Epic Historial Collection (268 page)

Tench was on the far side of the county, and on the way Merthin spent a night at windy Wigleigh. He found Gwenda and Wulfric thin after a rainy summer and the second poor harvest in a row. Wulfric's scar seemed to stand out more on a hollowed cheek. Their two small sons looked pale, and had runny noses and sores on their lips.

Merthin gave them a leg of mutton, a small barrel of wine, and a gold florin that he pretended were gifts from Caris. Gwenda cooked the mutton over the fire. She was possessed by rage, and she hissed and spat like the turning meat as she talked of the injustice that had been done to them. “Perkin has almost half the land in the village!” she said. “The only reason he can manage it all is that he's got Wulfric, who does the work of three men. Yet he must demand more, and keep us in poverty.”

“I'm sorry that Ralph still bears a grudge,” Merthin said.

“Ralph himself provoked that fight!” Gwenda said. “Even Lady Philippa said so.”

“Old quarrels,” Wulfric said philosophically.

“I'll try to get him to see reason,” Merthin said. “In the unlikely event that he listens to me, what do you really want from him?”

“Ah,” said Wulfric, and he got a faraway look in his eyes, which was unusual for him. “What I pray for every Sunday is to get back the lands that my father farmed.”

“That will never happen,” Gwenda said quickly. “Perkin is too well entrenched. And, if he should die, he has a son and a married daughter waiting to inherit, and a couple of grandsons growing taller every day. But we'd like a piece of land of our own. For the last eleven years Wulfric has been working hard to feed other men's children. It's time he got some of the benefit of his strength.”

“I'll tell my brother he has punished you long enough,” Merthin said.

Next day he and Lolla rode from Wigleigh to Tench. Merthin was even more resolved to do something for Wulfric. It was not just that he wanted to please Caris, and atone for his curmudgeonly attitude. He also felt sad and indignant that two such honest and hardworking people as Wulfric and Gwenda should be poor and thin, and their children sickly, just because of Ralph's vindictiveness.

His parents were living in a house in the village, not in Tench Hall itself. Merthin was shocked by how much his mother had aged, though she perked up when she saw Lolla. His father looked better. “Ralph is very good to us,” Gerald said in a defensive way that made Merthin think the opposite. The house was pleasant enough, but they would have preferred to live at the hall with Ralph. Merthin guessed that Ralph did not want his mother watching everything he did.

They showed him around their home, and Gerald asked Merthin how things were in Kingsbridge. “The town is still prospering, despite the effects of the king's French war,” Merthin replied.

“Ah—but Edward must fight for his birthright,” his father said. “He is the legitimate heir to the throne of France, after all.”

“I think that's a dream, Father,” said Merthin. “No matter how many times the king invades, the French nobility will not accept an Englishman as their king. And a king can't rule without the support of his earls.”

“But we had to stop the French raids on our south coast ports.”

“That hasn't been a major problem since the battle of Sluys, when we destroyed the French fleet—which was eight years ago. Anyway, burning the crops of the peasants won't stop pirates—it might even add to their numbers.”

“The French support the Scots, who keep invading our northern counties.”

“Don't you think the king would be better able to deal with Scottish incursions if he were in the north of England rather than the north of France?”

Gerald looked baffled. It had probably never occurred to him to question the wisdom of the war. “Well, Ralph has been knighted,” he said. “And he brought your mother a silver candlestick from Calais.”

That was about the size of it, Merthin thought. The real reason for the war was booty and glory.

They all walked to the manor house. Ralph was out hunting with Alan Fernhill. In the great hall was a huge carved wooden chair, obviously the lord's. Merthin saw what he thought was a young servant girl, heavily pregnant, and was dismayed to be introduced to her as Ralph's wife, Tilly. She went to the kitchen to fetch wine.

“How old is she?” Merthin said to his mother while she was gone.

“Fourteen.”

It was not unknown for girls to become pregnant at fourteen, but all the same Merthin felt that decent people behaved otherwise. Such early pregnancies usually happened in royal families, for whom there was intense political pressure to produce heirs, and among the lowest and most ignorant of peasants, who knew no better. The middle classes maintained higher standards. “She's a bit young, isn't she?” he said quietly.

Maud replied: “We all asked Ralph to wait, but he would not.” Clearly she, too, disapproved.

Tilly returned with a servant carrying a jug of wine and a bowl of apples. She might have been pretty, Merthin thought, but she looked worn out. His father addressed her with forced jollity. “Cheer up, Tilly! Your husband will be home soon—you don't want to greet him with a long face.”

“I'm fed up with being pregnant,” she said. “I just wish the baby would come as soon as possible.”

“It won't be long now,” Maud said. “Three or four weeks, I'd say.”

“It seems like forever.”

They heard horses outside. Maud said: “That sounds like Ralph.”

Waiting for the brother he had not seen for nine years, Merthin had mixed feelings, as ever. His affection for Ralph was always contaminated by his knowledge of the evil Ralph had done. The rape of Annet had been only the beginning. During his days as an outlaw Ralph had murdered innocent men, women, and children. Merthin had heard, traveling through Normandy, of the atrocities perpetrated by King Edward's army and, while he did not know specifically what Ralph had done, it would have been foolish to hope that Ralph had held himself aloof from that orgy of rape, burning, looting, and slaughter. But Ralph was his brother.

Ralph, too, would have mixed feelings, Merthin was sure. He might not have forgiven Merthin for giving away the location of his outlaw hideout. And, although Merthin had made Brother Thomas promise not to kill Ralph, he had known that Ralph, once captured, was likely to be hanged. The last words Ralph had spoken to Merthin, in the jail in the basement of the guildhall at Kingsbridge, were: “You betrayed me.”

Ralph came in with Alan, both muddy from the hunt. Merthin was shocked to see that he walked with a limp. Ralph took a moment to recognize Merthin. Then he smiled broadly. “My big brother!” he said heartily. It was an old joke: Merthin was the elder, but had long been smaller.

They embraced. Merthin felt a surge of warmth, despite everything. At least we're both alive, he thought, despite war and plague. When they had parted, he had wondered whether they would ever meet again.

Ralph threw himself into the big chair. “Bring some beer, we're thirsty!” he said to Tilly.

There were to be no recriminations, Merthin gathered.

He studied his brother. Ralph had changed since that day in 1339 when he had ridden off to war. He had lost some of the fingers of his left hand, presumably in battle. He had a dissipated look: his face was veined from drink and his skin seemed dry and flaky. “Did you have good hunting?” Merthin asked.

“We brought home a roe deer as fat as a cow,” he replied with satisfaction. “You shall have her liver for supper.”

Merthin asked him about fighting in the army of the king, and Ralph related some of the highlights of the war. Their father was enthusiastic. “An English knight is worth ten of the French!” he said. “The battle of Crécy proved that.”

Ralph's response was surprisingly measured. “An English knight is not much different from a French knight, in my opinion,” he said. “But the French haven't yet understood the harrow formation in which we line up, with archers either side of dismounted knights and men-at-arms. They are still charging us suicidally, and long may they continue. But they will figure it out one day, and then they will change their tactics. Meanwhile, we are almost unbeatable in defense. Unfortunately, the harrow formation is irrelevant to attack, so we have ended up winning very little.”

Merthin was struck by how his brother had grown up. Warfare had given him a depth and subtlety he had never previously possessed.

In turn, Merthin talked about Florence: the incredible size of the city, the wealth of the merchants, the churches and palaces. Ralph was particularly fascinated by the notion of slave girls.

Darkness fell and the servants brought lamps and candles, then supper. Ralph drank a lot of wine. Merthin noticed that he hardly spoke to Tilly. Perhaps it was not surprising. Ralph was a thirty-one-year-old soldier who had spent half his adult life in an army, and Tilly was a girl of fourteen who had been educated in a nunnery. What would they have to talk about?

Late in the evening, when Gerald and Maud had returned to their own house and Tilly had gone to bed, Merthin broached the subject Caris had asked him to raise. He felt more optimistic than previously. Ralph was showing signs of maturity. He had forgiven Merthin for what had happened in 1339, and his cool analysis of English and French tactics had been impressively free from tribal chauvinism.

Merthin said: “On my way here, I spent a night in Wigleigh.”

“I see that fulling mill stays busy.”

“The scarlet cloth has become a good business for Kingsbridge.”

Ralph shrugged. “Mark Webber pays the rent on time.” It was beneath the dignity of noblemen to discuss business.

“I stayed with Gwenda and Wulfric,” Merthin went on. “You know that Gwenda has been Caris's friend since childhood.”

“I remember the day we all met Sir Thomas Langley in the forest.”

Merthin shot a quick glance at Alan Fernhill. They had all kept their childish vows and had not told anyone about that incident. Merthin wanted the secrecy to continue, for he sensed it was still important to Thomas, though he had no idea why. But Alan showed no reaction: he had drunk a lot of wine, and had no ear for hints.

Merthin moved on quickly. “Caris asked me to speak to you about Wulfric. She thinks you've punished him enough for that fight. And I agree.”

“He broke my nose!”

“I was there, remember? You weren't an innocent party.” Merthin tried to make light of it. “You did feel up his fiancée. What was her name?”

“Annet.”

“If her tits weren't worth a broken nose, you've only got yourself to blame.”

Alan laughed, but Ralph was not amused. “Wulfric almost got me hanged, by stirring Lord William up after Annet pretended I'd raped her.”

“But you weren't hanged. And you cut Wulfric's cheek open with your sword when you escaped from the courthouse. It was a terrible wound—you could see his back teeth through it. He'll never lose the scar.”

“Good.”

“You've punished Wulfric for eleven years. His wife is thin and his children are ill. Haven't you done enough, Ralph?”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not enough.”

“Why?” Merthin cried in frustration. “I don't understand you.”

“I will continue to punish Wulfric and hold him back, and humiliate him and his women.”

Merthin was startled by Ralph's frankness. “For heaven's sake, to what end?”

“I wouldn't normally answer that question. I've learned that it rarely does you any good to explain yourself. But you're my big brother, and from childhood I've always needed your approval.”

Ralph had not really changed, Merthin realized, except insofar as he seemed to know and understand himself in a way he never had when younger.

“The reason is simple,” Ralph went on. “Wulfric is not afraid of me. He wasn't scared that day at the Fleece Fair, and he's still not scared of me, even after all I've done to him. That's why he must continue to suffer.”

Merthin was horrified. “That's a life sentence.”

“The day I see fear in his eyes when he looks at me, he shall have anything he likes.”

“Is that so important to you?” Merthin said incredulously. “That people fear you?”

“It's the most important thing in the world,” said Ralph.

57

M
erthin's return affected the whole town. Caris observed the changes with amazement and admiration. It started with his victory over Elfric in the parish guild. People realized the town could have lost its bridge because of Elfric's incompetence, and that jolted them out of their apathy. But everyone knew that Elfric was a tool of Godwyn, so the priory was the ultimate focus of their resentment.

And people's attitude to the priory was changing. There was a mood of defiance. Caris felt optimistic. Mark Webber had a good chance of winning the election on the first day of November and becoming alderman. If that happened, Prior Godwyn would no longer have things all his own way, and perhaps the town could begin to grow: markets on Saturdays, new mills, independent courts that traders could have faith in.