World Without End

by Ken Follett

  Sim said: "Then what of apprentices, who get no pay, and may be beaten by their master? Or novice monks and nuns? Or those who skivvy for bed and board in the palaces of the nobility?"

  Madge said: "Their life may be hard, but they can't be bought and sold--can they, Brother Godwyn?"

  "I don't say that the trade is lawful," Godwyn responded. "I studied medicine at Oxford, not law. But I can find no reason, in Holy Scripture or the teachings of the Church, to say that what these men are doing is a sin." He looked at Caris and shrugged. "I'm sorry, cousin."

  Madge Webber folded her arms across her chest. "Well, chapman, how are you going to take the girl out of town?"

  "At the end of a rope," he said. "Same way I brought the cow in."

  "Ah, but you didn't have to get the cow past me and these people."

  Gwenda's heart leaped with hope. She was not sure how many of the bystanders supported her, but if it came to a fight they were more likely to side with Madge, who was a townswoman, than with Sim, an outsider.

  "I've dealt with obstinate women before," Sim said, and his mouth twisted as he spoke. "They've never given me much trouble."

  Madge put her hand on the rope. "Perhaps you've been lucky."

  He snatched the rope away. "Keep your hands off my property and you won't get hurt."

  Deliberately, Madge put a hand on Gwenda's shoulder.

  Sim shoved Madge roughly, and she staggered back; but there was a murmur of protest from the crowd.

  A bystander said: "You wouldn't do that if you'd seen her husband."

  There was a ripple of laughter. Gwenda recalled Madge's husband Mark, a gentle giant. If only he would show up!

  But it was John Constable who arrived, his well-developed nose for trouble bringing him to any crowd almost as soon as it gathered. "We'll have no shoving," he said. "Are you causing trouble, chapman?"

  Gwenda became hopeful again. Chapmen had a bad reputation, and the constable was assuming Sim was the cause of the trouble.

  Sim turned obsequious, something he could obviously do quicker than changing his hat. "Beg pardon, Master Constable," he said. "But when a man has paid an agreed price for his purchase, he must be allowed to leave Kingsbridge with his goods intact."

  "Of course." John had to agree. A market town depended on its reputation for fair dealing. "But what have you bought?"

  "This girl."

  "Oh." John looked thoughtful. "Who sold her?"

  "I did," said Joby. "I'm her father."

  Sim went on: "And this woman with the big chin threatened to stop me taking the girl away."

  "So I did," said Madge. "For I've never heard of a woman being bought and sold in Kingsbridge Market, and nor has anyone else around here."

  Joby said: "A man may do as he will with a child of his own." He looked around the crowd appealingly. "Is there anyone here who will disagree with that?"

  Gwenda knew that no one would. Some people treated their children kindly, and some harshly, but all were agreed that the father must have absolute power over the child. She burst out angrily: "You wouldn't stand there, deaf and dumb, if you had a father like him. How many of you were sold by your parents? How many of you were made to steal, when you were children and had hands small enough to slide into folks' wallets?"

  Joby started to look worried. "She's raving, now, Master Constable," he said. "No child of mine ever stole."

  "Never mind that," said John. "Everyone listen to me. I shall make a ruling on this. Those who disagree with my decision can complain to the prior. If there's any shoving, by anyone, or any other kind of rough stuff, I shall arrest everyone involved in it. I hope that's clear." He looked around belligerently. No one spoke: they were eager to hear his decision. He went on: "I know of no reason why this trade is unlawful, therefore Sim Chapman is allowed to go his way, with the girl."

  Joby said: "I told you so, didn't--"

  "Shut your damn mouth, Joby, you fool," said the constable. "Sim, get going, and make it quick. Madge Webber, if you raise a hand I'll put you in the stocks, and your husband won't stop me either. And not a word from you, Caris Wooler, please--you may complain to your father about me if you wish."

  Before John had finished speaking, Sim jerked hard on the rope. Gwenda was tipped forward, and stuck a foot out in front of her to keep from falling to the ground; then, somehow, she was moving along, stumbling and half-running down the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caris alongside her. Then John Constable seized Caris by the arm, she turned to protest to him, and a moment later she disappeared from Gwenda's sight.

  Sim walked quickly down the muddy main street, hauling on the rope, keeping Gwenda just off balance. As they approached the bridge, she began to feel desperate. She tried jerking back on the rope, but he responded with an extra strong heave that threw her down in the mud. Her arms were still pinioned, so she could not use her hands to protect herself, and she fell flat, bruising her chest, her face squelching into the ooze. She struggled to her feet, giving up all resistance. Roped like an animal, hurt, frightened, and covered in filthy mud, she staggered after her new owner, across the bridge and along the road that led into the forest.

  Sim Chapman led Gwenda through the suburb of Newtown to the crossroads known as Gallows Cross, where criminals were hanged. There he took the road south, toward Wigleigh. He tied her rope to his wrist so that she could not break away, even when his attention wandered. Her dog, Skip, followed them, but Sim threw stones at him and, after one hit him full on the nose, he retreated with his tail between his legs.

  After several miles, as the sun began to set, Sim turned into the forest. Gwenda had seen no feature beside the road to mark the spot, but Sim seemed to have chosen carefully for, a few hundred paces into the trees, they came upon a pathway. Looking down, Gwenda could see the neat impressions of dozens of small hooves in the earth, and she realized it was a deer path. It would lead to water, she guessed. Sure enough, they came to a little brook, the vegetation on either side trodden into mud.

  Sim knelt beside the stream, filled his cupped hands with clear water, and drank. Then he moved the rope so that it was around her neck, freeing her hands, and motioned her to the water.

  She washed her hands in the stream then drank thirstily.

  "Wash your face," he ordered. "You're ugly enough by nature."

  She did as she was told, wondering wearily why he cared how she looked.

  The path continued on the farther side of the drinking hole. They walked on. Gwenda was a strong girl, capable of walking all day, but she was defeated and miserable and scared, and that made her feel exhausted. Whatever fate awaited her at their destination, it was probably worse than this, but all the same she yearned to get there so that she could sit down.

  Darkness was falling. The deer path wound through trees for a mile then petered out at the foot of a hill. Sim stopped beside a particularly massive oak tree and gave a low whistle.

  A few moments later, a figure materialized out of the half-lit woodland and said: "All right, Sim."

  "All right, Jed."

  "What you got there, a fruit tart?"

  "You shall have a slice, Jed, same as the others, so long as you've got sixpence."

  Gwenda realized what Sim had planned. He was going to prostitute her. The realization hit her like a blow, and she staggered and fell to her knees.

  "Sixpence, eh?" Jed's voice seemed to come from far away, but all the same she could hear the excitement in his voice. "How old is she?"

  "Her father claimed she was eighteen." Sim jerked on the rope. "Stand up, you lazy cow, we're not there yet."

  Gwenda got to her feet. That's why he wanted me to wash my face, she thought, and for some reason the realization made her cry.

  She wept hopelessly as she stumbled along in Sim's footsteps until they came to a clearing with a fire in the middle. Through her tears, she perceived fifteen or twenty people lying around the edge of the clearing, most of them wrapped in blankets or cloaks
. Almost all those watching her in the firelight were male, but she caught sight of a white female face, hard in expression but smooth-chinned, that stared at her briefly then disappeared back into a bundle of ragged bedding. An upturned wine barrel and a scattering of wooden cups testified to a drunken party.

  Gwenda realized that Sim had brought her to a den of outlaws.

  She groaned. How many of them would she be forced to submit to?

  As soon as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer: all of them.

  Sim dragged her across the clearing to a man who was sitting upright, his back against a tree. "All right, Tam," said Sim.

  Gwenda knew instantly who the man must be: the most famous outlaw in the county, he was called Tam Hiding. He had a handsome face, though it was reddened by drink. People said he was noble-born, but they always said that about famous outlaws. Looking at him, Gwenda was surprised by his youth: he was in his mid-twenties. But then, to kill an outlaw was no crime so, in all probability, few lived to be old.

  Tam said: "All right, Sim."

  "I traded Alwyn's cow for a girl."

  "Well done." Tam's speech was only slightly slurred.

  "We're going to charge the boys sixpence, but of course you can have a free go. I expect you'd like to be first."

  Tam peered at her with bloodshot eyes. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she imagined she saw a hint of pity in his look. He said: "No, thanks, Sim. You go ahead and let the boys have a good time. Though you might want to leave it until tomorrow. We got a barrel of good wine from a pair of monks who were taking it to Kingsbridge, and most of the lads are dead drunk now."

  Gwenda's heart leaped with hope. Perhaps her torture would be postponed.

  "I'll have to consult Alwyn," Sim said doubtfully. "Thanks, Tam." He turned away, pulling Gwenda behind him.

  A few yards away, a broad-shouldered man was struggling to his feet. Sim said: "All right, Alwyn." The phrase seemed to serve the outlaws as a greeting and a recognition code.

  Alwyn was at the bad-tempered phase of drunkenness. "What have you got?"

  "A fresh young girl."

  Alwyn took Gwenda's chin in his hand, gripping unnecessarily hard, and turned her face to the firelight. She was forced to look into his eyes. He was young, like Tam Hiding, but with the same unhealthy air of dissipation. His breath smelled of drink. "By Christ, you picked an ugly one," he said.

  For once Gwenda was happy to be thought ugly: perhaps Alwyn would not want to do anything to her.

  "I took what I could get," Sim said testily. "If the man had a beautiful daughter he wouldn't sell her for a cow, would he? He'd marry her to the son of a rich wool merchant instead."

  The thought of her father made Gwenda angry. He must have known, or suspected, that this would happen. How could he do it to her?

  "All right, all right, it doesn't matter," Alwyn said to Sim. "With only two women in the group, most of the lads are desperate."

  "Tam said we should wait until tomorrow, because they're all too drunk tonight--but it's up to you."

  "Tam's right. Half of them are asleep already."

  Gwenda's fear retreated a little. Anything could happen overnight.

  "Good," Sim said. "I'm dog tired anyway." He looked at Gwenda. "Lie down, you." He never called her by her name.

  She lay down, and he used the rope to tie her feet together and her hands behind her back. Then he and Alwyn lay down either side of her. In a few moments, both men were asleep.

  Gwenda was exhausted, but she had no thought of sleep. With her arms behind her back, every position was painful. She tried to move her wrists within the rope, but Sim had pulled it tight and knotted it well. All she achieved was broken skin, so that the rope burned her flesh.

  Despair turned to helpless rage, and she pictured herself taking revenge on her captors, lashing them all with a whip as they cowered in front of her. It was a pointless fantasy. She turned her mind to practical means of escape.

  First she would have to make them untie her. That done, she would have to get away. Ideally, she would somehow ensure they could not follow her and recapture her.

  It seemed impossible.

  12

  Gwenda was cold when she woke up. It was midsummer, but the weather was cool, and she had no covering but her light dress. The sky was turning from black to gray. She looked around the clearing in the faint light: no one was moving.

  She needed to pee. She thought of doing it there, and soaking her dress. If she made herself disgusting, so much the better. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to her she dismissed it. That would be giving up. She was not giving up.

  But what was she going to do?

  Alwyn was sleeping beside her, with his long dagger in its sheath still attached to his belt, and that gave her the glimmer of an idea. She was not sure she had the nerve to carry out the plan that was forming in her mind. But she refused to think about how scared she was. She just had to do it.

  Although her ankles were tied together, she could move her legs. She kicked Alwyn. At first he did not seem to feel it. She kicked him again, and he moved. The third time, he sat upright. "Was that you?" he said blearily.

  "I have to pee," she said.

  "Not in the clearing. It's one of Tam's rules. Go twenty paces for a piss, fifty for a shit."

  "So, even outlaws live by rules."

  He stared uncomprehendingly at her. The irony escaped him. He was not a clever man, she realized. That was helpful. But he was strong, and mean. She would have to be very cautious.

  She said: "I can't go anywhere tied up."

  Grumbling, he undid the rope around her ankles.

  The first part of her plan had worked. Now she was even more frightened.

  She struggled to her feet. All the muscles of her legs ached from a night of constriction. She took a step, stumbled, and fell down again. "It's so hard with my hands tied," she said.

  He ignored that.

  The second part of her plan had not worked.

  She would have to keep trying.

  She got up again and walked into the trees, with Alwyn following her. He was counting paces on his fingers. The first time he got to ten, he started again. The second time, he said: "Far enough."

  She looked at him helplessly. "I can't lift my dress," she said.

  Would he fall for this?

  He stared dumbly at her. She could almost hear his brain working, rumbling like the gears of a water mill. He could lift her dress while she peed, but that was the kind of thing a mother did for a toddler, and he would find it humiliating. Alternatively, he could untie her hands. With hands and feet free, she might make a run for it. But she was small, weary and cramped: there was no way she could outrun a man with long, muscular legs. He must be thinking that the risk was not serious.

  He untied the rope around her wrists.

  She looked away from him, so that he would not see her look of triumph.

  She rubbed her forearms to restore the circulation. She wanted to poke his eyeballs out with her thumbs, but instead she smiled as sweetly as she could and said: "Thank you," as if he had performed an act of kindness.

  He said nothing, but stood watching her, waiting.

  She expected him to look away when she hitched up the skirt of her dress and squatted, but he only stared more intensely. She held his gaze, unwilling to act ashamed while she did what was natural. His mouth opened slightly and she could tell he was breathing harder.

  Now came the hardest part.

  She stood up slowly, letting him get a good look before she dropped her dress. He licked his lips, and she knew she had him.

  She went closer and stood in front of him. "Will you be my protector?" she said, using a little-girl voice that did not come naturally to her.

  He showed no sign of suspicion. He did not speak, but grasped her breast in his rough hand and squeezed.

  She gasped with pain. "Not so hard!" She took his hand in hers. "Be more gentle." She moved his ha
nd against her breast, rubbing the nipple so that it stood up. "It's nicer if you're gentle."

  He grunted, but continued to rub softly. Then he took the neckline of her dress in his left hand and drew his dagger. The knife was a foot long, with a point, and the blade gleamed with recent sharpening. He obviously intended to cut her dress off. That would not do--it would leave her naked.

  She took his wrist in a light grip, restraining him momentarily. "You don't need the knife," she said. "Look." She stepped back, undid her belt and, with a quick movement, pulled the dress off over her head. It was her only garment.

  She stretched it out on the ground then lay on it. She tried to smile at him. She felt sure the result was a horrible grimace. Then she parted her legs.

  He hesitated only for a moment.

  Keeping the knife in his right hand, he pushed down his underdrawers and knelt between her thighs. He pointed the dagger at her face and said: "Any trouble, and I'll slice your cheek open."

  "You won't need to do that," she said. She was trying desperately to think what words such a man would like to hear from a woman. "My big, strong protector," she said.

  He showed no reaction to that.

  He lay over her, thrusting blindly. "Not so fast," she said, gritting her teeth against the pain of his clumsy stabs. She reached between her legs and guided him inside, throwing her legs up to make the entrance easier.

  He reared over her, taking his weight on his arms. He put the dagger on the grass beside her head, covering the hilt with his right hand. He groaned as he moved inside her. She moved with him, keeping up the pretense of willingness, watching his face, forcing herself not to glance sideways at the dagger, waiting for her moment. She was both scared and disgusted, but a small part of her mind remained calm and calculating.

  He closed his eyes and lifted his head like an animal scenting the breeze. His arms were straight, holding him up. She risked a look at the knife. He had moved his hand slightly, so that it only partly covered the hilt. She could grab it now, but how fast would he react?

  She looked at his face again. His mouth was twisted in a rictus of concentration. He thrust faster, and she matched his motion.

  To her dismay, she felt a glow spread through her loins. She was appalled at herself. The man was a murdering outlaw, little better than a beast, and he was planning to prostitute her for sixpence a time. She was doing this to save her life, not for enjoyment! Yet there was a gush of moisture inside her, and he thrust faster.