Epic Historial Collection (288 page)

“You're just what we need, Wulfric,” the man said. “I'm Carl Shaftesbury.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “Welcome to Outhenby.”

 

Ralph came eight days later.

Wulfric and Gwenda had moved into a small, well-built house with a stone chimney and an upstairs bedroom where they could sleep separately from the boys. They got a wary reception from the older, more conservative villagers—notably Will Bailiff and his wife, Vi, who had been so rude to them on the day they arrived. But Harry Plowman and the younger set were excited by the changes and glad to have help in the fields.

They were paid twopence a day, as promised, and Gwenda looked forward eagerly to the end of their first full week, when they each got twelve pence—a shilling!—double the highest sum they had ever earned. What would they do with all that money?

Neither Wulfric nor Gwenda had worked anywhere but Wigleigh, and they were surprised to find that not all villages were the same. The ultimate authority here was the prioress of Kingsbridge, and that made a difference. Ralph's rule was personal and arbitrary: appealing to him was hazardous. By contrast, Outhenby folk seemed to know what the prioress would want in most situations, and they could settle disputes by figuring out what she would say if asked to adjudicate.

A mild disagreement of this kind was going on when Ralph came.

They were all walking home from the fields at sundown, the adults work-weary, the children running on ahead, and Harry Plowman bringing up the rear with the unharnessed oxen. Carl Shaftesbury, the man with the burned face, who was a newcomer like Gwenda and Wulfric, had caught three eels at dawn for his family's supper, as it was Friday. The question was whether laborers had the same right as tenants to take fish from the Outhen River on fast days. Harry Plowman said the privilege extended to all Outhenby residents. Vi Bailiff said that tenants owed customary dues to the landlord, which laborers did not, and those who had extra duties should have extra privileges.

Will Bailiff was called upon for a decision, and he ruled against his wife. “I believe the mother prioress would say that if the church wishes people to eat fish, then fish must be provided for them to eat,” he said; and that was accepted by everyone.

Looking toward the village, Gwenda saw two horsemen.

A cold wind gusted suddenly.

The visitors were half a mile away across the fields, and heading for the houses at an angle to the path the villagers were taking. She could tell they were men-at-arms. They had big horses, and their clothes looked bulky—men of violence generally wore heavily padded coats. She nudged Wulfric.

“I've seen them,” he said grimly.

Such men had no casual reason to come to a village. They despised the people who grew the crops and cared for the livestock. They normally visited only to take from the peasants those things they were too proud to provide for themselves, bread and meat and drink. Their view of what they were entitled to, or how much they should pay, always differed from that of the peasants; so there was invariably trouble.

Within the next couple of minutes all the villagers saw them, and the group went quiet. Gwenda noticed that Harry turned the oxen slightly and headed for the far end of the village, though she could not immediately guess why.

Gwenda felt sure the two men had come to find runaway laborers. She found herself praying they would turn out to be the former employers of Carl Shaftesbury or one of the other newcomers. However, as the villagers came closer to the horsemen she recognized Ralph Fitzgerald and Alan Fernhill, and her heart sank.

This was the moment she had dreaded. She had known there was a chance Ralph would find out where they had gone: her father could make a good guess, and he could not be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. And although Ralph had no right to take them back, he was a knight and a nobleman, and such people generally did as they pleased.

It was too late to run. The group was walking along a path between broad plowed fields: if some of them broke away and fled, Ralph and Alan would immediately see them and give chase; and then Gwenda and her family would lose whatever protection they might gain from being with other villagers. They were trapped in the open.

She called to her boys: “Sam! David! Come here!”

They did not hear, or did not want to, and they ran on. Gwenda went after them, but they thought it was a game, and tried to outrun her. They were almost at the village now, and she found she was too tired to catch them. Almost in tears, she shouted: “Come back!”

Wulfric took over. He ran past her and easily caught up with David. He scooped the boy up in his arms. But he was too late to catch Sam, who ran laughing in among the scattered houses.

The horsemen were reined in by the church. As Sam ran toward them, Ralph nudged his horse forward, then leaned down from the saddle and picked the boy up by his shirt. Sam gave a shout of fright.

Gwenda screamed.

Ralph sat the boy on his horse's wither.

Wulfric, carrying David, came to a stop in front of Ralph.

Ralph said: “Your son, I presume.”

Gwenda was appalled. She was afraid for her son. It would be beneath Ralph's dignity to attack a child, but there might be an accident. And there was another danger.

Seeing Ralph and Sam together, Wulfric might realize they were father and son.

Sam was still a little boy, of course, with a child's body and face, but he had Ralph's thick hair and dark eyes, and his bony shoulders were wide and square.

Gwenda looked at her husband. Wulfric's expression showed no sign that he had seen what was so obvious to her. She surveyed the faces of the other villagers. They seemed oblivious to the stark truth—except for Vi Bailiff, who was giving Gwenda a hard stare. That old battleaxe might have guessed. But no one else had—yet.

Will came forward and addressed the visitors. “Good day to you, sirs. I'm Will, the bailiff of Outhenby. May I ask—”

“Shut your mouth, bailiff,” said Ralph. He pointed at Wulfric. “What is he doing here?”

Gwenda sensed a slight easing of tension as the other villagers realized they were not the target of the lord's wrath.

Will replied: “My lord, he's a laborer, hired on the authority of the prioress of Kingsbridge—”

“He's a runaway, and he's got to come home,” Ralph said.

Will fell silent, frightened.

Carl Shaftesbury said: “And what authority do you claim for this demand?”

Ralph peered at Carl, as if memorizing his face. “Watch your tongue, or I'll disfigure the other side of your face.”

Will said nervously: “We don't want any bloodshed.”

“Very wise, bailiff,” said Ralph. “Who is this insolent peasant?”

“Never you mind who I am, knight,” said Carl rudely. “I know who you are. You're Ralph Fitzgerald, and I saw you convicted of rape and sentenced to death at Shiring court.”

“But I'm not dead, am I?” Ralph said.

“You should be, though. And you have no feudal rights over laborers. If you try to use force, you'll be taught a sharp lesson.”

Several people gasped. This was a reckless way to speak to an armed knight.

Wulfric said: “Be quiet, Carl. I don't want you killed for my sake.”

“It's not for your sake,” Carl said. “If this thug is allowed to drag you off, next week someone will come for me. We have to stick together. We're not helpless.”

Carl was a big man, taller than Wulfric and almost as broad, and Gwenda could see that he meant what he said. She was appalled. If they started fighting, there would be terrible violence—and her Sam was still sitting on the horse with Ralph. “We'll just go with Ralph,” she said frantically. “It will be better.”

Carl said: “No, it won't. I'm going to stop him taking you away, whether you want me to or not. It's for my own good.”

There was a murmur of assent. Gwenda looked around. Most of the men were holding shovels or hoes, and they looked ready to swing them, though they also looked scared.

Wulfric turned his back on Ralph and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “You women, take the children into the church—quickly now!”

Several women snatched up toddlers and grabbed youngsters by the arms. Gwenda stayed where she was, and so did several of the younger women. The villagers instinctively moved closer together, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Ralph and Alan looked disconcerted. They had not expected to face a crowd of fifty or more belligerent peasants. But they were on horseback, so they could get away anytime they wanted.

Ralph said: “Well, perhaps I'll just take this little boy to Wigleigh.”

Gwenda gasped with horror.

Ralph went on: “Then, if his parents want him, they can come back where they belong.”

Gwenda was beside herself. Ralph had Sam, and he could ride away at any moment. She fought down a hysterical scream. If he turned his horse, she decided, she would throw herself at him and try to drag him off the saddle. She moved a step closer.

Then, behind Ralph and Alan, she saw the oxen. Harry Plowman was driving them through the village from the other end. Eight massive beasts lumbered up to the scene in front of the church, then stopped, looking around dumbly, not knowing which way to go. Harry stood behind them. Ralph and Alan found themselves in a triangular trap, hemmed in by the villagers, the oxen, and the stone church.

Harry had planned this to stop Ralph riding away with Wulfric and herself, Gwenda guessed. But the tactic did just as well for this situation.

Carl said: “Put the child down, Sir Ralph, and go in peace.”

The trouble was, Gwenda thought, it was now difficult for Ralph to back down without losing face. He was going to have to do something to avoid looking foolish, which was the ultimate horror for proud knights. They talked all the time about their honor, but that meant nothing—they were thoroughly dishonorable when it suited them. What they really prized was their dignity. They would rather die than be humiliated.

The tableau was frozen for several moments: the knight and the child on the horse, the mutinous villagers, and the dumb oxen.

Then Ralph lowered Sam to the ground.

Tears of relief came to Gwenda's eyes.

Sam ran to her, threw his arms around her waist, and began to cry.

The villagers relaxed, the men lowering their shovels and hoes.

Ralph pulled on his horse's reins and shouted: “Hup! Hup!” The horse reared. He dug in his spurs and rode straight at the crowd. They scattered. Alan rode behind him. The villagers desperately threw themselves out of the way, ending up in tangled heaps on the muddy ground. They were trampled by one another but not, miraculously, by the horses.

Ralph and Alan laughed loudly as they rode out of the village, as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a huge joke.

But, in reality, Ralph had been shamed.

And that, Gwenda felt sure, meant that he would be back.

68

E
arlscastle had not changed. Twelve years ago, Merthin recalled, he had been asked to demolish the old fortress and build a new, modern palace fit for an earl in a peaceful country. But he had refused, preferring to design the new bridge at Kingsbridge. Since then, it seemed, the project had languished, for here was the same figure-eight wall, with two drawbridges, and the old-fashioned keep ensconced in the upper loop, where the family lived like frightened rabbits at the end of a burrow, unaware that there was no longer any danger from the fox. The place must have been much the same in the days of Lady Aliena and Jack Builder.

Merthin was with Caris, who had been summoned here by the countess, Lady Philippa. Earl William had fallen sick, and Philippa thought her husband had the plague. Caris had been dismayed. She had thought the plague was over. No one had died of it in Kingsbridge for six weeks.

Caris and Merthin had set out immediately. However, the messenger had taken two days to travel from Earlscastle to Kingsbridge, and they had taken the same time to get here, so the likelihood was that the earl would now be dead, or nearly so. “All I will be able to do is give him some poppy essence to ease the final agony,” Caris had said as they rode along.

“You do more than that,” Merthin had said. “Your presence comforts people. You're calm and knowledgeable, and you talk about things they understand, swelling and confusion and pain—you don't try to impress them with jargon about humors, which just makes them feel more ignorant and powerless and frightened. When you're there, they feel that everything possible is being done; and that's what they want.”

“I hope you're right.”

If anything, Merthin was understating. More than once he had seen a hysterical man or woman change, after just a few calming moments with Caris, into a sensible person capable of coping with whatever should happen.

Her inborn gift had been augmented, since the advent of the plague, by an almost supernatural reputation. Everyone for miles around knew that she and her nuns had carried on caring for the sick, despite the risk to themselves, even when the monks had fled. They thought she was a saint.