by Ken Follett
"Never you mind who I am, knight," said Carl rudely. "I know who you are. You're Ralph Fitzgerald, and I saw you convicted of rape and sentenced to death at Shiring court."
"But I'm not dead, am I?" Ralph said.
"You should be, though. And you have no feudal rights over laborers. If you try to use force, you'll be taught a sharp lesson."
Several people gasped. This was a reckless way to speak to an armed knight.
Wulfric said: "Be quiet, Carl. I don't want you killed for my sake."
"It's not for your sake," Carl said. "If this thug is allowed to drag you off, next week someone will come for me. We have to stick together. We're not helpless."
Carl was a big man, taller than Wulfric and almost as broad, and Gwenda could see that he meant what he said. She was appalled. If they started fighting, there would be terrible violence--and her Sam was still sitting on the horse with Ralph. "We'll just go with Ralph," she said frantically. "It will be better."
Carl said: "No, it won't. I'm going to stop him taking you away, whether you want me to or not. It's for my own good."
There was a murmur of assent. Gwenda looked around. Most of the men were holding shovels or hoes, and they looked ready to swing them, though they also looked scared.
Wulfric turned his back on Ralph and spoke in a low, urgent voice. "You women, take the children into the church--quickly now!"
Several women snatched up toddlers and grabbed youngsters by the arms. Gwenda stayed where she was, and so did several of the younger women. The villagers instinctively moved closer together, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Ralph and Alan looked disconcerted. They had not expected to face a crowd of fifty or more belligerent peasants. But they were on horseback, so they could get away anytime they wanted.
Ralph said: "Well, perhaps I'll just take this little boy to Wigleigh."
Gwenda gasped with horror.
Ralph went on: "Then, if his parents want him, they can come back where they belong."
Gwenda was beside herself. Ralph had Sam, and he could ride away at any moment. She fought down a hysterical scream. If he turned his horse, she decided, she would throw herself at him and try to drag him off the saddle. She moved a step closer.
Then, behind Ralph and Alan, she saw the oxen. Harry Plowman was driving them through the village from the other end. Eight massive beasts lumbered up to the scene in front of the church, then stopped, looking around dumbly, not knowing which way to go. Harry stood behind them. Ralph and Alan found themselves in a triangular trap, hemmed in by the villagers, the oxen, and the stone church.
Harry had planned this to stop Ralph riding away with Wulfric and herself, Gwenda guessed. But the tactic did just as well for this situation.
Carl said: "Put the child down, Sir Ralph, and go in peace."
The trouble was, Gwenda thought, it was now difficult for Ralph to back down without losing face. He was going to have to do something to avoid looking foolish, which was the ultimate horror for proud knights. They talked all the time about their honor, but that meant nothing--they were thoroughly dishonorable when it suited them. What they really prized was their dignity. They would rather die than be humiliated.
The tableau was frozen for several moments: the knight and the child on the horse, the mutinous villagers, and the dumb oxen.
Then Ralph lowered Sam to the ground.
Tears of relief came to Gwenda's eyes.
Sam ran to her, threw his arms around her waist, and began to cry.
The villagers relaxed, the men lowering their shovels and hoes.
Ralph pulled on his horse's reins and shouted: "Hup! Hup!" The horse reared. He dug in his spurs and rode straight at the crowd. They scattered. Alan rode behind him. The villagers desperately threw themselves out of the way, ending up in tangled heaps on the muddy ground. They were trampled by one another but not, miraculously, by the horses.
Ralph and Alan laughed loudly as they rode out of the village, as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a huge joke.
But, in reality, Ralph had been shamed.
And that, Gwenda felt sure, meant that he would be back.
68
Earlscastle had not changed. Twelve years ago, Merthin recalled, he had been asked to demolish the old fortress and build a new, modern palace fit for an earl in a peaceful country. But he had refused, preferring to design the new bridge at Kingsbridge. Since then, it seemed, the project had languished, for here was the same figure-eight wall, with two drawbridges, and the old-fashioned keep ensconced in the upper loop, where the family lived like frightened rabbits at the end of a burrow, unaware that there was no longer any danger from the fox. The place must have been much the same in the days of Lady Aliena and Jack Builder.
Merthin was with Caris, who had been summoned here by the countess, Lady Philippa. Earl William had fallen sick, and Philippa thought her husband had the plague. Caris had been dismayed. She had thought the plague was over. No one had died of it in Kingsbridge for six weeks.
Caris and Merthin had set out immediately. However, the messenger had taken two days to travel from Earlscastle to Kingsbridge, and they had taken the same time to get here, so the likelihood was that the earl would now be dead, or nearly so. "All I will be able to do is give him some poppy essence to ease the final agony," Caris had said as they rode along.
"You do more than that," Merthin had said. "Your presence comforts people. You're calm and knowledgeable, and you talk about things they understand, swelling and confusion and pain--you don't try to impress them with jargon about humors, which just makes them feel more ignorant and powerless and frightened. When you're there, they feel that everything possible is being done; and that's what they want."
"I hope you're right."
If anything, Merthin was understating. More than once he had seen a hysterical man or woman change, after just a few calming moments with Caris, into a sensible person capable of coping with whatever should happen.
Her inborn gift had been augmented, since the advent of the plague, by an almost supernatural reputation. Everyone for miles around knew that she and her nuns had carried on caring for the sick, despite the risk to themselves, even when the monks had fled. They thought she was a saint.
The atmosphere inside the castle compound was subdued. Those who had routine tasks were performing them: fetching firewood and water, feeding horses and sharpening weapons, baking bread and butchering meat. Many others--secretaries, men-at-arms, messengers--sat around doing nothing, waiting for news from the sick room.
The rooks cawed a sarcastic welcome as Merthin and Caris crossed the inner bridge to the keep. Merthin's father, Sir Gerald, always claimed to be directly descended from Jack and Aliena's son, Earl Thomas. As Merthin counted the steps to the great hall, placing his feet carefully in the smooth hollows worn by thousands of boots, he reflected that his ancestors had probably trodden on just these old stones. To him, such notions were intriguing but trivial. By contrast his brother, Ralph, was obsessed with restoring the family to its former glory.
Caris was ahead of him, and the sway of her hips as she climbed the steps made his lips twitch in a smile. He was frustrated by not being able to sleep with her every night, but the rare occasions when they could be alone together were all the more thrilling. Yesterday they had spent a mild spring afternoon making love in a sunlit forest glade, while the horses grazed nearby, oblivious to their passion.
It was an odd relationship, but then she was an extraordinary woman: a prioress who doubted much of what the church taught; an acclaimed healer who rejected medicine as practised by physicians; and a nun who made enthusiastic love to her man whenever she could get away with it. If I wanted a normal relationship, Merthin told himself, I should have picked a normal girl.
The hall was full of people. Some were working, laying down fresh straw, building up the fire, preparing the table for dinner; and others were simply waiting. At the far end of the long room, sitting near
the foot of the staircase that led up to the earl's private quarters, Merthin saw a well-dressed girl of about fifteen. She stood up and came toward them with a rather stately walk, and Merthin realized she must be Lady Philippa's daughter. Like her mother she was tall, with an hourglass figure. "I am the Lady Odila," she said with a touch of hauteur that was pure Philippa. Despite her composure, the skin around her young eyes was red and creased with crying. "You must be Mother Caris. Thank you for coming to attend my father."
Merthin said: "I'm the alderman of Kingsbridge, Merthin Bridger. How is Earl William?"
"He is very ill, and both my brothers have been laid low." Merthin recalled that the earl and countess had two boys of nineteen and twenty or thereabouts. "My mother asks that the lady prioress should come to them immediately."
Caris said: "Of course."
Odila went up the stairs. Caris took from her purse a strip of linen cloth and fastened it over her nose and mouth, then followed.
Merthin sat on a bench to wait. Although he was reconciled to infrequent sex, that did not stop him looking out eagerly for extra opportunities, and he surveyed the building with a keen eye, figuring out the sleeping arrangements. Unfortunately the house had a traditional layout. This large room, the great hall, would be where almost everyone ate and slept. The staircase presumably led to a solar, a bedroom for the earl and countess. Modern castles had a whole suite of apartments for family and guests, but there appeared to be no such luxury here. Merthin and Caris might lie side by side tonight, on the floor here in the hall, but they could do nothing more than sleep, not without causing a scandal.
After a while, Lady Philippa emerged from the solar and came down the stairs. She entered a room like a queen, aware that all eyes were on her, Merthin always thought. The dignity of her posture only emphasized the alluring roundness of her hips and her proud bosom. However, today her normally serene face was blotchy and her eyes were red. Her fashionably piled hairstyle was slightly awry, with stray locks of hair escaping from her headdress, adding to her air of glamorous distraction.
Merthin stood up and look at her expectantly.
She said: "My husband has the plague, as I feared; and so do both my sons."
The people around murmured in dismay.
It might turn out to be no more than the last remnants of the epidemic, of course; but it could just as easily be the start of a new outbreak--God forbid, Merthin thought.
He said: "How is the earl feeling?"
Philippa sat on the bench next to him. "Mother Caris has eased his pain. But she says he's near the end."
Their knees were almost touching. He felt the magnetism of her sexuality, even though she was drowning in grief and he was dizzy with love for Caris. "And your sons?" he said.
She looked down at her lap, as if studying the pattern of gold and silver threads woven into her blue gown. "The same as their father."
Merthin said quietly: "This is very hard for you, my lady, very hard."
She gave him a wary glance. "You're not like your brother, are you?"
Merthin knew that Ralph had been in love with Philippa, in his own obsessive way, for many years. Did she realize that? Merthin did not know. Ralph had chosen well, he thought. If you were going to have a hopeless love, you might as well pick someone singular. "Ralph and I are very different," he said neutrally.
"I remember you as youngsters. You were the cheeky one--you told me to buy a green silk to match my eyes. Then your brother started a fight."
"I sometimes think the younger of two brothers deliberately tries to be the opposite of the elder, just to differentiate himself."
"It's certainly true of my two. Rollo is strong-willed and assertive, like his father and grandfather; and Rick has always been sweet-natured and obliging." She began to cry. "Oh, God, I'm going to lose them all."
Merthin took her hand. "You can't be sure what will happen," he said gently. "I caught the plague in Florence, and I survived. My daughter didn't catch it at all."
She looked up at him. "And your wife?"
Merthin looked down at their entwined hands. Philippa's was perceptibly more wrinkled than his, he saw, even though there was only four years' difference in their ages. He said: "Silvia died."
"I pray to God that I will catch it. If all my men die, I want to go, too."
"Surely not."
"It's the fate of noblewomen to marry men they don't love--but I was lucky, you see, in William. He was chosen for me, but I loved him from the start." Her voice began to fail her. "I couldn't bear to have someone else..."
"You feel that way now, of course." It was odd to be talking like this while her husband was still alive, Merthin thought. But she was so stricken by grief that she had little thought for niceties and said just what was in her mind.
She collected herself with an effort. "What about you?" she said. "Have you remarried?"
"No." He could hardly explain that he was having a love affair with the prioress of Kingsbridge. "I think I could, though, if the right woman were...willing. You might come to feel the same, eventually."
"But you don't understand. As the widow of an earl with no heirs, I would have to marry someone King Edward chose for me. And the king would have no thought for my wishes. His only concern would be who should be the next earl of Shiring."
"I see." Merthin had not thought of that. He could imagine that an arranged marriage might be particularly loathsome to a widow who had truly loved her first husband.
"How dreadful of me to be speaking of another husband while my first is alive," she said. "I don't know what came over me."
Merthin patted her hand sympathetically. "It's understandable."
The door at the top of the stairs opened and Caris came out, drying her hands on a cloth. Merthin suddenly felt uncomfortable about holding Philippa's hand. He was tempted to thrust it away from him, but realized how guilty that would look and managed to resist the impulse. He smiled at Caris and said: "How are your patients?"
Caris's eyes went to their linked hands, but she said nothing. She came down the stairs, untying her linen mask.
Philippa unhurriedly withdrew her hand.
Caris took off her mask and said: "I'm very sorry to have to tell you, my lady, that Earl William is dead."
"I need a new horse," said Ralph Fitzgerald. His favorite mount, Griff, was getting old. The spirited bay palfrey had suffered a sprain in its left hind leg that had taken months to heal, and now it was lame again in the same leg. Ralph felt sad. Griff was the horse Earl Roland had given him when he was a young squire, and it had been with him ever since, even going to the French wars. It might serve him a few years longer for unhurried trips from village to village within his domain, but its hunting days were over.
"We could go to Shiring market tomorrow and buy another," Alan Fernhill said.
They were in the stable, looking at Griff's fetlock. Ralph liked stables. He enjoyed the earthy smell, the strength and beauty of the horses, and the company of rough-handed men engrossed in physical tasks. It took him back to his youth, when the world had seemed a simple place.
He did not at first respond to Alan's suggestion. What Alan did not know was that Ralph did not have the money to buy a horse.
The plague had at first enriched him, through the inheritance tax: land that normally passed from father to son once in a generation had changed hands twice or more in a few months, and he got a payment every time--traditionally the best beast, but often a fixed sum in cash. But then land had started to fall into disuse for lack of people to farm it. At the same time, agricultural prices had dropped. The upshot was that Ralph's income, in money and produce, fell drastically.
Things were bad, he thought, when a knight could not afford a horse.
Then he remembered that Nate Reeve was due to come to Tench Hall today with the quarterly dues from Wigleigh. Every spring that village was obliged to provide its lord with twenty-four hoggets, year-old sheep. They could be driven to Shiring market and sold,
and they should raise enough cash to pay for a palfrey, if not a hunter. "All right," Ralph said to Alan. "Let's see if the bailiff of Wigleigh is here."
They went into the hall. This was a feminine zone, and Ralph's spirits dropped immediately. Tilly was sitting by the fire, nursing their three-month-old son, Gerry. Mother and baby were in vigorous good health, despite Tilly's youth. Her slight, girlish body had changed drastically: she now had swollen breasts with large, leathery nipples at which the baby sucked greedily. Her belly sagged loosely like that of an old woman. Ralph had not lain with her for many months and he probably never would again.
Nearby sat the grandfather after whom the baby was named, Sir Gerald, with Lady Maud. Ralph's parents were now old and frail, but every morning they walked from their house in the village to the manor house to see their grandson. Maud said the baby looked like Ralph, but he could not see the resemblance.
Ralph was pleased to see that Nate was also in the hall.
The hunchbacked bailiff sprang up from his bench. "Good day to you, Sir Ralph," he said.
He had a hangdog look about him, Ralph observed. "What's the matter with you, Nate?" he said. "Have you brought my hoggets?"
"No, sir."
"Why the devil not?"
"We've got none, sir. There are no sheep left in Wigleigh, except for a few old ewes."
Ralph was shocked. "Has someone stolen them?"
"No, but some have been given to you already, as heriot when their owners died, and then we couldn't find a tenant to take over Jack Shepherd's land, and many sheep died over the winter. Then there was no one to look to the early lambs this spring, so we lost most of those, and some of the mothers."
"But this is impossible!" Ralph said angrily. "How are noblemen to live if their serfs let the livestock perish?"
"We thought perhaps the plague was over, when it died down in January and February, but now it seems to be coming back."
Ralph repressed a shudder of terror. Like everyone else, he had been thanking God that he had escaped the plague. Surely it could not return?
Nate went on: "Perkin died this week, and his wife Peg, and his son Rob, and his son-in-law Billy Howard. That's left Annet with all those acres to manage, which she can't possibly do."
"Well, there must be a heriot due on that property, then."