Epic Historial Collection (318 page)

The prior of Kingsbridge had not shown up. Sam was Prior Philemon's nephew, but Philemon would not want to draw attention to the fact that he was the uncle of a murderer. Philemon had once had a protective affection for his younger sister, Ralph recalled; but perhaps that had faded with the years.

Sam's grandfather, the disreputable Joby, was present, a white-haired old man now, bent and toothless. Why was he here? He had been at odds with Gwenda for years, and was not likely to have much affection for his grandson. He had probably come to steal coins from people's purses while they were absorbed in the trial.

Sam stood down and Sir Lewis spoke briefly. His summing-up pleased Ralph. “Was Sam Wigleigh a runaway?” he asked. “Did Jonno Reeve have the right to arrest him? And did Sam kill Jonno with his spade? If the answer to all three questions is yes, then Sam is guilty of murder.”

Ralph was surprised and relieved. There was no nonsense about whether Sam was provoked. The judge was sound after all.

“What is your verdict?” the judge asked.

Ralph looked at Wulfric. The man was stricken. This is what happens to those who defy me, Ralph thought, and he wished he could say it out loud.

Wulfric caught his eye. Ralph held his gaze, trying to read Wulfric's mind. What emotion was there? Ralph saw that it was fear. Wulfric had never shown fear to Ralph before, but now he crumbled. His son was going to die, and that had weakened him fatally. A profound satisfaction filled Ralph's being as he stared into Wulfric's frightened eyes. I have crushed you at last, he thought, after twenty-four years. Finally, you're scared.

The jury conferred. The foreman seemed to be arguing with the others. Ralph watched them impatiently. Surely they could not be in doubt, after what the judge had said? But there was no certainty with juries. It can't all go wrong at this stage, Ralph thought, can it?

They seemed to come to a resolution, though he could not guess who had prevailed. The foreman stood up.

“We find Sam Wigleigh guilty of murder,” he said.

Ralph kept his eyes fixed on his old enemy. Wulfric looked as if he had been stabbed. His face went pale and he closed his eyes as if in pain. Ralph tried not to smile in triumph.

Sir Lewis turned to Ralph, and Ralph tore his gaze away from Wulfric. “What are your thoughts about the sentence?” said the judge.

“There's only one choice, as far as I'm concerned.”

Sir Lewis nodded. “The jury has made no recommendation for mercy.”

“They don't want a runaway to get away with murdering his bailiff.”

“The ultimate penalty, then?”

“Of course!”

The judge turned back to the court. Ralph locked his gaze on Wulfric again. Everyone else looked at Sir Lewis. The judge said: “Sam Wigleigh, you have murdered the son of your bailiff, and you are sentenced to death. You shall be hanged in Shiring market square tomorrow at dawn, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

Wulfric staggered. The younger son grabbed his father's arm and held him upright; otherwise he might have fallen to the floor. Let him drop, Ralph wanted to say; he's finished.

Ralph looked at Gwenda. She was holding Sam's hand, but she was looking at Ralph. Her expression surprised him. He expected grief, tears, screams, hysterics. But she stared back at him steadily. There was hatred in her eyes, and something else: defiance. Unlike her husband, she did not look crushed. She did not believe the case was over.

She looked, Ralph thought with dismay, as if she had something up her sleeve.

84

C
aris was in tears as Sam was taken away, but Merthin could not pretend to be grief-stricken. It was a tragedy for Gwenda, and he felt desperately sorry for Wulfric. However, it was no bad thing, for the rest of the world, that Sam should be hanged. Jonno Reeve had been carrying out the law. It might well be a bad law, an unjust law, an oppressive law—but that did not give Sam the right to kill Jonno. After all, Nate Reeve was also bereaved. The fact that nobody liked Nate made no difference.

A thief was brought up before the bench, and Merthin and Caris left the courtroom and went into the parlor of the tavern. Merthin got some wine and poured a cup for Caris. A moment later, Gwenda came up to where they sat. “It's noon,” she said. “We have eighteen hours to save Sam.”

Merthin looked up at her in surprise. “What do you propose?” he said.

“We must get Ralph to ask the king to pardon him.”

That seemed highly unlikely. “How would you persuade him to do that?”

“I can't, obviously,” Gwenda said. “But you can.”

Merthin felt trapped. He did not believe Sam deserved a pardon. On the other hand, it was hard to refuse a pleading mother. He said: “I intervened with my brother on your behalf once before—do you remember?”

“Of course,” Gwenda said. “Over Wulfric not inheriting his father's land.”

“He turned me down flat.”

“I know,” she said. “But you have to try.”

“I'm not sure I'm the best person.”

“Who else would he even listen to?”

That was right. Merthin had little chance of success, but no one else had any.

Caris could see that he was reluctant, and she threw her weight in on Gwenda's side. “Please, Merthin,” she said. “Think how you would feel if it was Lolla.”

He was about to say that girls don't get into fights, then he realized that in Lolla's case it was all too likely. He sighed. “I think this is a doomed enterprise,” he said. He looked at Caris. “But, for your sake, I'll try.”

Gwenda said: “Why don't you go now?”

“Because Ralph is still in court.”

“It's almost dinnertime. They'll be finished soon. You could wait in the private chamber.”

He had to admire her resolve. “All right,” he said.

He left the parlor and walked around to the back of the tavern. A guard was standing outside the judge's private room. “I'm the earl's brother,” Merthin said to the sentry. “Alderman Merthin of Kingsbridge.”

“Yes, Alderman, I know you,” the guard said. “I'm sure it will be all right for you to wait inside.”

Merthin went into the little room and sat down. He felt uncomfortable asking his brother for a favor. The two of them had not been close for decades. Ralph had long ago turned into something Merthin did not recognize. Merthin did not know the man who could rape Annet and murder Tilly. It seemed impossible that such a one could have grown from the boy Merthin had called his brother. Since their parents had died, they had not met except on formal occasions, and even then they spoke little. It was presumptuous of him to use their relationship as justification for asking for a privilege. He would not have done it for Gwenda. But for Caris, he had to.

He did not wait long. After a few minutes the judge and the earl came in. Merthin noticed that his brother's limp—the result of a wound suffered in the French wars—was getting worse as he aged.

Sir Lewis recognized Merthin and shook hands. Ralph did the same and said ironically: “A visit from my brother is a rare pleasure.”

It was not an unfair jibe, and Merthin acknowledged it with a nod. “On the other hand,” he said, “I suppose that if anyone is entitled to plead with you for mercy, I am.”

“What need do you have of mercy? Did you kill someone?”

“Not yet.”

Sir Lewis chuckled.

Ralph said: “What, then?”

“You and I have known Gwenda since we were all children together.”

Ralph nodded. “I shot her dog with that bow you made.”

Merthin had forgotten that incident. It was an early sign of how Ralph was going to turn out, he realized with hindsight. “Perhaps you owe her mercy on that account.”

“I think Nate Reeve's son is worth more than a damn dog, don't you?”

“I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. Just that you might balance cruelty then with kindness now.”

“Balance?” Ralph said, with anger rising in his voice, and Merthin knew then that his cause was lost. “Balance?” He tapped his broken nose. “What should I balance against this?” He pointed a finger aggressively at Merthin. “I'll tell you why I won't give Sam a pardon. Because I looked at Wulfric's face in the courtroom today, as his son was declared guilty of murder, and do you know what I saw there? Fear. That insolent peasant is afraid of me, at last. He has been tamed.”

“He means so much to you?”

“I'd hang six men to see that look.”

Merthin was ready to give up, then he thought of Gwenda's grief, and he tried once more. “If you've conquered him, your work is done, isn't it?” he argued. “So let the boy go. Ask the king for a pardon.”

“No. I want to keep Wulfric the way he is.”

Merthin wished he had not come. Putting pressure on Ralph only brought out the worst in him. Merthin was appalled by his vengefulness and malice. He never wanted to speak to his brother again. The feeling was familiar: he had been through this with Ralph before. Somehow it always came as a shock to be reminded of what he was really like.

Merthin turned away. “Well, I had to try,” he said. “Good-bye.”

Ralph became cheery. “Come up to the castle for dinner,” he said. “The sheriff lays a good table. Bring Caris. We'll have a real talk. Philippa's with me—you like her, don't you?”

Merthin had no intention of going. “Let me speak to Caris,” he said. Caris would rather have dinner with Lucifer, he knew.

“I may see you later, then.”

Merthin made his escape.

He returned to the parlor. Caris and Gwenda looked expectantly at him as he crossed the room. He shook his head. “I did my best,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

 

Gwenda had expected this. She was disappointed but not surprised. She had felt she had to try through Merthin. The other remedy she had at her disposal was so much more drastic.

She thanked Merthin perfunctorily and left the inn, heading for the castle on the hill. Wulfric and Davey had gone to a cheap tavern in the suburbs where they could get a filling dinner for a farthing. Wulfric was no good at this sort of thing anyway. His strength and honesty were useless in negotiations with Ralph and his kind.

Besides, Wulfric could not be allowed even to know about how she hoped to persuade Ralph.

As she was walking up the hill she heard horses behind her. She stopped and turned. It was Ralph and his entourage with the judge. She stood still and looked hard at Ralph, making sure he caught her eye as he passed. He would guess she was coming to see him.

A few minutes later she entered the courtyard of the castle, but access to the sheriff's house was barred. She made her way to the porch of the main building and spoke to the marshal of the hall. “My name is Gwenda from Wigleigh,” she said. “Please tell Earl Ralph I need to see him in private.”

“Yes, yes,” said the marshal. “Look around you: all these people need to see the earl, the judge, or the sheriff.”

There were twenty or thirty people standing around the courtyard, some clutching rolls of parchment.

Gwenda was prepared to take a terrible risk to save her son from hanging—but she would not get the opportunity unless she succeeded in speaking to Ralph before dawn.

“How much?” she said to the marshal.

He looked at her with a little less disrespect. “I can't promise he'll see you.”

“You can give him my name.”

“Two shillings. Twenty-four silver pennies.”

It was a lot of money, but Gwenda had all their savings in her purse. However, she was not yet ready to hand over the money. “What is my name?” she said.

“I don't know.”

“I just told you. How can you give Earl Ralph my name if you can't remember it?”

He shrugged. “Tell me again.”

“Gwenda from Wigleigh.”

“All right, I'll mention it to him.”

Gwenda slipped her hand into her purse, brought out a handful of little silver coins, and counted twenty-four. It was four weeks' wages for a laborer. She thought of the backbreaking work she had done to earn the money. Now this idle, supercilious doorkeeper was going to get it for doing next to nothing.

The marshal held out his hand.

She said: “What's my name?”

“Gwenda.”

“Gwenda from where?”

“Wigleigh.” He added: “That's where this morning's murderer came from, isn't it?”

She gave him the money. “The earl will want to see me,” she said as forcefully as she could.

The marshal pocketed the coins.

Gwenda retreated into the courtyard, not knowing whether she had wasted her money.

A moment later she saw a familiar figure with a small head on wide shoulders: Alan Fernhill. That was a piece of luck. He was crossing from the stables to the hall. The other petitioners did not recognize him. Gwenda stood in his way. “Hello, Alan,” she said.