There was a sarcastic edge to Ralf’s voice as he said, “‘Quoniam ipsi consolabuntur’.”
“Just so. They shall be comforted.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
To say such a thing to a man of the cloth was not only foolish, but dangerous. It was tantamount to heresy. But Ralf no longer cared. He was sick of it all, the incense, the Mass, the oleaginous prayers. He was sick of the silence, of God not being there; or his vindictiveness. That was more like it. Vindictive. He was indeed an unkind god. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.
Father Pickard did not blench. He did not even look surprised. “Do I believe it?” he said. “It’s possible. One clings on, you know, by one’s fingertips.” He looked round, at Ralf’s mother, who, unable to remain standing, had sunk into one of the Baron’s seats. “This will pass, Ralf.” He started towards her. “Everything does.”
6
Gervase had decided to wait no longer. He did not wish to intrude on a family’s grief; but, as Walter had pointed out last night, he had to have an early answer from Master Grigg or set other plans in motion.
Within minutes of hearing that the mill had been lost, he had resolved to rebuild it. He was a de Maepe. The de Maepes were not daunted by adversity. Nor, he had realized, examining the matter in all its aspects, were they daunted by bullies. On the contrary. That letter from the Molarius, like Bishop William’s warning stare, had produced an effect diametrically opposed to the one intended.
Gervase had heard that Lord de Braux had died. Two successive amputations of the leg, occasioned by a putrid distemper spreading from his broken ankle, had not been enough to save him. His middle-aged son was already an accomplished courtier and far exceeded his late father in his partiality for the Earl of Leicester. Once he had the patent, his influence with the King might prove fatal for the pacifist faction.
This was not the only reason why the wedding had to proceed. Gervase was determined that a freak of weather would not rob Eloise of elevation and her destiny. He had told her so on the day after Christmas, not long after the tragic conclusion of the search for her friend.
The death had hit her very hard. He had not realized the two had been so close. Eloise had taken to her room, emerging for little but meals. Godric had spent much time with her, but otherwise she had barely spoken to anyone.
Godric had also spent time with young Ralf, who had, in the three days since the burial, been laid up with an ague. At lunch Godric had reported that he was somewhat better. With that, Gervase had sent Hubert to the Griggs’ to seek permission for a visit.
It was nearing dusk when Gervase arrived. He unpeeled a glove and rapped at the door. He was received by Master Grigg in the kitchen, where the fire had lately been banked up. Even so, the place was horribly cold, and Gervase sat down without removing his wolfskin coat and hat.
“Ralf’s in the parlour, sir. That’s where he sleeps.”
“How is he now?”
“He was pretty bad last night. Then the fever broke. He’ll pull through. He’s strong.”
“I’m glad. My son told me as much.”
“Mr Godric has been very kind. And please thank Her Ladyship for the tinctures.” Grigg had aged. His face was grey.
“And Mrs Grigg? Where is she?”
“Gone to the Creeches.”
“Jacob Farlow?”
“Digging shingle.”
“He was excused.”
“He said he wanted to. Bereavement takes people different ways.”
“Yes. I am very sorry indeed … I …” But there was nothing whatever to be added to what Gervase had said to him and his wife after the funeral. The girl was gone, snatched away by capricious fate. That lovely young innocent was not the first to have been claimed by the malignant waters of Mape; nor would she be the last. But to her parents she was the only one who would ever matter. Her father had not just aged. He was broken.
Again Gervase tried to imagine how he would feel if Eloise had drowned instead. The attempt did nothing but intensify his feelings of sympathy. He wanted to reach out to Grigg and make physical contact, to demonstrate that, as a father, he was not alone. He couldn’t. Rank came into it, he supposed, and custom, and a fear of reminding him that Eloise unaccountably lived while his daughter did not; but most of all he was afraid that the impulse would be misinterpreted as pity.
“I take it the mill isn’t insured.”
“No. It isn’t. But I’ll do my best.”
“To do what?”
“Repay what I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“I don’t call a hundred marks nothing. More than that. I’ve made up the account. There’s eight pounds odd in cash, some materials on site and what’s in the workshop. It’s all yours. The rest will take time.”
“Is that why you think I’m here?” Gervase reached into his pocket and brought out the contract, which he unrolled and held up to view. Grigg afforded it a reluctant glance. Gervase had intended to consult it, if necessary, during their talk. Instead, on a whim, he gave himself the pleasure of making his co-signatory’s eyes follow the document to the fireplace. He put it on the flames.
“That doesn’t change a thing.”
“We’re going to have a tide mill. We want you to build it. If you won’t, we’ll get somebody else.”
“Do that, then.”
“It was not through any neglect of yours that the dike breached. Indeed, I cannot forget your heroism, and Ralf’s. But let us say that I might be so ungrateful, so petty, so vile as to sue you. What would it profit me, even if I won the case? Sixpence a week?”
“You won’t have to sue me, sir. We have an agreement.”
“No longer.”
“You’ve already been too charitable to me, Lord de Maepe.”
“This isn’t charity. It’s business. Mr Caffyn has estimated the financial loss on the mill at no more than thirty marks. Mr Kenway says the bund is almost intact. The screen is largely sound. Since no machinery was installed, none of that has been damaged. The most valuable components are unmade, undelivered, or still being built in your workshop. Essentially, all that has gone is the house. While I’d rather not have lost thirty marks, it was my own fault. I should have thought about the dike earlier.”
“We all should.”
“Quite. Anyhow, we’re going to rebuild the mill. It’s your project. You’re the expert. We should like you to accept the position of supervisor. Salaried. Two marks a month. We need Ralf as well. One mark a month for him.”
“He’s not in the Guild.”
“There is no guild of engineers. If he keeps at his mathematics, he has the makings of one. That is not just my opinion.”
Grigg looked up at him, across the table, his eyes infinitely weary. “I’m obliged to you, my lord, but I don’t want the job. Nor will Ralf. We’d like to go back to Alincester. Or to London. Ralf thought of trying there.”
“I respect your wishes. If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.” All Grigg had left was his pride: that, and his excellent son. “Will you honour me with a favour, sir?”
“What sort of favour?”
“Talk this matter over with him before reaching a final decision. When you judge him well enough. As soon as you can. Preferably by Saturday.”
“After all your loving-kindness it is churlish to refuse you, my lord, but I can tell you now what his answer will be.”
Gervase arose. He forgot to stoop and felt the top of his hat scraping the ceiling. He was struck, for the first time in his life, by the contrast between such a dwelling and his own. He decided to risk sending over a cord of beech-logs. During this dismal weather, during this external reflection of their inward bleakness, the Griggs could at least be warm at their hearth.
The two men reached the door. “I have another favour to ask of you, Master Grigg. I want no more talk about contracts or money owed.”
Unmistakably, Gervase saw a
glimmer of relief in his eyes.
“Good. Thank you.”
“My lord —”
Grigg’s voice was congested with emotion. Gervase had silenced him by holding up a hand, fearful that either of them might step outside the expected norms. “My compliments to Mistress Grigg. And please tell Ralf he has our prayers for a speedy recovery.”
* * *
Once at the Hall, Gervase went directly to the Steward’s office. The two brass lamps were burning in their places at the head of Walter’s writing slope, making a fibrous luminosity, a golden nimbus of his outline as he bent over his work. He was huddled in his warmest cloak, his feet in a strawbox. A felt cap of a vaguely Phrygian cut covered his large and thought-filled cranium. His fingers were made clumsy by scriveners’ mittens thoroughly stained with ink. So absorbed was he that did not hear his employer come in.
Gervase cleared his throat. Walter looked round and started struggling to his feet.
“Don’t get up.”
He did anyway. “It is worse than we thought, my lord.”
“Do you have a figure yet?”
“Provisional.”
“Well? What is it?”
“Two hundred and thirty.”
“Marks?”
“Pounds.”
They sat down: Gervase because he suddenly felt the need, Walter because it was expected, and because he was very tired. He had been working on these calculations for two days.
“Two hundred and thirty,” Gervase repeated, disbelievingly.
“What of Master Grigg? What did he say?”
“He doesn’t want to do it.”
“One can hardly blame him.”
Everything had gone wrong at once. The reed-harvest, for example. Not only had they forfeited the receipts, but they were legally and morally liable to compensate the merchant, since he himself would now be in default on some of his contracts.
The shingle was a huge expense. The cost of barging the timber here for the boardwalks, in this weather, had doubled; never mind the cost of the wood itself, or the rope, or the skilled work needed to fix it all together. Repairing the beach was a matter of the utmost urgency. The freelance labourers for miles around knew it. Their rates had gone up accordingly. They charged by the day, but at this season there were, at best, only eight hours between dawn and dusk.
Once the shingle had been remade – and it would take at least another four days – they would turn their attention to the church dike. The damage was so severe that the whole length was suspect and needed professional inspection. An earthworks specialist would have to be called in. But the storm had struck other places besides Mape: parts of Portsmouth, even, had flooded. Walter had approached John Ryle, at Southampton, who had worked on the bund, only to be informed that he was engaged for the next fortnight. The same with two others. This morning, Stephen had sent six letters to London, two to Bristol, and one to Maldon, in an attempt to find somebody else. And of course, whoever became available would be able to name his own price.
The eastern dike was another unknown quantity. It had had no real money spent on it since the great storm of 1232.
Nearly the whole force of serfs had been set to mending the beach and dikes. There would be no income from fishing or farming while it lasted. Then there was the cost of repairing buildings. Only the worst had so far been attended to. Fallen trees had also to be cleared, which would take yet more labour away from productive endeavour.
As bad as any of this was the degradation of the reedbeds and grazing. Every day that they remained under salt water, more roots were being killed. It might take years before the turf recovered; before it would again support the optimum number of beasts. In the mean time, surplus animals would have to be sold or butchered, in a buyers’ market.
When the water drained away, the two-hundred-acre field would prove another expense. Topsoil had been carried out to sea. That left behind was denatured and contaminated with salt, its fertility depressed. As bad luck would have it, the manor’s strips had suffered most, being preponderantly on the lower ground. Some of the serfs’ had escaped altogether. The boundaries of the others’ would have to be marked afresh. There would be months of bickering about that.
And, at the end of it all, when everything had been put back the way it had been before the storm, the manor would still have to contend with the decline in commodity prices. Wheat, barley, oats: these were the worst, but even things like beef and salt pork were no longer holding firm.
At the lowest point of his despondency, Gervase had wondered whether the Lord had showed his hand. A tide mill might, at present, among men, be classified as profane, but its motive force was the sea, and what could be more sacred, what could be more mysterious, what could be a more obvious manifestation of the divine than that? Had God singled out Grigg, the architect of this profanity, for biblical punishment? For God was the deity who rained fire and brimstone on the cities of the plain and all the reprobates in them, who made a chimney of their sky: had he not let Mape off lightly, with a nudge, a hint of what might be to come?
Was it possible that God had frowned on the mill; and was the Church, in opposing it, really doing his work on earth?
These had been pre-dawn thoughts. At that time of the night things always seemed blackest. Gervase had considered the rumours circulating about Cardinal Pellegrini and the demands being piled on the King. He had considered the outrages being perpetrated by the Pope in the war he was prosecuting in Sicily. And, illustrated by many examples from the rich, long, and ultimately depressing pageant of his diplomatic career, he had considered the political manoeuvring and breathtaking deceit by which churchmen throughout Europe made their temporal gains. Above a certain rank they were criminals, most of them. Worse than criminals, for they were also hypocrites. The very idea of a bishop’s palace was obscene.
Yet Christ endured, sorrowing but inviolate. His teaching could be condensed into one precept: “love one another”.
A mill helped feed the hungry. It made life better. In trying to build one, Grigg, and Gervase himself, had been following Christ’s word. No punishment had been deserved or inflicted. The weather, the sea, were random and insensate. The only sin would be to lose heart and give up. God made men by testing them.
This was a conclusion Gervase had reached before hearing how much the storm had cost him.
“Let me think for a minute,” he told Walter.
Without the mill, Eloise would have no duke and the manor would have no future. But, at a compound rate of fifty per cent, the expense of rebuilding might push her father’s fortunes over the edge. Fitz Peter would not reduce his rate until he was sure there would be no lawsuit, and that could not happen until the mill was finished. No other lender would offer better terms. If anything, they would be worse.
The materials and machinery, the expertise: these could not be scamped. The labour costs, however, might perhaps be different. Instead of journeymen, they could use serfs for the unskilled and semi-skilled work. For a season, every single fief-day could be diverted to the new mill. The manor’s own fields and nets would be neglected, but what of it?
He looked at Walter, and was about to speak when another idea came to his mind. It followed from his thoughts of Christ; had its origins in his teachings, in his wisdom, in his clear vision of mankind. “Walter. Why did the serfs not come out to help us on Christmas Day?”
“Some did.”
“Those we paid. But the others. Why didn’t they come? And don’t say they were loath to break the festival.”
“Well, my lord. As they would see it, there was no reason why they should.”
“Exactly. They had no incentive.”
Walter began to look uncomfortable.
Gervase went on. “Suppose yourself a serf. What drives you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never given it any mind. Fear. Fear of being made homeless.”
“What else?”
“They’re human beings. The usual impulses m
ust apply.”
“Providing for their family?”
Walter was looking more uncomfortable still. “I should imagine so.”
“They work hard on their own strips, but we must watch them continually when it comes to the demesne. The mill was part of the demesne, and therefore of no consequence to the serfs. They even viewed the threat to the arable with relative equanimity, since they knew they had less to lose than we did. Think about the seventeen who turned out. They’ve all got low-lying land.”
Walter’s discomfort was developing into deep unease. “What are you proposing, my lord?”
“In broad terms, that we make each family an offer. In return for their labour on the mill, they will be allowed to grind their corn for nothing.”
“For nothing?”
“And for as long as they reside in Mape.”
His unease had become open alarm. “It’s most irregular. If asked, I would not advise it.”
“Why not? Isn’t it what we do already, with the land? With the boats and gear? With the granary and barns? The bakery too. There’s no difference at all. The serfs work some of the week for us and the rest for themselves. They need us, but we also need them. The whole manor is a cooperative venture.”
“I must caution you, my lord. Such an arrangement would be very badly received.”
“Not by the serfs.”
“By the other barons. By the Church. By anyone with a feudality. Even the King.”
Gervase grunted. “I disagree.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How much money would it save on the labour costs?”
“A great deal.”
“Would it make the mill more feasible?”
“It would make it a certainty.”
“Then I want you to work out the details. How much they must do to qualify. How much corn they can legitimately send to the mill in any one season. Whether the right passes down only through the eldest son. And so forth. Will you do that, Walter?”
“Of course.”
Gervase knew that it was better to give than receive. He enjoyed the feelings engendered by giving things away, or even just by getting rid of them. Were he not such a half-hearted Christian, he might have been brave enough to do more in that respect; but he did like his comfort, and he did like having his own way, and these were not easily attained in a state of honourable poverty. The scheme he had just dreamt up was doubly meritorious. It produced a glow of selfless satisfaction – and it also promised all the benefits the mill would bestow.
The Tide Mill Page 33