbridge. Although Earl Roland had lost the court case, he had almost certainly succeeded in delaying the building of the bridge by a year.

Caris returned to Kingsbridge, with Edmund and Godwyn, in sombre mood. Reining in on the suburban side of the river, she saw that Merthin had already constructed his coffer dams. In each of the channels that ran either side of Leper Island, the ends of wooden boards stuck a couple of feet above the surface in a big circle. She recalled Merthin explaining, in the guild hall, how he planned to drive stakes into the river bed in a double ring then fill the gap between the rings with clay mortar to make a watertight seal. The water inside the coffer could then be taken out so that the builders could lay a foundation on the river bed.

One of Merthin’s workmen, Harold Mason, was on the ferry as they crossed the river, and Caris asked him if the coffer dams had been drained. “Not yet,” he said. “The master wants to leave it until we’re ready to start building.”

Caris noticed with pleasure that Merthin was now called the master, despite his youth. “But why?” she said. “I thought we wanted everything ready for a quick start.”

“He says the force of the river puts more strain on the dam when there’s no water inside.”

Caris wondered how Merthin knew such things. He had learned the basics from his first master, Joachim, Elfric’s father. He always talked a lot to strangers who came to town, especially men who had seen tall buildings in Florence and Rome. And he had read all about the construction of the cathedral in Timothy’s Book. But he seemed also to have remarkable intuition about these matters. She would never have guessed that an empty dam would be weaker than a full one.

Although they were subdued as they entered the town, they wanted to tell Merthin the good news right away and find out what, if anything, he could get done before the end of the season. Pausing only to entrust their horses to stable boys, they went in search of him. They found him in the mason’s loft, high in the north-west tower of the cathedral, working by the light of several oil lamps, scratching a design for a parapet on the tracing floor.

He looked up from his drawing, saw their faces and grinned widely. “We won?” he said.

“We won,” said Edmund.

“Thanks to Gregory Longfellow,” Godwyn added. “He cost a lot of money, but he was worth it.”

Merthin embraced both men – his quarrel with Godwyn forgotten, at least for now. He kissed Caris tenderly. “I missed you,” he murmured. “It’s been eight weeks! I felt as if you were never coming back.”

She made no reply. She had something momentous to say to him, but she wanted privacy.

Her father did not notice her reticence. “Well, Merthin, you can start building right away.”

“Good.”

Godwyn said: “You can begin carting stones from the quarry tomorrow – but I suppose it’s too late to get much building done before the winter frosts.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Merthin said. He glanced at the windows. It was mid-afternoon, the December day already darkening to evening. “There might be a way to do it.”

Edmund was immediately enthusiastic. “Well, out with it, lad! What’s your idea?”

Merthin turned to the prior. “Would you grant an indulgence to volunteers who bring stones from the quarry?” An indulgence was a special act of forgiveness of sins. Like a gift of money, it could either pay for past debts or stand in credit for future liabilities.

“I could,” Godwyn said. “What have you got in mind?”

Merthin turned to Edmund. “How many people in Kingsbridge own a cart?”