Pillars of the Earth, book 2 10 страница

“There he is,” Gwenda murmured. “The tall one with-”

“I can tell which one he is,” Caris said. “He looks good enough to eat.”

“You see what I mean.”

“He’s a bit young, isn’t he?”

“Sixteen. I’m eighteen. Annet is eighteen too.”

“All right.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gwenda said. “He’s too handsome for me.”

“No-”

“Handsome men never fall for ugly women, do they?”

“You’re not ugly-”

“I’ve seen myself in a glass.” The memory was painful, and Gwenda grimaced. “I cried when I realized what I looked like. I have a big nose and my eyes are too close together. I resemble my father.”

Caris protested: “You have beautiful soft brown eyes, and wonderful thick hair.”

“But I’m not in Wulfric’s class.”

Wulfric was standing side-on to Gwenda and Caris, giving them a good view of his carved profile. They both admired him for a moment – then he turned, and Gwenda gasped. The other side of his face was completely different: bruised and swollen, with one eye closed.

She ran up to him. “What happened to you?” she cried.

He was startled. “Oh, hello, Gwenda. I had a fight.” He half turned away, obviously embarrassed.

“Who with?”

“Some squire of the earl’s.”

“You’re hurt!”

He looked impatient. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

He did not understand why she was concerned, of course. Perhaps ne even thought she was revelling in his misfortune. Then Caris spoke. “Which squire?” she said.

Wulfric looked at her with interest, realizing from her dress that she was a wealthy woman. “His name is Ralph Fitzgerald.”

“Oh – Merthin’s brother!” Caris said. “Was he hurt?”

“I broke his nose.” Wulfric looked proud.

“Weren’t you punished?”

“A night in the stocks.”

Gwenda gave a little cry of anguish. “Poor you!”

“It wasn’t so bad. My brother made sure no one pelted me.”

“Even so…” Gwenda was horrified. The idea of being imprisoned in any way seemed to her the worst kind of torture.

Annet finished with a customer and joined in the conversation. “Oh, it’s you, Gwenda,” she said coldly. Wulfric might be oblivious to Gwenda’s feelings, but Annet was not, and she treated Gwenda with a mixture of hostility and scorn. “Wulfric fought a squire who insulted me,” she said, unable to conceal her satisfaction. “He was just like a knight in a ballad.”

Gwenda said sharply: “I wouldn’t want him to get his face hurt for my sake.”

“Fortunately, that’s not very likely, is it?” Annet smiled triumphantly.

Caris said: “One never knows what the future may hold.”

Annet looked at her, startled by the interruption, and showed surprise that Gwenda’s companion was so expensively dressed.

Caris took Gwenda’s arm. “Such a pleasure to meet you Wigleigh folk,” she said graciously. “Goodbye.”

They walked on. Gwenda giggled. “You were terribly condescending to Annet.”

“She annoyed me. Her kind give women a bad name.”

“She was so pleased that Wulfric got beaten up for her sake! I’d like to poke out her eyes.”

Caris said thoughtfully: “Apart from his good looks, what is he actually like?”

“Strong, proud, loyal – just the type to get into a fight on someone else’s behalf. But he’s the kind of man who will provide tirelessly for his family, year in and year out, until the day he drops dead.”

Caris said nothing.

Gwenda said: “He doesn’t appeal to you, does he?”

“You make him sound a bit dull.”

“If you’d grown up with my father, you wouldn’t think a good provider was dull.”

“I know.” Caris squeezed Gwenda’s arm. “I think he’s wonderful for you – and, to prove it, I’m going to help you get him.”

Gwenda was not expecting that. “How?”

“Come with me.”

They left the fairground and walked to the north end of the town. Caris led Gwenda to a small house in a side street near St Mark’s parish church. “A wise woman lives here,” she said. Leaving the dogs outside, they ducked through a low doorway.

The single, narrow downstairs room was divided by a curtain. In the front half were a chair and a bench. The fireplace had to be at the back, Gwenda thought, and she wondered why someone would want to hide whatever went on in the kitchen. The room was clean, and there was a strong smell, herby and slightly acid, hardly a perfume but not unpleasant. Caris called out: “Mattie, it’s me.”

After a moment, a woman of about forty pulled aside the curtain and came through. She had grey hair and pale indoor skin. She smiled when she saw Caris. Then she gave Gwenda a hard look and said: “I see your friend is in love – but the boy hardly speaks to her.”

Gwenda gasped: “How did you know?”

Mattie sat on the chair heavily: she was stout, and short of breath. “People come here for three reasons: sickness, revenge and love. You look healthy, and you’re too young for revenge, so you must be in love. And the boy must be indifferent to you, otherwise you wouldn’t need my help.”

Gwenda glanced at Caris, who looked pleased and said: “I told you she was wise.” The two girls sat on the bench and looked expectantly at the woman.

Mattie went on: “He lives close to you, probably in the same village; but his family are wealthier than yours.”

“All true.” Gwenda was amazed. No doubt Mattie was guessing, but she was so accurate it seemed as if she must have second sight.

“Is he handsome?”

“Very.”

“But he’s in love with the prettiest girl in the village.”

“If you like that type.”

“And her family, too, is wealthier than yours.”

“Yes.”

Mattie nodded. “A familiar story. I can help you. But you must understand something. I have nothing to do with the spirit world. Only God can work miracles.”

Gwenda was puzzled. Everyone knew that the spirits of the dead controlled all of life’s hazards. If they were pleased with you, they would guide rabbits to your traps, give you healthy babies, and make the sun shine on your ripening corn. But if you did something to anger them, they could put worms in your apples, cause your cow to give birth to a deformed calf, and make your husband impotent. Even the physicians at the priory admitted that prayers to the saints were more efficacious than their medicines.

Mattie went on: “Don’t despair. I can sell you a love potion.”

“I’m sorry, I have no money.”

“I know. But your friend Caris is extraordinarily fond of you, and she wants you to be happy. She came here prepared to pay for the potion. However, you must administer it correctly. Can you get the boy alone for an hour?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“Put the potion in his drink. Within a short time he will become amorous. That’s when you must be alone with him – if there is another girl in sight he may fall for her instead. So keep him away from other women, and be very sweet to him. He will think you the most desirable woman in the world. Kiss him, tell him he’s wonderful, and – if you want – make love to him. After a while, he will sleep. When he wakes up, he will remember that he spent the happiest hour of his life in your arms, and he’ll want to do it again as soon as he can.”

“But won’t I need another dose?”

“No. The second time, your love and desire and femininity will be enough. A woman can make any man blissfully happy if he gives her the chance.”

The very thought made Gwenda feel lustful. “I can’t wait.”

“Then let’s make up the mixture.” Mattie heaved herself out of the chair. “You can come behind the curtain,” she said. Gwenda and Caris followed her. “It’s only there for the ignorant.”

The kitchen had a clean stone floor and a big fireplace equipped with stands and hooks for cooking and boiling, far more than one woman would need for her own food. There was a heavy old table, stained and scorched but scrubbed clean; a shelf with a row of pottery jars; and a locked cupboard, presumably containing the more precious ingredients used in Mattie’s potions. Hanging on the wall was a large slate with numbers and letters scratched on it, presumably recipes. “Why do you need to hide all this behind a curtain?” Gwenda said.

“A man who makes ointments and medicines is called an apothecary, but a woman who does the same runs the risk of being called a witch. There’s a woman in town called Crazy Nell who goes around shouting about the devil. Friar Murdo has accused her of heresy. Nell is mad, it’s true, but there’s no harm in her. All the same, Murdo is insisting on a trial. Men like to kill a woman, every now and again, and Murdo will give them an excuse, and collect their pennies afterwards as alms. That’s why I always tell people that only God works miracles. I don’t conjure spirits. I just use the herbs of the forest and my powers of observation.”

While Mattie talked, Caris was moving about the kitchen as freely as if she were at home. She put a mixing bowl and a vial on the table. Mattie handed her a key, and she opened the cupboard. “Put three drops of essence of poppies into a spoonful of distilled wine,” Mattie said. “We must be careful not to make the mixture over-strong, or he will go to sleep too soon.”

Gwenda was astonished. “Are you going to make the potion, Caris?”

“I sometimes help Mattie. Don’t say anything to Petranilla, she would disapprove.”

“I wouldn’t tell her if her hair was on fire.” Caris’s aunt disliked Gwenda, probably for the same reason she would disapprove of Mattie: they were both low-class, and such things mattered to Petranilla.

But why was Caris, the daughter of a wealthy man, working like an apprentice in the kitchen of a side-street medicine woman? While Caris made up the mixture, Gwenda recalled that her friend had always been intrigued by illness and cures. As a little girl, Caris had wanted to be a physician, not understanding that only priests were allowed to study medicine. Gwenda remembered her saying, after her mother had died: “But why do people have to fall sick?” Mother Cecilia had told her it was because of sin; Edmund had said that no one really knew. Neither response had satisfied Caris. Perhaps she was still seeking the answer here in Mattie’s kitchen.

Caris poured the liquid into a tiny jar, stoppered it, and bound the stopper tightly with cord, tying the ends in a knot. Then she handed the jar to Gwenda.

Gwenda tucked it into the leather purse attached to her belt. She wondered how on earth she was going to get Wulfric on his own for an hour. She had glibly said that she would find a way but, now that she had the love potion in her possession, the task seemed nearly impossible. He showed signs of restlessness if she merely spoke to him. He wanted to be with Annet any free time he had. What reason would Gwenda give for needing to be alone with him? “I want to show you a place where we can get wild duck eggs.” But why would she show him and not her father? Wulfric was a little naive, but not stupid: he would know she was up to something.

Caris gave Mattie twelve silver pennies – two weeks’ wages for Pa. Gwenda said: “Thank you, Caris. I hope you’ll come to my wedding.”

Caris laughed. “That’s what I like to see – confidence!”

They left Mattie and headed back to the fair. Gwenda decided to begin by finding out where Wulfric was staying. His family were too well off to claim poverty, so they could not stay free at the priory. They would probably be lodging in a tavern. She could just casually ask him, or his brother, and follow up with a question about the standard of accommodation, as if she were interested to know which of the town’s many inns was the best.

A monk passed by, and Gwenda realized with a guilty start that she had not even thought about trying to see her brother, Philemon. Pa would not visit him, for they had hated one another for years; but Gwenda was fond of him. She knew that he was sly, untruthful and malicious, but all the same he loved her. They had been through many hungry winters together. She would seek him out later, she resolved, after she had seen Wulfric again.

But, before she and Caris reached the fairground, they met Gwenda’s father.

Joby was near the priory gates, outside the Bell. With him was a rough-looking man in a yellow tunic, with a pack on his back – and a brown cow.

He waved Gwenda over. “I’ve found a cow,” he said.

Gwenda looked more closely. It was two years old, and thin, with a bad-tempered look, but it appeared healthy. “It seems fine,” she said.

“This is Sim Chapman,” he said, jerking a thumb at the yellow tunic. A chapman travelled from village to village selling small necessities – needles, buckles, hand mirrors, combs. He might have stolen the cow, but that would not bother Pa, if the price was right.

Gwenda said to her father: “Where did you get the money?”

“I’m not paying, exactly,” he replied, looking shifty.

Gwenda had expected him to have some scheme. “What, then?”

“It’s more of a swap.”

“What are you giving him in exchange for the cow?”

“You,” said Pa.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, and then she felt a loop of rope dropped over her head and tightened around her body, pinning her arms to her sides.

She felt bewildered. This could not be happening. She struggled to free herself, but Sim just pulled the rope tighter.

“Now, don’t make a fuss,” Pa said.

She could not believe they were serious. “What do you think you’re doing?” she said incredulously. “You can’t sell me, you fool!”

“Sim needs a woman, and I need a cow,” Pa said. “It’s very simple.”

Sim spoke for the first time. “She’s ugly enough, your daughter.”

“This is ridiculous!” Gwenda said.

Sim smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Gwenda,” he said. “I’ll be good to you, as long as you behave yourself, and do as you’re told.”

They meant it, Gwenda saw. They actually thought they could make this exchange. A cold needle of fear entered her heart as she realized it might even happen.

Caris spoke up. “This joke has gone on long enough,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “Release Gwenda immediately.”

Sim was not intimidated by her air of command. “And who are you, to give orders?”

“My father is alderman of the parish guild.”

“But you’re not,” Sim said. “And even if you were, you’d have no authority over me or my friend Joby.”

“You can’t trade a girl for a cow!”

“Why not?” said Sim. “It’s my cow, and the girl is his daughter.”

Their raised voices attracted the attention of passers-by, who stopped to stare at the girl tied up with a rope. Someone said: “What’s happening?” Another replied: “He’s sold his daughter for a cow.” Gwenda saw a look of panic cross her father’s face. He was wishing he had done this up a quiet alley – but he was not smart enough to have foreseen the public reaction. Gwenda realized the bystanders might be her only hope.

Caris waved to a monk who came out of the priory gates. “Brother Godwyn!” she called. “Come and settle an argument, please.” She looked triumphantly at Sim. “The priory has jurisdiction over all bargains agreed at the Fleece Fair,” she said. “Brother Godwyn is the sacrist. I think you’ll have to accept his authority.”

Godwyn said: “Hello, cousin Caris. What’s the matter?”

Sim grunted with disgust. “Your cousin, is he?”

Godwyn gave him a frosty look. “Whatever the dispute is here, I shall try to give a fair judgement, as a man of God – you can depend on me for that, I hope.”

“And very glad to hear it, sir,” Sim said, becoming obsequious.

Joby was equally oily. “I know you, brother – my son Philemon is devoted to you. You’ve been the soul of kindness to him.”

“All right, enough of that,” Godwyn said. “What’s going on?”

Caris said: “Joby here wants to sell Gwenda for a cow. Tell him he can’t.”

Joby said: “She’s my daughter, sir, and she’s eighteen years old and a maid, so she’s mine to do with what I will.”

Godwyn said: “All the same, it seems a shameful business, selling your children.”

Joby became pathetic. “I wouldn’t do it, sir, only I’ve three more at home, and I’m a landless labourer, with no means to feed the children through the winter, unless I have a cow, and our old one has died.”

There was a sympathetic murmur from the growing crowd. They knew about winter hardship, and the extremes to which a man might have to go to feed his family. Gwenda began to despair.

Sim said: “Shameful you may think it, Brother Godwyn, but is it a sin?” He spoke as if he already knew the answer, and Gwenda guessed he might have had this argument before, in a different place.

With obvious reluctance, Godwyn said: “The Bible does appear to sanction selling your daughter into slavery. The book of Exodus, chapter twenty-one.”

“Well, there you are, then!” said Joby. “It’s a Christian act!”

Caris was outraged. “The book of Exodus!” she said scornfully.

One of the bystanders joined in. “We are not the children of Israel,” she said. She was a small, chunky woman with an underbite that gave her jaw a determined look. Although dressed poorly, she was assertive. Gwenda recognized her as Madge, the wife of Mark Webber. “There is no slavery today,” Madge said.

Sim said: “Then what of apprentices, who get no pay, and may be beaten by their master? Or novice monks and nuns? Or those who skivvy for bed and board in the palaces of the nobility?”

Madge said: “Their life may be hard, but they can’t be bought and sold – can they, Brother Godwyn?”

“I don’t say that the trade is lawful,” Godwyn responded. “I studied medicine at Oxford, not law. But I can find no reason, in Holy Scripture or the teachings of the Church, to say that what these men are doing is a sin.” He looked at Caris and shrugged. “I’m sorry, cousin.”

Madge Webber folded her arms across her chest. “Well, chapman, how are you going to take the girl out of town?”

“At the end of a rope,” he said. “Same way I brought the cow in.”

“Ah, but you didn’t have to get the cow past me and these people.”

Gwenda’s heart leaped with hope. She was not sure how many of the bystanders supported her, but if it came to a fight they were more likely to side with Madge, who was a townswoman, than with Sim, an outsider.

“I’ve dealt with obstinate women before,” Sim said, and his mouth twisted as he spoke. “They’ve never given me much trouble.”

Madge put her hand on the rope. “Perhaps you’ve been lucky.”

He snatched the rope away. “Keep your hands off my property and you won’t get hurt.”

Deliberately, Madge put a hand on Gwenda’s shoulder.

Sim shoved Madge roughly, and she staggered back; but there was a murmur of protest from the crowd.

A bystander said: “You wouldn’t do that if you’d seen her husband.”

There was a ripple of laughter. Gwenda recalled Madge’s husband, Mark, a gentle giant. If only he would show up!

But it was John Constable who arrived, his well-developed nose for trouble bringing him to any crowd almost as soon as it gathered. “We’ll have no shoving,” he said. “Are you causing trouble, chapman?”

Gwenda became hopeful again. Chapmen had a bad reputation, and the constable was assuming Sim was the cause of the trouble.

Sim turned obsequious, something he could obviously do quicker than changing his hat. “Beg pardon, Master Constable,” he said. “But when a man has paid an agreed price for his purchase, he must be allowed to leave Kingsbridge with his goods intact.”

“Ot course.” John had to agree. A market town depended on its reputation for fair dealing. “But what have you bought?”

“This girl.”

“Oh.” John looked thoughtful. “Who sold her?”

“I did,” said Joby. “I’m her father.”

Sim went on: “And this woman with the big chin threatened to stop me taking the girl away.”

“So I did,” said Madge. “For I’ve never heard of a woman being bought and sold in Kingsbridge Market, and nor has anyone else around here.”

Joby said: “A man may do as he will with a child of his own.” He looked around the crowd appealingly. “Is there anyone here who will disagree with that?”

Gwenda knew that no one would. Some people treated their children kindly, and some harshly, but all were agreed that the father must have absolute power over the child. She burst out angrily: “You wouldn’t stand there, deaf and dumb, if you had a father like him. How many of you were sold by your parents? How many of you were made to steal, when you were children and had hands small enough to slide into folks’ wallets?”

Joby started to look worried. “She’s raving, now, Master Constable,” he said. “No child of mine ever stole.”

“Never mind that,” said John. “Everyone listen to me. I shall make a ruling on this. Those who disagree with my decision can complain to the prior. If there’s any shoving, by anyone, or any other kind of rough stuff, I shall arrest everyone involved in it. I hope that’s clear.” He looked around belligerently. No one spoke: they were eager to hear his decision. He went on: “I know of no reason why this trade is unlawful, therefore Sim Chapman is allowed to go his way, with the girl.”

Joby said: “I told you so, didn’t-”

“Shut your damn mouth, Joby, you fool,” said the constable. “Sim, get going, and make it quick. Madge Webber, if you raise a hand I’ll put you in the stocks, and your husband won’t stop me either. And not a word from you, Caris Wooler, please – you may complain to your father about me if you wish.”

Before John had finished speaking, Sim jerked hard on the rope. Gwenda was tipped forward, and stuck a foot out in front of her to keep from falling to the ground; then, somehow, she was moving along, stumbling and half running down the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caris alongside her. Then John Constable seized Caris by the arm, she turned to protest to him, and a moment later she disappeared from Gwenda’s sight.

Sim walked quickly down the muddy main street, hauling on the rope, keeping Gwenda just off balance. As they approached the bridge she began to feel desperate. She tried jerking back on the rope, but he responded with an extra strong heave that threw her down in the mud. Her arms were still pinioned, so she could not use her hands to protect herself, and she fell flat, bruising her chest, her face squelching into the ooze. She struggled to her feet, giving up all resistance. Roped like an animal, hurt, frightened and covered in filthy mud, she staggered after her new owner, across the bridge and along the road that led into the forest.

*

Sim Chapman led Gwenda through the suburb of Newtown to the crossroads known as Gallows Cross, where criminals were hanged. There he took the road south, towards Wigleigh. He tied her rope to his wrist so that she could not break away, even when his attention wandered. Her dog, Skip, followed them, but Sim threw stones at him and, after one hit him full on the nose, he retreated with his tail between his legs.

After several miles, as the sun began to set, Sim turned into the forest. Gwenda had seen no feature beside the road to mark the spot, but Sim seemed to have chosen carefully for, a few hundred paces into the trees, they came upon a pathway. Looking down, Gwenda could see the neat impressions of dozens of small hooves in the earth, and she realized it was a deer path. It would lead to water, she guessed. Sure enough, they came to a little brook, the vegetation on either side trodden into mud.

Sim knelt beside the stream, filled his cupped hands with clear water, and drank. Then he moved the rope so that it was around her neck, freeing her hands, and motioned her to the water.

She washed her hands in the stream then drank thirstily.

“Wash your face,” he ordered. “You’re ugly enough by nature.”

She did as she was told, wondering wearily why he cared how she looked.

The path continued on the farther side of the drinking hole. They walked on. Gwenda was a strong girl, capable of walking all day, but she was defeated and miserable and scared, and that made her feel exhausted. Whatever fate awaited her at their destination, it was probably worse than this, but all the same she yearned to get there so that she could sit down.

Darkness was falling. The deer path wound through trees for a mile then petered out at the foot of a hill. Sim stopped beside a particularly massive oak tree and gave a low whistle.

A few moments later, a figure materialized out of the half-lit woodland and said: “All right, Sim.”

“All right, Jed.”

“What you got there, a fruit tart?”

“You shall have a slice, Jed, same as the others, so long as you’ve got sixpence.”

Gwenda realized what Sim had planned. He was going to prostitute her. The realization hit her like a blow, and she staggered and fell to her knees.

“Sixpence, eh?” Jed’s voice seemed to come from far away, but all the same she could hear the excitement in his voice. “How old is she?”

“Her father claimed she was eighteen.” Sim jerked on the rope. “Stand up, you lazy cow, we’re not there yet.”

Gwenda got to her feet. That’s why he wanted me to wash my face, she thought, and for some reason the realization made her cry.

She wept hopelessly as she stumbled along in Sim’s footsteps until they came to a clearing with a fire in the middle. Through her tears, she perceived fifteen or twenty people lying around the edge of the clearing, most of them wrapped in blankets or cloaks. Almost all those watching her in the firelight were male, but she caught sight of a white female face, hard in expression but smooth-chinned, that stared at her briefly then disappeared back into a bundle of ragged bedding. An upturned wine barrel and a scattering of wooden cups testified to a drunken party.

Gwenda realized that Sim had brought her to a den of outlaws.

She groaned. How many of them would she be forced to submit to?

As soon as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer, all of them.

Sim dragged her across the clearing to a man who was sitting upright, his back against a tree. “All right, Tam,” said Sim.

Gwenda knew instantly who the man must be: the most famous outlaw in the county, he was called Tam Hiding. He had a handsome face, though it was reddened by drink. People said he was noble-born, but they always said that about famous outlaws. Looking at him, Gwenda was surprised by his youth: he was in his mid-twenties. But then, to kill an outlaw was no crime so, in all probability, few lived to be old.

Tam said: “All right, Sim.”

“I traded Alwyn’s cow for a girl.”

“Well done.” Tam’s speech was only slightly slurred.

“We’re going to charge the boys sixpence, but of course you can have a free go. I expect you’d like to be first.”

Tam peered at her with bloodshot eyes. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she imagined she saw a hint of pity in his look. He said: “No, thanks, Sim. You go ahead and let the boys have a good time. Though you might want to leave it until tomorrow. We got a barrel of good wine from a pair of monks who were taking it to Kingsbridge, and most of the lads are dead drunk now.”

Gwenda’s heart leaped with hope. Perhaps her torture would be postponed.

“I’ll have to consult Alwyn,” Sim said doubtfully. Thanks, Tam.” He turned away, pulling Gwenda behind him.

A few yards away, a broad-shouldered man was struggling to his feet. Sim said: All right, Alwyn.” The phrase seemed to serve the outlaws as a greeting and a recognition code.

Alwyn was at the bad-tempered phase of drunkenness. “What have you got?”

“A fresh young girl.”

Alwyn took Gwenda’s chin in his hand, gripping unnecessarily hard, and turned her face to the firelight. She was forced to look into his eyes. He was young, like Tam Hiding, but with the same unhealthy air of dissipation. His breath smelled of drink. “By Christ, you picked an ugly one,” he said.

For once Gwenda was happy to be thought ugly: perhaps Alwyn would not want to do anything to her.

“I took what I could get,” Sim said testily. “If the man had a beautiful daughter he wouldn’t sell her for a cow, would he? He’d marry her to the son of a rich wool merchant instead.”

The thought of her father made Gwenda angry. He must have known, or suspected, that this would happen. How could he do it to her?

“All right, all right, it doesn’t matter,” Alwyn said to Sim. “With only two women in the group, most of the lads are desperate.”

“Tam said we should wait until tomorrow, because they’re all too drunk tonight – but it’s up to you.”

“Tam’s right. Half of them are asleep already.”

Gwenda’s fear retreated a little. Anything could happen overnight.

“Good,” Sim said. “I’m dog-tired anyway.” He looked at Gwenda. “Lie down, you.” He never called her by her name.

She lay down, and he used the rope to tie her feet together and her hands behind her back. Then he and Alwyn lay down either side of her. In a few moments, both men were asleep.

Gwenda was exhausted, but she had no thought of sleep. With her arms behind her back, every position was painful. She tried to move her wrists within the rope, but Sim had pulled it tight and knotted it well. All she achieved was to break her skin, so that the rope burned her flesh.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04