Epic Historial Collection (128 page)

Martha dropped an iron pot lid on the hearthstone with a loud clang. Jack looked at her and saw fear on her face. He turned to Aliena and saw that she had turned white.

Aliena said: “What's he doing in Kingsbridge?”

“Looking for work. The famine has impoverished the merchants of Shiring, I guess, and they aren't building stone houses like they used to. He's dismissed his gang and he can't find work.”

“I hope you threw him out on his tail,” Aliena said.

“He said I should give him a job for Tom's sake,” Jack said nervously. He had not anticipated such a strong reaction from the two women. “After all, I owe everything to Tom.”

“Cow shit,” Aliena said, and Jack thought: she got that expression from my mother.

“Well, I hired him anyway,” he said.

“Jack!” Aliena screamed. “How could you? You can't let him come back to Kingsbridge—that devil!”

Sally began to cry. Tommy stared wide-eyed at his mother. Jack said: “Alfred isn't a devil. He's hungry and penniless. I saved him, for the sake of his father's memory.”

“You wouldn't feel sorry for him if he'd forced you to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed like a dog for nine months.”

“He's done worse things to me—ask Martha.”

Martha said: “And to me.”

Jack said: “I just decided that seeing him like that was enough revenge for me.”

“Well it's not enough for me!” Aliena stormed. “By Christ, you're a damned fool, Jack Jackson. Sometimes I thank God I'm not married to you.”

That hurt. Jack looked away. He knew she did not mean it, but it was bad enough that she should say it, even in anger. He picked up his spoon and started to eat. It was hard to swallow.

Aliena patted Sally's head and put a piece of carrot into her mouth. Sally stopped crying.

Jack looked at Tommy, who was still staring at Aliena with a frightened face. “Eat, Tommy,” said Jack. “It's good.”

They finished their dinner in silence.

 

In the spring of the year that the transepts were finished, Prior Philip made a tour of the monastery's property in the south. After three bad years he needed a good harvest, and he wanted to check what state the farms were in.

He took Jonathan with him. The priory orphan was now a tall, awkward, intelligent sixteen-year-old. Like Philip at that age, he did not seem to suffer a moment's doubt about what he wanted to do with his life: he had completed his novitiate and taken his vows, and he was now Brother Jonathan. Also like Philip, he was interested in the material side of God's service, and he worked as deputy to Cuthbert Whitehead, the aging cellarer. Philip was proud of the boy: he was devout, hardworking, and well liked.

Their escort was Richard, the brother of Aliena. Richard had at last found his niche in Kingsbridge. After they built the town wall, Philip had suggested to the parish guild that they appoint Richard as Head of the Watch, responsible for the town's security. He organized the night watchmen and arranged for the maintenance and improvement of the town walls, and on market days and holy days he was empowered to arrest troublemakers and drunks. These tasks, which had become essential as the village had grown into a town, were all things a monk was not supposed to do; so the parish guild, which Philip had at first seen as a threat to his authority, had turned out to be useful after all. And Richard was happy. He was about thirty years old now, but the active life he led kept him looking young.

Philip wished Richard's sister could be as settled. If ever a person had been failed by the Church it was Aliena. Jack was the man she loved and the father of her children, but the Church insisted that she was married to Alfred, even though she had never had carnal knowledge of him; and she was unable to get an annulment because of the ill will of the bishop. It was shameful, and Philip felt guilty, even though he was not responsible.

Toward the end of the trip, when they were riding home through the forest on a bright spring morning, young Jonathan said: “I wonder why God makes people starve.”

It was a question every young monk asked sooner or later, and there were lots of answers to it. Philip said: “Don't blame this famine on God.”

“But God made the weather that caused the bad harvests.”

“The famine is not just due to bad harvests,” Philip said. “There are always bad harvests, every few years, but people don't starve. What's special about this crisis is that it comes after so many years of civil war.”

“Why does that make a difference?” Jonathan asked.

Richard, the soldier, answered him. “War is bad for farming,” he said. “Livestock get slaughtered to feed the armies, crops are burned to deny them to the enemy, and farms are neglected while knights go to war.”

Philip added: “And when the future is uncertain, people are not willing to invest time and energy clearing new ground, increasing herds, digging ditches and building barns.”

“We haven't stopped doing that sort of work,” Jonathan said.

“Monasteries are different. But most ordinary farmers let their farms run down during the fighting, so that when the bad weather came they were not in good shape to ride it out. Monks take a longer view. But we have another problem. The price of wool has slumped because of the famine.”

“I don't see the connection,” Jonathan said.

“I suppose it's because starving people don't buy clothes.” It was the first time in Philip's memory that the price of wool had failed to go up annually. He had been forced to slow the pace of cathedral building, stop taking new novices, and eliminate wine and meat from the monks' diet. “Unfortunately, it means that we're economizing just when more and more destitute people are coming to Kingsbridge looking for work.”

Jonathan said: “And so they end up queueing at the priory gate for free horsebread and pottage.”

Philip nodded grimly. It broke his heart to see strong men reduced to begging for bread because they could find no work. “But remember, it's caused by war, not bad weather,” he said.

With youthful passion Jonathan said: “I hope there's a special place in hell for the earls and kings who cause such misery.”

“I hope so—Saints preserve us, what's that?”

A strange figure had burst from the undergrowth and was running full-tilt at Philip. His clothes were ragged, his hair was wild, and his face was black with dirt. Philip thought the poor man must be running away from an enraged boar, or even an escaped bear.

Then the man ran up and threw himself on Philip.

Philip was so surprised that he fell off his horse.

His attacker fell on top of him. The man smelled like an animal, and sounded like one too: he made a constant inarticulate grunting noise. Philip wriggled and kicked. The man seemed to be trying to get hold of the leather satchel that Philip had slung over his shoulder. Philip realized the man was trying to rob him. There was nothing in the satchel but a book,
The Song of Solomon
. Philip struggled desperately to get free, not because he was specially attached to the book, but because the robber was so disgustingly dirty.

But Philip was tangled up in the strap of the satchel and the robber would not let go. They rolled over on the hard ground, Philip trying to get away and the robber trying to keep hold of the satchel. Philip was vaguely aware that his horse had bolted.

Suddenly the robber was jerked away by Richard. Philip rolled over and sat upright, but he did not get to his feet for a moment. He was dazed and winded. He breathed the clean air, relieved to be free of the robber's noxious embrace. He felt his bruises. Nothing was broken. He turned his attention to the others.

Richard had the robber flat on the ground and was standing over him, with one foot between the man's shoulder blades and the point of his sword touching the back of the man's neck. Jonathan was holding the two remaining horses and looking bewildered.

Philip got gingerly to his feet, feeling weak. When I was Jonathan's age, he thought, I could fall off a horse and jump right back on again.

Richard said: “If you keep an eye on this cockroach, I'll catch your horse.” He offered Philip his sword.

“All right,” Philip said. He waved the sword away. “I shan't need that.”

Richard hesitated, then sheathed his sword. The robber lay still. The legs sticking out from under his tunic were as thin as twigs, and the same color; and he was barefoot. Philip had never been in any serious danger: this poor man was too weak to strangle a chicken. Richard walked off after Philip's horse.

The robber saw Richard go, and tensed. Philip knew the man was about to make a break for it. He stopped him by saying: “Would you like something to eat?”

The robber raised his head and looked at Philip as if he thought Philip was mad.

Philip went to Jonathan's horse and opened a saddlebag. He took out a loaf, broke it, and offered half to the robber. The man grabbed it unbelievingly and immediately stuffed most of it into his mouth.

Philip sat on the ground and watched him. The man ate like an animal, trying to swallow as much as possible before the meal could be snatched from him. At first Philip had thought he was an old man, but now that he could see him better he realized that the thief was quite young, perhaps twenty-five.

Richard came back, leading Philip's horse. He was indignant when he saw the robber sitting eating. “Why have you given him our food?” he said to Philip.

“Because he's starving,” Philip said.

Richard did not reply, but his expression said that monks were mad.

When the robber had eaten the bread, Philip said: “What's your name?”

The man looked wary. He hesitated. Philip somehow got the idea that the man had not spoken to another human being for a while. At last he said: “David.”

He still had his sanity, anyway, Philip thought. He said: “What happened to you, David?”

“I lost my farm after the last harvest.”

“Who was your landlord?”

“The earl of Shiring.”

William Hamleigh. Philip was not surprised.

Thousands of tenant farmers had been unable to pay their rents after three bad harvests. When Philip's tenants defaulted he simply forgave the rent, since if he made people destitute they would just come to the priory for charity anyway. Other landlords, notably Earl William, took advantage of the crisis to evict tenants and repossess their farms. The result was a huge increase in the number of outlaws living in the forest and preying on travelers. That was why Philip had to take Richard everywhere with him as bodyguard.

“What about your family?” Philip asked the robber.

“My wife took the baby and went back to her mother. But there was no room for me.”

It was a familiar story. Philip said: “It's a sin to lay hands on a monk, David, and it's wrong to live by theft.”

“But how shall I live?” the man cried.

“If you're going to stay in the forest you'd better catch birds and fish.”

“I don't know how!”

“You're a failure as a robber,” Philip said. “What chance of success did you have, with no weapon, up against three of us, and Richard here armed to the teeth?”

“I was desperate.”

“Well, next time you're desperate, go to a monastery. There's always something for a poor man to eat.” Philip got to his feet. The sour taste of hypocrisy was in his mouth. He knew the monasteries could not possibly feed all the outlaws. For most of them there really was no alternative but theft. But his role in life was to counsel virtuous living, not to make excuses for sin.

There was no more he could do for this wretched man. He took the reins of his horse from Richard and climbed into the saddle. He could tell that the bruises from his fall were going to hurt him for days. “Go thy way, and sin no more,” he said, quoting Jesus; then he kicked his horse forward.

“You're too good, you are,” said Richard as they rode off.

Philip shook his head sadly. “The real trouble is, I'm not good enough.”

 

On the Sunday before Whitsun, William Hamleigh got married.

It was his mother's idea.

Mother had been nagging him for years to find a wife and father an heir, but he had always put it off. Women bored him and, in a way that he did not understand and really did not want to think about, they made him anxious. He kept telling Mother he would marry soon but he never did anything about it.

In the end she found him a bride.

Her name was Elizabeth. She was the daughter of Harold of Weymouth, a wealthy knight and a strong supporter of Stephen. As Mother explained to William, with a little effort he could have made a better match—could have married the daughter of an earl—but as he was not willing to put his mind to it, Elizabeth would do.

William had seen her at the king's court in Winchester, and Mother had noticed him staring at her. She had a pretty face, a mass of light brown curls, a big bust and narrow hips—just William's type.