She hesitated, as if she might have had another plan; but then she said: “I’d love to.”

They put on heavy cloaks with hoods and went out. It was the first day of March. Flurries of snow chased them down the main street. They took the ferry to the suburban side.

Despite the ups and downs of the wool trade, the town seemed to grow a little every year, and the priory turned more and more of its pasture and orchards into house plots for rent. Merthin guessed there must be fifty dwellings that had not been here when he first came to Kingsbridge, as a boy, twelve years ago.

Dick Brewer’s new home was a two-storey structure set back from the road. As yet it had no window shutters or doors, so the gaps in the walls had been temporarily covered with hurdles, wood frames filled in with woven reeds. The front entrance was thus blocked, but Merthin took Elizabeth to the back, where there was a temporary wooden door with a lock.

Merthin’s assistant Jimmie, now sixteen, was in the kitchen, guarding the place from thieves. He was a superstitious boy, always crossing himself and throwing salt over his shoulder. He was sitting on a bench in front of a big fire, but he looked anxious. “Hello, master,” he said. “Now that you’re here, may I go and get my dinner? Lol Turner was supposed to bring it, but he hasn’t come.”

“Make sure you’re back before it gets dark.”

“Thank you.” He hurried off.

Merthin stepped through the doorway to the interior of the house. “Four rooms downstairs,” he said, showing her.

She was incredulous. “What will they use them all for?”

“Kitchen, parlour, dining room and hall.” There was no staircase yet, but Merthin climbed a ladder to the upper floor, and Elizabeth followed. “Four bedrooms,” he said as she reached the top.

“Who will live here?”

“Dick and his wife, his son Danny and his wife, and his daughter, who probably won’t remain single for ever.”

Most Kingsbridge families lived in one room, and all slept side by side on the floor: parents, children, grandparents and in-laws. Elizabeth said: “This place has more rooms than a palace!”

It was true. A nobleman with a big entourage might still live in two rooms: a bedchamber for himself and his wife, and a great hall for everyone else. But Merthin had now designed several houses for wealthy Kingsbridge merchants, and the luxury they all craved was privacy. It was a new trend, he thought.

“I suppose there will be glass in the windows,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes.” That was another trend. Merthin could remember the time when there was no glazier in Kingsbridge, just an itinerant who called every year or two. Now the city had a resident glazier.

They returned to the ground floor. Elizabeth sat on Jimmie’s bench in front of the fire and warmed her hands. Merthin sat beside her. “I’ll build a house like this for myself, one day,” he said. “In a big garden with fruit trees.”

To his surprise, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a nice dream,” she said.

They both stared into the fire. Her hair tickled Merthin’s cheek. After a moment, she laid a hand on his knee. In the silence, he could hear her breathing, and his own, and the crackle of burning logs.

“In your dream, who’s in the house?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Just like a man. I can’t see my house, but I know who’s in it: a husband, some babies, my mother, an elderly parent-in-law and three servants.”

“Men and women have different dreams.”

She lifted her head, looked at him and touched his face. “And when you put them together, you have a life.” She kissed his mouth.

He closed his eyes. He remembered the soft touch of her lips from years ago. Her mouth lingered on his for just a moment, then she drew back.

He felt oddly detached, as if he were watching himself from a corner of the room. He did not know how he felt. He looked at her and saw again how lovely she was. He asked himself what was so striking about her, and realized immediately that everything was in harmony, like the parts of a beautiful church. Her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones and her forehead were just as he would have drawn them if he had been God creating a woman.

She looked back at him with calm blue eyes. “Touch me,” she said. She opened her cloak.

He took her breast gently in his hand. He remembered doing this, too. Her breasts were firm and flat against her chest. Her nipple hardened immediately to his touch, betraying her calm demeanour.

“I want to be in your dream house,” she said, and she kissed him again.

She was not acting on the spur of the moment; Elizabeth never did. She had been thinking about this. While he had been casually visiting her, enjoying her company without thinking any farther, she had been imagining their life together. Perhaps she had even planned this scene. That would explain why her mother had left them with an excuse about a pie. He had almost spoiled her plan by proposing to show her Dick Brewer’s house, but she had improvised.

There was nothing wrong with such an unemotional approach. She was a reasoning person. It was one of the things he liked about her. He knew that passions burned nonetheless beneath the surface.

What seemed wrong was his own lack of feeling. It was not his way to be coolly rational about women – quite the reverse. When he had felt We, it had taken him over, making him feel rage and resentment as well as lust and tenderness. Now he felt interested, flattered and titillated, but he was not out of control.

She sensed that his kiss was lukewarm, and drew back. He saw the ghost of an emotion on her face, fiercely suppressed, but he knew there was fear behind the mask. She was so poised, by nature, that it must have cost her a lot to be so forward, and she dreaded rejection.

She drew away from him, stood up and lifted the skirt of her dress. She had long, shapely legs covered with nearly invisible fine blonde hair. Although she was tall and slim, her body widened just below the hips in a delightfully womanly way. His gaze homed in helplessly on the delta of her sex. Her hair was so fair that he could see through it, to the pale swelling of the lips and the delicate line between them.

He looked up to her face and read desperation there. She had tried everything, and she saw that it had not worked.

Merthin said: “I’m sorry.”

She dropped her skirts.

“Listen,” he said. “I think-”

She interrupted him. “Don’t speak.” Her desire was turning to anger. “Whatever you say now will be a lie.”

She was right. He had been trying to formulate some soothing half-truth: he was not feeling well, or Jimmie might be back at any moment. But she did not want to be mollified. She had been rebuffed, and feeble excuses would only make her feel patronized as well.

She stared at him, grief struggling with rage on the battleground of her beautiful face. Tears of frustration came to her eyes. “Why not?” she cried; but when he opened his mouth to reply she said: “Don’t answer! It won’t be the truth”; and again she was right.

She turned to go, then came back. “It’s Caris,” she said, her face working with emotion. “That witch has cast a spell on you. She won’t marry you, but no one else can have you. She’s evil!”

At last she walked away. She flung open the door and stepped out. He heard her sob once, then she was gone.

Merthin stared into the fire. “Oh, hell,” he said.

“There’s something I need to explain to you,” Merthin said to Edmund a week later, as they were leaving the cathedral.

Edmund’s face took on a look of mild amusement that was familiar to Merthin. I’m thirty years older than you, the look said, and you should be listening to me, not giving me lessons; but I enjoy youthful enthusiasm. Besides, I’m not yet too old to learn something. “All right,” he said. “But explain it in the Bell. I want a cup of wine.”