Epic Historial Collection (236 page)

“Old onions taste better than no onions. My mother says that.”

As Ralph bent to pick up the butter crock that had felled Alan, he felt a sharp iron point stick into his ass. Alan was in front of him, dealing with the trussed chickens. Ralph said: “Who…?”

A harsh voice said: “Don't move.”

Ralph never obeyed such instructions. He sprang forward, away from the voice, and spun around. Six or seven men had materialized from nowhere. He was bewildered, but he managed, left-handed, to draw his sword. The man nearest him—who presumably had prodded him—raised his sword to fight, but the others were grabbing the loot, snatching chickens and fighting over the ham. Alan's sword flashed in defense of his chickens as Ralph engaged with his antagonist. He realized that another group of outlaws was trying to rob him. He was filled with indignation: he had killed people for this stuff, and now they wanted to take it from him! He felt no fear, only anger. He attacked his opponent with the energy of outrage, despite being forced to fight left-handed. Then an authoritative voice said loudly: “Put away your blades, you fools.”

All the newcomers stood still. Ralph held his sword at the ready, suspicious of a trick, and looked toward the voice. He saw a handsome man in his twenties with something of the nobility about him. He wore clothes that looked expensive but were filthy dirty: a cloak of Italian scarlet covered with leaves and twigs, a rich brocade coat marked with what appeared to be food stains, and hose of a rich chestnut leather, scratched and muddy.

“It amuses me to steal from thieves,” the newcomer said. “It's not a crime, you see.”

Ralph knew he was in a tight spot but, all the same, he was intrigued. “Are you the one they call Tam Hiding?” he said.

“There were stories of Tam Hiding when I was a child,” the man replied. “But every now and again someone comes along to act the part, like a monk impersonating Lucifer in a mystery play.”

“You're not a common type of outlaw.”

“Nor are you. I'm guessing that you're Ralph Fitzgerald.”

Ralph nodded.

“I heard about your escape, and I've been wondering when I'd run into you.” Tam looked up and down the road. “We happened upon you by accident. What made you choose this spot?”

“I picked the day and time, first. It's Sunday, and at this hour the peasants are taking their produce to market in Kingsbridge, which is on this road.”

“Well, well. Ten years I've been living outside the law, and I never thought of doing that. Perhaps we should team up. Are you going to put your weapon away?”

Ralph hesitated, but Tam was unarmed, so he could not see the disadvantage. Anyway, he and Alan were so heavily outnumbered that it would be best to avoid a fight. Slowly, he sheathed his sword.

“That's better.” Tam put an arm around Ralph's shoulders, and Ralph realized they were the same height. Not many people were as tall as Ralph. Tam walked him into the woods, saying: “The others will bring the loot. Come this way. We've got a lot to talk about, you and I.”

 

Edmund rapped on the table. “I've called this emergency meeting of the parish guild to discuss the outlaw problem,” he said. “But, as I'm getting old and lazy, I've asked my daughter to summarize the situation.”

Caris was a member of the parish guild now, by virtue of her success as a manufacturer of scarlet cloth. The new business had rescued her father's fortunes. Numerous other Kingsbridge people were prospering because of it, notably the Webber family. Her father had been able to fulfill his pledge to lend money for the building of the bridge, and in the general upturn several other merchants had done the same. Bridge building continued apace—supervised now by Elfric, not Merthin, unfortunately.

Her father took little initiative these days. The moments when he was his sharp-witted former self were becoming rarer. She was worried about him, but there was nothing she could do. She felt the rage that had possessed her during her mother's illness. Why was there no help for him? Nobody understood what was wrong; no one could even put a name to his malady. They said it was old age, but he was not yet fifty!

She prayed he would live to see her wedding. She was going to marry Merthin in Kingsbridge Cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair, now just a month away. The wedding of the daughter of the town's alderman would be a big event. There would be a banquet in the guildhall for the leading citizens, and a picnic in Lovers' Field for several hundred more guests. Some days her father would spend hours planning the menus and the entertainment, only to forget everything he had said and start again from scratch the next day.

She put that out of her mind, and turned her attention to a problem she hoped would be more tractable. “In the last month there has been a big increase in attacks by outlaws,” she said. “They take place mainly on Sundays, and the victims are invariably people bringing produce to Kingsbridge.”

She was interrupted by Elfric. “It's your fiancé's brother that's doing it!” he said. “Talk to Merthin, not us.”

Caris suppressed a flash of exasperation. Her sister's husband never missed a chance to snipe at her. She was painfully aware of Ralph's likely involvement. It was a cause of agony to Merthin. Elfric relished that.

Dick Brewer said: “I think it's Tam Hiding.”

“Perhaps it's both,” Caris said. “I believe that Ralph Fitzgerald, who has some military training, may have joined forces with an existing band of outlaws and simply made them more organized and effective.”

Fat Betty Baxter, the town's most successful baker, said: “Whoever it is, they'll be the ruination of this town. No one comes to market anymore!”

That was an exaggeration, but attendance at the weekly market was down drastically, and the effects were felt by just about every enterprise in town, from bakeries to brothels. “That's not the worst of it, though,” Caris said. “In four weeks' time we've got the Fleece Fair. Several people here have invested enormous sums of money in the new bridge, which should be ready for use, with a temporary timber roadbed, in time for the opening. Most of us depend on the annual fair for our prosperity. I personally have a warehouse full of costly scarlet cloth to sell. If it gets around that people coming to Kingsbridge are likely to be robbed by outlaws, we may have no customers.”

She was even more worried than she let herself appear. Neither she nor her father had any cash left. Everything they had was either invested in the bridge or tied up in raw wool and scarlet cloth. The Fleece Fair was their chance to get their money back. If attendance was poor, they would be in deep trouble. Among other things, who would pay for the wedding?

She was not the only worried citizen. Rick Silvers, the head of the jewelers' guild, said: “That would be the third bad year in succession.” He was a prim, fussy man, always immaculately dressed. “It would finish some of my people,” he went on. “We do half our year's business at the Fleece Fair.”

Edmund said: “It would finish this town. We can't let it happen.”

Several others joined in. Caris, who was unofficially presiding, let them grumble. A heightened sense of urgency would predispose them to accept the radical solution she was going to propose.

Elfric said: “The sheriff of Shiring ought to do something about it. What's he paid for, if not to keep the peace?”

Caris said: “He can't search the entire forest. He doesn't have enough men.”

“Earl Roland has.”

This was wishful thinking, but again Caris let the discussion run, so that when she proposed her solution they would be aware that there were no real alternatives.

Edmund said to Elfric: “The earl won't help us—I've already asked him.”

Caris, who had in fact written Edmund's letter to Roland, said: “Ralph was the earl's man, and still is. You notice the outlaws don't attack people going to Shiring market.”

Elfric said indignantly: “Those Wigleigh peasants should never have made a complaint against a squire of the earl's—who do they think they are?”

Caris was about to respond indignantly, but Betty Baxter beat her to it. “Oh, so you think lords should be allowed to rape anyone they like?”

Edmund intervened. “That's a different question,” he said briskly, showing some of his old authority. “It's happened, and Ralph is preying on us, so what are we going to do? The sheriff can't help us and the earl won't.”

Rick Silvers said: “What about Lord William? He took the side of the Wigleigh people—it's his fault that Ralph's an outlaw.”

“I asked him, too,” Edmund said. “He said we're not in his territory.”

Rick said: “That's the trouble with having the priory as your landlord—what use is a prior when you need protection?”

Caris said: “Another reason why we are applying to the king for a borough charter. We'd be under royal protection then.”

Elfric said: “We've got our own constable, what's he doing?”

Mark Webber spoke. He was one of the constable's deputies. “We're ready to do whatever's necessary,” he said. “Just give us the word.”

Caris said: “No one doubts your bravery. But your role is to deal with troublemakers within the town. John Constable doesn't have the expertise to hunt down outlaws.”

Mark, who was close to Caris because he ran her fulling mill at Wigleigh, was mildly indignant. “Well, who does, then?”

Caris had been leading the discussion toward this question. “As a matter of fact, there is an experienced soldier who is willing to help us,” she said. “I took the liberty of asking him to come here tonight, and he's waiting in the chapel.” She raised her voice. “Thomas, will you join us?”

Thomas Langley came out of the little chapel at the end of the hall.

Rick Silvers said skeptically: “A monk?”

“Before he was a monk, he was a soldier,” Caris explained. “That's how he lost his arm.”

Elfric said grumpily: “Guild members' permission should have been sought before he was invited.” No one took any notice, Caris was pleased to see: they were too interested to hear what Thomas would have to say.

“You need to form a militia,” Thomas began. “By all accounts there are twenty or thirty outlaws in the troop. That's not many. Most townsmen can use a longbow effectively, thanks to the Sunday morning practice sessions. A hundred of you, well prepared and intelligently led, could overcome the outlaws easily.”

“That's all very well,” said Rick Silvers. “But we have to find them.”

“Of course,” said Thomas. “But I feel sure there is someone in Kingsbridge who knows where they are.”

 

Merthin had asked the timber merchant, Jake Chepstow, to bring him a piece of slate from Wales—the largest piece he could find. Jake had come back from his next logging expedition with a thin sheet of gray Welsh slate about four feet square. Merthin had encased it in a wooden frame, and he used it for sketching plans.

This evening, while Caris was at the parish guild, Merthin was at his own house on Leper Island, working on a map of the island. Renting parts of it for wharves and warehouses was the least of his ambitions. He foresaw an entire street of inns and shops crossing the island from one bridge to the other. He would construct the buildings himself and rent them to enterprising Kingsbridge traders. It excited him to look into the future of the town and imagine the buildings and streets it was going to need. This was the kind of thing the priory would have done, if it had had better leadership.

Included in the plan was a new house for him and Caris. This little place would be cozy when they were first married, but they would need more room eventually, especially if they had children. He had marked out a site on the southern shore, where they would get fresh air off the river. Most of the island was rocky, but the patch he had in mind featured a small area of cultivable soil where he might be able to grow some fruit trees. As he planned the house, he relished the vision of the two of them living side by side, day by day, always.

His dream was interrupted by a knock at the door. He was startled. Normally no one came to the island at night—except Caris, and she would not knock. “Who is it?” he called nervously.

Thomas Langley came in.

“Monks are supposed to be asleep at this time,” Merthin said.

“Godwyn doesn't know I'm here.” Thomas looked at the slate. “You draw left-handed?”

“Left or right, it makes no difference. Would you like a cup of wine?”

“No, thanks. I'll have to be up for Matins in a few hours, so I don't want to get sleepy.”

Merthin liked Thomas. There had been a bond between them ever since that day, twelve years ago, when he had promised that if Thomas should die he would take a priest to the place where the letter was buried. Later, when they had worked together on cathedral repairs, Thomas had always been clear in his instructions and gracious to apprentices. He managed to be sincere about his religious calling without becoming prideful: all men of God should be like that, Merthin thought.