Pillars of the Earth, book 2 17 страница

“But it’s against the rules for anyone to employ a carpenter who isn’t in the guild.”

“Rules can be broken. There must be someone in town desperate enough to defy the guild.”

Merthin realized he had allowed the old men to quench his spirit, and he was grateful to Caris for refusing to accept defeat. She was right, of course: he should stay in Kingsbridge and fight this unjust ruling. And he knew someone who was in desperate need of his talents. “Father Joffroi,” he said.

“Is he desperate? Why?”

Merthin explained about the roof.

“Let’s go and see him,” Caris said.

The priest lived in a small house next to the church. They found him preparing a dinner of salt fish in a stew with spring greens. Joffroi was in his thirties, built like a soldier, tall with broad shoulders. His manner was brusque, but he had a reputation for sticking up for the poor.

Merthin said: “I can repair your roof without closing your church.”

Joffroi looked wary. “You’re an answer to prayer if you can.”

“I’ll build a hoist that will lift the roof timbers and deposit them in the graveyard.”

“Elfric sacked you.” The priest shot an embarrassed look in Caris’s direction.

She said: “I know what happened, Father.”

Merthin said: “He dismissed me because I would not marry his daughter. But the child she is bearing is not mine.”

Joffroi nodded. “Some say you were treated unjustly. I can believe it. I have no great love for the guilds – their decisions are rarely unselfish. All the same, you haven’t completed your apprenticeship.”

“Can any member of the carpenters’ guild repair your roof without closing your church?”

“I heard you haven’t even got any tools.”

“Leave that problem to me to solve.”

Joffroi looked thoughtful. “How much do you want to be paid?”

Merthin stuck his neck out. “Four pence a day, plus the cost of materials.”

“That’s a journeyman carpenter’s wage.”

“If I don’t have the skill of a qualified carpenter, you shouldn’t hire me.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m just saying what I can do.”

“Arrogance is not the worst sin in the world. And I can afford four pence a day if I can keep my church open. How long will it take you to build your hoist?”

“Two weeks at the most.”

“I’m not going to pay you until I can be sure it will work.”

Merthin breathed in. He would be penniless, but he could cope with that. He could live with his parents and eat at Edmund Wooler’s table. He would get by. “Pay for the materials, and save my wages up until the first roof timber is removed and safely brought to ground.”

Joffroi hesitated. “I’ll be unpopular… but I have no choice.” He held out his hand.

Merthin shook it.

All the way from Kingsbridge to Wigleigh – a distance of twenty miles, a full day’s walk – Gwenda was hoping for a chance to use the love potion; but she was disappointed.

It was not that Wulfric was wary. On the contrary, he was open and friendly. He talked about his family, and told her how he wept every morning when he woke up and realized their deaths were not a dream. He was considerate, asking whether she was tired and needed to rest. He told her that he felt land was a trust, something a man held for a lifetime then passed to his heirs, and that when he improved his land – by weeding fields, fencing sheepfolds or clearing stones from pasture – he was fulfilling his destiny.

He even patted Skip.

By the end of the day she was more in love with him than ever. Unfortunately, he showed no sign of feeling anything for her more than a kind of camaraderie, caring but not passionate. In the forest with Sim Chapman, she had wished with all her heart that men were not so much like wild beasts; but now she wanted Wulfric to have a bit more of the beast in him. All day she did little things to arouse his interest. As if by accident, she let him see her legs, which were firm and shapely. When the terrain was hilly, she made it an excuse to take deep breaths and stick out her chest. At every opportunity she brushed against him, touched his arm or put a hand on his shoulder. None of it had the least effect. She was not pretty, she knew, but there was something about her that often made men look hard at her and breathe through their mouths – but it was not working on Wulfric.

They stopped for a rest at noon, and ate the bread and cheese they carried with them; but they drank water from a clear stream, using their hands as cups, and she had no opportunity to give him the potion.

All the same, she was happy. She had him all to herself for a whole day. She could look at him, talk to him, make him laugh, sympathize with him, and occasionally touch him. She pretended to herself that she could kiss him any time she liked, but that at the moment she was not so disposed. It was almost like being married. And it was over too soon.

They arrived in Wigleigh early in the evening. The village stood on a rise, its fields sloping away to all sides, and it was always windy. After two weeks in the bustle of Kingsbridge, the familiar place seemed small and quiet, just a scatter of rough dwellings along the road that led to the manor house and the church. The manor was as large as a Kingsbridge merchant’s home, with bedrooms on an upper floor. The priest’s house was also a fine dwelling, and a few of the peasant houses were substantial. But most of the homes were two-room hovels, one room normally being occupied by livestock and the other serving as kitchen and bedroom for all the family. Only the church was built of stone.

The first of the more substantial houses belonged to Wulfric’s family. Its doors and shutters were closed, giving it a desolate look. He walked past it to the second big house, which was where Annet lived with her parents. He gave Gwenda a casual wave of farewell and went inside, smiling in anticipation.

She felt the sharp tug of loss, as if she had just woken out of a delightful dream. She swallowed her discontent and set out across the fields. The early-June rain had been good for the crops, and the wheat and barley were green, but now they needed sunshine to ripen them. Village women were moving along the rows of grain, bent double, pulling up weeds. Some waved to her.

As she approached her home, Gwenda felt a mixture of apprehension and anger. She had not seen her parents since the day her father had sold her to Sim Chapman for a cow. Almost certainly, Pa thought she was still with Sim. Her appearance would come as a shock. What would he say when he saw her? And what was she going to say to the father who had betrayed her trust?

She felt sure her mother knew nothing of the sale. Pa had probably told Ma some story about Gwenda running off with a boy. Ma was going to fly into a fearsome rage.

She felt happy at the prospect of seeing the little ones – Cath, Joanie and Eric. She realized now how much she had missed them.

On the far side of the hundred-acre field, half hidden in the trees at the edge of the forest, was her home. It was even smaller than the peasants’ hovels, having only one room, which was shared with the cow at night. It was made of wattle-and-daub: tree branches stuck upright in the ground, with twigs interwoven basket-fashion, the gaps plugged with a sticky mixture of mud, straw and cow dung. There was a hole in the thatched roof to let out the smoke of the fire in the middle of the earth floor. Such houses lasted only a few years then had to be rebuilt. It now seemed meaner than ever to Gwenda. She was determined not to spend her life in such a place, having babies every year or two, most of whom died for lack of food. She would not live like her mother. She would rather die.

When she was still a hundred yards from the house, she saw her father coming towards her. He was carrying a jug, probably going to buy ale from Peg Perkins, Annet’s mother, who was the village brewster. Pa always had money at this time of year, for there was plenty of work to be had in the fields.

At first he did not see her.

She studied his thin figure as he walked along the narrow gap between two field strips. He wore a long smock that came to his knees, a battered cap and home-made sandals tied to his feet with straw. His gait managed to be both furtive and jaunty: he always looked like a nervous foreigner defiantly pretending to be at home. His eyes were set closely either side of a big nose, and he had a wide jaw with a knob of a chin, so that his face looked like a lumpy triangle: Gwenda knew that she resembled him in that. He glanced sidelong at the women he passed in the field, as if he did not want them to know he was observing them.

As he came close, he threw her one of his sneaky looks, up from under his lowered eyelids. He looked down instantly, then looked up again. She lifted her chin and stared back at him haughtily.

Astonishment spread across his face. “You!” he said. “What happened?”

“Sim Chapman wasn’t a tinker, he was an outlaw.”

“And where is he now?”

“He’s in hell, Pa. You’ll meet him there.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” She had long ago decided to lie about this. “God killed him. The bridge at Kingsbridge collapsed while Sim was crossing it. God punished him for his sin. Has he punished you yet?”

“God forgives good Christians.”

“Is that all you have to say to me? That God forgives good Christians?”

“How did you escape?”

“I used my wits.”

A crafty look came over his face. “You’re a good girl,” he said.

She stared at him suspiciously. “What mischief are you planning now?”

“You’re a good girl,” he repeated. “Go in to your mother now. You shall have a cup of ale with your supper.” He walked on.

Gwenda frowned. Pa did not seem afraid of what Ma would say when she learned the truth. Perhaps he thought Gwenda would not tell her, out of shame. Well, he was wrong.

Cath and Joanie were outside the house, playing in the dirt. When they saw Gwenda they jumped up and ran to her. Skip barked hysterically. Gwenda hugged her sisters, remembering how she had thought she would never see them again; and at that moment she was fiercely glad she had stuck a long knife into Alwyn’s head.

She went inside. Ma was sitting on a stool, giving little Eric some milk, helping him hold the cup steady so that he did not spill any. She gave a cry of joy when she saw Gwenda. She put down the cup, stood up and embraced her. Gwenda began to weep.

Once she had started crying it was hard to stop. She cried because Sim had led her out of town on a rope, and because she had let Alwyn fuck her, and for all the people who had died when the bridge collapsed, and because Wulfric loved Annet.

When her sobs subsided enough for her to speak again, she said: “Pa sold me, Ma. He sold me for a cow, and I had to go with outlaws.”

“That was wrong,” her mother said.

“It was worse than wrong! He’s wicked, evil – he’s a devil.”

Ma withdrew from the embrace. “Don’t say such things.”

“They’re true!”

“He’s your father.”

“A father doesn’t sell his children like livestock. I have no father.”

“He’s fed you for eighteen years.”

Gwenda stared uncomprehendingly. “How can you be so hard? He sold me to outlaws!”

“And he got us a cow. So there’s milk for Eric, even though my breasts have dried up. And you’re here, aren’t you?”

Gwenda was shocked. “You’re defending him!”

“He’s all I’ve got, Gwenda. He’s not a prince. He’s not even a peasant. He’s a landless labourer. But he’s done everything he can for this family for almost twenty-five years. He worked when he could and thieved when he had to. He kept you alive, and your brother, and with a fair wind he’ll do the same for Cath and Joanie and Eric. Whatever his faults, we’d be worse off without him. So don’t you call him a devil.”

Gwenda was struck dumb. She had hardly got used to the idea that her father had betrayed her. Now she had to face the fact that her mother was as bad. She felt disoriented. It was like when the bridge had moved under her feet: she could hardly understand what was happening to her.

Her father came into the house carrying the jug of ale. He seemed not to notice the atmosphere. He took three wooden cups from the shelf over the fireplace. “Now, then,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s drink to the return of our big girl.”

Gwenda was hungry and thirsty after walking all day. She took the cup and drank deeply. But she knew her father in this mood. “What are you planning?” she said.

“Well, now,” he said. “It’s the Shiring Fair next week, isn’t it?”

“So what?”

“Well… we could do it again.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Do what again?”

“I sell you, you go with the buyer, then you escape and come home. You’re none the worse.”

“None the worse?”

“And we’ve got a cow worth twelve shillings! Why, it takes me near half a year of labouring to earn twelve shillings.”

“And after that? What then?”

“Well, there’s other fairs – Winchester, Gloucester, I don’t know how many.” He refilled her cup from the ale jug. “Why – this could be better than the year you stole Sir Gerald’s purse!”

She did not drink. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, as if she had eaten something corrupt. She thought of arguing with him. Harsh words came to her lips, angry accusations, curses – but she did not speak them. The way she felt was beyond rage. What was the point of having a row? She could never trust her father again. And, because Ma refused to be disloyal to him, Gwenda could not trust her either.

“What am I to do?” she said aloud, but she did not want an answer from anyone in the room: the question was to herself. In this family she had become a commodity, to be sold at city fairs. If she was not prepared to accept that, what could she do?

She could leave.

She realized with a shock that this house was no longer a home to her. The blow shook the foundations of her existence. She had lived here since before she could remember. Now she did not feel safe here. She had to get out.

Not next week, she realized; not even tomorrow morning – she had to go now.

She had nowhere to go, but that made no difference. To stay here, and eat the bread her father put on the table, would be to yield to his authority. She would be accepting his evaluation of her, as a commodity to be sold. She was sorry she had drunk the first cup of ale. Her only chance was to reject him immediately and get out from under his roof.

Gwenda looked at her mother. “You’re wrong,” she said. “He is a devil. And the old stories are right: when you make a bargain with the devil, you end up paying more than you thought.”

Ma looked away.

Gwenda stood up. The refilled cup was still in her hand. She tipped it, pouring the ale on the floor. Skip immediately started to lick it up.

Her father said angrily: “I paid a farthing for this jug of ale!”

“Goodbye,” said Gwenda, and she walked out.

On the following Sunday, Gwenda attended the court hearing that would decide the fate of the man she loved.

The manorial court was held in the church after the service. It was the forum in which the village took collective action. Some of the questions it addressed were disputes – arguments over field boundaries, accusations of theft or rape, quarrels about debts – but more often it made pragmatic decisions, such as when to begin ploughing with the communal eight-ox team.

In theory, the lord of the manor sat in judgement over his serfs. But Norman law – brought to England by invaders from France almost three centuries earlier – compelled lords to follow the customs of their predecessors; and, in order to find out what those customs were, they had to formally consult twelve men of good standing in the village – a jury. So, in practice, the proceedings often became a negotiation between lord and villagers.

On this particular Sunday, Wigleigh had no lord. Sir Stephen had been killed in the collapse of the bridge. Gwenda had brought this news to the village. She also reported that Earl Roland, who had the task of appointing Stephen’s replacement, had been gravely injured. On the day before she left Kingsbridge, the earl had recovered consciousness for the first time – but he had woken into a fever so violent that he was unable to speak a coherent sentence. So there was no prospect of a new lord of Wigleigh yet.

This was not an unusual circumstance. Lords were frequently away: at war, in Parliament, fighting lawsuits, or just attending on their earl or the king. Earl Roland always appointed a deputy, usually one of his sons – but, in this case, he had not been able to do so. In the absence of an overlord, the bailiff had to manage the landholding as best he could.

The job of a bailiff or reeve was, in theory, to carry out the lord’s decisions, but this inevitably gave him a degree of power over his fellows. Exactly how much power depended on the lord’s personal preference: some held tight control, others were lax. Sir Stephen had kept a loose rein, but Earl Roland was notoriously strict.

Nate Reeve had been bailiff to Sir Stephen and to Sir Henry before him, and would presumably be bailiff to whoever came next. He was a hunchback, a small, bent figure, thin and energetic. He was shrewd and greedy, careful to make the most of his limited power by demanding bribes from the villagers at every opportunity.

Gwenda disliked Nate. It was not his greed she objected to: all bailiffs had that vice. But Nate was a man twisted by resentment as much as by his physical defect. His father had been bailiff to the earl of Shiring, but Nate had not inherited that grand position, and he blamed his hump for the fact that he had ended up in the small village of Wigleigh. He seemed to hate all young, strong, handsome people. In his leisure hours he liked to drink wine with Perkin, Annet’s father – who always paid for the liquor.

The question before the court today was what to do about Wulfric’s family’s land.

It was a large holding. Peasants were not all equal, and they did not have equal lands. The standard was a virgate, which was thirty acres in this part of England. In theory a virgate was the area of land one man could farm, and normally yielded enough to feed one family. However, most Wigleigh peasants had a half-virgate, fifteen acres, or thereabouts. They were obliged to find additional means of support for their families: netting birds in the woods, trapping fish in the stream that ran through Brookfield, making belts or sandals from cheap leather offcuts, weaving cloth from yarn for Kingsbridge merchants, or poaching the king’s deer in the forest. A few had more than a virgate. Perkin had a hundred acres, and Wulfric’s father, Samuel, had had ninety. Such wealthy peasants needed help to farm their land, either from their sons and other relatives, or from hired labourers such as Gwenda’s father.

When a serf died, his land might be inherited by his widow, his sons or a married daughter. In any event, the handover had to be licensed by the lord, and a stiff tax, called a heriot, was due. In normal circumstances Samuel’s land would automatically have been inherited by his two sons, and there would have been no need for a court hearing. They would have clubbed together to pay the heriot, then either divided up the land or farmed it together, and made some arrangement for their mother. But one of Samuel’s sons had died with him, which complicated matters.

Every adult in the village attended the court, in general. Gwenda had a particular interest today. Wulfric’s future would be decided, and the fact that he planned to spend that future with another woman did not dampen Gwenda’s concern. Perhaps she should have wished him a miserable life with Annet, she sometimes thought; but she could not. She wanted him to be happy.

When the service was over, a large wooden chair and two benches were brought in from the manor house. Nate took the chair and the jurymen sat on the benches. Everyone else stood.

Wulfric spoke simply. “My father held ninety acres of the lord of Wigleigh,” he said. “Fifty acres were held by his father before him, and forty by his uncle who died ten years ago. As my mother is dead, and so is my brother, and I have no sisters, I am the sole heir.”

“How old are you?” said Nate.

“Sixteen years.”

“You can’t even call yourself a man, yet.”

It seemed Nate was going to make things difficult. Gwenda knew why. He wanted a bribe. But Wulfric had no money.

“Years aren’t everything,” Wulfric said. “I’m taller and stronger than most grown men.”

Aaron Appletree, one of the jurors, said: “David Johns inherited from his father when he was eighteen.”

Nate said: “Eighteen isn’t sixteen. I don’t recall an instance where a sixteen-year-old was allowed to inherit.”

David Johns was not a juror, and he was standing next to Gwenda. “I didn’t have no ninety acres, neither,” he said, and there was a ripple of laughter. David had a half-virgate, like most of them.

Another juror spoke. “Ninety acres is too much for one man, let alone a boy. Why, it was farmed by three until now.” The speaker was Billy Howard, a man in his middle twenties who had wooed Annet unsuccessfully – which might be why he wanted to side with Nate in putting obstacles in Wulfric’s way. “I’ve got forty acres, and I have to hire labourers at harvest time.”

Several of the men nodded agreement. Gwenda began to feel pessimistic. It was not going Wulfric’s way.

“I can get help,” Wulfric said.

Nate said: “Have you got money to pay labourers?”

Wulfric looked a bit desperate, and Gwenda’s heart went out to him. “My father’s purse was lost when the bridge collapsed, and I spent what money I had on the funeral,” he said. “But I can offer my labourers a share of the harvest.”

Nate shook his head. “Everyone in the village is already working full time on their own lands, and those who have no land are already employed. And no one is likely to give up a job that pays cash for one that offers a share of an uncertain crop.”

“I will get the harvest in,” Wulfric said with passionate determination. “I can work day and night, if I have to. I’ll prove to you all that I can handle it.”

There was so much yearning on his handsome face that Gwenda wanted to jump up and shout her support for him. But the men were shaking their heads. Everyone knew that one man could not harvest ninety acres on his own.

Nate turned to Perkin. “He’s engaged to your daughter. Can’t you do something for him?”

Perkin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you should transfer the land to me, for the time being. I could pay the heriot. Then, when he marries Annet, he could take over his land.”

“No!” Wulfric said immediately.

Gwenda knew why he was so against the idea. Perkin was nothing if not sly. He would spend every waking minute between now and the wedding trying to figure out a way of keeping Wulfric’s land for himself.

Nate said to Wulfric: “If you have no money, how will you pay the heriot?”

“I’ll have money when I get the harvest in.”

“If you get the harvest in. And then it may not be enough. Your father paid three pounds for his father’s lands and two pounds for his uncle’s.”

Gwenda gasped. Five pounds was a fortune. It seemed impossible that Wulfric could raise so much money. It would probably have taken all his family’s savings.

Nate went on: “Besides, the heriot is normally paid before the inheritor takes possession – not after the harvest.”

Aaron Appletree said: “In the circumstances, Nate, you might show leniency on that point.”

“Might I? A lord may show leniency, for he holds sway over his own possessions. But if a bailiff shows leniency, he’s giving away someone else’s gold.”

“But we will only be making a recommendation, in any case. Nothing will be final until approved by the new lord of Wigleigh, whoever he may be.”

That was true, strictly speaking, Gwenda thought; but in practice it was unlikely a new lord would overturn an inheritance from father to son.

Wulfric said: “Sir, my father’s heriot was not so much as five pounds.”

“We must check the rolls.” Nate’s response was so quick that Gwenda guessed he had been waiting for Wulfric to challenge the amount. Nate often engineered a pause of some kind in the middle of a hearing, she reflected. She presumed it was to give the parties an opportunity to offer him a bribe. Perhaps he thought Wulfric was concealing some money.

Two jurors brought from the vestry the chest containing the manorial rolls, the record of the manor court’s decisions, written on long strips of parchment rolled into cylinders. Nate could read and write – a bailiff had to be literate, in order to compile accounts for the lord. He searched through the box for the right one.

Gwenda felt that Wulfric was doing badly. His plain speaking and evident honesty were not enough. Nate wanted above all else to make sure he collected the lord’s heriot. Perkin was manoeuvring to get the land for himself. Billy Howard wanted to do Wulfric down out of sheer malice. And Wulfric had no money for a bribe.

He was also guileless. He believed that if he stated his case he would get justice. He had no sense of managing the situation.

Perhaps she could help him. A child of Joby’s could not grow up without learning something about guile.

Wulfric had not appealed to the villagers’ self-interest in his arguments. She would do so for him. She turned to David Johns, standing beside her. “I’m surprised you men aren’t more worried about this,” she said.

He gave her a shrewd look. “What are you getting at, lass?”

“Despite the sudden deaths, this is an inheritance from father to son. If you let Nate quibble about this one, he’ll question them all. He can always dream up some reason for arguing about a legacy. Aren’t you afraid he’ll interfere with your own sons’ rights?”

David looked worried. “You might have a point, there, girl,” he said, and he turned to talk to his neighbour on the other side.

Gwenda also felt it was a mistake for Wulfric to demand a final ruling today. Better to ask for a temporary judgement, which the jurymen would grant more readily. She went to speak to Wulfric. He was arguing with Perkin and Annet. When Gwenda appeared Perkin looked suspicious, and Annet put her nose in the air, but Wulfric was as courteous as ever. “Hello, my travelling companion,” he said. “I heard you left your father’s house.”

“He threatened to sell me.”

“A second time?”

“As many times as I could escape. He thinks he’s found a bottomless purse.”

“Where are you living?”

“Widow Huberts took me in. And I’ve been working for the bailiff, on the lord’s lands. A penny a day, sunrise to sunset – Nate likes his labourers to go home tired. Do you think he’ll give you what you want?”

Wulfric made a face. “He seems reluctant.”

“A woman would handle it so differently.”

He looked surprised. “How so?”

Annet glared at her, but Gwenda ignored the look. “A woman would not demand a ruling, especially when everyone knows that today’s decision isn’t final. She would not risk a No for the chance of a Maybe.”

Wulfric looked thoughtful. “What would she do?”

“She would just ask to be allowed to continue working the land, for now. She would let the binding decision wait until the new lord is appointed. She would know that in the interim everyone would get used to her being in possession, so that when the new lord showed up his approval would seem like a formality. She would gain her objective without giving people much chance to argue about it.”

Wulfric was not sure. “Well…”

“It’s not what you want, but it’s the most you can get today. And how can Nate refuse you, when he has no one else to bring in the harvest?”

Wulfric nodded. He was working out the possibilities. “People would see me reaping the crop, and become accustomed to the idea. After that, it would seem unjust to deny me the inheritance. And I’d be able to pay the heriot, or some of it.”

“You’d be a lot closer to your goal than you are now.”

“Thank you. You’re very wise.” He touched her arm, then turned back to Annet. She said something sharp to him in an undertone. Her father looked annoyed.

Gwenda turned away. Don’t tell me I’m wise, she thought. Tell me I’m… what? Beautiful? Never. The love of your life? That’s Annet. A true friend? To hell with that. So what do I want? Why am I desperate to help you?

She had no answer.

She noticed David Johns speaking emphatically to one of the jurors, Aaron Appletree.

Nate flourished the manor roll. “Wulfric’s father, Samuel, paid thirty shillings to inherit from his father, and a pound to inherit from his uncle.” A shilling was twelve pennies. There was no shilling coin, but everyone talked about shillings just the same. Twenty shillings made a pound. The sum Nate had announced was exactly half what he had originally said.

David Johns spoke up. “A man’s lands should go to his son,” he said. “We don’t want to give our new lord, whoever he may be, the impression that he can pick and choose who shall inherit.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04