“I’m sorry,” Ralf told him, under his breath, agonizing over the example of his father’s fortitude and continence, and seeing, as he knelt by the sill, how badly he had betrayed it.
He pulled up the floorboard and turned it over to hide the stain. Having made sure that each punched-in nail was below the surface of its joist, he duplicitously laid the board in place. Her blood was upside-down. Instead of facing inwards, towards the light, it now belonged to the dust and darkness of the underfloor void, to be dirtied and crawled upon by spiders unseen. With villainous guile, he angled the new nails so that they bit sound wood, both in the board and joists; but the heads he made to fill the punched-out holes.
The turned board was scarcely distinguishable from the others; indistinguishable, once he had passed and repassed with the broom. His perfidy was complete.
Eloise too would have to lie and deceive. The idea of this was doubly painful to him, for she was truth itself.
He saw then that he needed her now far more badly than he had done before. He needed her strength and wisdom and clarity, to guide him out of the maze. There had to be a way out. She was everything good, everything he wanted. Shame lay not in Eloise herself, but in this shabby deception.
Ralf returned the broom and tools to their places, snuffed the lamp and left the mill. Walking away, he remembered the hot and innocent August afternoons when, naked, sweating and filthy, he and his comrades had leapt into the tide.
His skin needed cleansing again, but now, in the November darkness, if he jumped without her, he would only land in guilty slime.
PART THREE
1
After breakfast on Wednesday morning, a packet arrived from Chevalley. Last week, Gervase had sent the lawyer a copy of a letter he had received from the Molarius, and had informed him that he would be at court until the fifteenth of November, twelve days hence. The copy had now been returned.
It has been brought to my notice that Your Lordship is ordering the construction of a sacred mill at Mape. I shall esteem an intimation by Your Lordship’s household of the proposed date of completion of said mill, and seek to recommend that Your Lordship’s household nominate a day before such date when one of my officers may inspect said mill with a view to establishing its capacity and hence agreeing between us the proper sum payable annually to this office in respect of a molar licence.
Assuring Your Lordship of my most profound respects, I perpetually remain, etc.
After glancing at the formal covering letter to himself, written by one of Chevalley’s clerks, Gervase turned to the copy of Chevalley’s reply to the Molarius.
His Worship the Molarius
Dean’s Close
Alincester
Reverend Sir
My client, Lord de Maepe, has sent me your recent letter. I beg to inform you that there is at present no sacred mill in his manor, nor is one planned.
Any further communication on this head should be directed through me.
I have the honour, etc.
Edward Chevalley
At the bottom of his covering letter, Chevalley had autographed, in English:
I have been expecting this. Nothing to worry about. I should be glad of the original, at Your Lordship’s convenience.
E. C.
Gervase put the parchments aside.
“Good news?” said Margaret, at which he did little more than nod, for she did not really want to know.
They were all seated in the parlour. His sisters-in-law were in London to spend money, principally on clothes, but also on the other fripperies they seemed to find so important. In this enterprise they found a willing and regular helper in the shape of his wife.
Relaxing in his customary seat, Gervase crossed his legs, half listening while they continued with their plans. The hapless shopkeepers at London Bridge, it seemed, were to be their victims today.
Not for the first time, he pondered the mentality of a man who had named his three daughters alliteratively: Margaret, Mildred and Matilde. How many momentary confusions must that have caused, when he had begun to address them? How many times had three heads been turned, instead of one? Perhaps that had been the idea, to keep them on the qui vive. Who could gainsay such a parental tactic?
Reconsidering his opinion of his late father-in-law, Gervase wondered which of the three had been his favourite. Surely not the eldest, Matilde. Even when he had been wooing Margaret, he had found her not just unsympathetic, but fearsome. It was incomprehensible that the lamented Lord Gordano had fallen and remained so much in love with her. God alone knew what went on in a human heart. Her dower had proved no more than modest, but the vulgar idea of retrenchment never seemed to trouble Matilde.
Mousy Mildred, the youngest, had not found a husband, or even a suitor, as far as he knew, which was a pity, for she was, despite the many foolish things she said, fundamentally kind.
He suspected that Margaret had been the favourite. She had been indulged, spoilt, and at his interview with the old man, seeking her hand, the young Gervase had been left in no doubt that this was at all costs to continue.
In consequence he might have been a little hard on his own children, though the consensus of his friends was that he was too lax. Recently, in particular, he had begun to have serious doubts about his treatment of Eloise. She was a clever, inquiring girl, romantic and tender-hearted. Had it been a form of cruelty to keep her so much at home? There had been occasional trips to court, here in London, at Oxford, Gloucester, York, and Stafford; and occasional periods when she had been the houseguest of the parents of other noble daughters; but nothing substantial. Away from the manor, she had no real friends. Even at home he doubted whether she had any. She must have been lonely, and it had been his doing. He had been too busy, too interested in his own ambitions, to see.
At forty-eight, her mother was still a desirable woman. As he watched her talking, Gervase perceived his motive for keeping Eloise concealed. She was becoming even prettier than Margaret had been, which he would have thought impossible. Her calmness and self possession might drive a young man wild. Had she been exposed more to the world, she would surely have made a sooner but far less advantageous match. That was why he had held her in reserve.
Might it also have been that he had been reluctant, personally, to lose her?
He would make it up to her; had already begun to do so. The forthcoming wedding was almost set to ruin him. Indeed, without the mill, it would. But she deserved the best: the best ceremony and the best reception. They would be talked about for years. And after that, she would become one of the greatest ladies in the land, mother of the ducal dynasty which, perhaps, held more sway than any other. With a word from her, across the pillow, England could change direction.
On the strength of a single day, Robert Ingram was already besotted with her. He knew nothing about her mind. Little did he realize what a helpmate awaited him.
During the dinner last March at the Hall, Gervase had made a close study of his prospective son-in-law. He had then been twenty-five. Gervase would have welcomed rather more maturity, but nonetheless had generally concluded that things might have been worse. It was, after all, a matter of complete chance. Rank was not always attended by soundness of character. Ingram was unlikely to turn out a drunkard, or a brute, especially once Eloise had taken charge of him, but the risk was there. Gervase remembered his own doubts, on the eve of his wedding day. At the very edge of the precipice, he had suddenly seen that he had known next to nothing about his bride.
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said to Margaret. “What was that you said?”
“It’s started to rain.”
“And?”
“Really, Gervase. How can we go shopping in this?”
* * *
By dusk on Friday, when, to his relief, he found a pebble at the yew, a fatalistic change had come over Ralf.
It was inevitable that he and Eloise would be caught. She was already reconciled to it. Knowingly, she had trapped hers
elf by what they had done. No later than her wedding-night, she would be found out. And so would he, for he was determined not to abandon her. She had put all her trust in him. Like him, she was prepared to die for the sake of their time together.
Her parents and maternal aunts were still away from home. Conditions at the Hall were unchanged. There was no practical reason why she should not have met him again immediately. But on Wednesday, and again on Thursday, the yew roots had remained bare. He had hoped that she was merely giving him time to reflect.
Completing his separation from his father, Ralf had asked for and been granted permission to sleep in the workshop. His mother had reluctantly approved the scheme. With his bed in the parlour, he had always been woken by anyone who came downstairs in the night, and various other inconveniences would be ended if he could sleep elsewhere. So, on Wednesday afternoon, his father had helped him to erect a canvas screen in one corner of the workshop, furthest from the double doors. They had carted over his bed and bedding, a chest for his clothes, and his meagre collection of footwear.
On Wednesday evening, after supper, there had been no visits to or from neighbours. Ralf had spent the time alone, at the kitchen table, with his futureless Latin and mathematics.
At bedtime he had lit a lantern and made his way along the staith-track to the workshop. Other lights had been visible across the pasture, at the Hall.
Thursday evening had been much the same. Both days had been wet. Except for the gentle sound of the rain, the workshop had been silent, as silent as the mill.
Before this week Ralf had never slept in a building alone. His sister and mother, at least, had always been nearby, if not in the same room. But now he was divided from them in person, as well as in every other way. He had discovered how easy telling lies could be.
The wet, nocturnal silence of the workshop extended to the churchyard. There, this Friday evening, twenty yards from his grandmother’s grave, Ralf was lurking beside the dike-path.
After supper, pretending that he wanted to go to the workshop, he had come to check again, by feel, the yew-roots. Under some newly shed lime-leaves, the pebble had still been there. Having removed it, he had continued along the path to the stock-gate and entered the graveyard from the seaward side, taking up a position behind the low fence opposite the yew.
The rain had not stopped. If it went on much longer like this, digging in the pen would have to be suspended.
Ralf saw Hubert’s lantern arrive, swinging from side to side and casting huge shadows on the ranks of tapering yews lining each side of the path from the lich-gate to the porch. Even at night, Hubert gave an impression of inadequacy. As he walked, his feet pointed inward: not much, but just enough to affect his gait. His open, eager face, with its straggling ginger beard, became unfamiliar, sinister, when lit from below. Ralf heard the heavy latch of the west door. Once inside, the moving lantern-light registered in the small, high windows, and halted, stabilized, at the foot of the tower.
Nothing happened.
“Come on, Hubert,” Ralf breathed. “Ring the bell.”
Why was he waiting? What ethereal impulse would he receive when the time was right? Beyond the church and its burials lay a mile of marsh, a blackness of reeds and mud and grazing, terminated by a rain-drenched beach. Beyond that, fringed by shambling, invisible surf, and devoid now even of fishermen’s lights, stretched the sea. Somewhere above, through the rain, an obscure timepiece held Hubert thrall. He was its priest, its acolyte.
The sequent sounded then: two groups of three. Hubert retreated; the lich-gate squeaked.
Soon afterwards, someone without a lantern opened the footpath gate.
“Are you there?” Ralf said.
She sounded startled. “Ralf?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the fence.” He extended his hand in the darkness, moving it blindly from side to side. “Here.”
They made contact.
“Don’t go out to the mill tonight,” he said. “There’s no need.”
* * *
Six days ago, on the fourteenth of November, Godric had turned nineteen. His ordination was only two years away. He should by now have been equipped to face, if not deal with, human tragedy, but, sitting here this afternoon in the dayroom alone with his sister, he felt utterly lost.
Her complexion, her eyes, had faded. She seemed overcome, saturated, drowned, by despair. But she had told him nothing, and was keeping her conversation determinedly light.
The way she held herself had changed. Whether it was this, or the shadows under her eyes, Godric could think of only one cause.
He had arrived from the Abbey yesterday afternoon, Friday. This morning he had ridden out to the site. The wet weather had stopped most of the digging and sent the labourers home. Bridged with duckboards, a hole had been made in the dike for the culvert and sea-gate wall, but even this had been abandoned till things improved.
Ralf and his father had been working inside. Cupboards, shelves, and two beds had been fitted in the dormitory. The grain-bin and chute had been constructed. On the floor below, the hurst for the millstones had been started and the sack-flap installed. On the ground floor the partition walls had been put up, and generally, throughout the building, the state of finish had been much improved.
To his very great alarm, and far greater guilt and distress, Godric had at once detected changes in Ralf exactly corresponding to those in Eloise. He too, of course, had said nothing to hint at what had surely happened between them.
The grand wedding, scheduled for October next year, might not take place, and it was Godric’s fault. Had he not had that excoriating confrontation at the Abbey last June with his erstwhile friend Bartholomew, he would never have tried to put Ralf and Eloise together. He had done it from jealousy, and to hurt them both. Well, now he had succeeded. The two beings he loved best might, on his account, be put to death. The scandal would kill his father and mother, too, but in a different and even crueller way.
For all that, Godric was aware of another sensation as he looked at Eloise. The idea that two such beautiful young people had consummated their love could only be seen, impartially, as beautiful in itself. In every way they complemented one another. It was Ralf to whom she should be affianced, not that other man: the Ralf to whom Godric owed his life; the Ralf who, through Godric’s sins, now risked arrest, mutilating torture, and execution.
In Christian doctrine, Godric had been taught, marriage was sacred. At its most obvious, it allowed for procreation and the upbringing of children. Beyond that, it provided an arena in which the deepest friendship between two people could be explored. And beyond that, the most important and sacramental aspect of marriage was to be found. The sexual union, the merging of two souls, led to the dissolution of self which, like all the mystical practices of the Church, gave the chance of finding a pathway to God.
Godric honoured his father, as the decalogue adjured. He knew him to be a devout and most charitable man. Yet he was adding to the debasement of matrimony which defied God’s ordinance. Marriage among nobles had for centuries been a mere tool of statecraft. Like so much else, it had been corrupted and defiled.
Godric’s disillusionment with the Church was now almost complete. To begin with, he had simply been bewildered by the disparity between word and deed. Later, as his reading had grown wider and deeper, he had identified his first intelligible doubts. Even the source of the gospel, the four accounts of the Evangelists, contained inconsistencies. These might in some places be construed as semantic, or innocent omissions or changes of emphasis; in others they smacked of deliberation. And, after the Evangelists, had come wave after wave of interpreters and commentators, self appointed and occasionally quite mad, whose exegetical ravings had done nothing but obfuscate Christ’s words, which were as plain as any words could be. From this confusion had been born, for political reasons, the Roman Church. The Emperor Constantine had established it to hold his empire together. S
ince then the Church had grown from bad to worse. Its present emperor, the Pope, was as worldly as Constantine himself; as Julius or Augustus Caesar; as Nero or even Caligula.
The summer in which Godric had met Ralf had been the happiest of his life. He had not forgotten what Ralf had told him of his beliefs. At the time he had been shocked to learn that anyone, in this enlightened age, should be possessed of such primitive and animistic ideas. But, throughout his career at Leckbourne, Godric had slowly come to see that Ralf was right. Ralf’s god was more authentic than the version handed down from Rome. He was indeed, as Ralf had said, everywhere, in everything; and if you had doubts, that was his doing too.
The rain had hardly ceased today. It was falling yet, lightly, blown against the window on a westerly wind: the same wind and rain to which the Diocese laid claim. They belonged not to Bishop William, but God, just as did Ralf, and with him Eloise.
“My sister,” Godric said, when their conversation momentarily lapsed. “Are you unhappy?”
“What an odd form of address!”
He made no answer.
“What makes you think I’m unhappy?”
Godric was pained to see suspicion in her eyes. He could not blame her for it; only himself.
She said, “There is something bothering me, as a matter of fact.”
“What?”
“I wonder if the Church … sometimes I have the idea that …”
“Tell me.”
“Is it possible that we live more than once?”
“You want to know if the idea is orthodox?”
“Yes.”
Godric did not want to ask why this esoteric subject should have raised her interest.
Father Dominic, one of his favourite teachers, who had once lived at Constantinople, had made a special study of the heathen beliefs from the east and south. In after-hours discussions he could sometimes be persuaded to speak of it. The ancient Greeks had believed in the transmigration of souls. Like the Hindoos, they had taken it as a matter of course.
The Tide Mill Page 27