Edmund said: “I don’t know how my father ever sired someone with so little sense.” And he, too, stomped off.

Caris turned to Merthin. “Well,” she said, “what did you think of all that?”

“I don’t know.” He looked away, avoiding her eye. “Ed better get back to work.” He went without kissing her.

“Well!” she said when he was out of earshot. “What on earth has got into him?”

The earl of Shiring came to Kingsbridge on the Tuesday of Fleece Fair week. He brought with him both his sons, various other family members, and an entourage of knights and squires. The bridge was cleared by his advance men, and no one was permitted to cross for an hour before his arrival, lest he should suffer the indignity of being made to wait alongside the common people. His followers wore his red-and-black livery, and they all splashed into town with banners flying, their horses’ hooves spattering the citizens with rainwater and mud. Earl Roland had prospered in the last ten years – under Queen Isabella and, later, her son Edward III – and he wanted the world to know it, as rich and powerful men generally did.

In his company was Ralph, son of Sir Gerald and brother of Merthin. At the same time as Merthin had been apprenticed to Elfric’s father, Ralph had become a squire in the household of Earl Roland, and he had been happy ever since. He had been well fed and clothed, he had learned to ride and fight, and he had spent most of his time hunting and playing sports and games. In six and a half years no one had asked him to read or write a word. As he rode behind the earl through the huddled stalls of the Fleece Fair, watched by faces both envious and fearful, he pitied the merchants and tradesmen grubbing for pennies in the mud.

The earl dismounted at the prior’s house, on the north side of the cathedral. His younger son, Richard, did the same. Richard was bishop of Kingsbridge and the cathedral was, theoretically, his church. However, the bishop’s palace was in the county town of Shiring, two days’ journey away. This suited the bishop, whose duties were political as much as religious; and it suited the monks, who preferred not to be too closely supervised.

Richard was only twenty-eight, but his father was a close ally of the king, and that counted for more than seniority.

The rest of the entourage rode to the south end of the cathedral close. The earl’s elder son, William, lord of Caster, told the squires to stable the horses while half a dozen knights settled in to the hospital. Ralph moved quickly to help William’s wife, Lady Philippa, get down from her horse. She was a tall, attractive woman with long legs and deep breasts, and Ralph nurtured a hopeless love for her.

When the horses were settled, Ralph went to visit his mother and father. They lived rent-free in a small house in the south-west quarter of the town, by the river, in a neighbourhood made malodorous by the work of leather tanners. As he approached the house, Ralph felt himself shrivelling with shame inside his red-and-black uniform. He was grateful that Lady Philippa could not see the indignity of his parents’ situation.

He had not seen them for a year, and they seemed older. There was a lot of grey in his mother’s hair, and his father was losing his eyesight. They gave him cider made by the monks and wild strawberries Mother had gathered in the woods. Father admired his livery. “Has the earl made you a knight yet?” he asked eagerly.

It was the ambition of every squire to become a knight, but Ralph felt it more keenly than most. His father had never got over the humiliation, ten years ago, of being degraded to the position of pensioner of the priory. An arrow had pierced Ralph’s heart that day. The pain would not be eased until he had restored the family honour. But not all squires became knights. Nevertheless, Father always talked as if it were only a matter of time for Ralph.

“Not yet,” Ralph said. “But we’re likely to go to war with France before long, and that will be my chance.” He spoke lightly, not wishing to show how badly he yearned for the chance to distinguish himself in battle.

Mother was disgusted. “Why do kings always want war?”

Father laughed. “It’s what men were made for.”

“No, it’s not,” she said sharply. “When I gave birth to Ralph in pain and suffering, I didn’t intend that he should live to have his head cut off by a Frenchman’s sword or his heart pierced by a bolt from a crossbow.”

Father flapped a hand at her in a dismissive gesture and said to Ralph: “What makes you say there will be war?”

“King Philip of France has confiscated Gascony.”

“Ah. We can’t have that.”

English kings had ruled the western French province of Gascony for generations. They had given trade privileges to the merchants of Bordeaux and Bayonne, who did more business with London than with Paris. Still, there was always trouble.

Ralph said: “King Edward has sent ambassadors to Flanders to form alliances.”

“Allies may want money.”

“That’s why Earl Roland has come to Kingsbridge. The king wants a loan from the wool merchants.”

“How much?”

“The talk is of two hundred thousand pounds, nationwide, as an advance against the wool tax.”

Mother said bleakly: “The king should take care not to tax the wool merchants to death.”

Father said: “The merchants have plenty of money – just look at their fine clothes.” There was bitterness in his tone, and Ralph observed that he had on a worn linen undershirt and old shoes. “Anyway, they want us to stop the French navy interfering with their trade.” Over the last year, French ships had raided towns on the south coast of England, sacking the ports and setting fire to ships in the harbours.

“The French attack us, so we attack the French,” said Mother. “What is the sense of it?”

“Women will never understand,” Father replied.

“That’s the truth,” she said crisply.

Ralph changed the subject. “How is my brother?”

“He’s a fine craftsman,” said his father, and he sounded, Ralph thought, like a horse salesman saying that an undersized pony was a good mount for a woman.

Mother said: “He’s smitten with Edmund Wooler’s daughter.”

“Caris?” Ralph smiled. “He always liked her. We played together as children. She was a bossy little minx, but Merthin never seemed to mind. Will he marry her?”

“I expect so,” Mother said. “When he finishes his apprenticeship.”

“He’ll have his hands full.” Ralph got up. “Where do you think he is now?”

“He’s working in the north porch of the cathedral,” Father said. “But he might be having his dinner.”

“I’ll find him.” Ralph kissed them both and went out.

He returned to the priory and wandered through the fair. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining fitfully, glinting in the puddles and raising steam off the stallholders’ wet covers. He saw a familiar profile, and the regular footsteps of his heart faltered. It was the straight nose and strong jaw of Lady Philippa. She was older than Ralph, about twenty-five, he guessed. She was standing at a stall, looking at bolts of silk from Italy, and he drank in the way her light summer dress draped itself lasciviously over the curves of her hips. He made her an unnecessarily elaborate bow.

She glanced up and gave a perfunctory nod.

“Beautiful materials,” he said, trying to open a conversation.

“Yes.”

At that moment, a diminutive figure with untidy carrot-coloured hair approached: Merthin. Ralph was delighted to see him. “This is my clever older brother,” he said to Philippa.

Merthin said to Philippa: “Buy the pale green – it matches your eyes.”

Ralph winced. Merthin should not have addressed her in such a familiar way.

However, she did not seem to mind too much. She spoke in a tone of mild reproof, saying: “When I want a boy’s opinion, I’ll ask my son,” but as she said it she gave him a smile that was almost flirtatious.