So she was in the entourage of the countess of Monmouth. She might be a lady-in-waiting, Caris guessed. She seemed to be giving news of children to a father who had not seen them for years. Who could it be?

He said: “Why did you want to meet me, Loreen?”

“Just to look at you. I’m sorry you lost your arm.”

Caris gasped, then covered her mouth, hoping she had not been heard. There was only one monk who had lost an arm: Thomas. Now that the name had come into her mind, she knew that the voice was his. Could it be that he had a wife? And two children? Caris looked at Merthin and saw that his face was a mask of incredulity.

“What do you tell the children of me?” Thomas asked.

“That their father is dead,” Loreen replied harshly. Then she began to cry. “Why did you do it?”

“I had no choice. If I had not come here, I would have been killed. Even now, I almost never leave the precincts.”

“Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“To protect a secret.”

“I’d be better off if you’d died. As a widow, I could find a husband, someone to be a father to my children. But this way I have all the burdens of a wife and mother but no one to help me… no one to put his arms around me in the night.”

“I’m sorry I’m still alive.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t wish you dead. I loved you once.”

“And I loved you as much as a man of my kind can love a woman.”

Caris frowned. What did he mean by ‘a man of my kind’? Was he one of those men who loved other men? Monks often were.

Whatever he meant, Loreen seemed to understand, for she said gently: “I know you did.”

There was a long silence. Caris knew she and Merthin should not be eavesdropping on such an intimate conversation – but it was now too late to reveal themselves.

Loreen said: “Are you happy?”

“Yes. I was not made to be a husband, or a knight. I pray for my children every day – and for you. I ask God to wash from my hands the blood of all the men I killed. This is the life I always wanted.”

“In that case, I wish you well.”

“You’re very generous.”

“You’ll probably never see me again.”

“I know.”

“Kiss me, and say goodbye.”

There was a long silence, then light footsteps receded. Caris lay still, hardly daring to breathe. After another pause, she heard Thomas crying. His sobs were muffled, but seemed to come from deep inside. Tears came to her own eyes as she listened.

Eventually Thomas got himself under control. He sniffed, coughed, and muttered something that might have been a prayer; then she heard his steps as he walked away.

At last she and Merthin could move. They stood up and walked back along the loft and down the spiral stairs. Neither spoke as they went down the nave of the great church. Caris felt as if she had been staring at a painting of high tragedy, the figures frozen in their dramatic attitudes of the moment, their past and future only to be guessed at.

Like a painting, the scene aroused different emotions in different People, and Merthin’s reaction was not the same as hers. As they emerged into a damp summer afternoon, he said: “What a sad story.”

“It makes me angry,” Caris said. “That woman has been ruined by Thomas.”

“You can hardly blame him. He had to save his life.”

“And now her life is over. She has no husband, but she can’t marry again. She’s forced to raise two children alone. At least Thomas has the monastery.”

“She has the court of the countess.”

“How can you compare the two?” Caris said irritably. “She’s probably a distant relation, kept on as an act of charity, asked to perform menial tasks, helping the countess dress her hair and choose her clothes. She’s got no choice – she’s trapped.”

“So is he. You heard him say he can’t leave the precincts.”

“But Thomas has a role, he’s the matricularius, he makes decisions, he does something.”

“Loreen has her children.”

“Exactly! The man takes care of the most important building for miles around, and the woman is stuck with her children.”

“Queen Isabella had four children, and for a while she was one of the most powerful people in Europe.”

“But she had to get rid of her husband first.”

They went on in silence, walking out of the priory grounds into the main street, and stopped in front of Caris’s house. She realized that this was another quarrel, and it was on the same subject as last time: marriage.

Merthin said: “I’m going to the Bell for dinner.”

That was Bessie’s father’s inn. “All right,” Caris said despondently.

As Merthin walked away, she called after him: “Loreen would be better off if she’d never married.”

He spoke over his shoulder. “What else would she do?”

That was the problem, Caris thought resentfully as she entered her house. What else was a woman to do?

The place was empty. Edmund and Petranilla were at the banquet, and the servants had the afternoon off. Only Scrap the dog was there to welcome Caris with a lazy wag of her tail. Caris patted her black head absent-mindedly, then sat at the table in the hall, brooding.

Every other young woman in Christendom wanted nothing more than to marry the man she loved – why was Caris so horrified by the prospect? From where had she got such unconventional feelings? Certainly not from her own mother. Rose had wanted only to be a good wife to Edmund. She had believed what men said about the inferiority of women. Her subordination had embarrassed Caris and, though Edmund never complained, Caris suspected that he had been bored by it. Caris had more respect for her forceful, unlovable Aunt Petranilla than for her compliant mother.

Even Petranilla had allowed her life to be shaped by men. For years she had worked to manoeuvre her father up the social ladder until he became alderman of Kingsbridge. Her strongest emotion was resentment: towards Earl Roland because he had jilted her, and towards her husband because he had died. As a widow she had dedicated herself to Godwyn’s career.

Queen Isabella had been similar. She had deposed her husband, King Edward II; but the result had been that her lover, Roger Mortimer, had effectively ruled England until her son grew old enough and confident enough to oust him.

Was that what Caris should do – live her life through men? Her father wanted her to work with him in the wool business. Or she could manage Merthin’s career, helping him secure contracts to construct churches and bridges, expanding his business until he was the richest and most important builder in England.

She was roused from her thoughts by a tap at the door, and the bird-like figure of Mother Cecilia walked briskly in.

“Good afternoon!” Caris said in surprise. “I was just asking myself whether all women are doomed to live their lives through men – and here you are, an obvious counter-example.”

“You’re not quite right,” Cecilia said with a friendly smile. “I live through Jesus Christ, who was a man, though he is God too.”

Caris was not sure whether that counted. She opened the cupboard and took out a small barrel of the best wine. “Would you like a cup of my father’s Rhenish?”

“Just a little, mixed with water.”

Caris half filled two cups with wine then topped up the drinks with water from a jug. “You know that my father and aunt are at the banquet.”

“Yes. I came to see you.”

Caris had guessed as much. The prioress did not wander around the town making social calls without a purpose.

Cecilia sipped, then went on: “I’ve been thinking about you, and the way you acted on the day the bridge collapsed.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“On the contrary. You did everything perfectly. You were gentle but firm with the injured, and you obeyed my orders but at the same time used your initiative. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“And you seemed… not to enjoy it, exactly, but at least to find satisfaction in the work.”