Epic Historial Collection (136 page)

Aliena turned to Richard. “They're too disorganized to be a real threat,” she said.

He nodded. “With a little help they could be quite dangerous, because they're desperate. But as it is they've no leadership.”

Aliena was struck by a thought. “An army waiting for a leader,” she said. Richard did not react, but she was excited by the idea. Richard was a good leader who had no army. The outlaws were an army without a leader. And the earldom was falling apart….

Some of the townspeople continued to throw stones and shoot arrows at the outlaws, and more of the scavengers fell. This was the final discouragement, and they began to retreat, like a pack of dogs with their tails between their legs, looking back over their shoulders regretfully. Then someone opened the north gate, and a crowd of young men charged out, brandishing swords and axes, and went after the stragglers. The outlaws fled, but some were caught and butchered.

Ellen turned away in disgust and said to Richard: “You should have stopped those boys from giving chase.”

“Young men need to see some blood, after a set-to such as this,” he said. “Besides, the more we kill this time, the fewer we'll have to fight next time.”

It was a soldier's philosophy, Aliena thought. In the time when she had felt her life threatened every day she would probably have been like the young men, and chased after outlaws to slaughter them. Now she wanted to wipe out the causes of outlawry, not the outlaws themselves. Besides, she had thought of a way to use those outlaws.

Richard told someone to sound the all-clear on the priory bell and gave instructions for a double watch for the night, with patrolling guards as well as sentries. Aliena went to the priory and collected Martha and the children. They all met again at Jack's house.

It pleased Aliena that they were all together: she and Jack and their children, and Jack's mother, and Aliena's brother, and Martha. It was quite like an ordinary family, and Aliena could almost forget that her father had died in a dungeon, and she was legally married to Jack's stepbrother, and Ellen was an outlaw, and—

She shook her head. It was no use pretending this was a normal family.

Jack drew a jug of ale from the barrel and poured it into large cups. Everyone felt tense and excited after the danger. Ellen built up the fire and Martha sliced turnips into a pot, beginning to make a broth for supper. Once upon a time they would have put half a pig on the fire on a day such as this.

Richard drank his ale in one long swallow, wiped his mouth, and said: “We're going to see more of this kind of thing before the winter's out.”

Jack said: “They should attack Earl William's storehouses, not Prior Philip's. It's William who has made most of these people destitute.”

“They won't have any more success against William than they did against us, unless they improve their tactics. They're like a pack of dogs.”

Aliena said: “They need a leader.”

Jack said: “Pray they never get one! They would really be dangerous then.”

Aliena said: “A leader might direct them to attack William's property instead of ours.”

“I don't follow you,” Jack said. “Would a leader do that?”

“He would if he was Richard.”

They all went quiet.

The idea had grown in Aliena's mind, and she was now convinced it could work. They could fulfill their vows, Richard could destroy William and become the earl, and the county could be restored to peace and prosperity…. The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. She said: “There were more than a hundred men in that rabble today.” She turned to Ellen. “How many more are there in the forest?”

“Countless,” Ellen said. “Hundreds. Thousands.”

Aliena leaned across the kitchen table and locked eyes with Richard. “Be their leader,” she said forcefully. “Organize them. Teach them how to fight. Devise plans of attack. Then send them into action—against William.”

As she spoke, she realized that she was telling him to put his life in danger, and she was filled with trepidation. Instead of winning back the earldom he could be killed.

But he had no such qualms. “By God, Allie, you could be right,” he said. “I could have an army of my own, and lead it against William.”

Aliena saw in his face the flush of a hatred long nurtured, and she noticed again the scar on his left ear, where the lobe had been sliced off. She pushed down the vile memory that threatened to surface.

Richard was warming to his theme. “I could raid William's herds,” he said with relish. “Steal his sheep, poach his deer, break open his barns, rob his mills. My God, I could make that vermin suffer, if I had an army.”

He had always been a soldier, Aliena thought; it was his fate. Despite her fear for his safety, she was thrilled by the prospect that he might have another chance to fulfill his destiny.

He thought of a snag. “But how can I find the outlaws?” he said. “They always hide.”

“I can answer that,” said Ellen. “Branching off the Winchester road is an overgrown track that leads to a disused quarry. That's their hideout. It used to be known as Sally's Quarry.”

Seven-year-old Sally said: “But I haven't got a quarry!”

Everyone laughed.

Then they went quiet again.

Richard looked exuberant and determined. “Very well,” he said tightly. “Sally's Quarry.”

 

“We'd been working hard all morning, uprooting a massive tree stump up the hill,” said Philip. “When we came back, my brother, Francis, was standing right there, in the goat pen, holding you in his arms. You were a day old.”

Jonathan looked grave. This was a solemn moment for him.

Philip surveyed the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. There was not much forest in sight now: over the years the monks had cleared many acres, and the monastery was surrounded by fields. There were more stone buildings—a chapter house, a refectory and a dormitory—plus a host of smaller wooden barns and dairies. It hardly looked like the place he had left seventeen years ago. The people were different, too. Several of those young monks now occupied positions of responsibility at Kingsbridge. William Beauvis, who had caused trouble by flicking hot candle wax at the novice-master's bald head all those years ago, was now prior here. Some had gone: that troublemaker Peter of Wareham was in Canterbury, working for an ambitious young archdeacon called Thomas Becket.

“I wonder what they were like,” said Jonathan. “I mean my parents.”

Philip felt a twinge of pain for him. Philip himself had lost his parents, but not until he was six years old, and he could remember them both quite well: his mother calm and loving, his father tall and black-bearded and—to Philip, anyway—brave and strong. Jonathan did not even have that. All he knew about his parents was that they had not wanted him.

“We can guess a lot about them,” Philip said.

“Really?” Jonathan said eagerly. “What?”

“They were poor,” Philip said. “Wealthy people have no reason to abandon their children. They were friendless: friends know when you're expecting a baby, and ask questions if a child disappears. They were desperate. Only desperate people can bear to lose a child.”

Jonathan's face was taut with unshed tears. Philip wanted to weep for him, this boy who—everyone said—was so much like Philip himself. Philip wished he could give him some consolation, tell him something warm and heartening about his parents; but how could he pretend that they had loved the boy, when they had left him to die?

Jonathan said: “But why does God do such things?”

Philip saw his opportunity. “Once you start asking that question, you can end up in confusion. But in this case I think the answer is clear. God wanted you for himself.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Have I never told you that before? I've always believed it. I said so to the monks here, on the day you were found. I told them that God had sent you here for a purpose of his own, and it was our duty to raise you in God's service so that you would be fit to perform the task he has assigned you.”

“I wonder if my mother knows that.”

“If she's with the angels, she does.”

“What do you think my task might be?”

“God needs monks to be writers, illuminators, musicians, and farmers. He needs men to take on the demanding jobs, such as cellarer, prior and bishop. He needs men who can trade in wool, heal the sick, educate the schoolboys and build churches.”

“It's hard to imagine that he has a role cut out for me.”

“I can't think he would have gone to this much trouble with you if he didn't,” Philip said with a smile. “However, it might not be a grand or prominent role in worldly terms. He might want you to become one of the quiet monks, a humble man who devotes his life to prayer and contemplation.”

Jonathan's face fell. “I suppose he might.”

Philip laughed. “But I don't think so. God wouldn't make a knife out of wood, or a lady's chemise of shoe leather. You aren't the right material for a life of quietude, and God knows it. My guess is that he wants you to fight for him, not sing to him.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“But right now I think he wants you to go and see Brother Leo and find out how many cheeses he has for the cellar at Kingsbridge.”

“Right.”

“I'm going to talk to my brother in the chapter house. And-remember—if any of the monks speak to you about Francis, say as little as you can.”

“I shall say nothing.”

“Off you go.”

Jonathan walked quickly across the yard. His solemn mood had left him already, and his natural exuberance had returned before he reached the dairy. Philip watched him until he disappeared into the building. I was just like that, except perhaps not so clever, he thought.

He went the opposite way, to the chapter house. Francis had sent a message asking Philip to meet him here discreetly. As far as the Kingsbridge monks were concerned, Philip was making a routine visit to a cell. The meeting could not be kept from the monks here, of course, but they were so isolated they had nobody to tell. Only the prior of the cell ever came to Kingsbridge, and Philip had sworn him to secrecy.

He and Francis had arrived this morning, and although they could not plausibly claim that the meeting was an accident, they were maintaining a pretense that they had organized it only for the pleasure of seeing one another. They had both attended high mass, then taken dinner with the monks. Now was their first chance to talk alone.

Francis was waiting in the chapter house, sitting on a stone bench against the wall. Philip almost never saw his own reflection—there were no looking-glasses in a monastery—so he measured his own aging by the changes in his brother, who was only two years younger. Francis at forty-two had a few threads of silver in his black hair, and a crop of stress lines around his bright blue eyes. He was much heavier around the neck and waist than last time Philip had seen him. I've probably got more gray hair and less surplus fat, Philip thought; but I wonder which of us has more worry lines?

He sat down beside Francis and looked across the empty octagonal room. Francis said: “How are things?”

“The savages are in control again,” Philip said. “The priory is running out of money, we've almost stopped building the cathedral, Kingsbridge is on the decline, half the county is starving and it's not safe to travel.”

Francis nodded. “It's the same story all over England.”

“Perhaps the savages will always be in control,” Philip said gloomily. “Perhaps greed will always outweigh wisdom in the councils of the mighty; perhaps fear will always overcome compassion in the mind of a man with a sword in his hand.”

“You're not usually so pessimistic.”

“We were attacked by outlaws a few weeks ago. It was a pitiable effort: no sooner had the townsmen killed a few than the outlaws started fighting among themselves. But when they retreated, the young men of our town chased after the poor wretches and slaughtered all they could catch. It was sickening.”

Francis shook his head. “It's hard to understand.”

“I think I do understand it. They'd been frightened, and could only exorcise their fear by shedding the blood of the people who had scared them. I saw that in the eyes of the men who killed our mother and father. They killed because they were scared. But what can take away their fear?”

Francis sighed. “Peace, justice, prosperity…Hard things to achieve.”

Philip nodded. “Well. What are you up to?”

“I'm working for the son of the Empress Maud. His name is Henry.”

Philip had heard talk of this Henry. “What's he like?”

“He's a very clever and determined young man. His father is dead, so he's count of Anjou. He's also duke of Normandy, because he's the eldest grandson of old Henry, who used to be king of England and duke of Normandy. And he's married Eleanor of Aquitaine, so now he's duke of Aquitaine as well.”