Ken Follett - World Without End

“Philemon must know that,” Caris said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he simply wants to make the gesture towards a Lady chapel, and get the credit for trying, while blaming his failure on someone else.”

“Perhaps,” Caris said doubtfully.

In Merthin’s mind there was a more important question. “But what is he really after?”

“Everything Philemon does is driven by the need to make himself feel important,” Caris said confidently. “My guess is he’s after a promotion.”

“What job could he have in mind? The archbishop of Monmouth seems to be dying, but surely Philemon can’t hope for that position?”

“He must know something we don’t.”

Before they could say any more, Lolla walked in.

Merthin’s first reaction was a feeling of relief so powerful that it brought tears to his eyes. She was back, and she was safe. He looked her up and down. She had no apparent injuries, she walked with a spring in her step, and her face showed only the usual expression of moody discontent.

Caris spoke first. “You’re back!” she said. “I’m so glad!”

“Are you?” Lolla said. She often pretended to believe that Caris did not like her. Merthin was not fooled, but Caris could be thrown into doubt, for she was sensitive about not being Lolla’s mother.

“We’re both glad,” Merthin said. “You gave us a scare.”

“Why?” said Lolla. She hung her cloak on a hook and sat at the table. “I was perfectly all right.”

“But we didn’t know that, so we were terribly worried.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Lolla said. “I can take care of myself.”

Merthin suppressed an angry retort. “I’m not sure you can,” he said as mildly as possible.

Caris stepped in to try to lower the temperature. “Where did you go?” she asked. “You’ve been away for two weeks.”

“Different places.”

Merthin said tightly: “Can you give us one or two examples?”

“Mudeford Crossing. Casterham. Outhenby.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“Is this the catechism?” she said petulantly. “Do I have to answer all these questions?”

Caris put a restraining hand on Merthin’s arm and said to Lolla: “We just want to know that you haven’t been in danger.”

Merthin said: “I’d also like to know who you’ve been travelling with.”

“Nobody special.”

“Does that mean Jake Riley?”

She shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Yes,” she said, as if it were a trivial detail.

Merthin had been ready to forgive and embrace her, but she was making that difficult. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: “What sleeping arrangements did you and Jake have?”

“That’s my business!” she cried.

“No, it’s not!” he shouted back. “It’s mine, too, and your stepmother’s. If you’re pregnant, who will care for your baby? Are you confident that Jake is ready to settle down and be a husband and father? Have you talked to him about that?”

“Don’t speak to me!” she yelled. Then she burst into tears and stomped up the stairs.

Merthin said: “Sometimes I wish we lived in one room – then she wouldn’t be able to pull that trick.”

“You weren’t very gentle with her,” Caris said with mild disapproval.

“What am I supposed to do?” Merthin said. “She talks as if she’s done nothing wrong!”

“She knows the truth, though. That’s why she’s crying.”

“Oh, hell,” he said.

There was a knock, and a novice monk put his head around the door. “Pardon me for disturbing you, alderman,” he said. “Sir Gregory Longfellow is at the priory, and would be grateful for a word with you, as soon as is convenient.”

“Damn,” said Merthin. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” the novice said, and left.

Merthin said to Caris: “Perhaps it’s just as well to give her time to cool off.”

“You, too,” Caris said.

“You’re not taking her side, are you?” he said with a touch of irritation.

She smiled and touched his arm. “I’m on your side, always,” she said. “But I remember what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old girl. She’s as worried as you are about her relationship with Jake. But she’s not admitting it, even to herself, because that would wound her pride. So she resents you for speaking the truth. She has constructed a fragile defence around her self-esteem, and you just tear it down.”

“What should I do?”

“Help her build a better fence.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I’d better go and see Sir Gregory.” Merthin stood up.

Caris put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “You’re a good man doing your best, and I love you with all my heart,” she said.

That took the edge off his frustration, and he felt himself calm down as he strode across the bridge and up the main street to the priory. He did not like Gregory. The man was sly and unprincipled, willing to do anything for his master the king, just as Philemon had been when he served Godwyn as prior. Merthin wondered uneasily what Gregory wanted to discuss with him. It was probably taxes – always the king’s worry.

Merthin went first to the prior’s palace where Philemon, looking pleased with himself, told him that Sir Gregory was to be found in the monks’ cloisters to the south of the cathedral. Merthin wondered what Gregory had done to win himself the privilege of holding audience there.

The lawyer was getting old. His hair was white, and his tall figure was stooped. Deep lines had appeared like brackets either side of that sneering nose, and one of the blue eyes was cloudy. But the other eye saw sharply enough, and he recognized Merthin instantly, though they had not met for ten years. “Alderman,” he said. “The archbishop of Monmouth is dead.”

“Rest his soul,” Merthin said automatically.

“Amen. The king asked me, as I was passing through his borough of Kingsbridge, to give you his greetings, and tell you this important news.”

“I’m grateful. The death is not unexpected. The archbishop has been ill.” The king certainly had not asked Gregory to meet with Merthin purely to give him interesting information, he thought suspiciously.

“You’re an intriguing man, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Gregory said expansively. “I first met your wife more than twenty years ago. Since then I’ve seen the two of you slowly but surely take control of this town. And you’ve got everything you set your hearts on: the bridge, the hospital, the borough charter, and each other. You’re determined, and you’re patient.”

It was condescending, but Merthin was surprised to detect a grain of respect in Gregory’s flattery. He told himself to remain mistrustful: men such as Gregory praised only for a purpose.

“I’m on my way to see the monks of Abergavenny, who must vote for a new archbishop.” Gregory leaned back in his chair. “When Christianity first came to England, hundreds of years ago, monks elected their own superiors.” Explaining was an old man’s habit, Merthin reflected: the young Gregory would not have bothered. “Nowadays, of course, bishops and archbishops are too important and powerful to be chosen by small groups of pious idealists living detached from the world. The king makes his choice, and his holiness the pope ratifies the royal decision.”

Even I know it’s not that simple, Merthin thought. There’s usually some kind of power struggle. But he said nothing.

Gregory continued: “However, the ritual of the monks” election still goes on, and it is easier to control it than to abolish it. Hence my journey.”

“So you’re going to tell the monks whom to elect,” Merthin said.