by Ken Follett
"No. But you're going to get that pardon."
"Why?"
"Because Sam is your son."
Ralph stared at her for a moment. "Hah," he said contemptuously. "As if I would believe that."
"He is your son," she repeated.
"You can't prove that."
"No, I can't," she said. "But you know that I lay with you at the Bell in Kingsbridge nine months before Sam was born. True, I lay with Wulfric, too. So which of you is his father? Look at the boy! He has some of Wulfric's mannerisms, yes--he has learned those, in twenty-two years. But look at his features."
She saw a thoughtful expression appear on Ralph's face, and knew that something she had said had hit the mark.
"Most of all, think about his character," she said, pressing home. "You heard the evidence at the trial. Sam didn't just fight Jonno off, as Wulfric would have done. He didn't knock him down then help him up again, which would have been Wulfric's way. Wulfric is strong, and quick to anger, but he's tenderhearted. Sam is not. Sam hit Jonno with a spade, a blow that would have knocked any man senseless; then, before Jonno fell, Sam hit him again, even harder, although he was already helpless; and then, before Jonno's limp form reached the ground, Sam hit him a third time. If the Oldchurch peasants hadn't jumped on Sam and restrained him, he would have continued to lash out with that bloody spade until Jonno's head was smashed to a pulp. He wanted to kill!" She realized she was crying, and wiped the tears away with her sleeve.
Ralph was staring at her with a horrified look.
"Where does the killer instinct come from, Ralph?" she said. "Look in your own black heart. Sam is your son. And, God forgive me, he's mine."
When Gwenda had gone, Ralph sat on the bed in the little chamber, staring at the flame of the candle. Was it possible? Gwenda would lie, if it suited her, of course; there was no question of trusting her. But Sam could be Ralph's son as easily as Wulfric's. They had both lain with Gwenda at the crucial time. The truth might never be known for sure.
Even the possibility that Sam might be his child was enough to fill Ralph's heart with dread. Was he about to hang his own son? The dreadful punishment he had devised for Wulfric might be inflicted on himself.
It was already night. The hanging would take place at dawn. Ralph did not have long to decide.
He picked up the candle and left the little room. He had intended to satisfy a carnal desire there. Instead he had been given the shock of his life.
He went outside and crossed the courtyard to the cell block. On the ground floor of the building were offices for the sheriff's deputies. He went inside and spoke to the man on guard duty. "I want to see the murderer, Sam Wigleigh."
"Very good, my lord," the jailer said. "I'll show you the way." He led Ralph into the next room, carrying a lamp.
There was a grating set in the floor, and a bad smell. Ralph looked down through the grating. The cell was nine or ten feet deep with stone walls and a dirt floor. There was no furniture: Sam sat on the floor with his back against the wall. Beside him was a wooden jug, presumably containing water. A small hole in the floor appeared to be the toilet. Sam glanced up, then looked away indifferently.
"Open up," said Ralph.
The jailer unlocked the grating with a key. It swung up on a hinge.
"I want to go down."
The jailer was surprised, but did not dare argue with an earl. He picked up a ladder that was leaning against the wall and slid it into the cell. "Take care, please, my lord," he said nervously. "Remember, the villain has nothing to lose."
Ralph climbed down, carrying his candle. The smell was disgusting, but he hardly cared. He reached the foot of the ladder and turned.
Sam looked up at him resentfully and said: "What do you want?"
Ralph stared at him. He crouched down and held the candle close to Sam's face, studying his features, trying to compare them with the face he saw when he looked into a mirror.
"What is it?" Sam said, spooked by Ralph's intense stare.
Ralph did not answer. Was this his own child? It could be, he thought. It could easily be. Sam was a good-looking boy, and Ralph had been called handsome in his youth, before his nose got broken. In court earlier, Ralph had thought that something about Sam's face rang a bell, and now he concentrated, searching his memory, trying to think who Sam reminded him of. That straight nose, the dark-eyed gaze, the head of thick hair that girls would envy...
Then he got it.
Sam looked like Ralph's mother, the late Lady Maud.
"Dear God," he said, and it came out as a whisper.
"What?" said Sam, his voice betraying fear. "What is this?"
Ralph had to say something. "Your mother...," he began, then he trailed off. His throat was constricted with emotion, making it difficult for him to get words out. He tried again. "Your mother has pleaded for you...most eloquently."
Sam looked wary and said nothing. He thought Ralph had come here to mock him.
"Tell me," Ralph said. "When you hit Jonno with that spade...did you mean to kill him? You can be honest, you have nothing more to fear."
"Of course I meant to kill him," Sam said. "He was trying to take me in."
Ralph nodded. "I would have felt the same," he said. He paused, staring at Sam, then said it again. "I would have felt the same."
He stood up, turned to the ladder, hesitated, then turned back and put the candle on the ground next to Sam. Then he climbed up.
The jailer replaced the grating and locked it.
Ralph said to him: "There will be no hanging. The prisoner will be pardoned. I will speak to the sheriff immediately."
As he left the room, the jailer sneezed.
85
When Merthin and Caris returned from Shiring to Kingsbridge, they found that Lolla had gone missing.
Their long-standing house servants, Arn and Em, were waiting at the garden gate, and looked as if they had been stationed there all day. Em began to speak but burst into incoherent sobs, and Arn had to break the news. "We can't find Lolla," he said, distraught. "We don't know where she is."
At first Merthin misunderstood. "She'll be here by suppertime," he said. "Don't upset yourself, Em."
"But she didn't come home last night, nor the night before," Arn said.
Merthin realized then what they meant. She had run away. A blast of fear like a winter wind chilled his skin and gripped his heart. She was only sixteen. For a moment he could not think rationally. He just pictured her, halfway between child and adult, with the intense dark-brown eyes and sensual mouth of her mother, and an expression of blithe false confidence.
When rationality returned to him, he asked himself what had gone wrong. He had been leaving Lolla in the care of Arn and Em for a few days at a time ever since she was five years old, and she had never come to any harm. Had something changed?
He realized that he had hardly spoken to her since Easter Sunday, two weeks ago, when he had taken her by the arm and pulled her away from her disreputable friends outside the White Horse. She had sulked upstairs while the family ate dinner, and had not emerged even when Sam was arrested. She had still been in a snit a few days later, when Merthin and Caris had kissed her good-bye and set out for Shiring.
Guilt stabbed him. He had treated her harshly, and driven her away. Was Silvia's ghost watching, and despising him for his failure to care for their daughter?
The thought of Lolla's disreputable friends came back to him. "That fellow Jake Riley is behind this," he said. "Have you spoken to him, Arn?"
"No, master."
"I'd better do that right away. Do you know where he lives?"
"He lodges next to the fishmonger's behind St. Paul's Church."
Caris said to Merthin: "I'll go with you."
They crossed the bridge back into the city and headed west. The parish of St. Paul took in the industrial premises along the waterfront: abattoirs, leather tanners, sawmills, manufactories, and the dyers that had sprung up like September mushrooms since t
he invention of Kingsbridge Scarlet. Merthin headed for the squat tower of St. Paul's Church, visible over the low roofs of the houses. He found the fish shop by smell, and knocked at a large, run-down house next door.
It was opened by Sal Sawyers, poor widow of a jobbing carpenter who had died in the plague. "Jake comes and goes, Alderman," she said. "I haven't seen him for a week. He can do as he pleases, so long as he pays the rent."
Caris said: "When he left, was Lolla with him?"
Sal warily looked sideways at Merthin. "I don't like to criticize," she said.
Merthin said: "Please just tell me what you know. I won't be offended."
"She's usually with him. She does anything Jake wants, I'll say no more than that. If you look for him, you'll find her."
"Do you know where he might have gone?"
"He never says."
"Can you think of anyone who might know?"
"He doesn't bring his friends here, except for her. But I believe his pals are usually to be found at the White Horse."
Merthin nodded. "We'll try there. Thank you, Sal."
"She'll be all right," Sal said. "She's just going through a wild phase."
"I hope you're right."
Merthin and Caris retraced their steps until they came to the White Horse, on the riverside near the bridge. Merthin recalled the orgy he had witnessed here at the height of the plague, when the dying Davey Whitehorse had given away all his ale. The place had stood empty for several years afterward, but now it was once again a busy tavern. Merthin often wondered why it was popular. The rooms were cramped and dirty, and there were frequent fights. About once a year someone was killed there.
They went into a smoky parlor. It was mid-afternoon, but there were a dozen or so desultory drinkers sitting on benches. A small group was clustered around a backgammon board, and several small piles of silver pennies on the table indicated that money was being wagered on the outcome. A red-cheeked prostitute called Joy looked up hopefully at the newcomers, then saw who they were and relapsed into bored indolence. In a corner, a man was showing a woman an expensive-looking coat, apparently offering it for sale; but when he saw Merthin he folded the garment quickly and put it out of sight, and Merthin guessed it was stolen property.
The landlord, Evan, was eating a late dinner of fried bacon. He stood up, wiping his hands on his tunic, and said nervously: "Good day to you, Alderman--an honor to have you in the house. May I draw you a pot of ale?"
"I'm looking for my daughter, Lolla," Merthin said briskly.
"I haven't seen her for a week," said Evan.
Sal had said exactly the same about Jake, Merthin recalled. He said to Evan: "She may be with Jake Riley."
"Yes, I've noticed that they're friendly," Evan said tactfully. "He's been gone about the same length of time."
"Do you know where he went?"
"He's a close-lipped type, is Jake," said Evan. "If you asked him how far it was to Shiring, he'd shake his head and frown and say it was none of his business to know such things."
The whore, Joy, had been listening to the conversation, and now she chipped in. "He's openhanded, though," she said. "Fair's fair."
Merthin gave her a hard look. "And where does his money come from?"
"Horses," she said. "He goes around the villages buying foals from peasants, and sells them in the towns."
He probably stole horses from unwary travelers, too, Merthin thought sourly. "Is that what he's doing now--buying horses?"
Evan said: "Very likely. The big fair season is coming up. He could be acquiring his stockin-trade."
"And perhaps Lolla went with him."
"Not wishing to give offense, Alderman, but it's quite likely."
"It's not you who has given offense," Merthin said. He nodded a curt farewell and left the tavern, with Caris following.
"That's what she's done," he said angrily. "She's gone off with Jake. She probably thinks it's a great adventure."
"I'm afraid I think you're right," Caris said. "I hope she doesn't become pregnant."
"I wish that was the worst I feared."
They headed automatically for home. Crossing the bridge, Merthin stopped at the highest point and looked out over the suburban rooftops to the forest beyond. His little girl was somewhere out there with a shady horse dealer. She was in danger, and there was nothing he could do to protect her.
When Merthin went to the cathedral the next morning, to check on the new tower, he found that all work had stopped. "Prior's orders," said Brother Thomas when Merthin questioned him. Thomas was almost sixty years old, and showing his age. His soldierly physique was bent, and he shuffled around the precincts unsteadily. "There's been a collapse in the south aisle," he added.
Merthin glanced at Bartelmy French, a gnarled old mason from Normandy, who was sitting outside the lodge sharpening a chisel. Bartelmy shook his head in silent negation.
"That collapse was twenty-four years ago, Brother Thomas," Merthin said.
"Ah, yes, you're right," said Thomas. "My memory's not as good as it used to be, you know."
Merthin patted his shoulder. "We're all getting older."
Bartelmy said: "The prior is up the tower, if you want to see him."
Merthin certainly did. He went into the north transept, stepped through a small archway, and climbed a narrow spiral stair within the wall. As he passed from the old crossing into the new tower, the color of the stones changed from the dark gray of storm clouds to the light pearl of the morning sky. It was a long climb: the tower was already more than three hundred feet high. However, he was used to it. Almost every day for eleven years he had climbed a stair that was higher each time. It occurred to him that Philemon, who was quite fat nowadays, must have had a compelling reason to drag his bulk up all these steps.
Near the top, Merthin passed through a chamber that housed the great wheel, a wooden winding mechanism twice as high as a man, used for hoisting stones, mortar, and timber up to where they were needed. When the spire was finished the wheel would be left here permanently, to be used for repair work by future generations of builders, until the trumpets sounded on the Day of Judgment.
He emerged on top of the tower. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing, though none had been noticeable at ground level. A leaded walkway ran around the inside of the tower's summit. Scaffolding stood around an octagonal hole, ready for the masons who would build the spire. Dressed stones were piled nearby, and a heap of mortar was drying up wastefully on a wooden board.
There were no workmen here. Prior Philemon stood on the far side with Harold Mason. They were deep in conversation, but stopped guiltily when Merthin came into view. He had to shout into the wind to make himself heard. "Why have you stopped the building?"
Philemon had his answer ready. "There's a problem with your design."
Merthin looked at Harold. "You mean some people can't understand it."
"Experienced people say it can't be built," Philemon said defiantly.
"Experienced people?" Merthin repeated scornfully. "Who in Kingsbridge is experienced? Who has built a bridge? Who has worked with the great architects of Florence? Who has seen Rome, Avignon, Paris, Rouen? Certainly not Harold here. No offense, Harold, but you've never even been to London."
Harold said: "I'm not the only one who thinks it's impossible to build an octagonal tower with no formwork."
Merthin was about to say something sarcastic, but stopped himself. Philemon must have more than this, he realized. The prior had deliberately chosen to fight this battle. Therefore he must have weapons more formidable than the mere opinion of Harold Mason. He had presumably won some support among members of the guild--but how? Other builders who were prepared to say that Merthin's spire was impossible must have been offered some incentive. That probably meant construction work for them. "What is it?" he said to Philemon. "What are you hoping to build?"
"I don't know what you mean," Philemon blustered.
"You've got an alternative project, and you've
offered Harold and his friends a piece of it. What's the building?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"A bigger palace for yourself? A new chapter house? It can't be a hospital, we've already got three. Come on, you might as well tell me. Unless you're ashamed of it."
Philemon was stung into a response. "The monks wish to build a Lady chapel."
"Ah." That made sense. The cult of the Virgin was increasingly popular. The church hierarchy approved because the wave of piety associated with Mary counterbalanced the skepticism and heresy that had afflicted congregations since the plague. Numerous cathedrals and churches were adding a special small chapel at the east end--the holiest part of the building--dedicated to the Mother of God. Merthin did not like the architecture: on most churches, a Lady chapel looked like an afterthought, which of course it was.
What was Philemon's motive? He was always trying to ingratiate himself with someone--that was his modus operandi. A Lady chapel at Kingsbridge would undoubtedly please conservative senior clergy.
This was the second move Philemon had made in that direction. On Easter Sunday, from the pulpit of the cathedral, he had condemned dissection of corpses. He was mounting a campaign, Merthin realized. But what was its purpose?
Merthin decided to do nothing more until he had figured out what Philemon was up to. Without saying anything further, he left the roof and started down the series of staircases and ladders to the ground.
Merthin arrived home at the dinner hour, and Caris came in from the hospital a few minutes later. "Brother Thomas is getting worse," he said to Caris. "Is there anything that can be done for him?"
She shook her head. "There's no cure for senility."
"He told me the south aisle had collapsed as if it had happened yesterday."
"That's typical. He remembers the distant past but doesn't know what's going on today. Poor Thomas. He'll probably deteriorate quite fast. But at least he's in a familiar place. Monasteries don't change much over the decades. His daily routine is probably the same as it has always been. That will help."
As they sat down to mutton stew with leeks and mint, Merthin explained the morning's developments. The two of them had been battling Kingsbridge priors for decades: first Anthony, then Godwyn, and now Philemon. They had thought that the granting of the borough charter would put an end to the constant jockeying. It had certainly improved matters, but it seemed Philemon had not given up yet.