He sat down, then stood up again. It was hard to listen to a woman in distress. He could not think about scaffolding while that sound filled the house. Can’t stay, can’t leave, can’t sit still.

He went upstairs.

She was lying face down on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. Her dress was rucked up around her chubby thighs. The skin on the back of her legs was very white and looked soft.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Go away.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I hate you.”

He knelt down and patted her back. “I can’t sit in the kitchen and listen to you crying.”

She rolled over and looked at him, her face wet with tears. “I’m ugly and fat, and you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” He wiped her wet cheeks with the back of his hand.

She took his wrist and drew him to her. “Don’t you? Truly?”

“No. But…”

She put her hand behind his head, pulled him down, and kissed him. He groaned, more aroused than ever. He lay beside her on the mattress. I will leave her in a moment, he told himself. I’ll just comfort her a little more, then I’ll get up and go down the stairs.

She took his hand and pushed it up her skirt, placing it between her legs. He felt the wiry hair, the soft skin beneath, and the moist divide, and he knew he was lost. He stroked her roughly, his finger slipping inside. He felt as if he would burst. “I can’t stop,” he said.

“Quickly,” she said, panting. She pulled up his shirt and pushed down his drawers, and he rolled on to her.

He felt himself losing control as she guided him inside her. The remorse hit him before it was over. “Oh, no,” he said. The explosion began with his first thrust, and in an instant it was finished. He slumped on top of her, his eyes closed. “Oh, God,” he said. “I wish I was dead.”

Buonaventura Caroli made his shock announcement at breakfast on Monday, the day after the big banquet at the guild hall.

Caris felt a little unwell as she took her seat at the oak table in the dining hall of her father’s house. She had a headache and a touch of nausea. She ate a small dish of warm bread-and-milk to settle her stomach. Recalling that she had enjoyed the wine at the banquet, she wondered whether she had drunk too much of it. Was this the morning-after feeling that men and boys joked about when they boasted how much strong drink they could take?

Father and Buonaventura were eating cold mutton, and Aunt Petranilla was telling a story. “When I was fifteen, I was betrothed to a nephew of the earl of Shiring,” she said. “It was considered a good match: his father was a knight of the middling sort, and mine a wealthy wool merchant. Then the earl and his only son both died in Scotland, at the battle of Loudon Hill. My fiance, Roland, became the earl – and broke off the engagement. He is still the earl today. If I had married Roland before the battle, I would now be the countess of Shiring.” She dipped toast in her ale.

“Perhaps it was not the will of God,” said Buonaventura. He threw a bone to Scrap, who pounced on it as if she had not seen food for a week. Then he said to Papa: “My friend, there is something I should tell you before we begin the day’s business.”

Caris felt, from his tone of voice, that he had bad news; and her father must have had the same intuition, for he said: “This sounds ominous.”

“Our trade has been shrinking for the last few years,” Buonaventura went on. “Each year my family sells a little less cloth, each year we buy a little less wool from England.”

“Business is always like that,” said Edmund. “It goes up, it goes down, no one knows why.”

“But now your king has interfered.”

It was true. Edward III had seen the money being made in wool and had decided that more of it must go to the crown. He had introduced a new tax of one pound per woolsack. A sack was standardized at 364 pounds weight, and sold for about four pounds in money; so the extra tax was a quarter of the value of the wool, a huge slice.

Buonaventura went on: “What is worse, he has made it difficult to export wool from England. I have had to pay large bribes.”

“The ban on exports will be lifted shortly,” Edmund said. “The merchants of the Wool Company in London are negotiating with royal officials-”

“I hope you are right,” Buonaventura said. “But, with things as they are, my family feels I no longer need to visit two separate wool fairs in this part of the country.”

“Quite right!” said Edmund. “Come here, and forget about the Shiring Fair.”

The town of Shiring was two days’ travel from Kingsbridge. It was about the same size, and while it did not have a cathedral or a priory, it boasted the sheriff’s castle and the county court. It held a rival Wool Fair once a year.

“I’m afraid I can’t find the range of wool here. You see, the Kingsbridge Fleece Fair seems to be declining. More and more sellers go to Shiring. Their fair offers a greater variety of types and qualities.”

Caris was dismayed. This could be disastrous for her father. She put in: “Why would sellers prefer Shiring?”

Buonaventura shrugged. “The guild merchant there has made the fair attractive. There’s no long queue to enter the city gate; the dealers can hire tents and booths; there’s a wool exchange building where everyone can do business when it rains like this…”

“We could do all that,” she said.

Her father snorted. “If only.”

“Why not, Papa?”

“Shiring is an independent borough, with a royal charter. The merchant guild there has the power to organize things for the benefit of the wool merchants. Kingsbridge belongs to the priory-”

Petranilla put in: “For the glory of God.”

“No doubt,” Edmund said. “But our parish guild can’t do anything without the priory’s approval – and priors are cautious and conservative people, my brother being no exception. The upshot is that most improvement plans get rejected.”

Buonaventura went on: “Because of my family’s long association with you, Edmund, and your father before you, we have continued to come to Kingsbridge; but in hard times we can’t afford to be sentimental.”

“Then let me ask you a small favour, for the sake of that long association,” Edmund said. “Don’t make a final decision yet. Keep an open mind.”

That was clever, Caris thought. She was struck – as she often was – by how shrewd her father could be in a negotiation. He did not argue that Buonaventura should reverse his decision, for that would just make him dig his heels in. The Italian was much more likely to agree not to make the decision final. That committed him to nothing, but left the door open.

Buonaventura found it hard to refuse. “All right, but to what end?”

“I want the chance to improve the fair, and especially that bridge,” Edmund replied. “If we could offer better facilities here at Kingsbridge than they have at Shiring, and attract more sellers, you would continue to visit us, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s what we’ll have to do.” He stood up. “I’ll go and see my brother now. Caris, come with me. We’ll show him the queue at the bridge. No, wait, Caris, go and fetch your clever young builder, Merthin. We might need his expertise.”

“He’ll be working.”

Petranilla said: “Just tell his master that the alderman of the parish guild wants the boy.” Petranilla was proud that her brother was alderman, and mentioned it at every opportunity.

But she was right. Elfric would have to release Merthin. “I’ll go and find him,” Caris said.

She put on a cape with a hood and went out. It was still raining, though not as heavily as yesterday. Elfric, like most of the leading citizens, lived on the main street that ran from the bridge up to the priory gates. The broad street was crowded with carts and people heading for the fair, splashing through puddles and streamlets of rain.