Epic Historial Collection (168 page)

Godwyn was shocked. “But I gave the right answer!”

“Did you?”

“Surely you didn't agree with the barber?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I won't be interrogated by you, Brother Godwyn.”

“I'm sorry,” he said immediately. “I just don't understand it.”

“I know.”

If she was going to be enigmatic, there was no point in talking to her. Godwyn turned away, shaking with frustration and disappointment. She was giving the money to Saul! Was it because he was related to the earl? Godwyn thought not: she was too independent-minded. It was Saul's showy piety that had tipped the balance, he decided. But Saul would never be leader of anything. What a waste. Godwyn wondered how he was going to break this news to his mother. She would be furious—but who would she blame? Anthony? Godwyn himself? A familiar feeling of dread came over him as he pictured his mother's wrath.

As he thought of her, he saw her enter the hospital by the door at the far end, a tall woman with a prominent bust. She caught his eye and stood by the door, waiting for him to come to her. He walked slowly, trying to figure out what to say.

“Your aunt Rose is dying,” Petranilla said as soon as he was close.

“May God bless her soul. Mother Cecilia told me.”

“You look shocked—but you know how ill she is.”

“It's not Aunt Rose. I've had other bad news.” He swallowed. “I can't go to Oxford. Uncle Anthony won't pay for it, and Mother Cecilia turned me down, too.”

She did not explode immediately, to his great relief. However, her mouth tightened into a grim line. “But why?” she said.

“He hasn't got the money, and she is sending Saul.”

“Saul Whitehead? He'll never amount to anything.”

“Well, at least he's going to be a physician.”

She looked him in the eye, and he shriveled. “I think you handled this badly,” she said. “You should have discussed it with me beforehand.”

He had feared she would take this line. “How can you say I mishandled it?” he protested.

“You should have let me speak to Anthony first. I would have softened him.”

“He still might have said no.”

“And before you approached Cecilia, you should have found out whether anyone else had asked her. Then you could have undermined Saul before speaking to her.”

“How?”

“He must have a weakness. You could have found out what it is, and made sure it was brought to her attention. Then, when she was feeling disillusioned, you could have approached her yourself.”

He saw the sense of what she was saying. “I never thought of that,” he said. He bowed his head.

With controlled anger she said: “You have to plan these things, the way earls plan battles.”

“I see that now,” he said, not meeting her eye. “I'll never make the same mistake again.”

“I hope not.”

He looked at her again. “What am I going to do?”

“I'm not giving up.” A familiar expression of determination came over her face. “I shall provide the money,” she said.

Godwyn felt a surge of hope, but he could not imagine how his mother would fulfill such a promise. “Where will you get it?” he asked.

“I'll give up my house, and move in with my brother Edmund.”

“Will he have you?” Edmund was a generous man, but he sometimes clashed with his sister.

“I think he will. He's going to be a widower soon, and he'll need a housekeeper. Not that Rose was ever very effective in that role.”

Godwyn shook his head. “You'll still need money.”

“For what? Edmund will give me bed and board, and pay for the few small necessities I may require. In return, I'll manage his servants and raise his daughters. And you shall have the money I inherited from your father.”

She spoke firmly, but Godwyn could see the bitterness of regret expressed in the twist of her mouth. He knew what a sacrifice this would be for her. She was proud of her independence. She was one of the town's prominent women, the daughter of a wealthy man and the sister of the leading wool merchant, and she prized that status. She loved to invite the powerful men and women of Kingsbridge to dine with her and drink the best wine. Now she was proposing to move into her brother's house and live as a poor relation, working as a kind of servant and dependent on him for everything. It would be a terrible comedown. “It's too much to sacrifice,” Godwyn said. “You can't do it.”

Her face hardened, and she gave a little shake of the shoulders, as if preparing to take the weight of a heavy burden. “Oh, yes, I can,” she said.

5

G
wenda told her father everything.

She had sworn on the blood of Jesus that she would keep the secret, so now she was going to Hell, but she was more frightened of her father than of Hell.

He began by asking her where she got Skip, the new puppy, and she was forced to explain how Hop had died; and in the end the whole story came out.

To her surprise, she was not whipped. In fact Pa seemed pleased. He made her take him to the clearing in the forest where the killings had happened. It was not easy to find the place again, but she got there, and they found the bodies of the two men-at-arms dressed in green-and-yellow livery.

First Pa opened their purses. Both contained twenty or thirty pennies. He was even more pleased with their swords, which were worth more than a few pennies. He began to strip the dead men, which was difficult for him with one hand, so he made Gwenda help him. The lifeless bodies were awkwardly heavy, so strange to touch. Pa made her take off everything they wore, even their muddy hose and their soiled underdrawers.

He wrapped their weapons in the clothing, making what looked like a bundle of rags. Then he and Gwenda dragged the naked corpses back into the evergreen bush.

He was in high spirits as they walked back into Kingsbridge. He took her to Slaughterhouse Ditch, a street near the river, and they went into a large but dirty tavern called the White Horse. He bought Gwenda a cup of ale to drink while he disappeared into the back of the house with the innkeeper, whom he addressed as “Davey boy.” It was the second time Gwenda had drunk ale in one day. Pa reappeared a few minutes later without the bundle.

They returned to the main street and found Ma, Philemon, and the baby at the Bell Inn, next to the priory gates. Pa winked broadly at Ma and gave her a big handful of money to hide in the baby's blankets.

It was mid-afternoon, and most visitors had left to return to their villages; but it was too late to set out for Wigleigh, so the family would spend the night at the inn. As Pa kept saying, they could afford it now; although Ma said nervously: “Don't let people know you've got money!”

Gwenda felt weary. She had got up early and walked a long way. She lay down on a bench and quickly fell asleep.

She was awakened by the inn door banging open violently. She looked up, startled, to see two men-at-arms walk in. At first she thought they were the ghosts of the men who had been killed in the forest, and she suffered a moment of sheer terror. Then she realized they were different men wearing the same uniform, yellow on one side and green on the other. The younger of the two carried a familiar-looking bundle of rags.

The older spoke directly to Pa. “You're Joby from Wigleigh, aren't you?”

Gwenda instantly felt frightened again. There was a tone of serious menace in the man's voice. He was not posturing, just determined, but he gave her the impression he would do anything to get his way.

“No,” Pa replied, lying automatically. “You've got the wrong man.”

They ignored that. The second man put the bundle on the table and spread it out. It consisted of two yellow-and-green tunics wrapped around two swords and two daggers. He looked at Pa and said: “Where did these come from?”

“I've never seen them before, I swear by the Cross.”

He was stupid to deny it, Gwenda thought fearfully: they would get the truth out of him, just as he had got the truth out of her.

The older man-at-arms said: “Davey, the landlord of the White Horse, says he bought these from Joby Wigleigh.” His voice hardened with threat, and the handful of other customers in the room all got up from their seats and quickly slipped out of the inn, leaving only Gwenda's family.

“Joby left here a while ago,” Pa said desperately.

The man nodded. “With his wife, two children, and a baby.”

“Yes.”

The man moved with sudden speed. He grabbed Pa's tunic in a strong hand and pushed him up against the wall. Ma screamed, and the baby began to cry. Gwenda saw that the man's right hand bore a padded glove covered with chain mail. He drew back his arm and punched Pa in the stomach.

Ma shouted: “Help! Murder!” Philemon began to cry.

Pa's face turned white with pain, and he went limp, but the man held him up against the wall, preventing him from falling, and punched him again, this time in the face. Blood spurted from Pa's nose and mouth.

Gwenda wanted to scream, and her mouth was open wide, but no noise would come from her throat. She thought her father was all-powerful—even though he often slyly pretended to be weak, or craven, in order to get sympathy, or turn aside anger—and it terrified her to see him so helpless.

The innkeeper appeared in the doorway that led to the back of the house. He was a big man in his thirties. A plump little girl peeped from behind him. “What's this?” he said in a voice of authority.

The man-at-arms did not look at him. “You keep out of it,” he said, and he punched Pa in the stomach again.

Pa vomited blood.

“Stop that,” said the innkeeper.

The man-at-arms said: “Who do you think you are?”

“I'm Paul Bell, and this is my house.”

“Well, then, Paul Bell, you mind your own business, if you know what's good for you.”

“I suppose you think you can do what you like, wearing that uniform.” There was contempt in Paul's voice.

“That's about right.”

“Whose livery is it, anyway?”

“The queen's.”

Paul spoke over his shoulder. “Bessie, run and fetch John Constable. If a man is going to be murdered in my tavern, I want the constable to witness it.” The little girl disappeared.

“There'll be no killing here,” the man-at-arms said. “Joby has changed his mind. He's decided to lead me to the place where he robbed two dead men—haven't you, Joby?”

Pa could not speak, but he nodded. The man let him go, and he fell to his knees, coughing and retching.

The man looked at the rest of the family. “And the child that witnessed the fight…?”

Gwenda screamed: “No!”

He nodded in satisfaction. “The rat-faced girl, obviously.”

Gwenda ran to her mother. Ma said: “Mary, Mother of God, save my child.”

The man grabbed Gwenda's arm and roughly pulled her away from her mother. She cried out. He said harshly: “Shut your noise, or you'll get the same as your miserable father.”

Gwenda clamped her jaws together to stop herself screaming.

“Get up, Joby.” The man dragged Pa to his feet. “Pull yourself together, you're going for a ride.”

The second man picked up the clothes and the weapons.

As they left the inn, Ma called out frantically: “Just do everything they ask!”

The men had horses. Gwenda rode in front of the older man, and Pa was mounted in the same position on the other horse. Pa was helpless, groaning, so Gwenda directed them, remembering the way clearly now that she had followed it twice. They made rapid progress on horseback, but all the same the afternoon was darkening when they reached the clearing.

The younger man held on to Gwenda and Pa while the leader pulled the bodies of their comrades out from under the bush.

“That Thomas must be a rare fighter, to kill Harry and Alfred together,” the older man mused, looking at the corpses. Gwenda realized that these men did not know about the other children. She would have confessed that she had not been alone, and that Ralph had killed one of the men; but she was too terrified to speak. “He's nearly cut Alfred's head off,” the man went on. He turned and looked at Gwenda. “Was anything said about a letter?”

“I don't know!” she said, finding her voice. “I had my eyes shut because I was frightened, and I couldn't hear what they were saying! It's true, I'd tell you if I knew!”

“If they got the letter from him in the first place, he would have taken it back after he killed them anyway,” the man said to his comrade. He looked at the trees around the clearing, as if the letter might have been hanging among the dying leaves. “He probably has it now, at the priory, where we can't get at him without violating the sanctity of the monastery.”