Ken Follett - World Without End

“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.

There were no workmen here. Prior Philemon stood on the far side with Harold Mason. They were deep in conversation, but stopped guiltily when Merthin came into view. He had to shout into the wind to make himself heard. “Why have you stopped the building?”

Philemon had his answer ready. “There’s a problem with your design.”

Merthin looked at Harold. “You mean some people can’t understand it.”

“Experienced people say it can’t be built,” Philemon said defiantly.

“Experienced people?” Merthin repeated scornfully. “Who in Kingsbridge is experienced? Who has built a bridge? Who has worked with the great architects of Florence? Who has seen Rome, Avignon, Paris, Rouen? Certainly not Harold here. No offence, Harold, but you’ve never even been to London.”

Harold said: “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s impossible to build an octagonal tower with no formwork.”

Merthin was about to say something sarcastic, but stopped himself. Philemon must have more than this, he realized. The prior had deliberately chosen to fight this battle. Therefore he must have weapons more formidable than the mere opinion of Harold Mason. He had presumably won some support among members of the guild – but how? Other builders who were prepared to say that Merthin’s spire was impossible must have been offered some incentive. That probably meant construction work for them. “What is it?” he said to Philemon. “What are you hoping to build?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Philemon blustered.

“You’ve got an alternative project, and you’ve offered Harold and his friends a piece of it. What’s the building?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A bigger palace for yourself? A new chapter house? It can’t be a hospital, we’ve already got three. Come on, you might as well tell me. Unless you’re ashamed of it.”

Philemon was stung into a response. “The monks wish to build a Lady chapel.”

“Ah.” That made sense. The cult of the Virgin was increasingly popular. The church hierarchy approved because the wave of piety associated with Mary counterbalanced the scepticism and heresy that had afflicted congregations since the plague. Numerous cathedrals and churches were adding a special small chapel at the east end – the holiest part of the building – dedicated to the Mother of God. Merthin did not like the architecture: on most churches, a Lady chapel looked like an afterthought, which of course it was.

What was Philemon’s motive? He was always trying to ingratiate himself with someone – that was his modus operandi. A Lady chapel at Kingsbridge would undoubtedly please conservative senior clergy.

This was the second move Philemon had made in that direction. On Easter Sunday, from the pulpit of the cathedral, he had condemned dissection of corpses. He was mounting a campaign, Merthin realized. But what was its purpose?

Merthin decided to do nothing more until he had figured out what Philemon was up to. Without saying anything further, he left the roof and started down the series of staircases and ladders to the ground.

Merthin arrived home at the dinner hour, and Caris came in from the hospital a few minutes later. “Brother Thomas is getting worse,” he said to Caris. “Is there anything that can be done for him?”

She shook her head. “There’s no cure for senility.”

“He told me the south aisle had collapsed as if it had happened yesterday.”

“That’s typical. He remembers the distant past but doesn’t know what’s going on today. Poor Thomas. He’ll probably deteriorate quite fast. But at least he’s in a familiar place. Monasteries don’t change much over the decades. His daily routine is probably the same as it has always been. That will help.”

As they sat down to mutton stew with leeks and mint, Merthin explained the morning’s developments. The two of them had been battling Kingsbridge priors for decades: first Anthony, then Godwyn, and now Philemon. They had thought that the granting of the borough charter would put an end to the constant jockeying. It had certainly improved matters, but it seemed Philemon had not given up yet.

“I’m not really worried about the spire,” Merthin said. “Bishop Henri will overrule Philemon, and order the building restarted, just as soon as he hears. Henri wants to be bishop of the tallest cathedral in England.”