Ned went to the kitchen and asked the housekeeper, Janet Fife, to serve wine and cake.
Back in the parlour, Albin told his story. He spoke French, with Ned translating the parts his mother did not understand.
It brought tears to Ned’s eyes. The portly figure of his mother seemed to shrink in the chair as the grim details came out: her brother-in-law dead, with wife and daughter; the warehouse given to a French merchant, with all its contents; strangers living in Dick’s house. ‘Poor Dick,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Poor Dick.’
Ned said: ‘I’m so sorry, Mother.’
Alice made an effort to sit upright and be positive. ‘We’re not ruined, not quite. I still have this house and four hundred pounds. And I own six houses by St Mark’s church.’ The St Mark’s cottages were her inheritance from her father, and brought a small income in rents. ‘That’s more wealth than most people see in a lifetime.’ Then she was struck by a worrying thought. ‘Though now I wish my four hundred pounds were not on loan to Sir Reginald Fitzgerald.’
‘All the better,’ said Ned. ‘If he doesn’t pay it back, we get the priory.’
‘Speaking of that,’ said his mother, ‘Albin, do you know anything of an English ship called theSt Margaret?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Albin. ‘It came into Calais for repairs the day before the French attack.’
‘What happened to the ship?’
‘It was seized by the French crown, like all the other English property in Calais – spoils of war. The hold was full of furs. They were auctioned on the quayside; they sold for more than five hundred pounds.’
Ned and Alice looked at each other. This was a bombshell. Alice said: ‘So Reginald has lost his investment. My goodness, I’m not sure he can survive this.’
Ned said: ‘And he’ll forfeit the priory.’
Alice said grimly: ‘There will be trouble.’
‘I know,’ said Ned. ‘He’ll squeal. But we will have a new business.’ He began to brighten. ‘We can make a fresh start.’
Alice, always courteous, said: ‘Albin, you may like a wash and a clean shirt. Janet Fife will give you everything you need. And then we’ll have dinner.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Alice.’
‘It is I who thank you for making this long journey and bringing me the facts at last, terrible though they are.’
Ned studied his mother’s face. She had been rocked by the news, even though it was not unexpected. He felt desperate to do something to renew her spirits. ‘We could go and look at the priory now,’ he said. ‘We can begin to figure out how we’ll parcel out space, and whatnot.’
She looked apathetic, then she made an effort. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘It’s ours now.’ She got to her feet.
They left the house and crossed the market square to the south side of the cathedral.
Ned’s father, Edmund, had been mayor of Kingsbridge when King Henry VIII began to abolish the monasteries. Alice had told Ned that Edmund and Prior Paul – the last prior of Kingsbridge, as things turned out – had seen what was coming, and conspired together to save the school. They had separated the school from the priory and given it self-government and an endowment. Two hundred years earlier, something similar had been done with Caris’s Hospital, and Edmund had taken that as a model. So the town still had a great school and a famous hospital. The rest of the priory was a ruin.
The main door was locked, but the walls were falling down, and they found a place at the back of the old kitchen where they could clamber over rubble into the premises.
Other people had had the same idea. Ned saw the ashes of a recent fire, a few scattered meat bones, and a rotted-out wineskin: someone had spent a night here, probably with an illicit lover. There was a smell of decay inside the buildings, and the droppings of birds and rodents were everywhere. ‘And the monks were always so clean,’ Alice said dismally, looking around. ‘Nothing is permanent, except change.’
Despite the dilapidation, Ned felt a keen sense of anticipation. All this now belonged to his family. Something wonderful could be made of it. How clever his mother was, to think of it – and just when the family needed a rescue plan.
They made their way to the cloisters and stood in the middle of the overgrown herb garden, by the ruined fountain where the monks used to wash their hands. Looking all around the arcade, Ned saw that many of the columns and vaults, parapets and arches were still sound, despite decades of neglect. The Kingsbridge masons had built well.
‘We should start here,’ said Alice. ‘We’ll knock an archway through the west wall, so that people can see in from the market square. We can divide the cloisters up into small shops, one to each bay.’
‘That would give us twenty-four,’ Ned said, counting. ‘Twenty-three, if we use one for the entrance.’
‘The public can come into the quadrangle and look around.’
Ned could picture it, just as his mother obviously could: the stalls with bright textiles, fresh fruits and vegetables, boots and belts, cheese and wine; the stallholders calling their wares, charming their customers, taking money and making change; and the shoppers in their best clothes, clutching their purses, looking and touching and sniffing while they gossiped with their neighbours. Ned liked markets: they were where prosperity came from.
‘We don’t need to do a lot of work, initially,’ Alice went on. ‘We’ll have to clean the place up, but the stallholders can bring their own tables, and anything else they need. Once the market is up and running, and making money, we can think about repairing the stonework, renewing the roof, and paving the quadrangle.’
