Then why do it now? Caris wondered.

“But we have to have a prior, and it simply is not satisfactory for the prioress to play that role, despite her undoubted ability.”

Caris would have preferred him to appoint Thomas. But Thomas would have refused, she knew. He had been scarred by the bitter struggle over who was to succeed Prior Anthony, twelve years ago, and had sworn then never again to get involved in a priory election. In fact the bishop might well have spoken to Thomas, without Caris’s knowledge, and learned this.

“However, your appointment is fenced about with provisos,” Henri said to Philemon. “First, you will not be confirmed in the role until Kingsbridge has obtained its borough charter. You are not capable of running the town and I won’t put you in that position. In the interim, therefore, Mother Caris will continue as acting prior, and you will live in the monks’ dormitory. The palace will be locked up. If you misbehave in the waiting period, I will rescind the appointment.”

Philemon looked angry and wounded by this, but he kept his mouth shut tight. He knew he had won and he was not going to argue about the conditions.

“Secondly, you will have your own treasury, but Brother Thomas is to be the treasurer, and no money will be spent nor precious objects removed without his knowledge and consent. Furthermore, I have ordered the building of a new tower, and I have authorized payments according to a schedule prepared by Merthin Bridger. The priory will make these payments from the monks’ funds, and neither Philemon nor anyone else shall have the power to alter this arrangement. I don’t want half a tower.”

Merthin would get his wish, at least, Caris thought gratefully.

Henri turned to Caris. “I have one more command to issue, and it is for you, Mother Prioress.”

Now what? she thought.

“There has been an accusation of fornication.”

Caris stared at the bishop, thinking about the time she had surprised him and Claude naked. How did he dare to raise this subject?

He went on: “I say nothing about the past. But for the future, it is not possible that the prioress of Kingsbridge should have a relationship with a man.”

She wanted to say: But you live with your lover! However, she suddenly noticed the expression on Henri’s face. It was a pleading look. He was begging her not to make the accusation that, he well knew, would show him up as a hypocrite. He knew that what he was doing was unjust, she realized, but he had no choice. Philemon had forced him into this position.

She was tempted, all the same, to sting him with a rebuke. But she restrained herself. It would do no good. Henri’s back was to the wall and he was doing his best. Caris clamped her mouth shut.

Henri said: “May I have your assurance, Mother Prioress, that from this moment on there will be absolutely no grounds for the accusation?”

Caris looked at the floor. She had been here before. Once again her choice was to give up everything she had worked for – the hospital, the borough charter, the tower – or to part with Merthin. And, once again, she chose her work.

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “Yes, my lord bishop,” she said. “You have my word.”

She spoke to Merthin in the hospital, surrounded by other people. She was trembling and close to tears, but she could not see him in private. She knew that if they were alone her resolve would weaken, and she would throw her arms around him and tell him that she loved him, and promise to leave the nunnery and marry him. So she sent a message, and greeted him at the door of the hospital, then spoke to him in a matter-of-fact voice, her arms folded tightly across her chest so that she would not be tempted to reach out with a fond gesture and touch the body she loved so much.

When she had finished telling him about the bishop’s ultimatum and her decision, he looked at her as if he could kill her. “This is the last time,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If you do this, it’s permanent. I’m not going to wait around any more, hoping that one day you will be my wife.”

She felt as if he had hit her.

He went on, delivering another blow with each sentence. “If you mean what you’re saying, I’m going to try to forget you now. I’m thirty-three years old. I don’t have for ever – my father is dying at the age of fifty-eight. I’ll marry someone else and have more children and be happy in my garden.”

The picture he painted tortured her. She bit her lip, trying to control her grief, but hot tears ran down her face.

He was remorseless. “I’m not going to waste my life loving you,” he said, and she felt as if he had stabbed her. “Leave the nunnery now, or stay there for ever.”

She tried to look steadily at him. “I won’t forget you. I will always love you.”

“But not enough.”

She was silent for a long moment. It wasn’t like that, she knew. Her love was not weak or inadequate. It just presented her with impossible choices. But there seemed no point in arguing. “Is that what you really believe?” she said.

“It seems obvious.”

She nodded, though she did not really agree. “I’m sorry,” she said. “More sorry than I have ever been in my whole life.”

“So am I,” he said, and he turned away and walked out of the building.

75

Sir Gregory Longfellow at last went back to London, but he returned surprisingly quickly, as if he had bounced off the wall of that great city like a football. He showed up at Tench Hall at supper time looking harassed, breathing hard through his flared nostrils, his long grey hair matted with perspiration. He walked in with something less than his usual air of being in command of all men and beasts that crossed his path. Ralph and Alan were standing by a window, looking at a new broad-bladed style of dagger called a basilard. Without speaking, Gregory threw his tall figure into Ralph’s big carved chair: whatever might have happened, he was still too grand to wait for an invitation to sit.

Ralph and Alan stared at him expectantly. Ralph’s mother sniffed censoriously: she disliked bad manners.

Finally Gregory said: “The king does not like to be disobeyed.”

That scared Ralph.

He looked anxiously at Gregory, and asked himself what he had done that could possibly be interpreted as disobedient by the king. He could think of nothing. Nervously he said: “I’m sorry his majesty is displeased – I hope it’s not with me.”

“You’re involved,” Gregory said with annoying vagueness. “And so am I. The king feels that when his wishes are frustrated it sets a bad precedent.”

“I quite agree.”

“That is why you and I are going to leave here tomorrow, ride to Earlscastle, see the Lady Philippa, and make her marry you.”

So that was it. Ralph was mainly relieved. He could not be held responsible for Philippa’s recalcitrance, in all fairness – not that fairness made much difference to kings. But, reading between the lines, he guessed that the person taking the blame was Gregory, and so Gregory was now determined to rescue the king’s plan and redeem himself.

There was fury and malice in Gregory’s expression. He said: “By the time I have finished with her, I promise you, she will beg you to marry her.”

Ralph could not imagine how this was to be achieved. As Philippa herself had pointed out, you could lead a woman up the aisle but you could not force her to say “I do”. He said to Gregory: “Someone told me that a widow’s right to refuse remarriage is actually guaranteed by Magna Carta.”

Gregory gave him a malevolent look. “Don’t remind me. I made the mistake of mentioning that to his majesty.”

Ralph wondered, in that case, what threats or promises Gregory planned to use to bend Philippa to his will. Himself, he could think of no way to marry her short of abducting her by force, and carrying her off to some isolated church where a generously bribed priest would turn a deaf ear to her cries of “No, never!”