Edmund normally chaired these meetings, sitting on a big wooden throne on a raised platform at the front. Today, however, there were two chairs on the platform. Edmund sat in one and, when Prior Godwyn arrived, Edmund invited him to take the other. Godwyn was accompanied by all the senior monks, and Merthin was pleased to see Thomas among them. Philemon was also in the entourage, lanky and awkward, and Merthin wondered briefly what on earth Godwyn had brought him for.

Godwyn was looking pained. Opening the proceedings, Edmund was careful to acknowledge that the prior was in charge of the bridge, and the choice of design was ultimately his. But everyone knew that, in fact, Edmund had taken the decision out of Godwyn’s hands by calling this meeting. Provided there was a clear consensus tonight, Godwyn would have great difficulty in going against the expressed will of the merchants in a matter of commerce rather than religion. Edmund asked Godwyn to begin with a prayer, and Godwyn obliged, but he knew he had been outmanoeuvred, and that was why he looked as if there was a bad smell.

Edmund stood up and said: “These two designs have been costed by Elfric and Merthin, who have used the same methods of calculation.”

Elfric interjected: “Of course we have – he learned them from me.” There was a ripple of laughter from the older men.

It was true. There were formulae for calculating costs per square foot of wall, per cubic yard of infill, per foot of a roof span, and for more intricate work such as arches and vaulting. All builders used the same methods, though with their individual variations. The bridge calculations had been complex, but easier than for a building such as a church.

Edmund went on: “Each man has checked the other’s calculations, so there is no room for dispute.”

Edward Butcher called out: “Yes – all builders overcharge by the same amount!” That got a big laugh. Edward was popular with the men for his quick wit, and with the women for his good looks and brown bedroom eyes. He was not so popular with his wife, who knew about his infidelities, and had recently attacked him with one of his own heavy knives: he still had a bandage on his left arm.

“Elfric’s bridge will cost two hundred and eighty-five pounds,” Edmund said as the laughter died away. “Merthin’s comes out at three hundred and seven. The difference is twenty-two pounds, as most of you will have worked out faster than me.” There was a quiet chuckle at that: Edmund was often teased for having his daughter do his arithmetic for him. He still used the old Latin numerals, because he could not get used to the new Arabic digits that made calculation so much easier.

A new voice said: “Twenty-two pounds is a lot of money.” It was Bill Watkin, the builder who had refused to hire Merthin, looking like one of the monks with his bald dome.

Dick Brewer said: “Yes, but Merthin’s bridge is twice as wide. It ought to cost twice as much – but it doesn’t, because it’s a cleverer design.” Dick was fond of his own product, ale, and in consequence had a protruding round belly like a pregnant woman.

Bill rejoined: “How many days a year do we need a bridge wide enough for two carts?”

“Every market day and all of Fleece Fair week.”

“Not so,” said Bill. “It’s only for an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon.”

“I’ve waited two hours with a cartload of barley before now.”

“You should have the sense to bring your barley in on quiet days.”

“I bring barley in every day.” Dick was the largest brewer in the county. He owned a huge copper kettle that held five hundred gallons, in consequence of which his tavern was called the Copper.

Edmund interrupted this spat. “There are other problems caused by delays on the bridge,” he said. “Some traders go to Shiring, where there’s no bridge and no queue. Others do their business while waiting in line, then go home without ever entering the town, and save themselves the bridge toll and the market taxes. It’s forestalling, and it’s illegal, but we’ve never succeeded in stopping it. And then there’s the question of how people think of Kingsbridge. Right now we’re the town whose bridge collapsed. If we’re going to attract back all the business we’re losing, we need to change that. I’d like us to become known as the town with the best bridge in England.”

Edmund was hugely influential, and Merthin began to scent victory.

Betty Baxter, an enormously fat woman in her forties, stood up and pointed to something on Merthin’s drawing. “What’s this, here in the middle of the bridge parapet, over the pier?” she said. “There’s a little pointed bit that sticks out over the water, like a viewing platform. What is it for, fishing?” The others laughed.

“It’s a pedestrian refuge,” Merthin answered. “If you’re walking over the bridge, and suddenly the earl of Shiring rides across with twenty mounted knights, you can step out of their way.”

Edward Butcher said: “I hope it’s big enough to fit Betty in.”

Everyone laughed, but Betty persisted with her questioning. “Why is the pier underneath it pointed like that all the way down to the water? Elfric’s piers aren’t pointed.”

“To deflect debris. Look at any river bridge – you’ll see the piers are chipped and cracked. What do you think causes that damage? It must be the large pieces of wood – tree trunks, or timbers from demolished buildings – that you see floating downstream and crashing into piers.”

“Or Ian Boatman when he’s drunk,” said Edward.

“Boats or debris, they will cause less damage to my pointed piers. Elfric’s will suffer the full impact.”

Elfric said: “My walls are too strong to be knocked down by bits of wood.”

“On the contrary,” said Merthin. “Your arches are narrower than mine, therefore the water will be drawn through them faster, and the debris will strike the piers with greater force, causing more damage.”

He could see from Elfric’s face that the older man had not even thought of that. But the audience were not builders – how could they judge what was right?

Around the base of each pier, Merthin had drawn a pile of rough stones, known to builders as riprap. This would prevent the current undermining his piers the way it had those of the old wooden bridge. But no one asked him about the riprap, so he did not explain it.

Betty had more questions. “Why is your bridge so long? Elfric’s begins at the water’s edge. Yours starts several yards inland. Isn’t that unnecessary expense?”

“My bridge is ramped at both ends,” Merthin explained. “That’s so that you step off the bridge on to dry land, instead of a swamp. No more ox-carts getting bogged down on the beach and blocking the bridge for an hour.”

“Cheaper to put down a paved road,” said Elfric.

Elfric was beginning to sound desperate. Then Bill Watkin stood up. “I’m having trouble deciding who’s right and who’s wrong,” he said. “When these two argue, it’s difficult to make up your mind. And I’m a builder – it must be worse for those who aren’t.” There was a murmur of agreement. Bill went on: “So I think we should look at the men, not the designs.”

Merthin had been afraid of this. He listened with increasing despair.

“Which of the two do you know best?” said Bill. “Which can you rely on? Elfric has been a builder in this town, man and boy, for twenty years. We can look at houses he’s put up and see they’re still standing. We can see the repairs he’s done on the cathedral. On the other hand, here’s Merthin – a clever lad, we know, but a bit of a tearaway, and never finished his apprenticeship. There’s not a lot to indicate that he’s capable of taking charge of the largest building project Kingsbridge has seen since the construction of the cathedral. I know which one I trust.” He sat down.

Several men voiced their approval. They would not judge the designs – they would decide on personalities. It was maddeningly unfair.