Epic Historial Collection (235 page)

That shocked him. “Leaving?” he said. “You?”

At that moment, Caris appeared. “Don't stay here too long,” she said to her father. “Aunt Petranilla is preparing dinner. Do you want to join us, Merthin?”

Edmund said: “Merthin's leaving Kingsbridge.”

Caris paled.

Seeing her reaction, Merthin felt a jolt of satisfaction. She had rejected him, but she was dismayed to hear that he was leaving town. He immediately felt ashamed of such an unworthy emotion. He was too fond of her to want her to suffer. All the same, he would have felt worse if she had received the news with equanimity.

“Why?” she said.

“There's nothing for me here. What am I going to build? I can't work on the bridge. The town already has a cathedral. I don't want to do nothing but merchants' houses for the rest of my life.”

In a quiet voice, she said: “Where will you go?”

“Florence. I've always wanted to see the buildings of Italy. I'll ask Buonaventura Caroli for letters of introduction. I might even be able to travel with one of his consignments.”

“But you own property here in Kingsbridge.”

“I wanted to speak to you about that. Would you manage it for me? You could collect my rents, take a commission, and give the balance to Buonaventura. He can transfer money to Florence by letter.”

“I don't want a damn commission,” she said huffily.

Merthin shrugged. “It's work, you should be paid.”

“How can you be so cold about it?” she said. Her voice was shrill, and around the parlor of the Bell several people looked up. She took no notice. “You'll be leaving all your friends!”

“I'm not cold about it. Friends are great. But I'd like to get married.”

Edmund put in: “Plenty of girls in Kingsbridge would marry you. You're not handsome, but you're prosperous, and that's worth more than good looks.”

Merthin smiled wryly. Edmund could be disarmingly blunt. Caris had inherited the trait. “For a while I thought I might marry Elizabeth Clerk,” he said.

Edmund said: “So did I.”

Caris said: “She's a cold fish.”

“No, she's not. But when she asked me, I backed off.”

Caris said: “Oh—so that's why she's so bad-tempered lately.”

Edmund said: “And why her mother won't look at Merthin.”

“Why did you refuse her?” Caris asked.

“There's only one woman in Kingsbridge I could marry—and she doesn't want to be anyone's wife.”

“But she doesn't want to lose you.”

Merthin became angry. “What should I do?” he said. His voice was loud, and people around them stopped their conversations to listen. “Godwyn has fired me, you've rejected me, and my brother is an outlaw. In God's name, why should I stay here?”

“I don't want you to go,” she said.

“That's not enough!” he shouted.

The room was silent now. Everyone there knew them: the landlord, Paul Bell, and his curvy daughter Bessie; the gray-haired barmaid Sairy, Elizabeth's mother; Bill Watkin, who had refused to employ Merthin; Edward Butcher, the notorious adulterer; Jake Chepstow, Merthin's tenant; Friar Murdo, Matthew Barber, and Mark Webber. They all knew the history of Merthin and Caris, and they were fascinated by the quarrel.

Merthin did not care. Let them listen. He said furiously: “I'm not going to spend my life hanging around you, like your dog Scrap, waiting for your attention. I'll be your husband, but I won't be your pet.”

“All right, then,” she said in a small voice.

Her sudden change of tone surprised him, and he was not sure what she meant. “All right, what?”

“All right, I'll marry you.”

For a moment, he was too shocked to speak. Then he said suspiciously: “Do you mean it?”

She looked up at him at last and smiled shyly. “Yes, I mean it,” she said. “Just ask me.”

“All right.” He took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will,” she said.

Edmund shouted: “Hoorah!”

Everyone in the tavern cheered and clapped.

Merthin and Caris started laughing. “Will you, really?” he said.

“Yes.”

They kissed, then he put his arms around her and squeezed as hard as he could. When he let her go, he saw that she was crying.

“Some wine for my betrothed,” he called out. “A barrel, in fact—give everyone a cup, so they can all drink our health!”

“Coming right up,” said the landlord, and they all cheered again.

 

A week later, Elizabeth Clerk became a novice nun.

40

R
alph and Alan were miserable. They were living on venison and cold water, and Ralph found himself dreaming about food he would normally scorn: onions, apples, eggs, milk. They slept in a different place every night, always lighting a fire. They each had a good cloak, but it was not enough out in the open, and they woke shivering every dawn. They robbed any vulnerable people they met on the road, but most of the loot was either paltry or useless: ragged clothes, animal fodder, and money, which would buy nothing in the forest.

Once they stole a big barrel of wine. They rolled it a hundred yards into the woods, drank as much as they could, and fell asleep. When they woke up, hungover and ill-tempered, they realized they could not take the three-quarters-full barrel with them, so they just left it there.

Ralph thought nostalgically of his former life: the manor house, the roaring fires, the servants, the dinners. But, in his realistic moments, he knew he did not want that life either. It was too dull. That was probably why he had raped the girl. He needed excitement.

After a month in the forest, Ralph decided they had to get organized. They needed a base where they could build some kind of shelter and store food. And they had to plan their robberies so that they stole items that would be really valuable to them, such as warm clothing and fresh food.

Around the time he was coming to this realization, their wanderings brought them to a range of hills a few miles from Kingsbridge. Ralph recalled that the hillsides, bleak and bare in winter, were used for summer grazing by shepherds, who had built rough stone shelters in the folds of the landscape. As adolescents he and Merthin had discovered these crude buildings while out hunting, and had lit fires and cooked the rabbits and partridges they shot with their bows. Even in those days, he recalled, he had craved the thrill of the hunt: chasing and shooting a terrified creature, finishing it off with a knife or club—the ecstatic sense of power that came from taking a life.

No one would come here until the new season's grass was thick. The traditional day was Whitsunday, also the opening day of the Fleece Fair, still two months away. Ralph selected a hut that looked sturdy, and they made it their home. There were no doors or windows, just a low entrance, but there was a hole in the roof to let smoke out, and they lit a fire and slept warm for the first time in a month.

Proximity to Kingsbridge gave Ralph another bright idea. The time to rob people, he realized, was when they were on their way to market. They were carrying cheeses, flagons of cider, honey, oatcakes: all the things that were produced by villagers and needed by townspeople—and by outlaws.

Kingsbridge market was on a Sunday. Ralph had lost track of the days of the week, but he found out by asking a traveling friar, before robbing him of three shillings and a goose. On the following Saturday, he and Alan made camp not far from the road to Kingsbridge, and stayed awake all night by their fire. At dawn they made their way to the road and lay in wait.

The first group to come along were carting fodder. Kingsbridge had hundreds of horses and very little grass, so the town constantly needed supplies of hay. However, it was no use to Ralph: Griff and Fletch had no end of grazing in the forest.

Ralph was not bored waiting. Preparing an ambush was like watching a woman get undressed. The longer the anticipation, the more intense the thrill.

Soon afterward they heard singing. The hairs on the back of Ralph's neck stood up: it sounded like angels. The morning was hazy, and when he first saw the singers, they seemed to have halos. Alan, obviously thinking the same as Ralph, even gave a sob of fear. But it was only the weak winter sun lighting the mist behind the travelers. They were peasant women, each carrying a basket of eggs—hardly worth robbing. Ralph let them go by without revealing himself.

The sun rose a little higher. Ralph began to worry that soon the road would become sufficiently crowded with marketgoers to make robbery difficult. Then along came a family: a man and woman in their thirties with two adolescent children, a boy and a girl. They were vaguely familiar: no doubt he had seen them at Kingsbridge market during the years he lived there. They carried an assortment of goods. The husband had a heavy basket of vegetables on his back; the wife balanced on her shoulder a long pole bearing several live chickens, trussed; the boy had a heavy ham on his shoulder and the girl a crock that probably contained salted butter. Ralph's mouth watered at the thought of ham.

The excitement rose in his guts, and he gave Alan a nod.

As the family drew level, Ralph and Alan came out of the bushes at a run.

The woman screamed and the boy gave a shout of fear.

The man tried to shrug off his basket but, before it fell from his shoulders, Ralph ran him through, his sword piercing the man's abdomen under the ribs and then rising up. The man's scream of agony was cut off abruptly as the point of the sword penetrated his heart.

Alan swung at the woman and cut through most of her neck, so that blood spurted from her severed throat in a sudden red jet.

Exhilarated, Ralph turned to the son. The lad was quick to react: he had already dropped his ham and drawn a knife. While Ralph's weapon was still on the upswing, the boy darted close and stabbed him. It was an unprofessional blow, too wild to do much damage. The knife completely missed Ralph's chest, but the point caught in the flesh of his upper right arm, and the sudden agonizing pain made him drop his sword. The boy turned and ran away, going in the direction of Kingsbridge.

Ralph looked at Alan. Before turning to the girl, Alan finished off the mother, and the delay almost cost him his life. Ralph saw the girl throw her crock of butter at Alan. Either accurate or lucky, she hit him square on the back of the head, and Alan fell to the ground as if poleaxed.

Then she ran after her brother.

Ralph stooped, picked up his sword in his left hand, and gave chase.

They were young and fleet, but he had long legs, and he soon gained on them. The boy looked over his shoulder and saw Ralph coming close. To Ralph's astonishment the lad stopped, turned, and came running back at him, screaming, knife raised in his fist.

Ralph stopped running and lifted his sword. The boy ran at him—then stopped outside his reach. Ralph stepped forward and lunged, but it was a feint. The boy dodged the blow; then, thinking to catch Ralph off balance, tried to step inside his guard and stab him at close quarters. But that was exactly what Ralph was expecting. He stepped nimbly back, stood on the balls of his feet, and thrust his sword precisely into the boy's throat, pushing it through until the point came out of the back of his neck.

The boy fell dead, and Ralph withdrew his sword, pleased with the accuracy and efficiency of the death blow.

He looked up to see the girl disappearing into the distance. He saw immediately that he could not catch her on foot; and by the time he fetched his horse, she would be in Kingsbridge.

He turned and looked back. To his surprise, Alan was struggling to his feet. “I thought she'd killed you,” Ralph said. He wiped his sword on the dead boy's tunic, sheathed his blade, and clamped his left hand over the wound in his right arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

“My head hurts like Satan,” Alan replied. “Did you kill them all?”

“The girl got away.”

“Do you think she knew us?”

“She might know me. I've seen this family before.”

“In that case, we're now branded as murderers.”

Ralph shrugged. “Better to hang than starve.” He looked at the three bodies. “All the same, let's get these peasants off the road before someone comes along.”

With his left hand he dragged the man to the edge of the road. Alan picked up the body and threw it into the bushes. They did the same with the woman and the boy. Ralph made sure the corpses were not visible to passersby. The blood on the road was already darkening to the color of the mud into which it was soaking.

Ralph cut a strip off the woman's dress and tied it around the cut in his arm. It still hurt, but the flow of blood was less. He felt the slight depression that always followed a fight, like the sadness after sex.

Alan began to collect up the loot. “A nice haul,” he said. “Ham, chickens, butter…,” he looked into the basket the man had been carrying, “…and onions! Last year's, of course, but still good.”