Pillars of the Earth, book 2 18 страница

There was a murmur of agreement.

Wulfric stepped forward. “Bailiff, I know you can’t make a final decision today, and I’m content to wait until the new lord is appointed. All I ask is that I should be allowed to continue to work the land. I will bring in the harvest, I swear it. But nothing is lost to you if I fail. And nothing is promised to me if I succeed. When the new lord comes, I will throw myself on his mercy.”

Nate looked cornered. Gwenda felt sure he had been hoping for some way of making money out of this. Perhaps he had expected a bribe from Perkin, Wulfric’s prospective father-in-law. She watched Nate’s face as he tried to think of a way to refuse Wulfric’s more modest request. As he hesitated, one or two villagers began to mutter, and he realized he was doing himself no good by revealing his reluctance. “Very well,” he said with a show of grace that was not very convincing. “What does the jury say?”

Aaron Appletree conferred briefly with his fellow jurors, then said: “Wulfric’s request is modest and reasonable. He should occupy the lands of his father until the new lord of Wigleigh is appointed.”

Gwenda sighed with relief.

Nate said: “Thank you, jurymen.”

The court broke up and people began to head home for dinner. Most of the villagers could afford to eat meat once a week, and Sunday was the usual day they chose. Even Joby and Ethna could generally manage a stew of squirrel or hedgehog, and at this time of year there were plenty of young rabbits to be caught. Widow Huberts had a neck of mutton in a pot on the fire.

Gwenda caught Wulfric’s eye as they were leaving the church. “Well done,” she said as they strolled out together. “He couldn’t refuse you, though he seemed to want to.”

“It was your idea,” he said admiringly. “You knew exactly what I needed to say. I don’t know how to thank you.”

She resisted the temptation to tell him. They walked through the graveyard. She said: “How will you manage the harvest?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you let me come and labour for you?”

“I’ve no money.”

“I don’t care, I’ll work for food.”

He stopped at the gate, turned and gave her a candid look. “No, Gwenda. I don’t think that would be a good plan. Annet wouldn’t like it and, to be frank, she’d be right.”

Gwenda found herself blushing. There was no doubt what he meant. If he had wanted to reject her because she might be too weak, or something, there would have been no need for the direct look, nor for the mention of his fiancee’s name. He knew, she realized with mortification, that she was in love with him, and he was refusing her offer of help because he did not want to encourage her hopeless passion. “All right,” she whispered, looking down. “Whatever you say.”

He smiled warmly. “But thank you for the offer.”

She made no reply and, after a moment, he turned and walked away.

Gwenda got up while it was still dark.

She slept in the straw on the floor of Widow Huberts’s house. Somehow her sleeping mind knew the time, and woke her just before dawn. The widow, lying next to her, did not stir when Gwenda unwrapped her blanket and stood up. Finding her way by touch, she opened the back door and stepped into the yard. Skip followed her, shaking himself.

She stood still for a moment. There was a fresh breeze, as always in Wigleigh. The night was not totally black, and she could make out vague shapes: the duck house, the privy, the pear tree. She could not see the neighbouring house, which was Wulfric’s; but she heard a low growl from his dog, tethered outside the small sheepfold, and she murmured a quiet phrase so that it would recognize her voice and be reassured.

It was a peaceful time – but nowadays there were too many such moments in her day. All her life she had lived in a tiny house full of babies and children, and at any instant at least one of them was clamouring for food, crying because of a minor hurt, shouting a protest or screaming with helpless infantile rage. She would never have guessed she might miss that. But she did, living with the quiet widow, who chatted amiably enough but was equally comfortable with silence. Sometimes Gwenda longed to hear a child cry, just so that she could pick it up and comfort it.

She found the old wooden bucket and washed her hands and face, then went back inside. She located the table in the dark, opened the bread box and cut a thick slice from the week-old loaf. Then she set out, eating the bread as she walked.

The village was silent: she was the first up. Peasants worked from sunup to sundown, and at this time of year it was a long, weary day. They treasured every moment of rest. Only Gwenda also used the hour between dawn and sunrise, and the hour of twilight at the end of the day.

Dawn broke as she left the houses behind and set out across the fields. Wigleigh had three great fields: Hundredacre, Brookfield and Longfield. Different crops were grown on each in a three-year cycle. Wheat and rye, the most valuable grains, were sown in the first year; then lesser crops such as oats, barley, peas and beans in the second year; and in the third year the field was left fallow. This year, Hundredacre was in wheat and rye, Brookfield in various secondary crops, and Longfield was fallow. Each field was divided into strips of about one acre; and each serf’s land consisted of a number of strips scattered across all three fields.

Gwenda went to Hundredacre and began weeding one of Wulfric’s strips, pulling up the persistent new growth of dockweed, marigolds and dogfennel from between his stalks of wheat. She was happy working on his land, helping him, whether he knew about it or not. Every time she bent down, she was saving his back the same effort; every time she pulled a weed she made his crop greater. It was like giving him presents. As she worked she thought of him, picturing his face when he laughed, hearing his voice, the deep voice of a man yet with the eagerness of a boy. She touched the green shoots of his wheat and imagined she was stroking his hair.

She weeded until sunrise then moved to the demesne lands – those strips farmed by the lord, or his labourers – and worked for pay. Although Sir Stephen was dead, his crops still had to be reaped, and his successor would demand a strict account of what had been done with the proceeds. At sundown, having earned her daily bread, Gwenda would move to another part of Wulfric’s holding and work there until dark – longer, if there was a moon.

She had said nothing to Wulfric. But, in a village of only two hundred people, few things remained secret for long. Widow Huberts had asked her, with gentle curiosity, what she hoped to achieve. “He’s going to marry Perkin’s girl, you know – you can’t prevent that.”

“I just want him to succeed,” Gwenda had replied. “He deserves it. He’s an honest man with a good heart, and he’s willing to work until he drops. I want him to be happy, even if he does marry that bitch.”

Today the demesne workers were in Brookfield, harvesting the lord’s early peas and beans, and Wulfric was nearby, digging a drainage ditch: the land was swampy after the heavy rain of early June. Gwenda watched him working, wearing only his drawers and boots, his broad back bending over the spade. He moved as tirelessly as a millwheel. Only the sweat glistening on his skin betrayed the effort he was making. At midday Annet came to him, looking pretty with a green ribbon in her hair, carrying a jug of ale and some bread and cheese wrapped in a piece of sacking.

Nate Reeve rang a bell, and everyone stopped work and retreated to the fringe of trees at the north end of the field. Nate gave out cider, bread and onions to the demesne workers: dinner was included in their remuneration. Gwenda sat with her back against a hornbeam tree and studied Wulfric and Annet with the fascination of a condemned man watching the carpenter build the gallows.

At first, Annet was her usual flirtatious self, tilting her head, batting her eyelids, playfully striking Wulfric in mock punishment for something he said. Then she became serious, speaking to him insistently while he seemed to protest innocence. They both looked at Gwenda, and she guessed they were talking about her. She presumed Annet had found out about her working on Wulfric’s strips in the mornings and evenings. Eventually Annet left, looking petulant, and Wulfric finished his dinner in thoughtful solitude.

After eating, everyone rested for the remainder of the dinner hour. The older people lay full length on the ground and dozed while the youngsters chatted. Wulfric came to where Gwenda sat and crouched beside her. “You’ve been weeding my strips,” he said.

Gwenda was not going to apologize. “I suppose Annet scolded you.”

“She doesn’t want you working for me.”

“What would she like me to do, put the weeds back in the earth?”

He glanced around and lowered his voice, not wanting others to hear – although everyone could surely guess what he and Gwenda were saying to one another. “I know you mean well, and I’m grateful, but it’s causing trouble.”

She enjoyed being this close to him. He smelled of earth and sweat. “You need help,” she said. “And Annet isn’t much use.”

“Please don’t criticize her. In fact, don’t speak of her at all.”

“All right, but you can’t get the harvest in alone.”

He sighed. “If only the sun would shine.” Automatically, he looked up at the sky, a peasant reflex. There was thick cloud from horizon to horizon. All the grain crops were struggling in the cool, damp weather.

“Let me work for you,” Gwenda begged. “Tell Annet you need me. A man is supposed to be master of his wife, not the other way around.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

But the next day he hired a labourer.

He was a travelling man who showed up at the end of the afternoon. The villagers gathered around him in the twilight to hear his story. His name was Gram and he came from Salisbury. He said his wife and children had been killed when his house burned down. He was on his way to Kingsbridge, where he hoped to get employment, perhaps at the priory. His brother was a monk there.

Gwenda said: “I probably know him. My brother, Philemon, has worked at the priory for years. What’s your brother’s name?”

“John.” There were two monks called John but, before Gwenda could ask which was Gram’s brother, he went on: “When I started out, I had a little money to buy food along the way. Then I was robbed by outlaws, and now I’m penniless.”

There was a lot of sympathy for the man. Wulfric invited him to sleep at his house. The next day, Saturday, he started to work for Wulfric, accepting board and lodging and a share of the harvest as his remuneration.

Gram worked hard all day Saturday. Wulfric was shallow-ploughing his fallow land in Longfield to destroy thistles. It was a two-man job: Gram led the horse, whipping it on when it flagged, while Wulfric guided the plough. On Sunday they rested.

In church on Sunday, Gwenda burst into tears when she saw Cath, Joanie and Eric. She had not realized how badly she missed them. She held Eric through the service. Afterwards, her mother spoke harshly to her. “You’re breaking your heart for that Wulfric. Weeding his strips won’t make him love you. He’s cross-eyed for that worthless Annet.”

“I know,” Gwenda said. “But I want to help him anyway.”

“You should leave the village. There’s nothing for you here.”

She knew her mother was right. “I will,” she said. “I’ll leave the day after their wedding.”

Ma lowered her voice. “If you must stay, watch out for your father. He hasn’t given up hope of another twelve shillings.”

“What do you mean?” Gwenda asked.

Ma just shook her head.

“He can’t sell me now,” Gwenda said. “I’ve left his house. He doesn’t feed or shelter me. I work for the lord of Wigleigh. I’m not Pa’s to dispose of any longer.”

“Just watch out,” said Ma, and she would say no more.

Outside the church the travelling man, Gram, talked to Gwenda, asking her questions about herself, and suggested they take a stroll together after dinner. She guessed what he meant by a ‘stroll’ and turned him down flat, but later she saw him with yellow-haired Joanna, the daughter of David Johns, who was only fifteen and stupid enough to fall for the blandishments of a travelling man.

On Monday, Gwenda was weeding Wulfric’s wheat on Hundredacre in the half-light before sunrise when Wulfric came across the field towards her at a run. His face was grim with fury.

She had continued to defy his wishes, working on his lands every morning and evening, and it looked as if she had driven him too far. What would he do – beat her up? After the way she had provoked him, he could probably do violence to her with impunity – people would say she had asked for it, and she had no one to stick up for her now that she had left her parents’ home. She felt scared. She had seen Wulfric break Ralph Fitzgerald’s nose.

Then she told herself not to be foolish. Although he had been in many fights, she had never known him to strike a woman or a child. All the same, his anger made her tremble.

But it was nothing like that. As soon as he got within hailing distance he shouted: “Have you seen Gram?”

“No, why?”

He came closer and stopped, breathing hard. “How long have you been here?”

“I got up before dawn.”

Wulfric’s shoulders slumped. “Then, if he came this way, he’s out of reach by now.”

“What’s happened?”

“He’s disappeared – and so has my horse.”

That explained Wulfric’s rage. A horse was a valuable asset – only wealthy peasants such as his father could afford one. Gwenda recalled how quickly Gram had changed the subject when she said she might know his brother. He did not have a brother at the priory, of course, nor had he lost his wife and child in a fire. He was a liar who had wormed his way into the confidence of the villagers with the intention of stealing. “What fools we were to listen to his story,” she said.

“And I the biggest fool of all, to take him into my house,” Wulfric said bitterly. “He stayed just long enough for the animals to get to know him, so that the horse was willing to go with him, and the dog didn’t bark when he left.”

Gwenda’s heart ached for Wulfric, losing the horse at a time when he needed it most. “I don’t think he came this way,” she said thoughtfully. “He can’t have left before me – the night was too dark. And if he had followed me I would have seen him.” There was only one road into and out of the village, and it dead-ended at the manor house. But there were numerous pathways across the fields. “He probably took the lane between Brookfield and Longfield – it’s the quickest way into the forest.”

“The horse can’t move very fast in the woods. I might catch him yet.” Wulfric turned and ran back the way he had come.

“Good luck,” Gwenda called after him, and he waved acknowledgement without turning his head.

However, he did not have good luck.

Late that afternoon, as Gwenda was carrying a sack of peas from Brookfield to the lord’s barn, she walked past Longfield and saw Wulfric again. He was digging over his fallow land with a spade. Obviously he had not caught up with Gram, nor retrieved his horse.

She put down the sack and crossed the field to speak to him. “You can’t do this,” she said. “You’ve got thirty acres here, and you’ve ploughed, what, ten? No man can dig over twenty acres.”

He did not meet her eye. He carried on digging, his face set. “I can’t plough,” he said. “I’ve no horse.”

“Put yourself in harness,” she said. “You’re strong, and it’s a light plough – you’re only killing thistles.”

“I’ve no one to guide the plough.”

“Yes, you have.”

He stared at her.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

He shook his head.

She said: “You’ve lost your family, and now you’ve lost your horse. You can’t manage on your own. You have no choice. You have to let me help you.”

He looked away, across the fields, towards the village, and she knew he was thinking about Annet.

“I’ll be ready first thing tomorrow morning,” Gwenda said.

His gaze returned to her. His face worked with emotion. He was torn between love of the land and a desire to please Annet.

“I’ll knock on your door,” Gwenda said. “We’ll plough the rest together.” She turned and walked away, then stopped and looked back.

He did not say Yes.

But he did not say No.

*

They ploughed for two days, then made hay, then picked spring vegetables.

Now that Gwenda was no longer earning money to pay Widow Huberts for bed and board, she needed somewhere else to sleep, so she moved into Wulfric’s cowshed. She explained the reason, and he made no objection.

After the first day, Annet ceased to bring Wulfric’s dinner at midday, so Gwenda would prepare food for them both from his cupboard: bread, ale in a jug, boiled eggs or cold bacon, and spring onions or beets. Once again, Wulfric accepted the change without comment.

She still had the love potion. The little pottery vial was in a tiny leather bag attached to a thong around her neck. It hung between her breasts, hidden from view. She could have dosed his ale at any dinner time, but she would not be able to take advantage of its effects out in the fields in the middle of the day.

Every evening he went to Perkin’s house and had supper with Annet and her family, so Gwenda sat alone in his kitchen. When he returned he often looked grim, but he said nothing to Gwenda, so she assumed he must have overruled Annet’s objections. He went to bed without taking anything more to eat or drink, so she was not able to use the potion.

On the Saturday after Gram ran off, Gwenda made herself a supper of greens boiled with salt pork. Wulfric’s house was stocked with food for four adults, so there was plenty to eat. The evenings were cool, even though it was now July, and after she had eaten she put another log on the kitchen fire and sat watching it catch alight, thinking of the simple, predictable life she had led until a few short weeks ago, marvelling at how that life had collapsed as completely as the bridge at Kingsbridge.

When the door opened, she thought it was Wulfric coming home. She always retired to the cowshed when he came back, but she enjoyed the few friendly words they exchanged before going to bed. She looked up eagerly, expecting to see his handsome face; but she suffered an unpleasant shock.

It was not Wulfric, but her father.

With him was a rough-looking stranger.

She leaped to her feet, full of fear. “What do you want?”

Skip gave a hostile bark, but retreated from Joby in fear.

Joby said: “Now, then, my little girl, no need to be afraid, I’m your pa.”

She recalled, with dismay, her mother’s vague warning in church. “Who is he?” she said, pointing at the stranger.

“This here is Jonah from Abingdon, a dealer in hides.”

Jonah might once have been a merchant, Gwenda thought grimly, and he might even come from Abingdon, but his boots were worn, his clothes were filthy, and his matted hair and straggly beard showed that he had not visited a city barber for some years.

Showing more courage than she felt, Gwenda said: “Get away from me.”

“I told you she was feisty,” Joby said to Jonah. “But she’s a good girl, and strong.”

Jonah spoke for the first time. “Not to worry,” he said. He licked his lips as he studied Gwenda, and she wished she were wearing more than her light wool dress. “I’ve broken in a few fillies in my time,” he added.

Gwenda had no doubt that her father had carried out his threat and sold her again. She had thought that leaving his house would make her safe. Surely the villagers would not permit the abduction of a labourer employed by one of their number? But it was dark, now, and she might be far away before anyone realized what had happened.

There was no one to help her.

All the same, she was not going without a fight.

She looked around desperately, searching for a weapon. The log she had put on a few minutes ago was blazing at one end, but it was about eighteen inches long, and the other end stuck out invitingly. She bent quickly and snatched it up.

“Now, then, no need for that sort of thing,” said Joby. “You don’t want to hurt your old pa, do you?” He stepped closer.

A rush of rage overwhelmed her. How dare he speak of himself as her old pa when he was trying to sell her? Suddenly she did want to hurt him. She leaped at him, screaming with rage, thrusting the burning log at his face.

He jumped back, but she kept coming, mad with fury. Skip yapped frantically. Joby lifted his arms to protect himself, trying to knock the brand away, but she was strong, too. His flailing arms failed to stop her rush, and she pushed the red-hot end of the log into his face. He screamed in pain as it scorched his cheek. His dirty beard caught fire, and there was a sickening smell of roasting flesh.

Then Gwenda was grabbed from behind. Jonah’s arms encircled her, pinning her own arms to her side. She dropped the burning log. Plames leaped up immediately from the straw on the floor. Skip, terrified of fire, ran out of the house. Gwenda struggled, wriggling in Jonah’s grasp, throwing herself from side to side, but he was surprisingly strong. He lifted her off her feet.

A tall figure appeared in the doorway. Gwenda saw only the shape, then it disappeared again. Gwenda felt herself thrown to the ground. For a moment she was stunned. When she came to her senses, Jonah was kneeling on her, tying her hands with a rope.

The tall figure reappeared, and Gwenda recognized Wulfric. This time he was carrying a big oak bucket. Swiftly, he emptied the bucket on to the burning straw, putting out the flames. Then he changed his grip, swung the bucket and hit the kneeling Jonah a mighty blow on top of the head.

Jonah’s grip on Gwenda relaxed. She pulled her wrists apart and felt the rope loosen. Wulfric swung the bucket and hit Jonah a second time, even harder. Jonah’s eyes closed and he slumped to the floor.

Joby put out the flames of his burning beard by pressing his sleeve against it, then sank to his knees, moaning in agony.

Wulfric picked up the unconscious Jonah by his tunic front. “Who on earth is this?”

“His name is Jonah. My father wanted to sell me to him.”

Wulfric lifted the man by the belt, carried him to the front door, and threw him out into the road.

Joby groaned. “Help me, my face is burned.”

“Help you?” said Wulfric. “You’ve set fire to my house and attacked my labourer, and you want me to help you? Get out!”

Joby got to his feet, moaning piteously, and staggered to the front door. Gwenda searched her heart and found no compassion. What little love she might have had left for him had been destroyed tonight. As he went out through the door, she hoped he would never speak to her again.

Perkin came to the back door, carrying a rush light. “What happened?” he said. “I thought I heard a scream.” Gwenda saw Annet hovering behind him.

Wulfric answered the question. “Joby came here with another ruffian. They tried to take Gwenda away.”

Perkin grunted. “You seem to have dealt with the problem.”

“Without difficulty.” Wulfric realized he still had the bucket in his hand and he put it down.

Annet said: “Are you hurt?”

“Not in the least.”

“Do you need anything?”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

Perkin and Annet took the hint and went away. No one else seemed to have heard the commotion. Wulfric closed the doors.

He looked at Gwenda in the firelight. “How do you feel?”

“Shaky.” She sat on the bench and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table.

He went to the cupboard. “Drink a little wine to steady yourself.” He took out a small barrel, put it on the table and got two cups off the shelf.

Gwenda was suddenly alert. Could this be her chance? She tried to pull herself together. She would have to act quickly.

Wulfric poured wine into the cups, then returned the barrel to the cupboard.

Gwenda had only a second or two. While his back was turned, she reached into her bosom and pulled out the bag that hung around her neck on its leather thong. She fumbled the vial from the bag. With a trembling hand she unstoppered it and emptied it into his cup.

He turned around as she was pushing the bag back into her neckline. She patted herself as if she had merely been straightening her clothing. Typical man, he noticed nothing amiss, and sat opposite her at the table.

She picked up her cup and raised it in a toast. “You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Your hand is shaking,” he said. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”

They both drank.

Gwenda wondered how long the potion would take to have its effect.

Wulfric said: “You saved me, by helping me in the fields. Thank you.”

They drank again.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Gwenda said. “To have a father like mine, or to be like you and have no father at all.”

“I feel sorry for you,” Wulfric said thoughtfully. “At least I have good memories of my parents.” He emptied his cup. “I don’t usually drink wine – I don’t like that woozy feeling – but this is great.”

She watched him carefully. Mattie Wise had said that he would become amorous. Gwenda looked for the signs. Sure enough, he soon began to stare as if seeing her for the first time. After a while he said: “You know, you’ve got such a nice face. There’s a lot of kindness in it.”

Now she was supposed to use her feminine wiles to seduce him. But, she realized with a panicky feeling, she had had no practice at this. Women such as Annet did it all the time. However, when she thought of the things Annet did – smilingly coyly, touching her hair, fluttering her eyelashes – she could not bring herself even to try. She would just feel stupid.

“You’re kind,” she said, talking to gain time. “But your face shows something else.”

“What?”

“Strength. The kind that comes, not from big muscles, but from determination.”

“I feel strong tonight.” He grinned. “You said no man could dig over twenty acres – but I feel as if I could, right now.”

She put her hand over his on the table. “Enjoy your rest,” she said. “There’s plenty of time for digging.”

He looked at her small hand on his large one. “We’ve got different colour skin,” he said, as if discovering an amazing fact. “Look: yours is brown, mine’s pink.”

“Different skin, different hair, different eyes. I wonder what our babies would be like?”

He smiled at the thought. Then his expression changed as he realized something was wrong with what she had said. Abruptly, his face became grave. The change might have been comical if she had not cared so much about his feelings for her. He said solemnly: “We’re not going to have babies.” He took his hand away.

“Let’s not think about that,” she said desperately.

“Don’t you sometimes wish…” He tailed off.

“What?”

“Don’t you sometimes wish the world could be different from the way it is?”

She got up, walked around the table and sat close to him. “Don’t wish,” she said. “We’re alone, and it’s night. You can do anything you want.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Anything.”

He stared back at her. She saw the yearning in his face, and realized with a thrill of triumph that he desired her. It had required a potion to bring it out, but it was unmistakably genuine. Right now he wanted nothing in the world other than to make love to her.

Still he made no move.

She took his hand. He did not resist as she drew it to her lips. She held the big, rough fingers, then pressed the palm to her mouth. She kissed it, then licked it with the tip of her tongue. Then she pressed his hand to one breast.

His hand closed over it, making it seem very small. His mouth opened a fraction, and she could see that he was breathing hard. She tilted her head back, ready to be kissed, but he did nothing.

She stood up and quickly pulled her dress up over her head and threw it to the floor. She stood naked in front of him in the firelight. He gazed at her, eyes wide, mouth open, as if he were witnessing a miracle.

She took his hand again. This time, she touched it to the soft place between her thighs. It covered the triangle of hair there. She was so wet that his finger slipped inside her, and she gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.

But he did nothing of his own volition, and she understood that he was paralysed by indecision. He wanted her, but he had not forgotten Annet. Gwenda could move him like a puppet all night, perhaps even have sex with his inert body, but that would change nothing. She needed him to take the initiative.

She leaned forward, still holding his hand against her groin. “Kiss me,” she said. She moved her face closer to his. “Please,” she said. She was an inch away from his mouth. She would not get nearer: he had to close the gap.

Suddenly, he moved.

He withdrew his hand, turned away from her and stood up. “This is wrong,” he said.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04