Epic Historial Collection (230 page)

“Congratulations.”

“Though Wulfric is here, with Annet's husband, to bear witness.”

Philippa gave Gwenda a sharp look, and seemed about to comment, then changed her mind. “So why have you come here? Wigleigh is not in my husband's territory.”

“The incident happened in the forest, and the earl says it was on Lord William's land, so he can't adjudicate.”

“That's an excuse. Roland adjudicates anything he likes. He just doesn't want to punish a man he's recently elevated.”

“Anyway, our village priest is here to tell Lord William what happened.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“You're a woman, you understand. You know how men make excuses for rape. They say the girl must have been flirting, or doing something provocative.”

“Yes.”

“If Ralph gets away with this, he might do it again—perhaps to me.”

“Or me,” said Philippa. “You should see the way he stares at me—like a dog looking at a goose on the pond.”

That was encouraging. “Perhaps you can make Lord William understand how important it is that Ralph should not get away with this.”

Philippa nodded. “I think I can.”

Sammy had stopped sucking and gone to sleep. Gwenda stood up. “Thank you, lady.”

“I'm glad you came to me,” said Philippa.

 

Lord William summoned them the next morning. They met with him in the great hall. Gwenda was glad to see Lady Philippa sitting beside him. She gave Gwenda a friendly look, and Gwenda hoped that meant she had spoken to her husband.

William was tall and black-haired, like his father the earl, but he was going bald, and the dome above the dark beard and eyebrows suggested a more thoughtful kind of authority, matching his reputation. He examined the bloodstained dress and looked at Annet's bruises, which were blue now, rather than the original angry red. All the same, they brought a look of fury to Lady Philippa's face. Gwenda guessed it was not so much the severity of the injuries as the grim picture they conjured up of a brawny squire kneeling on a girl's arms to hold her down while another man raped her.

“Well, you've done everything correctly so far,” William said to Annet. “You went immediately to the nearest village, you showed your injuries to men of good reputation there, and you named your attacker. Now you have to offer a bill to a justice of the peace in the Shiring County Court.”

She looked anxious. “What does that mean?”

“A bill is an accusation, written in Latin.”

“I can't write English, lord, let alone Latin.”

“Father Gaspard can do it for you. The justice will put the bill before an indicting jury, and you will tell them what happened. Can you do that? They may ask for embarrassing details.”

Annet nodded determinedly.

“If they believe you, they will order the sheriff to summon Lord Ralph to the court a month later to be tried. Then you will need two sureties, people who will pledge a sum of money to guarantee that you will appear at the trial.”

“But who will be my sureties?”

“Father Gaspard can be one, and I will be the other. I'll put up the money.”

“Thank you, lord!”

“Thank my wife, who has persuaded me that I can't allow the king's peace to be breached on my territory by an act of rape.”

Annet shot a grateful look at Philippa.

Gwenda looked at Wulfric. She had told her husband about her conversation with the lord's wife. Now he met her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. He knew she had made this happen.

William went on: “At the trial, you will tell your story again. Your friends will all have to be witnesses: Gwenda will say she saw you coming from the forest in your bloodstained dress, Father Gaspard will say you told him what happened, Wulfric will say he saw Ralph and Alan riding away from the scene.”

They all nodded solemnly.

“One more thing. Having started something like this, you can't stop it. Withdrawing an appeal is an offense, and you would be severely punished—to say nothing of what revenge Ralph might take on you.”

Annet said: “I won't change my mind. But what will happen to Ralph? How will he be punished?”

“Oh, there's only one penalty for rape,” said Lord William. “He'll be hanged.”

 

They all slept in the great hall of the castle, with William's servants and squires and dogs, wrapping their cloaks around them and nestling into the carpet of rushes on the floor. As the light from the embers in the huge fireplace dimmed to a glow, Gwenda hesitantly reached for her husband, putting a tentative hand on his arm, stroking the wool of his cloak. They had not made love since the rape, and she was unsure whether he wanted her or not. She had angered him grievously by tripping him up: would he feel that her intervention with Lady Philippa made up for that?

He responded immediately, drawing her to him and kissing her lips. She relaxed gratefully into his arms. They toyed with each other for a while. Gwenda was so happy she wanted to weep.

She waited for him to roll on top of her, but he did not do so. She could tell he wanted to, for he was being very affectionate, and his penis was hard in her hand; but perhaps he hesitated to do it in the company of so many others. People did have sex in halls like this, of course; it was normal, and no one took any notice. But perhaps Wulfric felt shy.

However, Gwenda was determined to seal the repair of their love, and after a while she climbed onto him, drawing her cloak over them both. As they began to move together, she saw an adolescent boy watching them, wide-eyed, a few yards away. Adults would politely look the other way, of course, but he was at the age where sex was a captivating mystery, and he obviously could not tear his gaze away. Gwenda was feeling so happy that she hardly cared. She met his eye, then smiled at him, without ceasing to move. His mouth fell open in shock, and he was struck by agonizing embarrassment. Looking mortified, he rolled over and covered his eyes with his arm.

Gwenda pulled her cloak up over her head and Wulfric's, buried her face in his neck, and gave herself up to pleasure.

37

C
aris felt confident the second time she went to the royal court. The vast interior of Westminster Hall no longer intimidated her, nor did the mass of wealthy and powerful people crowding around the judges' benches. She had been here before, she knew the ropes, everything that had seemed so strange a year ago was now familiar. She even wore a dress in the London fashion, green on the right side and blue on the left. She enjoyed studying those around her, and reading their lives in their faces: cocksure or desperate, bewildered or sly. She could spot people who were new to the capital by their wide-eyed gaze and their air of uncertainty, and she felt pleasantly knowledgeable and superior.

If she had any misgivings, they centred on her lawyer, Francis Bookman. He was young and well informed, and—like most lawyers, she thought—he seemed very sure of himself. A small man with sandy hair, quick in his movements and always ready for an argument, he made her think of a cheeky bird on a window ledge, pecking crumbs and aggressively chasing away rivals. He had told them that their case was incontrovertible.

Godwyn had Gregory Longfellow, of course. Gregory had won the case against Earl Roland, and Godwyn had naturally asked him to represent the priory again. He had proved his ability, whereas Bookman was an unknown. However, Caris had a weapon up her sleeve, something that would come as a shock to Godwyn.

Godwyn showed no awareness that he had betrayed Caris, her father, and the entire city of Kingsbridge. He had always presented himself as a reformer, impatient of stick-in-the-mud Prior Anthony, sympathetic with the needs of the town, eager for the prosperity of monks and merchants alike. Then, within a year of becoming prior, he had turned to face the opposite way and become even more of a traditionalist than Anthony. Yet he appeared to feel no shame. Caris flushed with anger every time she thought of it.

He had no right to force the townspeople to use the fulling mill. His other impositions—the ban on hand mills, the fines for private fishponds and warrens—were technically correct, albeit outrageously harsh. But the fulling mill should be free, and Godwyn knew it. Caris wondered whether he believed that any deceit was pardonable provided it was done for the sake of God's work. Surely men of God should be
more
scrupulous about honesty than laymen, not less?

She put the point to her father, as they hung around the court, waiting for their case to come up. He said: “I never trust anyone who proclaims his morality from the pulpit. That high-minded type can always find an excuse for breaking his own rules. I'd rather do business with an everyday sinner who thinks it's probably to his advantage, in the long run, to tell the truth and keep his promises. He's not likely to change his mind about that.”

In moments such as that, when Papa was his old self, Caris realized how much he had changed. Nowadays he was not often shrewd and quick-witted. More usually, he was forgetful and distracted. Caris suspected the decline had begun some months before she had noticed, and it probably accounted for his disastrous failure to anticipate the collapse of the wool market.

After several days' wait, they were called before Sir Wilbert Wheatfield, the pink-faced judge with rotten teeth who had ruled for the priory against Earl Roland a year ago. Caris's confidence began to ebb away as the judge took his seat on the bench against the east wall. It was frightening that a mere mortal should have such power. If he made the wrong decision, Caris's new cloth manufacturing enterprise would be blighted, her father would be ruined, and no one would be able to pay for the new bridge.

Then, as her lawyer began to speak, she started to feel better. Francis commenced with the history of the fulling mill, saying how it had been invented by the legendary Jack Builder, who built the first one, and how Prior Philip had given the townspeople the right to use it free.

He then dealt with Godwyn's counterarguments, disarming the prior in advance. “It is true that the mill is in bad repair, slow, and prone to frequent breakdowns,” he said. “But how can the prior argue that the people have lost the right to it? The mill is the priory's property, and it is for the priory to keep it in good repair. The fact that he has failed in this duty makes no difference. The people have no right to repair the mill, and they certainly have no obligation so to do. Prior Philip's grant was not conditional.”

At this point, Francis produced his secret weapon. “In case the prior should attempt to claim that the grant
was
conditional, I invite the court to read this copy of Prior Philip's will.”

Godwyn was astonished. He had tried to pretend that the will had been lost. But Thomas Langley had agreed to look for it, as a favor to Merthin; and he had sneaked it out of the library, for a day, time enough for Edmund to have it copied.

Caris could not help enjoying the look of shock and outrage on Godwyn's face when he found that his deception had been foiled. He stepped forward and said indignantly: “How was this obtained?”

The question was revealing. He did not ask: “Where was it found?”—which would have been the logical inquiry if it had really been lost.

Gregory Longfellow looked annoyed, and waved at him with a hushing gesture; and Godwyn closed his mouth and stepped back, realizing he had given himself away—but it was surely too late, Caris thought. The judge must see that the only reason for Godwyn to be angry was that he knew the document favored the townspeople, and had attempted to suppress it.

Francis wound up quickly after that—a good decision, Caris thought, for Godwyn's duplicity would be fresh in the judge's mind while Gregory made the case for the defense.

But Gregory's approach took them all completely by surprise.

He stepped forward and said to the judge: “Sir, Kingsbridge is not a chartered borough.” He stopped there, as if that was all he had to say.

It was true, technically. Most towns had a royal charter giving them the freedom to trade and hold markets without obligations to the local earl or baron. Their citizens were free men, owing allegiance to no one but the king. However, a few towns such as Kingsbridge remained the property of an overlord, usually a bishop or a prior: St. Albans and Bury St. Edmunds were examples. Their status was less clear.

The judge said: “That makes a difference. Only free men can appeal to the royal court. What do you have to say to that, Francis Bookman? Are your clients serfs?”

Francis turned to Edmund. In a low, urgent voice he said: “Have the townspeople appealed to the royal court before?”

“No. The prior has—”

“But not the parish guild? Even before your time?”

“There's no record of it—”

“So we can't argue from precedent. Damn.” Francis turned back to the judge. His face changed from worried to confident in a flash, and he spoke as if condescending to deal with something trivial. “Sir, the townspeople are free. They enjoy burgess tenure.”