Epic Historial Collection (231 page)

Gregory said quickly: “There is no universal pattern of burgess tenure. It means different things in different places.”

The judge said. “Is there a written statement of customs?”

Francis looked at Edmund, who shook his head. “No prior would ever agree to such things being written down,” he muttered.

Francis turned back to the judge. “There is no written statement, sir, but clearly—”

“Then this court must decide whether or not you are free men,” the judge said.

Edmund spoke directly to the judge. “Sir, the citizens have the freedom to buy and sell their homes.” This was an important right not granted to serfs, who needed their lord's permission.

Gregory said: “But you have feudal obligations. You must use the prior's mills and fishponds.”

Sir Wilbert said: “Forget fishponds. The key factor is the citizens' relationship to the system of royal justice. Does the town freely admit the king's sheriff?”

Gregory answered that. “No, he must ask permission to enter the town.”

Edmund said indignantly: “That is the prior's decision, not ours!”

Sir Wilbert said: “Very well. Do the citizens serve on royal juries, or claim exemption?”

Edmund hesitated. Godwyn looked exultant. Serving on juries was a time-consuming chore that everyone avoided if they could. After a pause, Edmund said: “We claim exemption.”

“Then that settles the matter,” the judge said. “If you refuse that duty on the grounds that you are serfs, you cannot appeal over the head of your landlord to the king's justice.”

Gregory said triumphantly: “In the light of that, I beg you to dismiss the townspeople's application.”

“So ruled,” said the judge.

Francis appeared outraged. “Sir, may I speak?”

“Certainly not,” said the judge.

“But, sir—”

“Another word and I'll hold you in contempt.”

Francis closed his mouth and bowed his head.

Sir Wilbert said: “Next case.”

Another lawyer began to speak.

Caris was dazed.

Francis addressed her and her father in tones of protest. “You should have told me you were serfs!”

“We're not.”

“The judge has just ruled that you are. I can't win cases on partial information.”

She decided not to squabble with him. He was the type of young man who could not admit a mistake.

Godwyn was so pleased with himself that he looked as if he might burst. As he left, he could not resist a parting shot. He wagged a finger at Edmund and Caris. “I hope that, in future, you'll see the wisdom of submitting to the will of God,” he said solemnly.

Caris said: “Oh, piss off,” and turned her back.

She spoke to her father. “This makes us completely powerless! We proved we had the right to use the fulling mill free, but Godwyn can still withhold that right!”

“So it seems,” he said.

She turned to Francis. “There must be
something
we can do,” she said angrily.

“Well,” he said, “you could get Kingsbridge made into a proper borough, with a royal charter setting out your rights and freedoms. Then you would have access to the royal court.”

Caris saw a glimmer of hope. “How do we go about that?”

“You apply to the king.”

“Would he grant it?”

“If you argued that you need this to be able to pay your taxes, he would certainly listen.”

“Then we must try.”

Edmund warned: “Godwyn will be furious.”

“Let him,” Caris said grimly.

“Don't underestimate the challenge,” her father persisted. “You know how ruthless he is, even over small disputes. Something like this will lead to total war.”

“So be it,” said Caris bleakly. “Total war.”

 

“Oh, Ralph, how could you do it?” said his mother.

Merthin studied his brother's face in the dim light of their parents' home. Ralph appeared torn between outright denial and self-justification.

In the end, Ralph said: “She led me on.”

Maud was distressed more than angry. “But, Ralph, she is another man's wife!”

“A peasant's wife.”

“Even so.”

“Don't worry, Mother, they'll never convict a lord on the word of a serf.”

Merthin was not so sure. Ralph was a minor lord, and it seemed he had incurred the enmity of William of Caster. There was no telling how the trial would come out.

Their father said sternly: “Even if they don't convict you—which I pray for—just think of the shame of it! You're the son of a knight—how could you forget that?”

Merthin was horrified and upset, but not surprised. That streak of violence had always been in Ralph's nature. In their boyhood he had ever been ready for a fight, and Merthin had often steered him away from fisticuffs, deflating a confrontation with a conciliatory word or a joke. Had anyone other than his brother committed this horrible rape, Merthin would have been hoping to see the man hang.

Ralph kept glancing at Merthin. He was worried about Merthin's disapproval—perhaps more so than his mother's. He had always looked up to his older brother. Merthin just wished there was some way Ralph could be shackled to prevent his attacking people, now that he no longer had Merthin nearby to keep him out of trouble.

The discussion with their distraught parents was set to go on for some time, but there was a knock at the door of the modest house, and Caris came in. She smiled at Gerald and Maud, though her face changed when she saw Ralph.

Merthin guessed she wanted him. He stood up. “I didn't know you were back from London,” he said.

“Just arrived,” she replied. “Can we have a few words?”

He pulled a cloak around his shoulders and stepped outside with her into the dim gray light of a cold December day. It was a year since she had terminated their love affair. He knew that her pregnancy had ended in the hospital, and he guessed she had somehow brought on the abortion deliberately. Twice in the following few weeks he had asked her to come back to him, but she had refused. It was bewildering: he sensed that she still loved him, but she was adamant. He had given up hope, and assumed that in time he would cease to grieve. So far, that had not happened. His heart still beat faster when he saw her, and he was happier talking to her than doing anything else in the world.

They walked to the main street and turned into the Bell. In the late afternoon the tavern was quiet. They ordered hot spiced wine.

“We lost the case,” Caris said.

Merthin was shocked. “How is that possible? You had Prior Philip's will—”

“It made no difference.” She was bitterly disappointed, Merthin could see. She explained: “Godwyn's smart lawyer argued that Kingsbridge people are serfs of the prior, and serfs have no right to appeal to the royal court. The judge dismissed the case.”

Merthin felt angry. “But that's stupid. It means the prior can do anything he likes, regardless of laws and charters—”

“I know.”

Merthin realized she was impatient because he was saying things she had said to herself many times. He suppressed his indignation and tried to be practical. “What are you going to do?”

“Apply for a borough charter. That would free the town from the control of the prior. Our lawyer thinks we have a strong case. Mind you, he thought we would win against the fulling mill. However, the king is desperate for money for this war against France. He needs prosperous towns to pay his taxes.”

“How long would it take to get a charter?”

“That's the bad news—at least a year, perhaps more.”

“And in that time, you can't manufacture scarlet cloth.”

“Not with the old fulling mill.”

“So we'll have to stop work on the bridge.”

“I can't see any way out of it.”

“Damn.” It seemed so unreasonable. Here they had at their fingertips the means to restore the town's prosperity, and one man's stubbornness was preventing them. “How we all misjudged Godwyn,” Merthin said.

“Don't remind me.”

“We've got to escape from his control.”

“I know.”

“But sooner than a year from now.”

“I wish there was a way.”

Merthin racked his brains. At the same time, he was studying Caris. She was a wearing a new dress from London, particolored in the current fashion, which gave her a playful look, even though she was solemn and anxious. The colors, deep green and mid-blue, seemed to make her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. This happened every so often. He would be deep in conversation with her over some problem to do with the bridge—they rarely talked of anything else—then suddenly he would realize how lovely she was.

Even while he was thinking about that, the problem-solving part of his mind came up with a proposal. “We should build our own fulling mill.”

Caris shook her head. “It would be illegal. Godwyn would order John Constable to pull it down.”

“What if it were outside the town?”

“In the forest, you mean? That's illegal, too. You'd have the king's verderers on your back.” Verderers enforced the laws of the forest.

“Not in the forest, then. Somewhere else.”

“Wherever you went, you'd need the permission of some lord.”

“My brother's a lord.”

A look of distaste crossed Caris's face at the mention of Ralph, then her expression changed as she thought through what Merthin was saying. “Build a fulling mill at Wigleigh?”

“Why not?”

“Is there a fast-flowing stream to turn the mill wheel?”

“I believe so—but if not, it can be driven by an ox like the ferry.”

“Would Ralph let you?”

“Of course. He's my brother. If I ask him, he'll say yes.”

“Godwyn will go mad with rage.”

“Ralph doesn't care about Godwyn.”

Caris was pleased and excited, Merthin could see; but what were her feelings toward him? She was glad they had a solution to their problem, and eager to outwit Godwyn, but beyond that he could not read her mind.

“Let's think this through before we rejoice,” she said. “Godwyn will make a rule saying cloth can't be taken out of Kingsbridge to be fulled. Lots of towns have laws like that.”

“Very hard for him to enforce such a rule without the cooperation of a guild. And, if he does, you can get around it. Most of the cloth is being woven in the villages anyway, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Then don't bring it into the city. Send it from the weavers to Wigleigh. Dye it there, full it in the new mill, then take it to London. Godwyn will have no jurisdiction.”

“How long would it take to build a mill?”

Merthin considered. “The timber building can be put up in a couple of days. The machinery will be wooden, too, but it will take longer, as it has to be precisely measured. Getting the men and materials there will take the most time. I could have it finished a week after Christmas.”

“That's wonderful,” she said. “We'll do it.”

 

Elizabeth rolled the dice and moved her last counter into the home position on the board. “I win!” she said. “That's three out of three. Pay up.”

Merthin handed her a silver penny. Only two people ever beat him at tabula: Elizabeth and Caris. He did not mind losing. He was grateful for a worthy opponent.

He sat back and sipped his pear wine. It was a cold Saturday afternoon in January, and already dark. Elizabeth's mother was asleep in a chair near the fire, snoring gently with her mouth open. She worked at the Bell, but she was always at home when Merthin visited her daughter. He preferred it that way. It meant he never had to decide whether to kiss Elizabeth or not. It was a question he did not want to confront. He would have liked to kiss her, of course. He remembered the touch of her cool lips and the firmness of her flat breasts. But it would mean admitting that his love affair with Caris was over forever, and he was not yet ready for that.

“How is the new mill at Wigleigh?” Elizabeth asked.

“Finished, and rolling,” Merthin said proudly. “Caris has been fulling cloth there for a week.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Herself?”

“No, that was a figure of speech. As a matter of fact, Mark Webber is running the mill, though he is training some of the village men to take over.”

“It will be good for Mark if he becomes Caris's second-in-command. He's been poor all his life—this is a big opportunity.”

“Caris's new enterprise will be good for us all. It will mean I can finish the bridge.”