Epic Historial Collection (213 page)

“Oh, no,” he said aloud.

He was not prepared for this. He felt tortured by shame as he watched Merthin walk up the long ramp. He knew he was here to betray his brother, but he had not expected Merthin to be here to see it.

“Hello, Ralph,” said Merthin as he came closer. “Ben says you won't let him pass.”

Merthin had always been able to overcome him in an argument, Ralph recalled dismally. He decided to be formal. It would hide his emotions, and he could hardly get into trouble if he simply repeated his instructions. He said stiffly: “The earl has decided to exercise his right to collect taxes from consignments of stone using his roads.”

Merthin ignored that. “Aren't you going to get down off your horse to talk to your brother?”

Ralph would have preferred to stay mounted, but he did not want to refuse what seemed like some kind of challenge, so he got down. Then he felt as if he had already been bested.

“There's no tax on stone from here,” Merthin said.

“There is now.”

“The monks have been working this quarry for hundreds of years. Kingsbridge Cathedral is built of this stone. It has never been taxed.”

“Perhaps the earl forgave the tax for the sake of the church,” Ralph said, improvising. “But he won't do it for a bridge.”

“He just doesn't want the town to have a new bridge. That's the reason for this. First he sends you to bribe me, then when that fails he invents a new tax.” Merthin looked thoughtfully at Ralph. “This was your idea, wasn't it?”

Ralph was mortified. How had he guessed? “No!” he said, but he felt himself redden.

“I can see from your face that it was. I gave you the notion, I'm sure, when I spoke of Jake Chepstow importing logs from Wales to avoid the earl of Shaftesbury's tax.”

Ralph was feeling more foolish and angry with every moment. “There's no connection,” he said stubbornly.

“You berated me for putting my bridge before my brother, but you're happy to wreck my hopes for the sake of your earl.”

“It doesn't matter whose idea it was, the earl has decided to tax the stone.”

“But he doesn't have the right.”

Ben Wheeler was following the conversation intently, standing beside Merthin with his legs apart and his hands on his hips. Now he said to Merthin: “Are you saying these men don't have the right to stop me?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” said Merthin.

Ralph could have told Merthin it was a mistake to treat such a man as if he was intelligent. Ben now took Merthin's words for permission to leave. He flicked his whip over his ox's shoulders. The beast leaned into its wooden collar and took the strain.

Ralph shouted angrily: “Halt!”

Ben whipped the ox again and called: “Hup!”

The ox pulled harder and the cart started forward with a jerk that startled the horses. Joseph Woodstock's mount whinnied and reared up, eyes rolling.

Joseph sawed at the reins and got the horse under control. Then he pulled from his saddlebag a long wooden club. “You keep still when you're told,” he said to Ben. He urged his horse forward and lashed out with the club.

Ben dodged the blow, grabbed the club, and pulled.

Joseph was already leaning out from his saddle. The sudden jerk unbalanced him, and he fell off his horse.

Merthin cried: “Oh, no!”

Ralph knew why Merthin was dismayed. A man-at-arms could not overlook such humiliation. There was no avoiding violence now. But Ralph himself was not sorry. His brother had failed to treat the earl's men with the deference they merited, and now he would see the consequences.

Ben was holding Joseph's club in a two-handed grip. Joseph leaped to his feet. Seeing Ben brandishing the club, he reached for his dagger. But Ben was quicker—the carter must have fought in battle at some time, Ralph realized. Ben swung the club and landed a mighty blow on the top of Joseph's head. Joseph fell to the ground and lay motionless.

Ralph roared with rage. He drew his sword and ran at the carter.

Merthin shouted: “No!”

Ralph stabbed Ben in the chest, thrusting the sword between his ribs as forcefully as he could. It passed through Ben's thick body and came out the other side. Ben fell back and Ralph pulled the sword out. Blood spurted from the carter in a fountain. Ralph felt a jolt of triumphant satisfaction. There would be no more insolence from Ben Wheeler.

He knelt beside Joseph. The man's eyes stared sightlessly. There was no heartbeat. He was dead.

In a way that was good. It simplified the explanations. Ben Wheeler had murdered one of the earl's men, and had died for it. No one would see any injustice in that—least of all Earl Roland, who had no mercy for those who defied his authority.

Merthin did not see it the same way. His face was twisted as if in pain. “What have you done?” he said incredulously. “Ben Wheeler has a two-year-old son! They call him Bennie!”

“The widow had better look for another husband, then,” said Ralph. “This time, she should choose a man who knows his place.”

27

I
t was a poor harvest. There was so little sunshine in August that the grain had barely ripened by September. In the village of Wigleigh, spirits were low. There was none of the usual euphoria of harvest time: the dances, the drinking, the sudden romances. Wet crops were liable to rot. Many villagers would go hungry before spring.

Wulfric reaped his barley in the driving rain, scything the wet stalks while Gwenda followed behind binding the sheaves. On the first sunny day of September they started to harvest the wheat, the most valuable crop, in the hope that the fine weather would last long enough to dry it.

At some point Gwenda realized that Wulfric was powered by fury. The sudden loss of his entire family had enraged him. He would have blamed someone for his bereavement, if he could; but the collapse of the bridge seemed a random event, an act of evil spirits, or a punishment by God; so he had no outlet for his passion except work. She herself was driven by love, which was just as potent.

They were in the fields before the crack of dawn, and they did not stop until it was too dark to see. Gwenda went to sleep with an aching back every night and woke when she heard Wulfric bang the kitchen door before dawn. Still they lagged behind everyone else.

Gradually, she sensed a change in the attitude of the village toward her and Wulfric. All her life, she had been looked down upon as the daughter of the disreputable Joby; and the women had disapproved of her even more when they realized she wanted to snatch Wulfric away from Annet. Wulfric was hard to dislike, but some felt that his desire to inherit such a big landholding was greedy and impractical. However, people could hardly fail to be impressed by their efforts to get the harvest in. A boy and a girl were trying to do the work of three men, and they were getting on better than anyone had expected. Men began to look at Wulfric with admiration, and women at Gwenda with sympathy.

In the end the villagers rallied around to help them. The priest, Father Gaspard, turned a blind eye to their working on Sundays. When Annet's family had got their harvest in, her father, Perkin, and her brother, Rob, joined Gwenda on Wulfric's land. Even Gwenda's mother, Ethna, showed up. As they carted the last of the sheaves to Wulfric's barn, there was a hint of the traditional harvest spirit, with everyone singing the old songs as they walked home behind the cart.

Annet was there, in violation of the saying that you should first follow the plow if you want to dance the harvest jig. She walked by Wulfric's side, as was her right, being his acknowledged fiancée. Gwenda watched her from behind, noting sourly how she swayed her hips, tossed her head, and laughed prettily at everything he said. How could he be so stupid as to fall for that? Had he not noticed that Annet had done no work on his land?

No day had yet been fixed for the wedding. Perkin was nothing if not shrewd, and he would not let his daughter commit herself until the question of the inheritance was settled.

Wulfric had proved his ability to farm the land. No one would question that now. His age had come to seem irrelevant. The only remaining obstacle was the heriot. Would he be able to raise the money to pay the inheritance tax? It would depend how much he got for his cash crops. The harvest was poor but, if the bad weather had been widespread, the price of wheat would probably be high. In normal circumstances, a prosperous peasant family would have money saved up for the heriot; but Wulfric's family's savings were at the bottom of the river in Kingsbridge. So nothing was settled. And Gwenda could continue to dream that Wulfric would inherit the land and, somehow, transfer his affections to her. Anything was possible.

As they were unloading the cart into the barn, Nathan Reeve arrived. The hunchbacked bailiff was in a state of high excitement. “Come to the church, quickly,” he said. “Everybody! Stop what you're doing.”

Wulfric said: “I'm not leaving my crops out in the open—it might rain.”

Gwenda said: “We'll just drag the cart inside. What's the emergency, Nate?”

The bailiff was already hurrying to the next house. “The new lord is arriving!” he said.

“Wait!” Wulfric ran after him. “Will you recommend that I inherit?”

Everyone stood still, watching, waiting for the answer.

Nathan turned reluctantly and faced Wulfric. He had to look up, for Wulfric was taller by a foot. “I don't know,” he said slowly.

“I've proved I can farm the land—you can see that. Just look in the barn!”

“You've done well, no question. But can you pay the heriot?”

“It depends on the price of wheat.”

Annet spoke. “Father?” she said.

Gwenda wondered what was coming.

Perkin looked hesitant.

Annet prompted him again. “You remember what you promised me.”

“Yes, I remember,” Perkin said at last.

“Tell Nate, then.”

Perkin turned to the bailiff. “I'll guarantee the heriot, if the lord will let Wulfric inherit.”

Gwenda's hand flew to her mouth.

Nathan said: “You'll pay it for him? It's two pounds and ten shillings.”

“If he's short, I'll lend him what he needs. Of course, they'll have to be married first.”

Nathan lowered his voice. “And, in addition…?”

Perkin said something so quietly that Gwenda could not hear it, but she could guess what it was. Perkin was offering Nathan a bribe, probably a tenth of the tax, which would be five shillings.

“Very well,” Nathan said. “I'll make the recommendation. Now get yourselves to the church, quickly!” He ran off.

Wulfric smiled broadly and kissed Annet. Everyone shook his hand.

Gwenda was heartsick. Her hopes were dashed. Annet had been too clever. She had persuaded her father to lend Wulfric the money he needed. He would inherit his land—and he would marry Annet.

Gwenda forced herself to help push the cart into the barn. Then she followed the happy couple as they walked through the village to the church. It was all over. A new lord, not knowing the village or the people, was unlikely to go against his bailiff's advice on a question such as this. The fact that Nathan had gone to the trouble of negotiating a bribe indicated his confidence.

It was partly her fault, of course. She had broken her back to make sure Wulfric got his harvest in, in the vain hope that somehow he would realize how much better a wife she would make than Annet. All summer long she had been digging her own grave, she thought as she walked through the cemetery to the church door. But she would do the same again. She could not have borne to see him struggle alone. Whatever happens, she thought, he'll always know I was the one who stuck it out with him. It was small consolation.

Most of the villagers were already in the church. They had not needed much urging from Nathan. They were eager to be among the first to pay their respects to their new lord, and curious to see what he was like: young or old, ugly or handsome, cheerful or dyspeptic, clever or stupid, and—most important of all—cruel or kind. Everything about him would affect their lives for as long as he remained lord, which might be years or decades. If he were reasonable, he could do a lot to make Wigleigh a happy and prosperous village. If he were a fool, they would have unwise decisions and unjust rulings, oppressive taxes and harsh punishments. And one of his first decisions would be whether to let Wulfric inherit.

The rumble of conversation died away, and a jingle of harness was heard. Gwenda heard Nathan's voice, low and obsequious, then the authoritative tone of a lord—a big man, she thought, confident, but young. Everyone looked at the church door. It flew open.

Gwenda gasped with shock.

The man who strode in was no more than twenty. He was well dressed in an expensive wool surcoat, and armed with sword and dagger. He was tall, and his expression was proud. He seemed pleased to be lord of Wigleigh, though there was a hint of insecurity in the haughty look. He had wavy dark hair and a handsome face disfigured by a broken nose.