Read Epic Historial Collection Online
Authors: Ken Follett
Epic Historial Collection (321 page)
Merthin had been ready to forgive and embrace her, but she was making that difficult. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: “What sleeping arrangements did you and Jake have?”
“That's my business!” she cried.
“No, it's not!” he shouted back. “It's mine, too, and your stepmother's. If you're pregnant, who will care for your baby? Are you confident that Jake is ready to settle down and be a husband and father? Have you talked to him about that?”
“Don't speak to me!” she yelled. Then she burst into tears and stomped up the stairs.
Merthin said: “Sometimes I wish we lived in one roomâthen she wouldn't be able to pull that trick.”
“You weren't very gentle with her,” Caris said with mild disapproval.
“What am I supposed to do?” Merthin said. “She talks as if she's done nothing wrong!”
“She knows the truth, though. That's why she's crying.”
“Oh, hell,” he said.
There was a knock, and a novice monk put his head around the door. “Pardon me for disturbing you, Alderman,” he said. “Sir Gregory Longfellow is at the priory, and would be grateful for a word with you, as soon as is convenient.”
“Damn,” said Merthin. “Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” the novice said, and left.
Merthin said to Caris: “Perhaps it's just as well to give her time to cool off.”
“You, too,” Caris said.
“You're not taking her side, are you?” he said with a touch of irritation.
She smiled and touched his arm. “I'm on your side, always,” she said. “But I remember what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old girl. She's as worried as you are about her relationship with Jake. But she's not admitting it, even to herself, because that would wound her pride. So she resents you for speaking the truth. She has constructed a fragile defense around her self-esteem, and you just tear it down.”
“What should I do?”
“Help her build a better fence.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“You'll figure it out.”
“I'd better go and see Sir Gregory.” Merthin stood up.
Caris put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “You're a good man doing your best, and I love you with all my heart,” she said.
That took the edge off his frustration, and he felt himself calm down as he strode across the bridge and up the main street to the priory. He did not like Gregory. The man was sly and unprincipled, willing to do anything for his master the king, just as Philemon had been when he served Godwyn as prior. Merthin wondered uneasily what Gregory wanted to discuss with him. It was probably taxesâalways the king's worry.
Merthin went first to the prior's palace where Philemon, looking pleased with himself, told him that Sir Gregory was to be found in the monks' cloisters to the south of the cathedral. Merthin wondered what Gregory had done to win himself the privilege of holding audience there.
The lawyer was getting old. His hair was white, and his tall figure was stooped. Deep lines had appeared like brackets either side of that sneering nose, and one of the blue eyes was cloudy. But the other eye saw sharply enough, and he recognized Merthin instantly, though they had not met for ten years. “Alderman,” he said. “The archbishop of Monmouth is dead.”
“Rest his soul,” Merthin said automatically.
“Amen. The king asked me, as I was passing through his borough of Kingsbridge, to give you his greetings, and tell you this important news.”
“I'm grateful. The death is not unexpected. The archbishop has been ill.” The king certainly had not asked Gregory to meet with Merthin purely to give him interesting information, he thought suspiciously.
“You're an intriguing man, if you don't mind my saying so,” Gregory said expansively. “I first met your wife more than twenty years ago. Since then I've seen the two of you slowly but surely take control of this town. And you've got everything you set your hearts on: the bridge, the hospital, the borough charter, and each other. You're determined, and you're patient.”
It was condescending, but Merthin was surprised to detect a grain of respect in Gregory's flattery. He told himself to remain mistrustful: men such as Gregory praised only for a purpose.
“I'm on my way to see the monks of Abergavenny, who must vote for a new archbishop.” Gregory leaned back in his chair. “When Christianity first came to England, hundreds of years ago, monks elected their own superiors.” Explaining was an old man's habit, Merthin reflected: the young Gregory would not have bothered. “Nowadays, of course, bishops and archbishops are too important and powerful to be chosen by small groups of pious idealists living detached from the world. The king makes his choice, and His Holiness the Pope ratifies the royal decision.”
Even I know it's not that simple, Merthin thought. There's usually some kind of power struggle. But he said nothing.
Gregory continued: “However, the ritual of the monks' election still goes on, and it is easier to control it than to abolish it. Hence my journey.”
“So you're going to tell the monks whom to elect,” Merthin said.
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
“And what name will you give them?”
“Didn't I say? It's your bishop, Henri of Mons. Excellent man: loyal, trustworthy, never makes trouble.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You're not pleased?” Gregory's relaxed air evaporated, and he became keenly attentive.
Merthin realized that this was what Gregory had come for: to find out how the people of Kingsbridgeâas represented by Merthinâwould feel about what he was planning, and whether they would oppose him. He collected his thoughts. The prospect of a new bishop threatened the spire and the hospital. “Henri is the key to the balance of power in this town,” he said. “Ten years ago, a kind of armistice was agreed between the merchants, the monks, and the hospital. As a result, all three have prospered mightily.” Appealing to Gregory's interestâand the king'sâhe added: “That prosperity is of course what enables us to pay such high taxes.”
Gregory acknowledged this with a dip of his head.
“The departure of Henri obviously puts into question the stability of our relationships.”
“It depends on who replaces him, I should have thought.”
“Indeed,” said Merthin. Now we come to the crux, he thought. He said: “Have you got anyone in mind?”
“The obvious candidate is Prior Philemon.”
“No!” Merthin was aghast. “Philemon! Why?”
“He's a sound conservative, which is important to the church hierarchy in these times of skepticism and heresy.”
“Of course. Now I understand why he preached a sermon against dissection. And why he wants to build a Lady chapel.” I should have foreseen this, Merthin thought
“And he has let it be known that he has no problem with taxation of the clergyâa constant source of friction between the king and some of his bishops.”
“Philemon has been planning this for some time.” Merthin was angry with himself for letting it sneak up on him.
“Since the archbishop fell ill, I imagine.”
“This is a catastrophe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Philemon is quarrelsome and vengeful. If he becomes bishop he will create constant strife in Kingsbridge. We have to prevent him.” He looked Gregory in the eye. “Why did you come here to forewarn me?” As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came to him. “You don't want Philemon either. You didn't need me to tell you what a troublemaker he isâyou knew already. But you can't just veto him, because he has already won support among senior clergy.” Gregory just smiled enigmaticallyâwhich Merthin took to mean he was right. “So what do you want me to do?”
“If I were you,” Gregory said, “I'd start by finding another candidate to put up as the alternative to Philemon.”
So that was it. Merthin nodded pensively. “I'll have to think about this,” he said.
“Please do.” Gregory stood up, and Merthin realized the meeting was over. “And let me know what you decide,” Gregory added.
Merthin left the priory and walked back to Leper Island, musing. Who could he propose as bishop of Kingsbridge? The townspeople had always got on well with Archdeacon Lloyd, but he was too oldâthey might succeed in getting him elected only to have to do the whole thing again in a year's time.
He had not thought of anyone by the time he got home. He found Caris in the parlor and was about to ask her when she preempted him. Standing up, with a pale face and a frightened expression, she said: “Lolla's gone again.”
86
T
he priests said Sunday was a day of rest, but it had never been so for Gwenda. Today, after church in the morning and then dinner, she was working with Wulfric in the garden behind their house. It was a good garden, half an acre with a hen house, a pear tree, and a barn. In the vegetable patch at the far end, Wulfric was digging furrows and Gwenda sowing peas.
The boys had gone to another village for a football game, their usual recreation on Sundays. Football was the peasant equivalent of the nobility's tournaments: a mock battle in which the injuries were sometimes real. Gwenda just prayed her sons would come home intact.
Today Sam returned early. “The ball burst,” he said grumpily.
“Where's Davey?” Gwenda asked.
“He wasn't there.”
“I thought he was with you.”
“No, he quite often goes off on his own.”
“I didn't know that.” Gwenda frowned. “Where does he go?”
Sam shrugged. “He doesn't tell me.”
Perhaps he was seeing a girl, Gwenda thought. Davey was close about all sorts of things. If it was a girl, who was she? There were not many eligible girls in Wigleigh. The survivors of the plague had remarried quickly, as if eager to repopulate the land; and those born since were too young. Perhaps he was meeting someone from the next village, at a rendezvous in the forest. Such assignations were as common as heartache.
When Davey came home, a couple of hours later, Gwenda confronted him. He made no attempt to deny that he had been sneaking off. “I'll show you what I've been doing, if you like,” he said. “I can't keep it secret forever. Come with me.”
They all went, Gwenda, Wulfric, and Sam. The Sabbath was observed to the extent that no one worked in the fields, and the Hundredacre was deserted as the four of them walked across it in a blustery spring breeze. A few strips looked neglected: there were still villagers who had more land than they could cope with. Annet was one suchâshe had only her eighteen-year-old daughter Amabel to help her, unless she could hire labor, which was still difficult. Her strip of oats was getting weedy.
Davey led them half a mile into the forest and stopped at a clearing off the beaten track. “This is it,” he said.
For a moment Gwenda did not know what he was talking about. She was standing on the edge of a nondescript patch of ground with low bushes growing between the trees. Then she looked again at the bushes. They were a species she had never seen before. It had a squarish stem with pointed leaves growing in clusters of four. The way it had covered the ground made her think it was a creeping plant. A pile of uprooted vegetation at one side showed that Davey had been weeding. “What is it?” she said.
“It's called madder. I bought the seeds from a sailor that time we went to Melcombe.”
“Melcombe?” Gwenda said. “That was three years ago.”
“That's how long it's taken.” Davey smiled. “At first I was afraid it wouldn't grow at all. He told me it needed sandy soil and would tolerate light shade. I dug over the clearing and planted the seeds, but the first year I got only three or four feeble plants. I thought I'd wasted my money. Then, the second year, the roots spread underground and sent up shoots, and this year it's all over the place.”
Gwenda was astonished that her child could have kept this from her for so long. “But what use is madder?” she said. “Does it taste good?”
Davey laughed. “No, it's not edible. You dig up the roots, dry them, and grind them to a powder that makes a red dye. It's very costly. Madge Webber in Kingsbridge pays seven shillings for a gallon.”
That was an astonishing price, Gwenda reflected. Wheat, the most expensive grain, sold for about seven shillings a quarter, and a quarter was sixty-four gallons. “This is sixty-four times as precious as wheat!” she said.
Davey smiled. “That's why I planted it.”
“Why you planted what?” said a new voice. They all turned to see Nathan Reeve, standing beside a hawthorn tree as bent and twisted as he was. He wore a triumphant grin: he had caught them red-handed.
Davey was quick with an answer. “This is a medicinal herb calledâ¦hagwort,” he said. Gwenda could tell he was improvising, but Nate would not be sure. “It's good for my mother's wheezy chest.”
Nate looked at Gwenda. “I didn't know she had a wheezy chest.”
“In the winter,” Gwenda said.
“A herb?” Nate said skeptically. “There's enough here to dose all Kingsbridge. And you've been weeding it, to get more.”
“I like to do things properly,” Davey said.
It was a feeble response, and Nate ignored it. “This is an unauthorized crop,” he said. “First of all, serfs need permission for what they plantâthey can't go raising anything they like. That would lead to total chaos. Secondly, they can't cultivate the lord's forest, even by planting herbs.”
None of them had any answer to that. Those were the rules. It was frustrating: often peasants knew they could make money by growing nonstandard crops that were in demand and fetched high prices: hemp for rope, flax for expensive underclothing, or cherries to delight rich ladies. But many lords and their bailiffs refused permission, out of instinctive conservatism.
Nate's expression was venomous. “One son a runaway and a murderer,” he said. “The other defies his lord. What a family.”
He was entitled to feel angry, Gwenda thought. Sam had killed Jonno and got away with it. Nate would undoubtedly hate her family to his dying day.
Nate bent down and roughly pulled a plant out of the ground. “This will come before the manor court,” he said with satisfaction; and he turned and limped away through the trees.
Gwenda and her family followed. Davey was undaunted. “Nate will impose a fine, and I'll pay it,” he said. “I'll still make money.”
“What if he orders the crop destroyed?” Gwenda said.
“How?”
“It could be burned, or trampled.”
Wulfric put in: “Nate wouldn't do that. The village wouldn't stand for it. A fine is the traditional way to deal with this.”
Gwenda said: “I just worry about what Earl Ralph will say.”
Davey made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. “No reason why the earl should find out about a little thing like this.”
“Ralph takes a special interest in our family.”
“Yes, he does,” Davey said thoughtfully. “I still don't understand what made him pardon Sam.”
The boy was not stupid. Gwenda said: “Perhaps Lady Philippa persuaded him.”
Sam said: “She remembers you, Mother. She told me that when I was at Merthin's house.”
“I must have done something to endear myself to her,” Gwenda said, extemporizing. “Or it could be that she just felt compassion, one mother for another.” It was not much of a story, but Gwenda did not have a better one.
In the days since Sam had been released they had had several conversations about what might account for Ralph's pardon. Gwenda just pretended to be as perplexed as everyone else. Fortunately Wulfric had never been the suspicious type.
They reached their house. Wulfric looked at the sky, said there was another good hour of light left, and went into the garden to finish sowing peas. Sam volunteered to help him. Gwenda sat down to mend a rip in Wulfric's hose. Davey sat opposite Gwenda and said: “I've got another secret to tell you.”
She smiled. She did not mind him having a secret if he told his mother. “Go on.”
“I have fallen in love.”
“That's wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I'm very happy for you. What's she like?”
“She's beautiful.”
Gwenda had been speculating, before she found out about the madder, that Davey might be meeting a girl from another village. Her intuition had been right. “I had a feeling about this,” she said.
“Did you?” He seemed anxious.
“Don't worry, there's nothing wrong. It just occurred to me that you might be meeting someone.”
“We go to the clearing where I'm growing the madder. That's sort of where it started.”
“And how long has this been going on?”
“More than a year.”
“It's serious, then.”
“I want to marry her.”
“I'm so pleased.” She looked fondly at him. “You're still only twenty, but that's old enough if you've found the right person.”
“I'm glad you think so.”
“What village is she from?”
“This one, Wigleigh.”
“Oh?” Gwenda was surprised. She had not been able to think of a likely girl here. “Who is she?”
“Mother, it's Amabel.”
“No!”
“Don't shout.”
“Not Annet's daughter!”
“You're not to be angry.”
“Not to be angry!” Gwenda struggled to calm herself. She was as shocked as if she had been slapped. She took several deep breaths. “Listen to me,” she said. “We have been at odds with that family for more than twenty years. That cow Annet broke your father's heart and never left him alone afterwards.”
“I'm sorry, but that's all in the past.”
“It's notâAnnet still flirts with your father every chance she gets!”
“That's your problem, not ours.”
Gwenda stood up, her sewing falling from her lap. “How can you do this to me? That bitch would be part of our family! My grandchildren would be her grandchildren. She'd be in and out of this house all the time, making a fool of your father with her coquettish ways and then laughing at me.”
“I'm not going to marry Annet.”
“Amabel will be just as bad. Look at herâshe's just like her mother!”
“She's not, actuallyâ”
“You can't do this! I absolutely forbid it!”
“You can't forbid it, Mother.”
“Oh, yes I canâyou're too young.”
“That won't last forever.”
Wulfric's voice came from the doorway. “What's all the shouting?”
“Davey says he wants to marry Annet's daughterâbut I won't permit it.” Gwenda's voice rose to a shriek. “Never! Never! Never!”
Â
Earl Ralph surprised Nathan Reeve when he said he wanted to look at Davey's strange crop. Nate mentioned the matter in passing, on a routine visit to Earlscastle. A bit of unlicensed cultivation in the forest was a trivial breach of the rules, regularly dealt with by a fine. Nate was a shallow man, interested in bribes and commissions, and he had little conception of the depth of Ralph's obsession with Gwenda's family: his hatred of Wulfric, his lust for Gwenda, and now the likelihood that he was Sam's real father. So Nate was startled when Ralph said he would inspect the crop next time he was in the neighborhood.
Ralph rode with Alan Fernhill from Earlscastle to Wigleigh on a fine day between Easter and Whitsun. When they reached the small timber manor house, there was the old housekeeper, Vira, bent and gray now but still hanging on. They ordered her to prepare their dinner, then found Nate and followed him into the forest.
Ralph recognized the plant. He was no farmer, but he knew the difference between one bush and another, and on his travels with the army he had observed many crops that did not grow naturally in England. He leaned down from his saddle and pulled up a handful. “This is called madder,” he said. “I've seen it in Flanders. It's grown for the red dye that has the same name.”
Nate said: “He told me it was a herb called hagwort, used to cure a wheezy chest.”
“I believe it does have medicinal properties, but that's not why people cultivate it. What will his fine be?”
“A shilling would be the usual amount.”
“It's not enough.”
Nate looked nervous. “So much trouble is caused, lord, when these customs are flouted. I would rather notâ”
“Never mind,” Ralph said. He kicked his horse and trotted through the middle of the clearing, trampling the bushes. “Come on, Alan,” he said. Alan imitated him, and the two of them cantered around in tight circles, flattening the growth. After a few minutes all the shrubs were destroyed.
Ralph could see that Nate was shocked by the waste, even though the planting was illegal. Peasants never liked to see crops despoiled. Ralph had learned in France that the best way of demoralizing the population was to burn the harvest in the fields.
“That will do,” he said, quickly getting bored. He was irritated by Davey's insolence in planting this crop, but that was not the main reason he had come to Wigleigh. The truth was that he wanted to see Sam again.
As they rode back to the village, he scanned the fields, looking for a tall young man with thick dark hair. Sam would stand out, because of his height, among these stunted serfs hunched over their spades. He saw him, at a distance, in Brookfield. He reined in and peered across the windy landscape at the twenty-two-year-old son he had never known.
Sam and the man he thought was his fatherâWulfricâwere plowing with a horse-drawn light plow. Something was wrong for they kept stopping and adjusting the harness. When they were together, it was easy to see the differences between them. Wulfric's hair was tawny, Sam's dark; Wulfric was barrel-chested, oxlike, where Sam was broad-shouldered but lean, like a horse; Wulfric's movements were slow and careful, but Sam was quick and graceful.
It was the oddest feeling to look at a stranger and think: my son. Ralph believed himself immune to womanish emotions. If he had been subject to feelings of compassion or regret, he could not have lived as he had. But the discovery of Sam threatened to unman him.