Epic Historial Collection (232 page)

“She's a clever girl,” Elizabeth said in a level voice. “But what does Godwyn have to say?”

“Nothing. I'm not sure he knows about it yet.”

“He will, though.”

“I don't believe there's anything he can do.”

“He's a prideful man. If you've outwitted him, he'll never forgive you.”

“I can live with that.”

“And what about the bridge?”

“Despite all the problems, the work is only a couple of weeks behind schedule. I've had to spend money to catch up, but we will be able to use the bridge—with a temporary wooden roadbed—for the next Fleece Fair.”

“You and Caris between you have saved the town.”

“Not yet—but we will.”

There was a knock at the door, and Elizabeth's mother woke up with a start. “Now who could that be?” she said. “It's dark out.”

It was one of Edmund's apprentice boys. “Master Merthin is wanted at the parish guild meeting,” he said.

“What for?” Merthin asked him.

“Master Edmund said to tell you, you're wanted at the parish guild meeting,” the boy said. He had obviously learned the message off by heart and knew nothing more.

“Something about the bridge, I expect,” Merthin said to Elizabeth. “They're worried about the cost.” He picked up his cloak. “Thank you for the wine—and the game.”

“I'll play you anytime you like,” she said.

He walked beside the apprentice to the guildhall on the main street. The guild was holding a business meeting, not a banquet. The twenty or so most important people in Kingsbridge were sitting at a long trestle table, some drinking ale or wine, talking in low voices. Merthin sensed tension and anger, and he became apprehensive.

Edmund was at the head of the table. Prior Godwyn sat next to him. The prior was not a member of the guild: his presence suggested that Merthin's surmise had been right, and the meeting was about the bridge. However, Thomas the matricularius was not present, although Philemon was. That was odd.

Merthin had recently had a small dispute with Godwyn. His contract had been for a year at two pence a day plus the lease on Leper Island. It was due for renewal, and Godwyn had proposed to continue paying him two pence a day. Merthin had insisted on four pence, and in the end Godwyn had conceded the point. Had he complained about this to the guild?

Edmund spoke with characteristic abruptness. “We've called you here because Prior Godwyn wishes to dismiss you as master builder in charge of the bridge.”

Merthin felt as if he had been punched in the face. He was not expecting anything like this. “What?” he said. “But Godwyn appointed me!”

Godwyn said: “And therefore I have the right to dismiss you.”

“But why?

“The work is behind schedule and over budget.”

“It's behind schedule because the earl closed the quarry—and it's over budget because I had to spend money to catch up.”

“Excuses.”

“Am I inventing the death of a carter?”

Godwyn shot back: “Killed by your own brother!”

“What has that to do with anything?”

Godwyn ignored the question. “A man who is accused of rape!” he added.

“You can't dismiss a master builder because of his brother's behavior.”

“Who are you to say what I can do?”

“I'm the builder of your bridge!” Then it occurred to Merthin that much of his work as master builder was complete. He had designed all the most complicated parts and made wooden templates to guide the stonemasons. He had built the cofferdams, which no one else knew how to do. And he had constructed the floating cranes and hoists needed to move the heavy stones into position in midstream. Any builder could now finish the job, he realized with dismay.

“There is no guarantee of renewal of your contract,” Godwyn said.

It was true. Merthin looked around the room for support. No one would meet his eye. They had already argued this out with Godwyn, he deduced. Despair overwhelmed him. Why had this happened? It was not because the bridge was behind schedule and over budget—the delay was not Merthin's fault, and anyway he was catching up. What was the real reason? As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came into his mind. “This is because of the fulling mill at Wigleigh!” he said.

Godwyn said primly: “The two things are not necessarily connected.”

Edmund said quietly but distinctly: “Lying monk.”

Philemon spoke for the first time. “Take care, Alderman!” he said.

Edmund was undeterred. “Merthin and Caris outwitted you, didn't they, Godwyn? Their mill at Wigleigh is entirely legitimate. You brought defeat on yourself by your greed and obstinacy. And this is your revenge.”

Edmund was right. No one was as capable a builder as Merthin. Godwyn must know that, but clearly he did not care. “Who will you hire instead of me?” Merthin asked. Then he answered the question himself. “Elfric, I suppose.”

“That has to be decided.”

Edmund said: “Another lie.”

Philemon spoke again, his voice more shrill. “You can be brought before the ecclesiastical court for talk like that!”

Merthin wondered if this might be no more than a move in the game, a way for Godwyn to renegotiate his contract. He said to Edmund: “Is the parish guild in agreement with the prior on this?”

Godwyn said: “It is not for them to agree or disagree!”

Merthin ignored him and looked expectantly at Edmund.

Edmund was shamefaced. “It cannot be denied that the prior has the right. The guildsmen are financing the bridge by loans, but the prior is overlord of the town. This was agreed from the start.”

Merthin turned to Godwyn. “Do you have anything else to say to me, Lord Prior?” He waited, hoping in his heart that Godwyn would come out with his real demands.

But Godwyn said stonily: “No.”

“Good night, then.”

He waited a second longer. No one spoke. The silence told him it was all over.

He left the room.

Outside the building, he took a deep breath of the cold night air. He could hardly believe what had happened. He was no longer master of the bridge.

He walked through the dark streets. It was a clear night, and he could find his way by starlight. He walked past Elizabeth's house: he did not want to talk to her. He hesitated outside Caris's, but passed that, too, and went down to the waterside. His small rowboat was tied up opposite Leper Island. He got in and rowed himself across.

When he reached his house, he paused outside and looked up at the stars, fighting back tears. The truth was that in the end he had
not
outwitted Godwyn—rather the reverse. He had underestimated the lengths to which the prior would go to punish those who opposed him. Merthin had thought himself clever, but Godwyn had been cleverer, or at least more ruthless. He was prepared to damage the town and the priory, if necessary, to avenge a wound to his pride. And that had given him victory.

Merthin went inside and lay down, alone and beaten.

38

R
alph lay awake all through the night before his trial.

He had seen many people die by hanging. Every year, twenty or thirty men and a few women rode the sheriff's cart from the prison in Shiring Castle down the hill to the market square where the gallows stood waiting. It was a common occurrence, but those men had remained in Ralph's memory, and on this night they returned to torment him.

Some died fast, their necks snapped by the drop; but not many. Most strangled slowly. They kicked and struggled and opened their mouths wide in silent, breathless screaming. They pissed and shat themselves. He recalled an old woman convicted of witchcraft: when she dropped, she bit right through her tongue and spat it out, and the crowd around the gallows had backed away in fright from the bloody lump of flesh as it flew through the air and fell on the dusty ground.

Everyone told Ralph he was not going to be hanged, but he could not get the thought out of his mind. People said that Earl Roland could not allow one of his lords to be executed on the word of a serf. However, so far the earl had done nothing to intervene.

The preliminary jury had returned an indictment against Ralph to the justice of the peace in Shiring. Like all such juries, it had consisted mainly of knights of the county owing allegiance to Earl Roland—but, despite this, they had acted on the evidence of the Wigleigh peasants. The men—jurors were never women, of course—had not flinched from indicting one of their own. In fact the jurors had shown, by their questions, some distaste for what Ralph had done, and several had refused to shake his hand afterward.

Ralph had planned to prevent Annet testifying again, at the trial proper, by imprisoning her in Wigleigh before she could leave for Shiring. However, when he went to her house to seize her, he found she had already departed. She must have anticipated his move and left earlier to foil him.

Today another jury would hear the case but, to Ralph's dismay, at least four of the men had been on the preliminary jury, too. Since the evidence on both sides was likely to be exactly the same, he could not see how this group could return a different verdict, unless some kind of pressure was put on the jurors—and it was getting very late for that.

He got up at first light and went downstairs to the ground floor of the Courthouse Inn on the market square of Shiring. He found a shivering boy breaking the ice on the well in the backyard and told him to fetch bread and ale. Then he went to the communal dormitory and woke his brother, Merthin.

They sat together in the cold parlor, with the stale smell of last night's ale and wine, and Ralph said: “I'm afraid they'll hang me.”

“So am I,” said Merthin.

“I don't know what to do.” The boy brought two tankards and half a loaf. Ralph picked up his ale in a shaking hand and took a long draft.

Merthin ate some bread automatically, frowning and looking upward out of the corners of his eyes in the way he always did when he was racking his brains. “The only thing I can think of is to try to persuade Annet to drop the charge and come to a settlement. You'll have to offer her compensation.”

Ralph shook his head. “She can't back out—it's not allowed. They'll punish her if she does.”

“I know. But she could deliberately give weak evidence, making room for doubt. That's how it's usually done, I believe.”

Hope sparked in Ralph's heart. “I wonder if she would consent.”

The potboy brought in an armful of logs and knelt before the fireplace to start a fire.

Merthin said thoughtfully: “How much money could you offer Annet?”

“I've got twenty florins.” That was worth three pounds of English silver pennies.

Merthin ran a hand through his untidy red hair. “It's not much.”

“It's a lot to a peasant girl. On the other hand, her family is rich, for peasants.”

“Doesn't Wigleigh yield you much money?”

“I've had to buy armor. When you're a lord you need to be ready to go to war.”

“I could lend you money.”

“How much have you got?”

“Thirteen pounds.”

Ralph was so astonished that for a moment he forgot his troubles. “Where did you get all that?”

Merthin looked faintly resentful. “I work hard and I'm paid well.”

“But you were sacked as master builder of the bridge.”

“There's plenty more work. And I rent out land on Leper Island.”

Ralph was indignant. “So a carpenter is richer than a lord!”

“Luckily for you, as it happens. How much do you think Annet will want?”

Ralph thought of a snag, and his spirits fell again. “It's not her, it's Wulfric. He's the ringleader in this.”

“Of course.” Merthin had spent a lot of time in Wigleigh while building the fulling mill, and he knew that Wulfric had married Gwenda only after being jilted by Annet. “Then let's talk to him.”

Ralph did not think it would do any good, but he had nothing to lose.

They went out into the bleak gray daylight, pulling their cloaks around their shoulders against a cold February wind. They crossed the marketplace and entered the Bell, where the Wigleigh folk were staying—paid for, Ralph presumed, by Lord William, without whose help they would not have begun this process. But Ralph had no doubt that his real enemy was William's voluptuous, malevolent wife, Philippa, who seemed to hate Ralph, even though—or perhaps because—he found her fascinating and alluring.

Wulfric was up, and they found him eating porridge with bacon. When he saw Ralph, his face turned thunderous and he rose from his seat.

Ralph put his hand on his sword, ready to fight there and then, but Merthin hastily stepped forward, holding his hands open in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “I come as a friend, Wulfric,” he said. “Don't get angry, or you'll end up on trial instead of my brother.”