Epic Historial Collection (327 page)

Old Prior Anthony had known something of this, and as he lay dying had told Mother Cecilia, who on her own deathbed had repeated part of the story to Caris. People might keep secrets for decades, Merthin reflected, but they felt compelled to tell the truth when death was near. Caris had also seen the incriminating document that gave Lynn Grange to the priory on condition Thomas was accepted as a monk. Merthin now understood why Caris's disingenuous inquiries about this document had caused such trouble. Sir Gregory Longfellow had persuaded Ralph to break into the monastery and steal all the nuns' charters in the hope of finding the incriminating letter.

Had the destructive power of this sheet of vellum been lessened by the passage of time? Isabella had lived a long life, but she had died three years ago. Edward II himself was almost certainly dead—if alive, he would be seventy-seven now. Would Edward III fear the revelation that his father had remained alive when the world thought him dead? He was too strong a king now to be seriously threatened, but he would face great embarrassment and humiliation.

So what was Merthin to do?

He remained where he was, on the grassy floor of the forest among the wildflowers, for a long time. At last he rolled up the scroll, replaced it in the bag, and put the bag back in the old leather pouch.

He put the pouch back into the ground and filled up the hole. He also filled in his first, erroneous hole. He smoothed the earth on top of both. He stripped some leaves off the bushes and scattered them in front of the oak tree. He stood back and looked at his work. He was satisfied: the excavations were no longer visible to the casual glance.

Then he turned his back on the clearing and went home.

90

A
t the end of August, Earl Ralph made a tour of his landholdings around Shiring, accompanied by his long-term sidekick, Sir Alan Fernhill, and his newfound son, Sam. He enjoyed having Sam along, his child yet a grown man. His other sons, Gerry and Roley, were too young for this sort of thing. Sam did not know about his paternity, but Ralph nursed the secret with pleasure.

They were horrified by what they saw as they went around. Hundreds of Ralph's serfs were dead or dying, and the corn was standing unharvested in the fields. As they rode from one place to the next, Ralph's anger and frustration grew. His sarcastic remarks cowed his companions, and his bad temper turned his horse skittish.

In each village, as well as the serfs' landholdings, some acres were kept exclusively for the earl's personal use. They should have been cultivated by his employees and by serfs who were obliged to work for him one day a week. These lands were in the worst state of all. Many of his employees had died; so had some of the serfs who owed him labor; other serfs had negotiated more favorable tenancies after the last plague, so that they no longer had to work for the lord; and, finally, it was impossible to find laborers for hire.

When Ralph came to Wigleigh, he went around the back of the manor house and looked into the big timber barn, which at this time of year should have been filling with grain ready for milling—but it was empty, and a cat had given birth to a litter of kittens in the hayloft.

“What will we do for bread?” he roared at Nathan Reeve. “With no barley to make ale, what will we drink? You'd better have a plan, by God.”

Nate looked churlish. “All we can do is reallocate the strips,” he said.

Ralph was surprised by his surliness. Nate was usually sycophantic. Then Nate glared at young Sam, and Ralph realized why the worm had turned. Nate hated Sam for killing Jonno, his son. Instead of punishing Sam, Ralph had first pardoned him, then made him a squire. No wonder Nate looked resentful.

Ralph said: “There must be one or two young men in the village who could farm some extra acres.”

“Ah, yes, but they aren't willing to pay an entry fee,” Nate said.

“They want land for nothing?”

“Yes. They can see that you have too much land and not enough labor, and they know when they're in a strong bargaining position.” In the past Nate had been quick to abuse uppity peasants, but now he seemed to be enjoying Ralph's dilemma.

“They act as if England belongs to them, not to the nobility,” Ralph said angrily.

“It is disgraceful, lord,” said Nate more politely, and a sly look came over his face. “For example, Wulfric's son Davey wants to marry Amabel and take over her mother's land. It would make sense: Annet has never been able to manage her holding.”

Sam spoke up. “My parents won't pay the entry fee—they're against the marriage.”

Nate said: “Davey could pay it himself, though.”

Ralph was surprised. “How?”

“He sold that new crop he grew in the forest.”

“Madder. Obviously we didn't do a sufficiently thorough job of trampling it. How much did he get?”

“No one knows. But Gwenda has bought a young milking cow, and Wulfric has a new knife…and Amabel wore a yellow scarf to church on Sunday.”

And Nate had been offered a fat bribe, Ralph guessed. “I hate to reward Davey's disobedience,” he said. “But I'm desperate. Let him have the land.”

“You would have to give him special permission to marry against his parents' will.”

Davey had asked Ralph for this, and Ralph had turned him down, but that was before the plague decimated the peasantry. He did not like to revisit such decisions. However, it was a small price to pay. “I shall give him permission,” he said.

“Very well.”

“But let's go and see him. I'd like to make the offer in person.”

Nate was startled, but of course made no objection.

The truth was that Ralph wanted to see Gwenda again. There was something about her that made his throat go dry. His last encounter with her, in the little hunting lodge, had not satisfied him for long. He had thought about her often in the weeks since then. He got little satisfaction nowadays from the kind of women he normally lay with: young prostitutes, tavern wenches, and maidservants. They all pretended to be delighted by his advances, though he knew they just wanted the present of money that came afterward. Gwenda, by contrast, made no secret of the fact that she loathed him and shuddered at his touch; and that pleased him, paradoxically, because it was honest and therefore real. After their meeting in the hunting lodge he had given her a purse of silver pennies, and she had thrown it back at him so hard that it had bruised his chest.

“They're in Brookfield today, turning their reaped barley,” Nate said. “I'll take you there.”

Ralph and his men followed Nate out of the village and along the bank of the stream at the edge of the great field. Wigleigh was always windy, but today the summer breeze was soft and warm, like Gwenda's breasts.

Some of the strips of land here had been reaped, but in others Ralph despaired to see overripe oats, barley rank with weeds, and one patch of rye that had been reaped but not bundled, so that the crop lay scattered on the ground.

A year ago he had thought that all his financial troubles were over. He had come home from the most recent French war with a captive, the Marquis de Neuchatel, and had negotiated a ransom of fifty thousand pounds. But the marquis's family had not been able to raise the money. Something similar had happened to the French king, Jean II, captured by the prince of Wales at the battle of Poitiers. King Jean had stayed in London for four years, technically a prisoner, though living in comfort at the Savoy, the new palace built by the duke of Lancaster. The king's ransom had been reduced, but still it had not been paid in full. Ralph had sent Alan Fernhill to Neuchatel to renegotiate his prisoner's ransom, and Alan had reduced the price to twenty thousand, but again the family had failed to pay it. Then the marquis had died of the plague, so Ralph was insolvent again, and had to worry about the harvest.

It was midday. The peasants were having their dinner at the side of the field. Gwenda, Wulfric, and Davey were sitting on the ground under a tree eating cold pork with raw onions. They all jumped to their feet when the horses came near. Ralph went over to Gwenda's family and waved the rest away.

Gwenda wore a loose green dress that hid her shape. Her hair was tied back, making her face more ratlike. Her hands were dirty, with earth under the nails. But, when Ralph looked at her, in his imagination he saw her naked, ready, waiting for him with an expression of resigned disgust at what he was about to do; and he felt aroused.

He looked away from her to her husband. Wulfric stared back at him with a level gaze, neither defiant nor cowed. There was a little gray now in his tawny beard, but still it would not grow over the scar of the sword cut Ralph had given him. “Wulfric, your son wants to marry Amabel and take over Annet's land.”

Gwenda responded. She had never learned to speak only when spoken to. “You've stolen one son from me—will you take the other now?” she said bitterly.

Ralph ignored her. “Who will pay the heriot?”

Nate put in: “It's thirty shillings.”

Wulfric said: “I haven't got thirty shillings.”

Davey said calmly: “I can pay it.”

He must have done very well out of his madder crop, Ralph thought, to be so cool about such a large sum of money. “Good,” he said. “In that case—”

Davey interrupted him. “But on what terms are you offering it?”

Ralph felt his face redden. “What do you mean?”

Nate intervened again. “The same terms as those upon which Annet holds the land, of course.”

Davey said: “Then I thank the earl, but I will not accept his gracious offer.”

Ralph said: “What the devil are you talking about?”

“I would like to take over the land, my lord, but only as a free tenant, paying cash rent, without customary dues.”

Sir Alan said threateningly: “Do you dare to haggle with the earl of Shiring, you insolent young dog?”

Davey was scared but defiant. “I've no wish to offend, lord. But I want to be free to grow whatever crop I can sell. I don't want to cultivate what Nate Reeve chooses, regardless of market prices.”

Davey had inherited that streak of stubborn determination from Gwenda, Ralph thought. He said angrily: “Nate expresses my wishes! Do you think you know better than your earl?”

“Forgive me, lord, but you neither till the soil nor go to market.”

Alan's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Ralph saw Wulfric glance at his scythe, lying on the ground, its sharp blade gleaming in the sunlight. On Ralph's other side, young Sam's horse skittered nervously, picking up its rider's tension. If it came to a fight, Ralph thought, would Sam fight for his lord, or for his family?

Ralph did not want a fight. He wanted to get the harvest in, and killing his peasants would make that harder. He restrained Alan with a gesture. “This is how the plague undermines morality,” he said disgustedly. “I will give you what you want, Davey, because I must.”

Davey swallowed drily and said: “In writing, lord?”

“You're demanding a copyhold, too?”

Davey nodded, too frightened to speak.

“Do you doubt the word of your earl?”

“No, lord.”

“Then why demand a written lease?”

“For the avoidance of doubt in future years.”

They all said that when they asked for a copyhold. What they meant was that if the lease was written down the landlord could not easily alter the terms. It was yet another encroachment on time-honored traditions. Ralph did not want to make a further concession—but, once again, he had no option if he wanted to get the harvest in.

And then he thought of a way he could use this situation to gain something else he wanted, and he cheered up.

“All right,” he said. “I'll give you a written lease. But I don't want men leaving the fields during the harvest. Your mother can come to Earlscastle to collect the document next week.”

 

Gwenda walked to Earlscastle on a baking hot day. She knew what Ralph wanted her for, and the prospect made her miserable. As she crossed the drawbridge into the castle, the rooks seemed to laugh derisively at her plight.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the compound, where the walls blocked the breeze. The squires were playing a game outside the stables. Sam was among them, and too absorbed to notice Gwenda.

They had tied a cat to a post at eye level in such a way that it could move its head and legs. A squire had to kill the cat with his hands tied behind his back. Gwenda had seen the game before. The only way for the squire to achieve his object was to head-butt the wretched animal, but the cat naturally defended itself by scratching and biting the attacker's face. The challenger, a boy of about sixteen, was hovering near the post, watched by the terrified cat. Suddenly the boy jerked his head. His forehead smashed into the cat's chest, but the animal lashed out with its clawed paws. The squire yelped with pain and jumped back, his cheeks streaming blood, and all the other squires roared with laughter. Enraged, the challenger rushed at the post and butted the cat again. He was scratched worse, and he hurt his head, which they found even funnier. The third time he was more careful. Getting close, he feinted, making the cat lash out at thin air; then he delivered a carefully aimed strike right at the beast's head. Blood poured from its mouth and nostrils, and it slumped unconscious, though still breathing. He butted it a final time to kill it, and the others cheered and clapped.