Gregory said: “If I might make a suggestion?”

Godwyn had had enough of Gregory’s suggestions, but he did not quite have the nerve to say so. “Of course,” he said with slightly exaggerated politeness.

“Heresy investigations can be… mucky. You shouldn’t get your own hands soiled. And people may be nervous about talking to a prior. Delegate the task to someone less intimidating. This young novice, for example.” He indicated Philemon, who glowed with pleasure. “His attitude strikes me as… sensible.”

Godwyn recalled that it was Philemon who had discovered Bishop Richard’s weakness – his affair with Margery. He was certainly the man for any dirty work. “All right,” he said. “See what you can find out, Philemon.”

“Thank you, lord prior,” said Philemon. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

On Sunday morning, people were still pouring into Kingsbridge. Caris stood and watched them streaming over Merthin’s two wide bridges on foot, on horseback, or driving two-wheeled and four-wheeled horse-carts and ox-carts laden with goods for the fair. The sight gladdened her heart. There had been no grand opening ceremony – the bridge was not really finished, but was usable thanks to a temporary timber roadbed – but, all the same, word had got around that it was open, and that the roads were safe from outlaws. Even Buonaventura Caroli was here.

Merthin had suggested a different way of collecting the tolls, which the parish guild had adopted eagerly. Instead of a single booth at the end of the bridge, creating a bottleneck, they had stationed ten men on Leper Island in temporary booths spread across the road between the two bridges. Most people handed over their penny without breaking stride. “There isn’t even a queue,” Caris said aloud, talking to herself.

And the weather was sunny and mild with no sign of rain. The fair was going to be a triumph.

Then, a week from today, she would marry Merthin.

She still had misgivings. The idea of losing her independence, and becoming someone’s property, had not ceased to terrify her, even though she knew Merthin was not the kind of man to take advantage by bullying his wife. On the rare occasions when she had confessed this feeling – to Gwenda, for example, or to Mattie Wise – she had been told that she thought like a man. Well, so be it, that was how she felt.

But the prospect of losing him had seemed even more bleak. What would she have left, except for a cloth-manufacturing business that did not inspire her? When he finally announced his intention of leaving town, the future had suddenly seemed empty. And she had realized that the only thing worse than being married to him might be not being married to him.

At least, that was what she told herself in her more positive moments. Then, sometimes, when she lay awake in the middle of the night, she saw herself backing out at the last minute, often in the middle of the wedding, refusing to take the vows and rushing out of the church, to the consternation of the entire congregation.

That was nonsense, she felt now in the light of day, with everything going so well. She would marry Merthin and be happy.

She left the river bank and walked through the town to the cathedral, already crowded with worshippers waiting for the morning service. She remembered Merthin feeling her up behind a pillar. She felt nostalgic for the thoughtless passion of their early relationship; the long, intense conversations and the stolen kisses.

She found him near the front of the congregation, studying the south aisle of the choir, the part of the church that had collapsed in front of their eyes two years ago. She recalled going up into the space over the vaulting with Merthin, and overhearing that dreadful interaction between Brother Thomas and his estranged wife, the conversation that had crystallized all her fears and made her turn Merthin down. She put the thought out of her mind. “The repairs seem to be holding,” she said, guessing what he was thinking about.

He looked dubious. “Two years is a short time in the life of a cathedral.”

“There’s no sign of deterioration.”

“That’s what makes it difficult. An invisible weakness can work away for years, unsuspected, until something comes tumbling down.”

“Perhaps there is no weakness.”

“There must be,” he said with a touch of impatience. “There was a reason why that collapse took place two years ago. We never found out what it was, so we haven’t put it right. If it hasn’t been put right, it’s still a weakness.”

“It might have corrected itself spontaneously.”

She was just being argumentative, but he took her seriously. “Buildings don’t usually repair themselves – but you’re right, it’s possible. There might have been some seepage of water, for example from a blocked gargoyle, which somehow became diverted to a less harmful route.”

The monks began to enter in procession, singing, and the congregation went quiet. The nuns appeared from their separate entrance. One of the novice nuns looked up, a beautiful pale face in the line of hooded heads. It was Elizabeth Clerk. She saw Merthin and Caris together, and the sudden malice in her eyes made Caris shudder. Then Elizabeth bowed her head and disappeared back into her anonymous uniform.

“She hates you,” Merthin said.

“She thinks I stopped you marrying her.”

“She’s right.”

“No, she’s not – you could have married anyone you wanted!”

“But I only wanted you.”

“You toyed with Elizabeth.”

“It must have seemed that way to her,” Merthin said regretfully. “But I just liked talking to her. Especially after you turned to ice.”

She felt uncomfortable. “I know. But Elizabeth feels cheated. The way she looks at me makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be afraid. She’s a nun, now. She can’t do you any harm.”

They were quiet for a while, standing side by side, their shoulders touching intimately, watching the ritual. Bishop Richard sat on the throne at the east end, presiding over the service. Merthin liked this sort of thing, Caris knew. He always felt better afterwards, and he said that was what going to church was supposed to do for you. Caris went because people noticed if she stayed away, but she had doubts about the whole business. She believed in God, but she was not sure He revealed His wishes exclusively to men such as her cousin Godwyn. Why would a God want praise, for example? Kings and earls required worship, and the more petty their rank the more deference they demanded. It seemed to her that an almighty God would not care one way or another whether the people of Kingsbridge sang His praises, any more than she cared whether the deer in the forest feared her. She occasionally gave voice to these ideas, but no one took her seriously.

Her thoughts drifted to the future. The signs were good that the king would grant Kingsbridge a borough charter. Her father would probably be the first mayor, if his health recovered. Her cloth business would continue to grow. Mark Webber would be rich. With increased prosperity, the parish guild could build a wool exchange, so that everyone could do business comfortably even in bad weather. Merthin could design the building. Even the priory was going to be better off, though Godwyn would not thank her.

The service came to an end, and the monks and nuns began to process out. A novice monk broke out of line and entered the congregation. It was Philemon. To Caris’s surprise, he approached her. “May I have a word?” he said.

She repressed a shudder. There was something loathsome about Gwenda’s brother. “What about?” she replied, barely politely.

“I want to ask your advice, really,” he said, with an attempt at a charming smile. “You know Mattie Wise.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her methods?”