by Ken Follett
Now he was here with a handcart loaded with old four-gallon flour sacks full of what he believed to be precious madder dye.
Merthin told him to pick up one of the sacks and bring it to the gate. When they got there, he called out to the sentry on the other side. The man climbed to the battlements and looked down. "This sack is for Madge Webber," Merthin shouted up. "Make sure she gets it personally, would you, sentry?"
"Very good, Alderman," said the sentry.
As always, a few plague victims from the villages were brought to the island by their relatives. Most people now knew there was no cure for the plague, and simply let their loved ones die, but a few were ignorant or optimistic enough to hope that Caris could work a miracle. The sick were left outside the hospital doors, like supplies at the city gate. The nuns came out for them at night when the relatives had gone. Now and again a lucky survivor emerged in good health, but most patients went out through the back door, and were buried in a new graveyard on the far side of the hospital building.
At midday Merthin invited Davey to dinner. Over rabbit pie and new peas, Davey confessed he was in love with the daughter of his mother's old enemy. "I don't know why Ma hates Annet, but it's all so long in the past, and it's nothing to do with me or Amabel," he said, with the indignation of youth against the irrationality of parents. When Merthin nodded sympathetically, Davey asked: "Did your parents stand in your way like this?"
Merthin thought for a moment. "Yes," he said. "I wanted to be a squire and spend my life as a knight fighting for the king. I was heartbroken when they apprenticed me to a carpenter. However, in my case it worked out quite well."
Davey was not pleased by this anecdote.
In the afternoon access to the inner bridge was closed off at the island end, and the gates of the city were opened. Teams of porters came out and picked up everything that had been left, and carried the supplies to their destinations in the city.
There was no message from Madge about the dye.
Merthin had a second visitor that day. Toward the end of the afternoon, as trading petered out, Canon Claude arrived.
Claude's friend and patron, Bishop Henri, was now installed as archbishop of Monmouth. However, his replacement as bishop of Kingsbridge had not been chosen. Claude wanted the position, and had been to London to see Sir Gregory Longfellow. He was on his way back to Monmouth, where he would continue to work as Henri's right-hand man for the moment.
"The king likes Philemon's line on taxation of the clergy," he said over cold rabbit pie and a goblet of Merthin's best Gascon wine. "And the senior clergy liked the sermon against dissection and the plan to build a Lady chapel. On the other hand, Gregory dislikes Philemon--says he can't be trusted. The upshot is, the king has postponed a decision by ruling that the monks of Kingsbridge cannot hold an election while they are in exile at St.-John-in-the-Forest."
Merthin said: "I assume the king sees little point in selecting a bishop while the plague rages and the city is closed."
Claude nodded agreement. "I did achieve something, albeit small," he went on. "There is a vacancy for an English ambassador to the pope. The appointee has to live in Avignon. I suggested Philemon. Gregory seemed intrigued by the idea. At least, he didn't rule it out."
"Good!" The thought of Philemon being sent so far away lifted Merthin's spirits. He wished there were something he could do to weigh in on Claude's side; but he had already written to Gregory pledging the support of the guild, and that was the limit of his influence.
"One more piece of news--sad news, in fact," Claude said. "On my way to London, I went to St.-John-in-the-Forest. Henri is still abbot, technically, and he sent me to reprimand Philemon for decamping without permission. Waste of time, really. Anyway, Philemon has adopted Caris's precautions, and would not let me in, but we talked through the door. So far, the monks have escaped the plague. But your old friend Brother Thomas has died of old age. I'm sorry."
"God rest his soul," Merthin said sadly. "He was very frail toward the end. His mind was going, too."
"The move to St. John probably didn't help him."
"Thomas encouraged me when I was a young builder."
"Strange how God sometimes takes the good men from us and leaves the bad."
Claude left early the next morning.
As Merthin was going through his daily routine, one of the carters came back from the city gate with a message. Madge Webber was on the battlements and wanted to talk to Merthin and Davey.
"Do you think she'll buy my madder?" Davey said as they walked across the inner bridge.
Merthin had no idea. "I hope so," he said.
They stood side by side in front of the closed gate and looked up. Madge leaned over the wall and shouted down: "Where did this stuff come from?"
"I grew it," Davey said.
"And who are you?"
"Davey from Wigleigh, son of Wulfric."
"Oh--Gwenda's boy?"
"Yes, the younger one."
"Well, I've tested your dye."
"It works, doesn't it?" Davey said eagerly.
"It's very weak. Did you grind the roots whole?"
"Yes--what else would I have done?"
"You're supposed to remove the hulls before grinding."
"I didn't know that." Davey was crestfallen. "Is the powder no good?"
"As I said, it's weak. I can't pay the price of pure dye."
Davey looked so dismayed that Merthin's heart went out to him.
Madge said: "How much have you got?"
"Nine more four-gallon sacks like the one you have," Davey said despondently.
"I'll give you half the usual price--three shillings and sixpence a gallon. That's fourteen shillings a sack, so exactly seven pounds for ten sacks."
Davey's face was a picture of delight. Merthin wished Caris were with him just to share it. "Seven pounds!" Davey repeated.
Thinking he was disappointed, Madge said: "I can't do better than that--the dye just isn't strong enough."
But seven pounds was a fortune to Davey. It was several years' wages for a laborer, even at today's rates. He looked at Merthin. "I'm rich!" he said.
Merthin laughed and said: "Don't spend it all at once."
The next day was Sunday. Merthin went to the morning service at the island's own little church of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, patron saint of healers. Then he went home and got a stout oak spade from his gardener's hut. With the spade over his shoulder, he walked across the outer bridge, through the suburbs, and into his past.
He tried hard to remember the route he had taken through the forest thirty-four years ago with Caris, Ralph, and Gwenda. It seemed impossible. There were no pathways other than deer runs. Saplings had become mature trees, and mighty oaks had been felled by the king's woodcutters. Nevertheless, to his surprise there were still recognizable landmarks: a spring gurgling up out of the ground where he remembered the ten-year-old Caris kneeling to drink; a huge rock that she said looked as if it must have fallen from Heaven; a steep-sided little valley with a boggy bottom where she had got mud in her boots.
As he walked, his recollection of that day of childhood became more vivid. He remembered how the dog, Hop, had followed them, and Gwenda had followed her dog. He felt again the pleasure of having Caris understand his joke. His face reddened at the recollection of how incompetent he had been, in front of Caris, with the bow he had made--and how easily his younger brother had mastered the weapon.
Most of all, he remembered Caris as a girl. They had been preadolescent, but nevertheless he had been bewitched by her quick wits, her daring, and the effortless way she had assumed command of the little group. It was not love, but it was a kind of fascination that was not unlike love.
Remembrance distracted him from pathfinding, and he lost his bearings. He began to feel as if he was in completely unfamiliar territory--then, suddenly, he emerged into a clearing and knew he was in the right place. The bushes were more extensive; the trunk of the oak tree was even broader; and t
he clearing in between was gay with a scatter of summer flowers, as it had not been on that November day in 1327. But he was in no doubt: it was like a face he had not seen for years, changed but unmistakable.
A shorter and skinnier Merthin had crawled under that bush to hide from the big man crashing through the undergrowth. He remembered how the exhausted, panting Thomas had stood with his back to that oak tree and drawn his sword and dagger.
He saw in his imagination the events of that day played out again. Two men in yellow-and-green livery had caught up with Thomas and asked him for a letter. Thomas had distracted the men by telling them they were being observed by someone hiding in a bush. Merthin had felt sure he and the other children would be murdered--then Ralph, just ten years old, had killed one of the men-at-arms, showing the quick and deadly reflexes that had served him so well, years later, in the French wars. Thomas had dispatched the other man, though not before receiving the wound that had ended in his losing his left arm--despite, or perhaps because of, the treatment given him in the hospital at Kingsbridge Priory. Then Merthin had helped Thomas bury the letter.
Just here, Thomas had said. Right in front of the oak tree.
There was a secret in the letter, Merthin knew now; a secret so potent that high-ranking people were frightened of it. The secret had given Thomas protection, though he had nevertheless sought sanctuary in a monastery and spent his life there.
If you hear that I've died, Thomas had said to the boy Merthin, I'd like you to dig up this letter and give it to a priest.
Merthin the man hefted his spade and began to dig.
He was not sure whether this was what Thomas had intended. The buried letter was a precaution against Thomas's being killed by violence, not dying of natural causes at the age of fifty-eight. Would he still have wanted the letter dug up? Merthin did not know. He would decide what to do when he had read the letter. He was irresistibly curious about what was in it.
His memory of where he had buried the bag was not perfect, and with his first try he missed the spot. He got down about eighteen inches and realized his mistake: the hole had been only about a foot deep, he was sure. He tried again a few inches to the left.
This time he got it right.
A foot down, the spade struck something that was not earth. It was soft, but unyielding. He put the spade to one side and scrabbled with his fingers in the hole. He felt a piece of ancient, rotting leather. Gently, he dislodged the earth and lifted the object. It was the wallet Thomas had worn on his belt all those years ago.
He wiped his muddy hands on his tunic and opened it.
Inside was a bag made of oiled wool, still intact. He loosened the drawstring of the bag and reached in. He pulled out a sheet of parchment, rolled into a scroll and sealed with wax.
He handled it gently, but all the same the wax crumbled as soon as he touched it. With careful fingertips he unrolled the parchment. It was intact: it had survived thirty-four years in the earth remarkably well.
He saw immediately that it was not an official document but a personal letter. He could tell by the handwriting, which was the painstaking scrawl of an educated nobleman, rather than the practised script of a clerk.
He began to read. The salutation ran:
From Edward, the second of that name, King of England, at Berkeley Castle; by the hand of his faithful servant, Sir Thomas Langley; to his beloved eldest son, Edward; royal greeting and fatherly love.
Merthin felt scared. This was a message from the old king to the new. The hand holding the document shook, and he looked up from it and scanned the greenery around him, as if there might be someone peering at him through the bushes.
My beloved son, you will soon hear that I am dead. Know that it is not true.
Merthin frowned. This was not what he had expected.
Your mother, the queen, the wife of my heart, has corrupted and subverted Roland, earl of Shiring, and his sons, who sent murderers here; but I was forewarned by Thomas, and the murderers were killed.
So Thomas had not been the assassin, after all, but the savior of the king.
Your mother, having failed to kill me once, would surely try again, for she and her adulterous consort cannot feel safe while I live. So I have changed clothes with one of the slain murderers, a man of my height and general appearance, and I have bribed several people to swear that the dead body is mine. Your mother will know the truth when she sees the body, but she will go along with the pretense; for if I am thought to be dead, I will be no threat to her, and no rebel or rival to the throne can claim my support.
Merthin was amazed. The nation had thought Edward II to be dead. All Europe had been fooled.
But what had happened to him afterward?
I will not tell you where I plan to go, but know that I intend to leave my kingdom of England and never return. However, I pray that I will again see you, my son, before I die.
Why had Thomas buried this letter instead of delivering it? Because he had feared for his own life, and had seen the letter as a powerful weapon in his defense. Once Queen Isabella had committed herself to the pretense of her husband's death, she had needed to deal with those few people who knew the truth. Merthin now recalled that while he was still an adolescent, the earl of Kent had been convicted of treason and beheaded for maintaining that Edward II was still alive.
Queen Isabella had sent men to kill Thomas, and they had caught up with him just outside Kingsbridge. But Thomas had disposed of them, with the help of the ten-year-old Ralph. Afterward, Thomas must have threatened to expose the whole deception--and he had proof, in the form of the old king's letter. That evening, as he lay in the hospital at Kingsbridge Priory, Thomas had negotiated with the queen, or more likely with Earl Roland and his sons as her agents. He had promised to keep the secret, on condition that he was accepted as a monk. He would feel safe in the monastery--and, in case the queen should be tempted to renege, he had said that the letter was in a safe place and would be revealed on his death. The queen therefore needed to keep him alive.
Old Prior Anthony had known something of this, and as he lay dying had told Mother Cecilia, who on her own deathbed had repeated part of the story to Caris. People might keep secrets for decades, Merthin reflected, but they felt compelled to tell the truth when death was near. Caris had also seen the incriminating document that gave Lynn Grange to the priory on condition Thomas was accepted as a monk. Merthin now understood why Caris's disingenuous inquiries about this document had caused such trouble. Sir Gregory Longfellow had persuaded Ralph to break into the monastery and steal all the nuns' charters in the hope of finding the incriminating letter.
Had the destructive power of this sheet of vellum been lessened by the passage of time? Isabella had lived a long life, but she had died three years ago. Edward II himself was almost certainly dead--if alive, he would be seventy-seven now. Would Edward III fear the revelation that his father had remained alive when the world thought him dead? He was too strong a king now to be seriously threatened, but he would face great embarrassment and humiliation.
So what was Merthin to do?
He remained where he was, on the grassy floor of the forest among the wildflowers, for a long time. At last he rolled up the scroll, replaced it in the bag, and put the bag back in the old leather pouch.
He put the pouch back into the ground and filled up the hole. He also filled in his first, erroneous hole. He smoothed the earth on top of both. He stripped some leaves off the bushes and scattered them in front of the oak tree. He stood back and looked at his work. He was satisfied: the excavations were no longer visible to the casual glance.
Then he turned his back on the clearing and went home.
90
At the end of August, Earl Ralph made a tour of his landholdings around Shiring, accompanied by his long-term sidekick, Sir Alan Fernhill, and his newfound son, Sam. He enjoyed having Sam along, his child yet a grown man. His other sons, Gerry and Roley, were too young for this sort of thing. Sam did not know a
bout his paternity, but Ralph nursed the secret with pleasure.
They were horrified by what they saw as they went around. Hundreds of Ralph's serfs were dead or dying, and the corn was standing unharvested in the fields. As they rode from one place to the next, Ralph's anger and frustration grew. His sarcastic remarks cowed his companions, and his bad temper turned his horse skittish.
In each village, as well as the serfs' landholdings, some acres were kept exclusively for the earl's personal use. They should have been cultivated by his employees and by serfs who were obliged to work for him one day a week. These lands were in the worst state of all. Many of his employees had died; so had some of the serfs who owed him labor; other serfs had negotiated more favorable tenancies after the last plague, so that they no longer had to work for the lord; and, finally, it was impossible to find laborers for hire.
When Ralph came to Wigleigh, he went around the back of the manor house and looked into the big timber barn, which at this time of year should have been filling with grain ready for milling--but it was empty, and a cat had given birth to a litter of kittens in the hayloft.
"What will we do for bread?" he roared at Nathan Reeve. "With no barley to make ale, what will we drink? You'd better have a plan, by God."
Nate looked churlish. "All we can do is reallocate the strips," he said.
Ralph was surprised by his surliness. Nate was usually sycophantic. Then Nate glared at young Sam, and Ralph realized why the worm had turned. Nate hated Sam for killing Jonno, his son. Instead of punishing Sam, Ralph had first pardoned him, then made him a squire. No wonder Nate looked resentful.
Ralph said: "There must be one or two young men in the village who could farm some extra acres."
"Ah, yes, but they aren't willing to pay an entry fee," Nate said.
"They want land for nothing?"
"Yes. They can see that you have too much land and not enough labor, and they know when they're in a strong bargaining position." In the past Nate had been quick to abuse uppity peasants, but now he seemed to be enjoying Ralph's dilemma.
"They act as if England belongs to them, not to the nobility," Ralph said angrily.