“I know whom you mean.”
“He worked on the Cathedral. Do you remember the rood screen?”
“Did he carve it?”
“Some of it.”
“Really?”
“And this is the man who would work for us.” Gervase reached into his pouch. “I’ve got the drawings here.” He and she each moved aside to create a place where the parchments could be unrolled. “His son did these.”
“Godric’s friend. Ralf.”
“That’s the fellow. Mr Caffyn’s most impressed. Says they’re of engineering quality.”
“Godric speaks well of him, I know.”
“These gates are where the sea comes into the pond.”
“When the tide floods?”
“That’s it. At high tide they shut automatically, under pressure. This is the sluice, or penstock, as Master Grigg calls it. I suppose that’s the proper term.”
Having been shown the most important features of the design, she said, “It seems very clever, but why not just use the river?”
“Ah, but the cleverest part is this,” he said, and explained the hold exercised by the Church on conventional milling. He also explained his present quandary, and the uncertain future of the manor.
“Are you asking me what you should do, Papa?”
“Well, yes. Yes I am.”
“How much will Mr Chevalley charge for his opinion?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Ten marks. Perhaps twelve.”
“If he says the law is on our side, will you build the mill?”
He smiled. “That’s it. That’s the decision. The question is, can I afford not to? Your dowry may depend on it. I may as well tell you. The Kents want two hundred and fifty marks. And the King wants a hundred for the royal sanction. I simply don’t have the money, and I don’t know how long I can keep them talking. The only way to raise it is to borrow. If I had the expectation of the mill, I could have whatever I needed.”
“So if you don’t build the mill —”
“Your betrothal might not happen. No, I can tell you now, it won’t happen.”
“Then what?”
“You can marry whom you please.”
She hesitated. “I meant about Gascony.”
“Who can say?”
“You think there’ll be war.”
“There might be war whether you marry Robert Ingram or not.”
“But if I do marry him?”
“It will help. I hadn’t realized until this afternoon how much.”
Her faint flush reminded him just what a delectable girl he and Margaret had produced. The Kents should be paying him.
When she next spoke her voice sounded husky. She was struggling with and had all but overcome some strong emotion, no doubt to do with Ingram. “If you don’t instruct Mr Chevalley,” she said, “you’ll always wonder what might have happened. Whether the mill would have worked.”
“You’re right,” Gervase said, and rolled up the drawings. He was pleased. Her conclusion coincided with his; and perhaps she liked the witty and personable Sir Robert, if not the idea of being duchess to her sister’s countess, rather more than she was prepared to let on. If she liked him half as much as he liked her, the marriage would be one of boundless joy. “I’ll take your advice, Eloise. What’s ten marks in the scheme of things? Let’s go in, and I’ll dictate a letter straight away.”
PART TWO
1
Chevalley’s opinion arrived towards the end of May. The document itself needed Stephen’s eye for Latin, but the covering letter was plain enough.
In the second and third weeks of June Gervase was required to attend the King at Westminster Palace. The morning after his arrival was fine: he walked rather than rode the mile from his London house, along the north bank of the Thames to Chevalley’s chambers in Turnley Row.
Gervase had decided to settle the bill, twelve marks, in person, and at the same time seek clarification and reassurance. Notes had been sent earlier in the month and a meeting arranged.
Turnley Row fronted the riverside way, below and beyond which the broad, brown waters of the King’s Reach made their stately passage eastwards. The Thames this morning, lit by hazy sun, had the appearance of bronze. On the far side, a quarter of a mile away, lay the marshes of the south bank, and beyond these rose the fields, farmsteads and fort of Southwark.
Chevalley’s doorway was the fifth along, marked with a wooden signboard showing a prancing white unicorn. Gervase mounted the two stone steps and stood under the jetty. The iron knocker brought an elderly porter; Gervase was shown into an over-furnished ante-room whose single window overlooked a courtyard at the rear. He barely had time to sit down before Chevalley himself appeared.
He was younger than Gervase had expected, about thirty-five, clean-shaven, dark and lean; his civilities were correct, but his manner friendly. His private office was large and lavishly appointed. The tapestry behind his desk depicted a black griffin and a white unicorn, rampant on a field of colourful flowers and briars among which wound grey serpents and salamanders: in allegory, perhaps, of his calling.
“Is there something in my opinion which you find unclear?”
“No, Mr Chevalley. By no means. It’s admirable. But I was coming to town anyway.”
“And you want to discuss the matter?”
“Yes, and to pay your fee.”
“Would that all my clients were like Your Lordship.” He rang a silver handbell: a clerk appeared. “Prepare a receipt for Lord de Maepe.” As Gervase opened his pouch, Chevalley held up a hand. “Later, my lord. Please.” The clerk departed. “Is there something specific you wish to talk about?”
“If the Bishop – rather, I should say, when the Bishop gets wind of it, what is likely to happen?”
“You have a priest in your manor, of course.”
“Joseph Pickard.”
“Does he know about your plans?”
“Possibly.”
“Then we must assume he has already written to Alincester. How long will the mill take to build?”
“About a year. That’s the latest estimate.”
“Good enough. It will take them at least twice that to change the law. They’ll need the Vatican.”
“What for?”
“The definitions apply everywhere. It is no simple matter to rewrite universal law without introducing new loopholes such as the one you have found.” The lawyer smiled, revealing discoloured teeth which were at once, self consciously, concealed. “I must confess I find it entertaining. Is it your idea?”
“I have a carpenter in my manor. He thought of it.”
Chevalley’s pleasant expression showed he was waiting for the next question.
“You’re quite certain the Church will have no case under existing law?”
“One can never be certain of anything where the law is concerned. If you recall, I make this reservation in my letter.”
“Yes, but the precedents, everything you have investigated?”
“I found nothing that would let the Diocese bring an effective suit. Their thoroughness has been their undoing.”
“If you were acting for Bishop William, how would you try to stop me?”
“I don’t know that I could.”
“But if he insisted that you tried?”
“Well, I suppose I’d lodge a de primo plaint with the Archbishop of Canterbury, on the grounds that your mill was sacred and that you were refusing to pay for a licence.”
“What is a de primo plaint?”
“One based on first principles. The Church lays claim to the power of wind and rain because it is divine. I would argue that seawater begins as rain. The force of seawater is therefore divine also. If he were any good, my opponent would quote the opening of Genesis and say that the seas came before the rain. ‘The Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters’. I would have no rebutter. Nevertheless, the archbishops in their wisdom would find other theological grounds to let them rule in my favou
r. Noah’s Flood, perhaps, or something similarly abstruse. They do not care to be deprived of revenue.”
“So I would lose?”
“In that court, most likely. You would then appeal to the King. On de postero grounds – that is, on the basis of existing law – you would win. I assure you that the Diocese are well aware of this. No case of any kind will be brought. Instead they will petition Rome to make all haste to change the law. Your mill, and any other like it, built before the law changes, will remain exempt.”
“You’re certain?”
“As I say, my lord, one can never be certain. Cases are heard by men, and men are fallible. With the sole exception of His Grace, every judge and nearly every lawyer in the royal courts is a cleric. Nominally, at least. But a millstream is a millstream. A tide mill doesn’t have one. It follows that a tide mill is outside the existing definitions. On what legal basis can they seek to license or tithe it?” Chevalley sat back. “Even if the Bishop won his hypothetical case, what is the worst that would happen? You would have a mill in your manor, just as some other barons have mills in theirs. It would not be illegal; you would not have to pull it down, so you are not even risking the cost of construction, except insofar as yours may be more expensive to build than a conventional mill. If you lost the case you would have to pay the costs, and your mill would not be as profitable in the long term as you presently hope. That is all. But there will be no case, because there is no intelligent case to bring, and the Bishop of Alincester is nothing if not intelligent.”
“Have you met him?”
“Once, when I was on the staff of the Bishop of St Albans.” Observing Gervase’s reaction, he said, “Yes, I was a cleric. I trained at Leckbourne.”
“My son is there.”
“I hope he likes it better than I did.”
Gervase made no reply.
“I was ordained at twenty-one. At twenty-five I met the lady who is now my wife.”
“I see.”
“With the greatest respect, my lord, I don’t think you do. I was excommunicated.”
“My God!”
“It’s all right: you may talk to me today without fear. I’m back in the fold.”
Gervase wanted to ask more, but his politeness would not let him. He saw now where Chevalley had gained his expertise. The legal training at Leckbourne was said to be second to none. Godric, however, was not studying law, but theology.
“I have nothing against William of Briouze,” Chevalley said, later, when he was showing his client out. “Indeed, in my view he is a very great man, and much maligned.”
2
On the nineteenth of June, two days after his eighteenth birthday, Ralf and his father left Rushton for the last time. The previous Saturday they had been told by the Steward that the Baron wished to proceed. Having been kept informed, Master Brocq had waived his right to notice, and had even given father and son a bonus on their departure.
The Steward advanced Linsell twelve marks. Using a notary in Rushton to settle his debts, he applied on the same day to the Worshipful Company of Woodsmiths for the return of his licence.
Ralf had spent every spare moment since the beginning of April on the tender document, but after supper on Saturday he went to the Hall to see Godric, who would be at home until Tuesday.
Godric suggested a stroll. Since Ralf had already that day walked seven miles from Rushton, they ventured only as far as the church dike. Sitting on the grassy slope in the warm evening sunshine, Ralf answered all Godric’s questions about the mill. Godric wanted to visit the site, and they arranged to meet again the following afternoon.
Mass had become for Ralf a weekly ordeal, bad enough if Eloise were not present, but worse if she were. Two months ago and more he had decided that he must heed Imogen’s advice and declare himself, whatever grotesque, humiliating and terminal consequences that might bring down on his head. To remain silent was impossible. But there was never a chance to speak to Eloise, still less to be alone with her, and even if there were a chance, what could he say? How could he begin? “Mademoiselle, I know we have exchanged no more than a hundred words in the last five years, but —” But what? In desperation he thought of writing, but she could not read. To whom would fall the job of reading his letter aloud? Godric? The Clerk? The Baron himself?
Together with her Aunts Mildred and Matilde, she disappeared from the churchyard soon after the service, leaving Godric and his paternal Aunt Béatrice as the sole representatives of the family, for the Baron and his lady were still away. When the none-bell sounded and Ralf again went to the west door of the Hall, he was expecting to find Godric ready to leave on their walk along the eastern dike. Instead he was shown inside by the Doorward’s boy and left standing in the middle of the great hall.
The lower half of the sphere-trussed wall at the far end was screened by tapestry hangings, behind which was the passage joining the parlour and dayroom. In front of these hangings, almost as wide as the room and covered in a linen cloth, ran the high table where the Baron and his family and most important guests ate their meals. Under the sunny window to the left of the table stood an oak form, carved with bulls and swans and bearing a pot of roses and fennel leaves, and near this, against the wall, was a shoulder-high oak cupboard on which pewter dishes were displayed. To the right of the table, the hangings were hooked back to give access to the staircase.
Gazing around him at the costly furnishings, at the high, smoke-blackened roof trusses and crown posts, Ralf’s apprehension, if possible, grew. He both wanted and did not want to see Eloise. Where was she? In the parlour? The dayroom? Upstairs? Where were the aunts? He could hear no voices, no activity other than the Doorward’s boy climbing the stairs towards the upper chambers, where he supposed Godric must be.
To escape the line of sight, Ralf started to move towards the window: but then Godric’s descending feet sounded on the staircase and a moment later he appeared.
“It’s a long walk in this weather,” he said, as he led the way, not to the north door but through the service passage, past the buttery, and out into the heat and smell of the stable yard. “I thought we might ride.”
“What?” Ralf said, in alarm. “I don’t know how.”
“Then it’s about time you learned.”
Ralf’s protestations were brushed aside and he was introduced to Hennet, a small grey mare, who was standing in one of the twelve stalls, her head looking over the lower half of the door.
“You can stroke her muzzle if you want,” Godric said. “She likes that.” He stepped into the stables and returned with a few small carrots. “Go on, Ralf. She won’t bite you.”
Ralf was surprised by the gentleness with which Hennet took the carrot; and found himself becoming charmed.
“She wants another. That’s it. What do you think? Do you want to try? She’s very docile. Safer than walking, not to mention easier.”
The Groom was elsewhere, even though he worked on Sundays if wanted. Godric fitted a headstall and led Hennet out on the cobbles. “Hold on to her for a minute.” While Ralf took note of Hennet’s calm brown eye, her pale mane and fringe and eyelashes, while he marvelled that such a noble and powerful animal as a horse should allow him to restrain her with nothing more than a slight grip on a leather halter, Godric went back to the tackroom. He emerged with a deep saddle studded along its edges with brass, set it on her back, and proceeded to fasten the straps.
Once Hennet was ready he brought out his own horse, a black stallion which even Ralf could see was a thoroughbred. While Godric was adjusting the saddle, Hennet moved her head a little, showing the white of her eye as she looked behind; and Ralf turned to see Eloise entering the yard. Since church she had changed into a blue, lightweight dress, embroidered along the neckline with small lozenges and gathered at the waist with a narrow, small-buckled belt.
She seemed put out, on the point of retreating; but she had been seen and could not very well leave without speaking. “Oh, it’s you, Godric. Good aftern
oon, Ralf.”
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.”
“I wondered who was out here.” With a swift, summarizing glance she took in Hennet’s readiness and docility and the even greater docility of Hennet’s keeper.
“I’m teaching Ralf to ride,” Godric said, continuing with his work. Having checked the girth-straps, he stood up and contemplated his sister. “We’re going to the site for the mill. Would you like to come?”
“I won’t, thank you all the same.”
“Why ever not? You’re interested in the mill. We talked about it long enough last night. Let Ralf show you where it’ll be.”
“Godric, I don’t think —”
“I wish you two could be friends.”
The remark caught her, and Ralf, by surprise. For an instant they looked at each other, and Ralf detected in her dark eyes a fleeting, repressed incandescence: of resentment, or anger, perhaps with Godric. “Surely we are not enemies,” she said, calmly enough, and forced a smile which, however, was not directed at Ralf.
“Well, then, why not come? What’s keeping you here?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
Knowing that she would refuse, Ralf took no notice of this retort: it failed to register. The idea that she might accompany him and Godric on their ride to the eastern dike, that he might spend an afternoon in her company, that he might have an opportunity to be with her, to talk to her, to look at her, was so preposterous that he thought this softening of her expression, this faint smile, presaged her final refusal and her departure from the yard: and then, as he watched, she turned, and the smile broadened and was, for a moment, bestowed upon him.
As if at a great distance, Ralf heard her say something about her aunts, and about changing her footwear; Godric answered with a question about her palfrey, which apparently was not here, but grazing. She returned to the house. Godric hitched Hennet and his own mount to a rail, and he and Ralf went to the paddock in quest of hers, a blazed chestnut mare with white on the forelegs and on one hindleg.
Ralf did his best to act normally. He was not even sure what had been said, or whether she really had agreed to come; but obviously she had, else why was Godric fixing a halter round the neck of her horse?
The Tide Mill Page 14