by Ken Follett
Wulfric was relieved. "At least we know where the lad has got to," he said, breathing easily despite his load.
"I want to go to Outhenby," Gwenda said.
Wulfric nodded. "I thought you might." He rarely challenged her, but now he expressed a misgiving. "Dangerous, though. You'll have to make sure no one finds out where you've gone."
"Exactly. Nate mustn't know."
"How will you manage that?"
"He's sure to notice that I'm not in the village for a couple of days. We'll have to think of a story."
"We can say you're sick."
"Too risky. He'll probably come to the house to check."
"We could say you're at your father's place."
"Nate won't believe that. He knows I never stay there longer than I have to." She gnawed at a hangnail, racking her brains. In the ghost stories and fairy tales that people told around the fire on long winter evenings, the characters generally believed one another's lies without question; but real people were less easily duped. "We could say I've gone to Kingsbridge," she said at last.
"What for?"
"To buy laying hens at the market, perhaps."
"You could buy hens from Annet."
"I wouldn't buy anything from that bitch, and people know it."
"True."
"And Nate knows I've always been a friend of Caris, so he'll believe I could be staying with her."
"All right."
It was not much of a story, but she could not think of anything better. And she was desperate to see her son.
She left the next morning.
She slipped out of the house before dawn, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the cold March wind. She walked softly through the village in pitch darkness, finding her way by touch and memory. She did not want to be seen and questioned before she had even left the neighborhood. But no one was up yet. Nathan Reeve's dog growled quietly then recognized her tread, and she heard a soft thump as he wagged his tail against the side of his wooden kennel.
She left the village and followed the road through the fields. When dawn broke, she was a mile away. She looked at the road behind her. It was empty. No one had followed her.
She chewed a crust of stale bread for breakfast, then stopped at mid-morning at a tavern where the Wigleigh-to-Kingsbridge road crossed the Northwood-to-Outhenby road. She recognized no one at the inn. She watched the door nervously as she ate a bowl of salt-fish stew and drank a pint of cider. Every time someone came in she got ready to hide her face, but it was always a stranger, and no one took any notice of her. She left quickly, and set off on the road to Outhenby.
She reached the valley around mid-afternoon. It was twelve years since she had been here, but the place had not changed much. It had recovered from the plague remarkably quickly. Apart from some small children playing near the houses, most of the villagers were at work, plowing and sowing, or looking after new lambs. They stared at her across the fields, knowing she was a stranger, wondering about her identity. Some of them would recognize her close up. She had been here for only ten days, but those had been dramatic times, and they would remember. Villagers did not often see such excitement.
She followed the River Outhen as it meandered along the flat plain between two ranges of hills. She went from the main village through smaller settlements that she knew, from the time she had spent here, as Ham, Shortacre, and Longwater, to the smallest and most remote, Oldchurch.
Her excitement grew as she approached, and she even forgot her sore feet. Oldchurch was a hamlet, with thirty hovels, none big enough to be a manor house or even a bailiff's home. However, in accordance with the name, there was an old church. It was several hundred years of age, Gwenda guessed. It had a squat tower and a short nave, all built of crude masonry, with tiny square windows placed apparently at random in the thick walls.
She walked to the fields beyond. She ignored a group of shepherds in a distant pasture: shrewd Harry Plowman would not waste big Sam on such light work. He would be harrowing, or clearing a ditch, or helping to manage the eight-ox plow team. Searching the three fields methodically, she looked for a crowd of mostly men, with warm hats and muddy boots and big voices to call to one another across the acres; and a young man a head taller than the others. When she did not at first see her son, she suffered renewed apprehension. Had he already been recaptured? Had he moved to another village?
She found him in a line of men digging manure into a newly plowed strip. He had his coat off, despite the cold, and he was hefting an oak spade, the muscles of his back and arms bunching and shifting under his old linen shirt. Her heart filled with pride to see him, and to think that such a man had come from her diminutive body.
They all looked up as she approached. The men stared at her in curiosity: Who was she and what was she doing here? She walked straight up to Sam and embraced him, even though he stank of horse dung. "Hello, Mother," he said, and all the other men laughed.
She was puzzled by their hilarity.
A wiry man with one empty eye socket said: "There, there, Sam, you'll be all right now," and they laughed again.
Gwenda realized they thought it funny that a big man such as Sam should have his little mother come and check on him as if he were a wayward boy.
"How did you find me?" Sam said.
"I met Harry Plowman at Northwood market."
"I hope no one tracked you here."
"I left before it was light. Your father was to tell people I went to Kingsbridge. No one followed me."
They talked for a few minutes, then he said he had to get back to work, or the other men would resent his leaving it all to them. "Go back to the village and find old Liza," he said. "She lives opposite the church. Tell her who you are and she'll give you some refreshment. I'll be there at dusk."
Gwenda glanced up at the sky. It was a dark afternoon, and the men would be forced to stop work in an hour or so. She kissed Sam's cheek and left him.
She found Liza in a house slightly larger than most--it had two rooms rather than one. The woman introduced her husband, Rob, who was blind. As Sam had promised, Liza was hospitable: she put bread and pottage on the table and poured a cup of ale.
Gwenda asked about their son, and it was like turning on a tap. Liza talked unstoppably about him, from babyhood to apprenticeship, until the old man interrupted her harshly with one word: "Horse."
They fell silent, and Gwenda heard the rhythmic thud of a trotting horse.
"Smallish mount," blind Rob said. "A palfrey, or a pony. Too little for a nobleman or a knight, though it might be carrying a lady."
Gwenda felt a shiver of fear.
"Two visitors within an hour," Rob observed. "Must be connected."
That was what Gwenda was afraid of.
She got up and looked out of the door. A sturdy black pony was trotting along the path between the houses. She recognized the rider immediately, and her heart sank: it was Jonno Reeve, the son of the bailiff of Wigleigh.
How had he found her?
She tried to duck quickly back into the house, but he had seen her. "Gwenda!" he shouted, and reined in his horse.
"You devil," she said.
"I wonder what you're doing here," he said mockingly.
"How did you get here? No one was following me."
"My father sent me to Kingsbridge, to see what mischief you might be making there, but on the way I stopped at the Cross Roads Tavern, and they remembered you taking the road to Outhenby."
She wondered whether she could outwit this shrewd young man. "And why should I not visit my old friends here?"
"No reason," he said. "Where's your runaway son?"
"Not here, though I hoped he might be."
He looked momentarily uncertain, as if he thought she might be telling the truth. Then he said: "Perhaps he's hiding. I'll look around." He kicked his horse on.
Gwenda watched him go. She had not fooled him, but perhaps she had planted a doubt in his mind. If she could get to Sam first she might be
able to conceal him.
She walked quickly through the little house, with a hasty word to Liza and Rob, and left by the back door. She headed across the field, staying close to the hedge. Looking back toward the village, she could see a man on horseback moving out at an angle to her direction. The day was dimming, and she thought her own small figure might be indistinguishable against the dark background of the hedge.
She met Sam and the others coming back, their spades over their shoulders, their boots thick with muck. From a distance, at first sight, Sam could have been Ralph: the figure was the same, and the confident stride, and the set of the handsome head on the strong neck. But as he talked she could see Wulfric in him, too: he had a way of turning his head, a shy smile, and a deprecating gesture of the hand that exactly imitated his foster father.
The men spotted her. They had been tickled by her arrival earlier, and now the one-eyed man called out: "Hello, Mother!" and they all laughed.
She took Sam aside and said: "Jonno Reeve is here."
"Hell!"
"I'm sorry."
"You said you weren't followed!"
"I didn't see him, but he picked up my trail."
"Damn. Now what do I do? I'm not going back to Wigleigh!"
"He's looking for you, but he left the village heading east." She scanned the darkening landscape but could not see much. "If we hurry back to Oldchurch, we could hide you--in the church, perhaps."
"All right."
They picked up their pace. Gwenda said over her shoulder: "If you men come across a bailiff called Jonno...you haven't seen Sam from Wigleigh."
"Never heard of him, Mother," said one, and the others concurred. Serfs were generally ready to help one another outwit the bailiff.
Gwenda and Ralph reached the settlement without seeing Jonno. They headed for the church. Gwenda thought they could probably get in: country churches were usually empty and bare inside, and generally left open. But if this one should turn out to be an exception, she was not sure what they would do.
They threaded through the houses and came within sight of the church. As they passed Liza's front door, Gwenda saw a black pony. She groaned. Jonno must have doubled back under cover of the dusk. He had gambled that Gwenda would find Sam and bring him to the village, and he had been right. He had his father Nate's low cunning.
She took Sam's arm to hurry him across the road and into the church--then Jonno stepped out from Liza's house.
"Sam," he said. "I thought you'd be here."
Gwenda and Sam stopped and turned.
Sam leaned on his wooden spade. "What are you going to do about it?"
Jonno was grinning triumphantly. "Take you back to Wigleigh."
"I'd like to see you try."
A group of peasants, mostly women, appeared from the west side of the village and stopped to watch the confrontation.
Jonno reached into his pony's saddlebag and brought out some kind of metal device with a chain. "I'm going to put a leg iron on you," he said. "And if you've got any sense you won't resist."
Gwenda was surprised by Jonno's nerve. Did he really expect to arrest Sam all on his own? He was a beefy lad, but not as big as Sam. Did he hope the villagers would help him? He had the law on his side, but few peasants would think his cause just. Typical young man, he had no sense of his own limitations.
Sam said: "I used to beat the shit out of you when we were boys, and I'll do the same today."
Gwenda did not want them to fight. Whoever won, Sam would be wrong in the eyes of the law. He was a runaway. She said: "It's too late to go anywhere now. Why don't we discuss this in the morning?"
Jonno gave a disparaging laugh. "And let Sam slip away before dawn, the way you sneaked out of Wigleigh? Certainly not. He sleeps in irons tonight."
The men Sam had been working with appeared, and stopped to see what was going on. Jonno said: "All law-abiding men have a duty to help me arrest this runaway, and anyone who hinders me will be subject to the punishment of the law."
"You can rely on me," said the one-eyed man. "I'll hold your horse." The others chuckled. There was little sympathy for Jonno. On the other hand, no villager spoke in Sam's defense.
Jonno moved suddenly. With the leg iron in both hands, he stepped toward Sam and bent down, trying to snap the device onto Sam's leg in one surprise move.
It might have worked on a slow-moving older man, but Sam reacted quickly. He stepped back then kicked out, landing one muddy boot on Jonno's outstretched left arm.
Jonno gave a grunt of pain and anger. Straightening up, he drew back his right arm and swung the iron, intending to hit Sam over the head with it. Gwenda heard a frightened scream and realized it came from herself. Sam darted back another step, out of range.
Jonno saw that his blow was going to miss, and let go of the iron at the last moment.
It flew through the air. Sam flinched away, turning and ducking, but he could not dodge it. The iron hit his ear and the chain whipped across his face. Gwenda cried out as if she herself had been hurt. The onlookers gasped. Sam staggered, and the iron fell to the ground. There was a moment of suspense. Blood came from Sam's ear and nose. Gwenda took a step toward him, stretching out her arms.
Then Sam recovered from the shock.
He turned back to Jonno and swung his heavy wooden spade in one graceful movement. Jonno had not quite recovered his balance after the effort of his throw, and he was unable to dodge. The edge of the spade caught him on the side of the head. Sam was strong, and the sound of wood on bone rang out across the village street.
Jonno was still reeling when Sam hit him again. Now the spade came straight down from above. Swung by both Sam's arms, it landed on top of Jonno's head, edge first, with tremendous force. This time the impact did not ring out, but sounded more like a dull thud, and Gwenda feared Jonno's skull had cracked.
As Jonno slumped to his knees, Sam hit him a third time, another full-force blow with the oak blade, this one across his victim's forehead. An iron sword could hardly have been more damaging, Gwenda though despairingly. She stepped forward to restrain Sam, but the village men had had the same idea a moment earlier, and got there before her. They pulled Sam away, two of them holding each arm.
Jonno lay on the ground, his head in a pool of blood. Gwenda was sickened by the sight, and could not help thinking of the boy's father, Nate, and how grieved he would be by his son's injuries. Jonno's mother had died of the plague, so at least she was in a place where grief could not afflict her.
Gwenda could see that Sam was not badly hurt. He was bleeding, but still struggling with his captors, trying to get free so that he could attack again. Gwenda bent over Jonno. His eyes were closed and he was not moving. She put a hand on his heart and felt nothing. She tried for a pulse, the way Caris had shown her, but there was none. Jonno did not seem to be breathing.
The implications of what had happened dawned on her, and she began to weep.
Jonno was dead, and Sam was a murderer.
82
On Easter Sunday that year, 1361, Caris and Merthin had been married ten years.
Standing in the cathedral, watching the Easter procession, Caris recalled their wedding. Because they had been lovers, off and on, for so long, they had seen the ceremony as no more than confirmation of a long-established fact, and they had foolishly envisaged a small, quiet event: a low-key service in St. Mark's Church and a modest dinner for a few people afterward at the Bell. But Father Joffroi had informed them, the day before, that by his calculation at least two thousand people were planning to attend the wedding, and they had been forced to move it to the cathedral. Then it turned out that, without their knowledge, Madge Webber had organized a banquet in the guildhall for leading citizens and a picnic in Lovers' Field for everyone else in Kingsbridge. So, in the end, it had been the wedding of the year.
Caris smiled at the recollection. She had worn a new robe of Kingsbridge Scarlet, a color the bishop probably thought appropriate for such a woman. Merthin ha
d dressed in a richly patterned Italian coat, chestnut brown with gold threads, and had seemed to glow with happiness. They both had realized, belatedly, that their drawn-out love affair, which they had imagined to be a private drama, had been entertaining the citizens of Kingsbridge for years, and everyone wanted to celebrate its happy ending.
Caris's pleasant memories evaporated as her old enemy Philemon mounted the pulpit. In the decade since the wedding he had grown quite fat. His monkish tonsure and shaved face revealed a ring of blubber around his neck, and the priestly robes billowed like a tent.
He preached a sermon against dissection.
Dead bodies belonged to God, he said. Christians were instructed to bury them in a carefully specified ritual; the saved in consecrated ground, the unforgiven elsewhere. To do anything else with corpses was against God's will. To cut them up was sacrilege, he said with uncharacteristic passion. There was even a tremor in his voice as he asked the congregation to imagine the horrible scene of a body being opened, its parts separated and sliced and pored over by so-called medical researchers. True Christians knew there was no excuse for these ghoulish men and women.
The phrase "men and women" was not often heard from Philemon's mouth, Caris thought, and could not be without significance. She glanced at her husband, standing next to her in the nave, and he raised his eyebrows in an expression of concern.
The prohibition against examining corpses was standard dogma, propounded by the church since before Caris could remember, but it had been relaxed since the plague. Progressive younger clergymen were vividly aware of how badly the church had failed its people then, and they were keen to change the way medicine was taught and practised by priests. However, conservative senior clergy clung to the old ways and blocked any change in policy. The upshot was that dissection was banned in principle and tolerated in practice.
Caris had been performing dissections at her new hospital from the start. She never talked about it outside the building: there was no point in upsetting the superstitious. But she did it every chance she got.
In recent years she had usually been joined by one or two younger monk-physicians. Many trained doctors never saw inside the body except when treating very bad wounds. Traditionally, the only carcasses they were allowed to open were those of pigs, thought to be the animals most like humans in their anatomy.