Epic Historial Collection (257 page)

They located their ponies and led them forward by the light of a burning torch. They reached the bottom of the valley and found themselves in noman's-land. Hidden by fog and darkness, they slipped out of their boys' clothing. For a moment they were terribly vulnerable, two naked women in the middle of a battlefield. But no one could see them, and a second later they were pulling their nuns' robes over their heads. They packed up their male garments in case they should need them again: it was a long way home.

Caris decided to abandon the torch, in case an English archer should take it into his head to shoot at the light and ask questions afterward. Holding hands so that they would not get separated they went forward, still leading the horses. They could see nothing: the fog obscured whatever light might have come from moon or stars. They headed uphill toward the English lines. There was a smell like a butcher's shop. So many bodies of horses and men covered the ground that they could not walk around them. They had to grit their teeth and step on the corpses. Soon their shoes were covered with a mixture of mud and blood.

The bodies on the ground thinned out, and soon there were none. Caris began to feel a deep sense of relief as she approached the English army. She and Mair had traveled hundreds of miles, lived rough for two weeks, and risked their lives, for this moment. She had almost forgotten the outrageous theft by Prior Godwyn of one hundred and fifty pounds from the nuns' treasury—the reason for her journey. Somehow it seemed less important after all this bloodshed. Still, she would appeal to Bishop Richard and win justice for the nunnery.

The walk seemed farther than Caris had imagined when she looked across the valley in daylight. She wondered nervously if she had become disoriented. She might have turned in the wrong direction and just walked straight past the English. Perhaps the army was now behind her. She strained to hear some noise—ten thousand men could not be silent, even if most of them had fallen into exhausted sleep—but the fog muffled sound.

She clung to the conviction that, as King Edward had positioned his forces on the highest land, she must be approaching him as long as she was walking uphill. But the blindness was unnerving. If there had been a precipice, she would have stepped right over it.

The light of dawn was turning the fog to the color of pearl when at last she heard a voice. She stopped. It was a man speaking in a low murmur. Mair squeezed her hand nervously. Another man spoke. She could not make out the language. She feared that she might have walked in a full circle and arrived back on the French side.

She turned toward the voice, still holding Mair's hand. The red glow of flames became visible through the gray mist, and she headed for it gratefully. As she came nearer, she heard the talk more clearly, and realized with immense relief that the men were speaking English. A moment later she made out a group of men around a fire. Several lay asleep, rolled in blankets, but three sat upright, legs crossed, looking into the flames, talking. A moment later Caris saw a man standing, peering into the fog, presumably on sentry duty, though the fact that he had not noticed her approach proved his job was impossible.

To get their attention, Caris said in a low voice: “God bless you, men of England.”

She startled them. One gave a shout of fear. The sentry said belatedly: “Who goes there?”

“Two nuns from Kingsbridge Priory,” Caris said. The men stared at her in superstitious dread, and she realized they thought she might be an apparition. “Don't worry, we're flesh and blood, and so are these ponies.”

“Did you say Kingsbridge?” said one of them in surprise. “I know you,” he said, standing up. “I've seen you before.”

Caris recognized him. “Lord William of Caster,” she said.

“I am the earl of Shiring, now,” he said. “My father died of his wounds an hour ago.”

“May his soul rest in peace. We have come here to see your brother, Bishop Richard, who is our abbot.”

“You're too late,” William said. “My brother, too, is dead.”

 

Later in the morning, when the fog had lifted and the battlefield looked like a sunlit slaughterhouse, Earl William took Caris and Mair to see King Edward.

Everyone was astonished at the tale of the two nuns who had followed the English army all through Normandy, and soldiers who had faced death only yesterday were fascinated by their adventures. William told Caris that the king would want to hear the story from her own lips.

Edward III had been king for nineteen years, but he was still only thirty-three years old. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was imposing rather than handsome, with a face that might have been molded for power: a big nose, high cheekbones, and luxuriant long hair just beginning to recede from his high forehead. Caris saw why people called him a lion.

He sat on a stool in front of his tent, fashionably dressed in two-colored hose and a cape with a scalloped border. He wore no armor or weapons: the French had vanished, and in fact a force of vengeful troops had been sent out to hunt down and kill any stragglers. A handful of barons stood around.

As Caris told how she and Mair had sought food and shelter in the devastated landscape of Normandy, she wondered if the king felt criticized by her tale of hardship. However, he seemed not to think the sufferings of the people reflected on him. He was as delighted with her exploits as if he were hearing of someone who had been brave during a shipwreck.

She ended by telling him of her disappointment on finding, after all her travails, that Bishop Richard, from whom she had hoped for justice, was dead. “I beg Your Majesty to order the prior of Kingsbridge to restore to the nuns the money he stole.”

Edward smiled ruefully. “You're a brave woman, but you know nothing of politics,” he said with condescension. “The king can't get involved in an ecclesiastical quarrel such as this. We would have all our bishops banging on our door in protest.”

That might be so, Caris reflected, but it did not prevent the king interfering with the church when it suited his own purposes. However, she said nothing.

Edward went on: “And it would do your cause harm. The church would be so outraged that every cleric in the land would oppose our ruling, regardless of its merits.”

There might be something in that, she judged. But he was not as powerless as he pretended. “I know you will remember the wronged nuns of Kingsbridge,” she said. “When you appoint the new bishop of Kingsbridge, please tell him our story.”

“Of course,” said the king, but Caris had the feeling he would forget.

The interview seemed to be over, but then William said: “Your Majesty, now that you have graciously confirmed my elevation to my father's earldom, there is the question of who is to be lord of Caster.”

“Ah, yes. Our son the prince of Wales suggests Sir Ralph Fitzgerald, who was knighted yesterday for saving his life.”

Caris murmured: “Oh, no!”

The king did not hear her, but William did, and he obviously felt the same way. He was not quite able to hide his indignation as he said: “Ralph was an outlaw, guilty of numerous thefts, murders, and rapes, until he obtained a royal pardon by joining your majesty's army.”

The king was not as moved by this as Caris expected. He said: “All the same, Ralph has fought with us for seven years now. He has earned a second chance.”

“Indeed he has,” William said diplomatically. “But, given the trouble we've had with him in the past, I'd like to see him settle down peacefully for a year of two before he's ennobled.”

“Well, you will be his overlord, so you'll have to deal with him,” Edward granted. “We won't impose him on you against your will. However, the prince is keen that he should have some further reward.” The king thought for a few moments, then said: “Don't you have a cousin who is eligible for marriage?”

“Yes, Matilda,” said William. “We call her Tilly.”

Caris knew Tilly. She was at the nunnery school.

“That's right,” said Edward. “She was your father Roland's ward. Her father had three villages near Shiring.”

“Your Majesty has a good memory for detail.”

“Marry Lady Matilda to Ralph and give him her father's villages,” said the king.

Caris was appalled. “But she's only twelve!” she burst out.

William said to her: “Hush!”

King Edward turned a cold gaze on her. “The children of the nobility must grow up fast, Sister. Queen Philippa was fourteen when I married her.”

Caris knew she should shut up, but she could not. Tilly was only four years older than the daughter she might have had, if she had given birth to Merthin's baby. “There's a big difference between twelve and fourteen,” she said desperately.

The young king became even more frosty. “In the royal presence, people give their opinions only when asked. And the king almost never asks for the opinions of women.”

Caris realized she had taken the wrong tack. Her objection to the marriage was not based on Tilly's age so much as Ralph's character. “I know Tilly,” she said. “You can't marry her to that brute Ralph.”

Mair said in a scared whisper: “Caris! Remember who you're speaking to!”

Edward looked at William. “Take her away, Shiring, before she says something that cannot be overlooked.”

William took Caris's arm and firmly marched her out of the royal presence. Mair followed. Behind them, Caris heard the king say: “I can see how she survived in Normandy—the locals must have been terrified of her.” The noblemen around him laughed.

“You must be mad!” William hissed.

“Must I?” Caris said. They were out of earshot of the king now, and she raised her voice. “In the last six weeks the king has caused the deaths of thousands of men, women, and children, and burned their crops and their homes. And I have tried to save a twelve-year-old girl from being married to a murderer. Tell me again, Lord William, which of us is mad?”

51

I
n the year 1347 the peasants of Wigleigh suffered a poor harvest. The villagers did what they always did in such times: they ate less food, postponed the purchase of hats and belts, and slept closer together for warmth. Old Widow Huberts died earlier than expected; Janey Jones succumbed to a cough that she might have survived in a good year; and Joanna David's new baby, who might otherwise have had a chance, failed to make it to his first birthday.

Gwenda kept an anxious eye on her two little boys. Sam, the eight-year-old, was big for his age, and strong: he had Wulfric's physique, people said, though Gwenda knew that in truth he was like his real father, Ralph Fitzgerald. Even so, Sam was visibly thinner by December. David, named after Wulfric's brother who had died when the bridge collapsed, was six. He resembled Gwenda, being small and dark. The poor diet had weakened him, and all through the autumn he suffered minor ailments: a cold, then a skin rash, then a cough.

All the same, she took the boys with her when she went with Wulfric to finish sowing the winter wheat on Perkin's land. A bitterly cold wind swept across the open fields. She dropped seeds into the furrows, and Sam and David chased off the daring birds who tried to snatch the corn before Wulfric turned the earth over. As they ran, and jumped, and shouted, Gwenda marveled that these two fully functioning miniature human beings had come from inside her body. They turned the chasing of the birds into some kind of competitive game, and she delighted in the miracle of their imagination. Once part of her, they were now able to have thoughts she did not know about.

Mud clung to their feet as they tramped up and down. A fast-running stream bordered the big field, and on the far bank stood the fulling mill Merthin had built nine years ago. The distant rumble of its pounding wooden hammers accompanied their work. The mill was run by two eccentric brothers, Jack and Eli—both unmarried men with no land—and an apprentice boy who was their nephew. They were the only villagers who had not suffered on account of the bad harvest: Mark Webber paid them the same wages all winter long.

It was a short midwinter day. Gwenda and her family finished sowing just as the gray sky began to darken, and the twilight gathered mistily in the distant woods. They were all tired.

There was half a sack of seed leftover, so they took it to Perkin's house. As they approached the place, they saw Perkin himself coming from the opposite direction. He was walking beside a cart on which his daughter, Annet, was riding. They had been to Kingsbridge to sell the last of the year's apples and pears from Perkin's trees.

Annet still retained her girlish figure, although she was now twenty-eight, and had had a child. She called attention to her youthfulness with a dress that was a little too short and a hairstyle that was charmingly disarrayed. She looked silly, Gwenda thought. Her opinion was shared by every woman in the village and none of the men.

Gwenda was shocked to see that Perkin's cart was full of fruit. “What happened?” she said.

Perkin's face was grim. “Kingsbridge folk are having a hard winter just like us,” he said. “They've no money to buy apples. We shall have to make cider with this lot.”