Speaking of her had made him realize how far he was from being cured. Perhaps he did not want to be well. Perhaps he did not want to be parted from his transcending sense of predestination: for he could never rid himself of the conviction that by some cruel quirk she was meant for him. All his suffering arose from the fact that, plainly, he was not meant for her.
On Thursday a handsome girl in the marketplace had shot him an unmistakable glance, not just of approval but of invitation. Flustered, walking on, he had recalled Mary Ibbott’s flattery in the starlight and wondered if there might be something in it.
Now dimly taking shape in the mists of his inexperience, Ralf could not help discerning another reason why Eloise might so pointedly and assiduously be making it her business to ignore him.
“Are you all right?” Imogen said.
“I’ve just had … I’ve just thought of something.”
“About what?”
“That girl.”
“And?”
“What you said just now, about telling her. Do you really think I should?”
“Of course. How can she be sure, otherwise?”
“Girls don’t mind it, then, being told?”
When she smiled like that, Imogen was more than beautiful. “You may be my big brother, Ralf, but, honestly, sometimes I think you don’t know anything at all.”
12
Gervase had always tried to maintain good relations with his neighbours, but he believed that Lord Angmer, who held the manor to the east, was also a friend. They had known each other since boyhood and were of similar dispositions. Both belonged to the circle at court which opposed further war with France. Into this circle Gervase had already brought one son-in-law, the Earl of Warwick. If he could also recruit the Kents, or even neutralize them, the risk of war over Gascony would be reduced, and with it the danger that England herself might be overrun.
The dowry acceptable to the Kents had become stuck at two hundred and fifty marks. As it was, they had all but compromised themselves: a family of their status could not be seen to settle for less. Indeed, they had almost withdrawn. Gervase had received word at Westminster that Robert Ingram had fallen head-over-heels for Eloise. This, presumably, was the only thing which had kept them talking.
In addition to the dowry, Gervase would have to find a hundred marks for the royal sanction. He did not have three hundred and fifty marks. He still owed the Treasury three hundred and eighty of succession relief, and revenues for the manor were continuing to fall. There was every chance that the title would revert to the Crown when he died and his eldest would be unable to succeed.
Sometimes, lying awake in the early hours, Gervase had thought death the only escape from his predicament. Since succeeding to his title, the gradient of his life had done nothing but increase. His slippery uphill course had become vertical, more than vertical, overhanging. He was beset not just by debt and all the trivia of the manor but by double-dealing at court. The sovereign to whom he had devoted himself was likely as not to throw away the whole kingdom for the sake of a few Gascon vineyards.
When Gervase had first seen Master Grigg’s novel proposal for a mill, he had reacted with little more than amusement. Later, reconsidering, he had asked the opinion of his clerk. Stephen had expressed the Steward’s, and Gervase’s own, original view: that such a structure was bound to be legally classed as a molendinium aquaticum, a watermill, and thus subject to all the restrictions of a molendinium sacrum.
Nevertheless Gervase had told him to visit the cathedral library and examine the diocesan rolls as they pertained to milling law. Stephen had returned from Alincester with surprising news. A molendinium aquaticum was specifically defined as being driven by a millstream, “rivus qui molam agit”. Each potential or actual rivus in the Diocese was named and listed according to its source, point of discharge, and the maximum number of mills it would be permitted to support. The point of discharge of Gervase’s river was named as “among the marshes, near the road which leads from Angmer to Rushton” in “the manorial holding of Maepe, Maipe or Mape”, which itself was identified elsewhere in the rolls as “those lands granted by William, by the grace of God king of the English, to his most constant and faithful knight, Sir Geoffroy Alain de Maepe, on the ninth day of December in the Year of Our Lord 1069”, this identification being cross-referenced with Mape’s entry in the Domesday Book.
Stephen Tysoe had no pretensions to being a lawyer, but when Gervase had asked him, “Does this mean the Diocese would have no control over a tide mill?”, he had answered: “In my opinion, yes.”
According to Walter, the mill itself would cost about a hundred and fifty marks, and an access track thirty or forty more. For the outlay of one hundred and ninety marks, the manor would be able, in perpetuity, to grind its own corn. It could grind the corn of other manors without reference to the scale of charges set by the Molarius. Nor could the Molarius meddle with all the other industry of which the ingenious Master Grigg had promised his mill, with suitable additions, would be capable: such as sawing and turning wood, cutting and moulding stone, tanning leather, or even driving the bellows for a forge or glassworks.
When, several years ago, Gervase had allowed the Griggs to come and live with old Farlow, he had failed to ask for rent for several ill defined reasons. Farlow was an exceptional and conscientious worker. Gervase had liked his wife, and at her funeral had felt himself touched by her loss. He had also admired their daughter, Anna, an only child, who was not only comely but sensible and intelligent, too good for Mape. He had been pleased to grant her freedom for the nominal sum of three and sixpence. The wedding and feast had been a rare occasion of happiness in Mape’s dull calendar, and Gervase had followed with interest the subsequent fortunes of the family. The Acklin affair, of which he had heard independent account, had struck him as monstrously unjust. Linsell Grigg’s parents were dead: the family had had nowhere to turn but Mape.
Against the advice of his steward, Gervase had allowed them to live here free of rent. How strangely the world was ordered! That sentimental act had now been repaid a hundredfold. The tide mill, if legal, if built, if as functional as its architect claimed, would transform the manor. Gervase’s debts would evaporate. His grant of land would be kept in the family, passed on to his eldest son, as was meet; and, of more pressing importance, and impinging on the security and welfare of the whole country, the Kents would have their dowry and the wedding could proceed.
It was too good to be true, the answer to all his prayers. But before he could ask Grigg to submit a document of tender, the legal position needed to be confirmed. A London lawyer named Chevalley was widely regarded as the foremost lay authority on ecclesiastical law. He was also expensive, very expensive.
Mape was not the only manor on the coast. If a tide mill were legal in Mape, there was no reason why Lord Angmer should not build one also; no reason why he and many other coastal barons should not share in the new prosperity which, independent of the dead hand of the Church, would help restore the ground lost since 1066 by the baronage and its centre, the King.
In his short note to Lord Angmer, proposing a visit, Gervase had made no mention of the mill. The note had been answered by return, with equal brevity and friendliness, with the result that Gervase had ridden here this morning to take a private lunch. Angmer had listened, looked at the drawings, listened further, and finally, having been asked whether he himself would consider building such a mill, had regretfully said that, at present, on financial grounds, he would not. The real reason for the visit – to get Angmer to help with the cost of instructing Chevalley – thus remained undisclosed.
Afterwards, Angmer suggested an hour of two of sport. At Gervase’s request, they rode out alone, to the ill concealed displeasure of Angmer’s austringer, who would be unable to supervise his master’s treatment of Asug, the largest of his three goshawks.
This was the size of a buzzard, though heavier, more deep-chested and powerful. All birds of prey were hig
hly strung, existing at a pitch which no human could understand, but Gervase had never seen a gos so close to lunacy that could yet be managed. When first he was subjected to Asug’s baleful orange glare, her twinned eyes directed at his, he actually felt fear. Her thick, long, yellow, coarsely scaly shanks ended in crushing yellow feet whose dark talons made those of a peregrine look blunt. The uniform ashy-brown of her mantle, back and upper wings, the fine ashy-brown barring of her breast and underwings, the dark zoning of her tail, her dark crown and cheeks, the pale stripe above each eye merging behind her head to heighten the sternness of her gaze: all were exactly right, a virtuoso study in restraint. She had been taken as an eyas in the Rhineland, two years previously.
From Angmer Hall the two barons rode at a walk through the fields while the heathen Asug, her head swivelling this way and that, irises blazing, bridled with sulphurous rage at the passing serfs. Coming to the woods and entering a ride, she recovered herself sufficiently to settle her head. Then, in lusty anticipation of the act to come, she roused and sleeked every feather in her plumage. With that her clamping grasp on the glove seemed to tighten: in her impatience she wanted to puncture the leather and draw her keeper’s blood.
She was in perfect yarak, hunting fettle. Gervase was not normally given to envy. Exceptions could be made.
The sun-dappled ride ended at a horse-gate. Gervase leaned down to unlatch it and closed it after them. Ahead lay an expanse of grazing a couple of furlongs across, sloping up towards more woodland. Most of the black bullocks had gathered on the far side.
Asug had seen something.
“Where is it?” Angmer said.
“I don’t know. Quick, she’s set!”
Angmer raised his arm, released the jesses, and the harpy opened her wings to reclaim her element. No more than eighteen inches above the grass, racing her shadow, gathering speed, superb, she flew along the edge of the wood, straight for whatever invisible outrage it was that had raised her spleen.
It saw her coming, but too late. Cover, safety, a hole, were one second away: far too far. The assassin swerved, intercepted and, in a skidding flurry of arrested momentum, pounced. Her pinions briefly closed before she took flight again. More laboured now, the head of the dangling rabbit gripped by one foot, the goshawk proceeded with rowing wings along the two-hundred-yard return to the horses.
“My God, Frederic, but she’s wonderful.”
“The King wants her.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“He can have my wife first.”
“There are limits to fealty.”
“Quite,” Angmer said, unable to prevent himself from flinching as Asug reached for the glove. She was not even breathing heavily. Only the subdued light in her eyes hinted at what she had just done. With his unprotected hand, Angmer took the rabbit from her grasp and gave it to his friend.
“Would you, Gervase? One kidney. Any more and I’ll be in trouble with Fairfax.”
That was the name of his austringer. Gervase dismounted and accepted the knife which Angmer now withdrew from a sheath at his belt. The rabbit, a large buck, had probably died of terror even before the stoop, but in any case it could have felt no more than momentary distress: its skull had been crushed. Opening the flank, Gervase removed a kidney which Angmer cautiously presented and was wolfed down in an instant. Having wiped his bloody fingers on the grass and deposited the rabbit in the game-net at Angmer’s saddle, Gervase remounted.
The hunt was over. As they returned along the woodland ride, Angmer said, “You wished to continue our talk.”
“Only to ask you to reconsider.”
“About your tide mill?”
“Yes. I’d prefer mine not to be the only one.”
“I’m sorry, Gervase. I have another reason for declining, besides the cost.”
Gervase waited.
“My dear fellow, do you have any idea of what you’re up against? Not just the Diocese. Not even the archbishops. But the Pope. I’d rather be a rabbit and take my chances with Asug.”
“Does the Crown count for nothing?”
“The Church has better lawyers.”
“They wrote the word on mills. They can’t change it retrospectively.”
“My friend, I am loath to give advice for the simple reason that no one ever takes any notice.”
“But?”
“I beseech you, don’t get caught between Rome and Westminster. They’ll eat you alive.”
* * *
Lord Angmer’s unexpected defeatism left Gervase feeling depressed. Such defeatism was also misplaced. Last year the King had made a treaty with the Pope. On the promise of the Sicilian crown for his younger son, he had agreed to finance the papal wars in Sicily: since then the importunity of the English Church, even of Bishop William, had been much moderated. The political climate could not be more propitious for a minor, localized dispute, even assuming the Church would have a case to bring, which, apparently, it did not. On the way back to his own hall, Gervase was more and more minded to take the next step and seek an opinion from Edward Chevalley.
Gervase had asked for and been granted Lord Angmer’s confidentiality. The idea for a tide-driven mill was a stroke of genius. There was a danger that if it got out too soon, the Church would have a chance to write pre-emptive legislation. It would be disastrous if that happened before his mill was finished and working. He decided, as he rode, to abandon his notion of seeking the support of other coastal barons. He would take all the risk himself to be sure of the project. Rather that than endure interference or treachery; rather that than lose the one chance he might have to restore his family’s fortunes. Besides, if the others were unable to build their mills, it would increase the profits of his own.
In the stable yard he found Eloise, who, having returned from a ride with her Aunt Mildred, had remained behind while the Groom examined her mount’s left forefoot, which was showing a trace of lameness.
“She’s only trodden on a stone, Miss. The sole is bruised, but not punctured.”
“Let her pasture for two or three days.”
“Yes, Miss.”
She waited for her father, so that they could walk together to the house.
“I’m worried about you, Daughter.”
“There’s no need.”
“Do you dislike Robert Ingram?”
“No, sir.”
“Some of the happiest marriages are between strangers. Love which grows is always the best. He is an honourable young man and esteems you highly.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Will you take a turn with me in the garden?”
The afternoon was still sunny, even warm. They came to the meditation maze, neatly clipped lines of knee-high box, and without mistake followed its flagstone pathway to the bench in the middle.
“Do you understand the reason for your betrothal?”
“No, not really.”
“Fifty years ago we lost Normandy to the French. Only Gascony remained, thanks to the Archbishop of Bordeaux. Do you know where Gascony is?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“You mustn’t apologize, Eloise. There’s no reason why you should know. It’s a wine-growing region on the coast, near the Spanish border. The best reds come from there. We sometimes have Gascon red ourselves.”
She nodded.
“In 1230 the King tried and failed to get our territories back. The expedition caused unimaginable suffering. It led to a revolt of the barons which threatened the crown of England itself. There was nearly civil war. Then, ten years ago, the Earl of Leicester was sent to Gascony as its governor. Now, this Leicester is a Frenchman. Since he gained the King’s favour, far too many influential foreigners have come over here. He is cruel and autocratic. His mistreatment of the Gascons caused an uprising which the King himself had to suppress. Feeling against him is still running high. There is every chance that the French will move to take Gascony away from us. The King has pledged himself to defend it, and will go to w
ar. If that happens, thousands of men will die. The Treasury will be emptied. Taxes will increase. There will be hunger in the land, and then an English civil war. Chaos. We will in turn be invaded by the French, and they will probably win.”
Eloise’s eyes had widened.
“It cannot be allowed to happen. The King must be protected. If the Gascons want to be French, let them. Your brother-in-law once sided with Leicester. Thanks to Adela, he has changed his mind.”
“And the Kents?”
“They’re close to the King. They will do whatever he asks.”
“I had no idea.”
“I would not have you unhappy for the world. But Eloise, we are none of us free. Only God is free.” He took her hand. “My dearest child.”
She said, “Why should the Earl of Leicester behave like that?”
Gervase did not answer at once. He was too surprised. She had unerringly put her finger on the crux of the matter. In secret, there was speculation that Leicester was a traitor. “Nobody knows.”
“Is it not strange? Why does the King tolerate it?”
“That, my sweet, no one dares to ask him.”
In recent weeks and months Gervase had conceived a growing respect for his daughter’s discretion. She would be eighteen at Christmas, after all, and could have been married three years ago, but it was hard for him to forget that she was no longer a child. He now saw that she was developing into someone whose counsel might be valuable.
He had tried to discuss the mill with his wife, but Margaret had neither understood the implications nor wished to say anything to contradict. Except for Lord Angmer, he had as yet been unable to talk the project over with anyone but Stephen and Walter.
“Eloise,” he said, gave her an outline of the idea, and told her that it had been put forward by Master Grigg. “The woodsmith.”
The Tide Mill Page 13