Epic Historial Collection (287 page)

She said nothing for the moment to Wulfric, who had not heard the magic words, but her heart beat faster. She and her family had endured so many years of poverty. Was it possible that life might get better for them?

She had to find out more.

When they had eaten, they sat on a bench outside, watching the boys and some other children running around the broad trunk of the tree that gave the tavern its name. “Wulfric,” she said quietly. “What if we could earn twopence a day—each?”

“How?”

“By going to Outhenby.” She told him what she had overheard. “It could be the beginning of a new life for us,” she finished.

“Am I never to get back my father's lands, then?”

She could have hit him with a stick. Did he really still think that was going to happen? How foolish could he be?

She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible. “It's twelve years since you were disinherited,” she said. “In that time Ralph has become more and more powerful. And there's never been the least sign that he might mellow toward you. What do
you
think the chances are?”

He did not answer that question. “Where would we live?”

“They must have houses in Outhenby.”

“But will Ralph let us go?”

“He can't stop us. We're laborers, not serfs. You know that.”

“But does Ralph know it?”

“Let's not give him the chance to object.”

“How could we manage that?”

“Well…” She had not thought this through, but now she saw that it would have to be done precipitately. “We could leave today, from here.”

It was a scary thought. They had both lived their entire lives in Wigleigh. Wulfric had never even moved house. Now they were contemplating going to live in a village they had never seen without even going back to say good-bye.

But Wulfric was worrying about something else. He pointed at the hunchbacked bailiff, crossing the square to the chandler's shop. “What would Nathan say?”

“We won't tell him what we're planning. We'll give him some story—say we want to stay here overnight, for some reason, and return home tomorrow. That way, nobody will know where we are. And we'll never go back to Wigleigh.”

“Never go back,” Wulfric said despondently.

Gwenda controlled her impatience. She knew her husband. Once Wulfric was set on a course he was unstoppable, but he took a long time to decide. He would come around to this idea eventually. He was not closed-minded, just cautious and deliberate. He hated to make decisions in a rush—whereas she thought it was the only way.

The young man with the blond beard came out of the Old Oak. Gwenda looked around: none of the Wigleigh folk was in sight. She stood up and accosted the man. “Did I hear you say something about twopence a day for laborers?” she said.

“That's right, mistress,” he replied. “In the Vale of Outhenby, just half a day southwest of here. We need all we can get.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm the plowman of Outhenby. My name is Harry.”

Outhenby must be a large and prosperous village, to have a plowman all of its own, Gwenda reasoned. Most plowmen worked for a group of villages. “And who is lord of the manor?”

“The prioress of Kingsbridge.”

“Caris!” That was wonderful news. Caris could be trusted. Gwenda's spirits lifted further.

“Yes, she is the current prioress,” Harry said. “A very determined woman.”

“I know.”

“She wants her fields cultivated so that she can feed the sisters, and she's not listening to excuses.”

“Do you have houses at Outhenby for laborers to live in? With their families?”

“Plenty, unfortunately. We've lost many people to the plague.”

“You said it was southwest of here.”

“Take the southerly road to Badford, then follow the Outhen upstream.”

Caution returned to Gwenda. “I'm not going,” she said quickly.

“Ah. Of course.” He did not believe her.

“I was really asking on behalf of a friend.” She turned away.

“Well, tell your friend to come as soon as he can—we've got spring plowing and sowing to finish yet.”

“All right.”

She felt slightly dizzy, as if she had taken a draft of strong wine. Twopence a day—working for Caris—and miles away from Ralph, Perkin, and flirty Annet! It was a dream.

She sat back down beside Wulfric. “Did you hear all that?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said. He pointed to a figure standing by the tavern door. “And so did he.”

Gwenda looked. It was her father.

 

“Put that horse in the traces,” Nate said to Wulfric around mid-afternoon. “It's time to go home.”

Wulfric said: “We'll be needing our wages for the week so far.”

“You'll be paid on Saturday as usual,” Nate said dismissively. “Hitch that nag.”

Wulfric did not move toward the horse. “I'll trouble you to pay me today,” he insisted. “I know you've got the money, you've sold all that timber.”

Nate turned and looked directly at him. “Why should you be paid early?” he said irritably.

“Because I shan't be returning to Wigleigh with you tonight.”

Nate was taken aback. “Why not?”

Gwenda took over. “We're going to Melcombe,” she said.

“What?” Nate was outraged. “People like you have no business traveling to Melcombe!”

“We met a fisherman who needs crew for twopence a day.” Gwenda had worked out this story to throw any pursuit off the scent.

Wulfric added: “Our respects to Sir Ralph, and may God be with him in the future.”

Gwenda added: “But we don't expect to see him ever again.” She said it just to hear the sweet sound of it: never to see Ralph again.

Nathan said indignantly: “He may not wish you to leave!”

“We're not serfs, we have no land. Ralph cannot forbid us.”

“You're the son of a serf,” Nathan said to Wulfric.

“But Ralph denied me my inheritance,” Wulfric replied. “He cannot now demand my fealty.”

“It's a dangerous thing for a poor man to stand on his rights.”

“That's true,” Wulfric conceded. “But I'm doing it, all the same.”

Nate was beaten. “You shall hear more of this,” he said.

“Would you like me to put the horse to the cart?”

Nate scowled. He could not do it himself. Because of his back, he had difficulty with complicated physical tasks, and the horse was taller than he. “Yes, of course,” he said.

“I'll be glad to. Would you kindly pay me first?”

Looking furious, Nate took out his purse and counted six silver pennies.

Gwenda took the money and Wulfric hitched up the horse.

Nate drove away without another word.

“Well!” said Gwenda. “That's done.” She looked at Wulfric. He was smiling broadly. She asked him: “What is it?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I feel as if I've been wearing a collar for years, and suddenly it's been taken off.”

“Good.” That was how she wanted him to feel. “Now let's find a place to stay the night.”

The Old Oak was in a prime position in the market square, and charged top prices. They walked around the little town looking for somewhere cheaper. Eventually they went into the Gate House, where Gwenda negotiated accommodation for the four of them—supper, a mattress on the floor, and breakfast—for a penny. The boys would need a decent night's sleep and some breakfast if they were to walk all morning.

She could hardly sleep for excitement. She was also worried. What was she taking her family to? She had only the word of one man, a stranger, for what they would find when they reached Outhenby. She really ought to have sought confirmation before committing herself.

But she and Wulfric had been stuck in a hole for ten years, and Harry Plowman of Outhenby was the first person to offer them a way out of it.

The breakfast was meager: thin porridge and watery cider. Gwenda bought a big loaf of new bread for them to eat on the road, and Wulfric filled his leather flask with cold water from a well. They passed through the city gate an hour after sunrise and set off on the road south.

As they walked, she thought about Joby, her father. As soon as he learned that she had not returned to Wigleigh, he would remember the conversation he had overheard, and he would guess she had gone to Outhenby. He would not be fooled by the story about Melcombe: he was an accomplished deceiver himself, too experienced to be taken in by a simple ruse. But would anyone think to ask him where she had gone? Everyone knew she never spoke to her father. And, if they did ask him, would he blurt out what he suspected? Or would some vestige of paternal feeling cause him to protect her?

There was nothing she could do about it, so she put him out of her mind.

It was good weather for traveling. The ground was soft with recent rain, and there was no dust; but today was a dry day with fitful sunshine, neither cold nor hot. The boys quickly grew tired, especially David, the younger, but Wulfric was good at distracting them with songs and rhymes, quizzing them about the names of trees and plants, playing number games and telling stories.

Gwenda could hardly believe what they had done. This time yesterday, it had looked as if their life would never change: hard work, poverty, and frustrated aspirations would be their lot for ever. Now they were on the road to a new life.

She thought of the house where she had lived with Wulfric for ten years. She had not left much behind: a few cooking pots, a stack of newly chopped firewood, half a ham, and four blankets. She had no clothes other than what she was wearing, and neither did Wulfric or the boys; no jewelry, ribbons, gloves, or combs. Ten years ago, Wulfric had had chickens and pigs in his yard, but they had gradually been eaten or sold during the years of penury. Their meager possessions could be replaced with a week's wages at the promised Outhenby rates.

In accordance with Harry's directions they took the road south to a muddy ford across the Outhen, then turned west and followed the river upstream. As they progressed, the river narrowed, until the land funneled between two ranges of hills. “Good, fertile soil,” Wulfric said. “It'll need the heavy plow, though.”

At noon they came to a large village with a stone church. They went to the door of a timber manor house next to the church. With trepidation, Gwenda knocked. Was she about to be told that Harry Plowman did not know what he was talking about, and there was no work here? Had she made her family walk half a day for nothing? How humiliating it would be to have to return to Wigleigh and beg to be taken on again by Nate Reeve.

A gray-haired woman came to the door. She looked at Gwenda with the suspicious glare that villagers everywhere gave to strangers. “Yes?”

“Good day, mistress,” Gwenda said. “Is this Outhenby?”

“It is.”

“We're laborers looking for work. Harry Plowman told us to come here.”

“Did he, now?”

Was there something wrong, Gwenda wondered, or was this woman just a grumpy old cow? She almost asked the question out loud. Stopping herself, she said: “Does Harry live at this house?”

“Certainly not,” the woman replied. “He's just a plowman. This is the bailiff's house.”

Some conflict between bailiff and plowman, Gwenda guessed. “Perhaps we should see the bailiff, then.”

“He's not here.”

Patiently, Gwenda said: “Would you be kind enough to tell us where we might find him?”

The woman pointed across the valley. “North Field.”

Gwenda turned to look in the direction indicated. When she turned back, the woman had disappeared into the house.

Wulfric said: “She didn't seem pleased to see us.”

“Old women hate change,” Gwenda commented. “Let's find this bailiff.”

“The boys are tired.”

“They can rest soon.”

They set off across the fields. There was plenty of activity on the strips. Children were picking stones off plowed land, women were sowing seeds, and men were carting manure. Gwenda could see the ox team in the distance, eight mighty beasts patiently dragging the plow through the wet, heavy soil.

They came upon a group of men and women trying to move a horse-drawn harrow that had got stuck in a ditch. Gwenda and Wulfric joined in pushing it out. Wulfric's broad back made the difference, and the harrow was freed.

All the villagers turned and looked at Wulfric. A tall man with an old burn mark disfiguring one side of his face said amiably: “You're a useful fellow—who are you?”

“I'm Wulfric, and my wife is Gwenda. We're laborers looking for work.”