“I know.”
Merthin realized she was impatient because he was saying things she had said to herself many times. He suppressed his indignation and tried to be practical. “What are you going to do?”
“Apply for a borough charter. That would free the town from the control of the prior. Our lawyer thinks we have a strong case. Mind you, he thought we would win against the fulling mill. However, the king is desperate for money for this war against France. He needs prosperous towns to pay his taxes.”
“How long would it take to get a charter?”
“That’s the bad news – at least a year, perhaps more.”
“And in that time, you can’t manufacture scarlet cloth.”
“Not with the old fulling mill.”
“So we’ll have to stop work on the bridge.”
“I can’t see any way out of it.”
“Damn.” It seemed so unreasonable. Here they had at their fingertips the means to restore the town’s prosperity, and one man’s stubbornness was preventing them. “How we all misjudged Godwyn,” Merthin said.
“Don’t remind me.”
“We’ve got to escape from his control.”
“I know.”
“But sooner than a year from now.”
“I wish there was a way.”
Merthin racked his brains. At the same time, he was studying Caris. She was a wearing a new dress from London, particoloured in the current fashion, which gave her a playful look, even though she was solemn and anxious. The colours, deep green and mid-blue, seemed to make her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. This happened every so often. He would be deep in conversation with her over some problem to do with the bridge – they rarely talked of anything else – then suddenly he would realise how lovely she was.
Even while he was thinking about that, the problem-solving part of his mind came up with a proposal. “We should build our own fulling mill.”
Caris shook her head. “It would be illegal. Godwyn would order John Constable to pull it down.”
“What if it were outside the town?”
“In the forest, you mean? That’s illegal too. You’d have the king’s verderers on your back.” Verderers enforced the laws of the forest.
“Not in the forest, then. Somewhere else.”
“Wherever you went, you’d need the permission of some lord.”
“My brother’s a lord.”
A look of distaste crossed Caris’s face at the mention of Ralph, then her expression changed as she thought through what Merthin was saying. “Build a fulling mill at Wigleigh?”
“Why not?”
“Is there a fast-flowing stream to turn the mill wheel?”
“I believe so – but if not it can be driven by an ox like the ferry.”
“Would Ralph let you?”
“Of course. He’s my brother. If I ask him, he’ll say yes.”
“Godwyn will go mad with rage.”
“Ralph doesn’t care about Godwyn.”
Caris was pleased and excited, Merthin could see; but what were her feelings towards him? She was glad they had a solution to their problem, and eager to outwit Godwyn, but beyond that he could not read her mind.
“Let’s think this through before we rejoice,” she said. “Godwyn will make a rule saying cloth can’t be taken out of Kingsbridge to be fulled. Lots of towns have laws like that.”
“Very hard for him to enforce such a rule without the cooperation of a guild. And, if he does, you can get around it. Most of the cloth is being woven in the villages anyway, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t bring it into the city. Send it from the weavers to Wigleigh. Dye it there, full it in the new mill, then take it to London. Godwyn will have no jurisdiction.”
“How long would it take to build a mill?”
Merthin considered. “The timber building can be put up in a couple of days. The machinery will be wooden, too, but it will take longer, as it has to be precisely measured. Getting the men and materials there will take the most time. I could have it finished a week after Christmas.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “We’ll do it.”
*
Elizabeth rolled the dice and moved her last counter into the home position on the board. “I win!” she said. “That’s three out of three. Pay up.”
Merthin handed her a silver penny. Only two people ever beat him at tabula: Elizabeth and Caris. He did not mind losing. He was grateful for a worthy opponent.
He sat back and sipped his pear wine. It was a cold Saturday afternoon in January, and already dark. Elizabeth’s mother was asleep in a chair near the fire, snoring gently with her mouth open. She worked at the Bell, but she was always at home when Merthin visited her daughter. He preferred it that way. It meant he never had to decide whether to kiss Elizabeth or not. It was a question he did not want to confront. He would have liked to kiss her, of course. He remembered the touch of her cool lips and the firmness of her flat breasts. But it would mean admitting that his love affair with Caris was over for ever, and he was not yet ready for that.
“How is the new mill at Wigleigh?” Elizabeth asked.
“Finished, and rolling,” Merthin said proudly. “Caris has been fulling cloth there for a week.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Herself?”
“No, that was a figure of speech. As a matter of fact, Mark Webber is running the mill, though he is training some of the village men to take over.”
“It will be good for Mark if he becomes Caris’s second-in-command. He’s been poor all his life – this is a big opportunity.”
“Caris’s new enterprise will be good for us all. It will mean I can finish the bridge.”
“She’s a clever girl,” Elizabeth said in a level voice. “But what does Godwyn have to say?”
“Nothing. I’m not sure he knows about it yet.”
“He will, though.”
“I don’t believe there’s anything he can do.”
“He’s a prideful man. If you’ve outwitted him, he’ll never forgive you.”
“I can live with that.”
“And what about the bridge?”
“Despite all the problems, the work is only a couple of weeks behind schedule. I’ve had to spend money to catch up, but we will be able to use the bridge – with a temporary wooden roadbed – for the next Fleece Fair.”
“You and Caris between you have saved the town.”
“Not yet – but we will.”
There was a knock at the door, and Elizabeth’s mother woke up with a start. “Now who could that be?” she said. “It’s dark out.”
It was one of Edmund’s apprentice boys. “Master Merthin is wanted at the parish guild meeting,” he said.
“What for?” Merthin asked him.
“Master Edmund said to tell you, you’re wanted at the parish guild meeting,” the boy said. He had obviously learned the message off by heart and knew nothing more.
“Something about the bridge, I expect,” Merthin said to Elizabeth. “They’re worried about the cost.” He picked up his cloak. “Thank you for the wine – and the game.”
“I’ll play you any time you like,” she said.
He walked beside the apprentice to the guild hall on the high street. The guild was holding a business meeting, not a banquet. The twenty or so most important people in Kingsbridge were sitting at a long trestle table, some drinking ale or wine, talking in low voices. Merthin sensed tension and anger, and he became apprehensive.
Edmund was at the head of the table. Prior Godwyn sat next to him. The prior was not a member of the guild: his presence suggested that Merthin’s surmise had been right, and the meeting was about the bridge. However, Thomas the matricularius was not present, although Philemon was. That was odd.
Merthin had recently had a small dispute with Godwyn. His contract had been for a year at two pence a day plus the lease on Leper Island. It was due for renewal, and Godwyn had proposed to continue paying him two pence a day. Merthin had insisted on four pence, and in the end Godwyn had conceded the point. Had he complained about this to the guild?
Edmund spoke with characteristic abruptness. “We’ve called you here because Prior Godwyn wishes to dismiss you as master builder in charge of the bridge.”
Merthin felt as if he had been punched in the face. He was not expecting anything like this. “What?” he said. “But Godwyn appointed me!”
Godwyn said: “And therefore I have the right to dismiss you.”
“But why?”
“The work is behind schedule and over budget.”
“It’s behind schedule because the earl closed the quarry – and it’s over budget because I had to spend money to catch up.”
“Excuses.”
“Am I inventing the death of a carter?”
Godwyn shot back: “Killed by your own brother!”
“What has that to do with anything?”
Godwyn ignored the question. “A man who is accused of rape!” he added.
“You can’t dismiss a master builder because of his brother’s behaviour.”
“Who are you to say what I can do?”
“I’m the builder of your bridge!” Then it occurred to Merthin that much of his work as master builder was complete. He had designed all the most complicated parts, and made wooden templates to guide the stonemasons. He had built the coffer dams, which no one else knew how to do. And he had constructed the floating cranes and hoists needed to move the heavy stones into position in midstream. Any builder could now finish the job, he realized with dismay.
“There is no guarantee of renewal of your contract,” Godwyn said.
It was true. Merthin looked around the room for support. No one would meet his eye. They had already argued this out with Godwyn, he deduced. Despair overwhelmed him. Why had this happened? It was not because the bridge was behind schedule and over budget – the delay was not Merthin’s fault, and anyway he was catching up. What was the real reason? As soon as he had asked the question, the answer came into his mind. “This is because of the fulling mill at Wigleigh!” he said.
Godwyn said primly: “The two things are not necessarily connected.”
Edmund said quietly but distinctly: “Lying monk.”
Philemon spoke for the first time. “Take care, alderman!” he said.
Edmund was undeterred. “Merthin and Caris outwitted you, didn’t they, Godwyn? Their mill at Wigleigh is entirely legitimate. You brought defeat on yourself by your greed and obstinacy. And this is your revenge.”
Edmund was right. No one was as capable a builder as Merthin. Godwyn must know that, but clearly he did not care. “Who will you hire instead of me?” Merthin asked. Then he answered the question himself. “Elfric, I suppose.”
“That has to be decided.”
Edmund said: “Another lie.”
Philemon spoke again, his voice more shrill. “You can be brought before the ecclesiastical court for talk like that!”
Merthin wondered if this might be no more than a move in the game, a way for Godwyn to renegotiate his contract. He said to Edmund: “Is the parish guild in agreement with the prior on this?”
Godwyn said: “It is not for them to agree or disagree!”
Merthin ignored him and looked expectantly at Edmund.
Edmund was shamefaced. “It cannot be denied that the prior has the right. The guildsmen are financing the bridge by loans, but the prior is overlord of the town. This was agreed from the start.”
Merthin turned to Godwyn. “Do you have anything else to say to me, lord prior?” He waited, hoping in his heart that Godwyn would come out with his real demands.
But Godwyn said stonily: “No.”
“Goodnight, then.”
He waited a second longer. No one spoke. The silence told him it was all over.
He left the room.
Outside the building, he took a deep breath of the cold night air. He could hardly believe what had happened. He was no longer master of the bridge.
He walked through the dark streets. It was a clear night, and he could find his way by starlight. He walked past Elizabeth’s house: he did °ot want to talk to her. He hesitated outside Caris’s, but passed that too and went down to the waterside. His small rowing-boat was tied up opposite Leper Island. He got in and rowed himself across.
When he reached his house, he paused outside and looked up at the stars, fighting back tears. The truth was that in the end he had not outwitted Godwyn – rather the reverse. He had underestimated the lengths to which the prior would go to punish those who opposed him. Merthin had thought himself clever, but Godwyn had been cleverer, or at least more ruthless. He was prepared to damage the town and the priory, if necessary, to avenge a wound to his pride. And that had given him victory.
Merthin went inside and lay down, alone and beaten.
Ralph lay awake all through the night before his trial.
He had seen many people die by hanging. Every year, twenty or thirty men and a few women rode the sheriffs cart from the prison in Shiring Castle down the hill to the market square where the gallows stood waiting. It was a common occurrence, but those people had remained in Ralph’s memory, and on this night they returned to torment him.
Some died fast, their necks snapped by the drop; but not many. Most strangled slowly. They kicked and struggled and opened their mouths wide in silent breathless screaming. They pissed and shat themselves. He recalled an old woman convicted of witchcraft: when she dropped she bit right through her tongue and spat it out, and the crowd around the gallows had backed away in fright from the bloody lump of flesh as it flew through the air and fell on the dusty ground.
Everyone told Ralph he was not going to be hanged, but he could not get the thought out of his mind. People said that Earl Roland could not allow one of his lords to be executed on the word of a serf. However, so far the earl had done nothing to intervene.
The preliminary jury had returned an indictment against Ralph to the justice of the peace in Shiring. Like all such juries, it had consisted mainly of knights of the county owing allegiance to Earl Roland – but, despite this, they had acted on the evidence of the Wigleigh peasants. The men – jurors were never women, of course – had not flinched from indicting one of their own. In fact the jurors had shown, by their questions, some distaste for what Ralph had done, and several had refused to shake his hand afterwards.
Ralph had planned to prevent Annet testifying again, at the trial proper, by imprisoning her in Wigleigh before she could leave for Shiring. However, when he went to her house to seize her he found she had already departed. She must have anticipated his move and left earlier to foil him.
Today another jury would hear the case but, to Ralph’s dismay, at least four of the men had been on the preliminary jury too. Since the evidence on both sides was likely to be exactly the same, he could not see how this group could return a different verdict, unless some kind of pressure was put on the jurors – and it was getting very late for that.
He got up at first light and went downstairs to the ground floor of the Courthouse inn on the market square of Shiring. He found a shivering boy breaking the ice on the well in the back yard and told him to fetch bread and ale. Then he went to the communal dormitory and woke his brother, Merthin.
They sat together in the cold parlour, with the stale smell of last night’s ale and wine, and Ralph said: “I’m afraid they’ll hang me.”
“So am I,” said Merthin.
“I don’t know what to do.” The boy brought two tankards and half a loaf. Ralph picked up his ale in a shaking hand and took a long draught.
Merthin ate some bread automatically, frowning and looking upwards out of the corners of his eyes in the way he always did when he was racking his brains. “The only thing I can think of is to try to persuade Annet to drop the charge and come to a settlement. You’ll have to offer her compensation.”
Ralph shook his head. “She can’t back out – it’s not allowed. They’ll punish her it she does.”
“I know. But she could deliberately give weak evidence, making room for doubt. That’s how it’s usually done, I believe.”
Hope sparked in Ralph’s heart. “I wonder if she would consent.”
The potboy brought in an armful of logs and knelt before the fireplace to start a fire.
Merthin said thoughtfully: “How much money could you offer Annet?”
“I’ve got twenty florins.” That was worth three pounds of English silver pennies.
Merthin ran a hand through his untidy red hair. “It’s not much.”
“It’s a lot to a peasant girl. On the other hand, her family are rich, for peasants.”
“Doesn’t Wigleigh yield you much money?”
“I’ve had to buy armour. When you’re a lord you need to be ready to go to war.”
“I could lend you money.”
“How much have you got?”
“Thirteen pounds.”
Ralph was so astonished that for a moment he forgot his troubles. “Where did you get all that?”
Merthin looked faintly resentful. “I work hard and I’m paid well.”
“But you were sacked as master builder of the bridge.”
“There’s plenty more work. And I rent out land on Leper Island.”
Ralph was indignant. “So a carpenter is richer than a lord!”
“Luckily for you, as it happens. How much do you think Annet will want?”
Ralph thought of a snag, and his spirits fell again. “It’s not her, it’s Wulfric. He’s the ringleader in this.”
“Of course.” Merthin had spent a lot of time in Wigleigh while building the fulling mill, and he knew that Wulfric had married Gwenda only after being jilted by Annet. “Then let’s talk to him.”
Ralph did not think it would do any good, but he had nothing to lose.
They went out into the bleak grey daylight, pulling their cloaks around their shoulders against a cold February wind. They crossed the market place and entered the Bull, where the Wigleigh folk were staying – paid for, Ralph presumed, by Lord William, without whose help they would not have begun this process. But Ralph had no doubt that his real enemy was William’s voluptuous, malevolent wife, Philippa, who seemed to hate Ralph, even though – or perhaps because – he found her fascinating and alluring.
Wulfric was up, and they found him eating porridge with bacon. When he saw Ralph his face turned thunderous and he rose from his seat.
Ralph put his hand on his sword, ready to fight there and then, but Menhin hastily stepped forward, holding his hands open in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “I come as a friend, Wulfric,” he said. “Don’t get angry, or you’ll end up on trial instead of my brother.”
Wulfric remained standing with his hands at his sides. Ralph was disappointed: the agony of his suspense would have been eased by a fight.
Wulfric spat a piece of bacon rind on the floor and swallowed, then said: “What do you want, if not trouble?”
“To make a settlement. Ralph is willing to pay Annet ten pounds by way of recompense for what he did.”
Ralph was startled by the amount. Merthin would have to pay most of it – but he showed no hesitation.
Wulfric said: “Annet can’t withdraw the charge – it’s not allowed.”
“But she can alter her evidence. If she says that at first she consented, then changed her mind when it was too late, the jury wouldn’t convict Ralph.”
Ralph watched Wulfric’s face eagerly for a sign of willingness, but his expression remained stony, and he said: “So you’re offering her a bribe to commit perjury?”
Ralph began to despair. He could see that Wulfric did not want Annet to be paid money. Revenge was his aim, not compensation. He wanted a hanging.
Merthin said reasonably: “I’m offering her a different kind of justice.”
“You’re trying to get your brother off the hook.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same? You had a brother once.” Ralph recalled that Wulfric’s brother had been killed, along with his parents, when the bridge collapsed. Merthin went on: “Wouldn’t you try to save his life – even if he had done wrong?”
Wulfric appeared startled by this appeal to family feeling. Clearly it had never occurred to him to think of Ralph as someone with kinfolk who loved him. But he recovered after a moment and said: “My brother David would never have done what Ralph did.”
“Of course,” Merthin said soothingly. “All the same, you can’t blame me for wanting to find a way to save Ralph, especially if it can be managed without doing an injustice to Annet.”
Ralph admired his brother’s smooth way of talking. He could charm a bird out of a tree, he thought.
But Wulfric was not easily persuaded. “The villagers want to see the back of Ralph. They’re afraid he might do the same thing again.”
Merthin sidestepped that. “Perhaps you should put our offer to Annet. It should be her decision, surely.”
Wulfric looked thoughtful. “How could we be certain you would pay the money?”
Ralph’s heart leaped. Wulfric was softening.
Merthin replied: “We’ll give the cash to Caris Wooler before the trial. She will pay Annet after Ralph is declared innocent. You trust Caris, and we do too.”
Wulfric nodded. “As you say, it’s not my decision. I’ll put it to her.” He went upstairs.
Merthin let out his breath in a long sigh. “By heaven, there’s an angry man.”
“You talked him round, though,” Ralph said admiringly.
“He’s only agreed to pass on a message.”
They sat at the table Wulfric had vacated. A potboy asked them if they wanted breakfast, but they both refused. The parlour was full of guests calling for ham and cheese and ale. The inns were crowded with people attending the court. Unless they had a good excuse, all the knights of the shire were obliged to come, as were most other prominent men of the county: senior clergymen, wealthy merchants, and anyone with an income over forty pounds a year. Lord William, Prior Godwyn and Edmund Wooler were all included. Ralph and Merthin’s father, Sir Gerald, had been a regular attender before his fall from grace. They had to offer themselves as jurors and transact other business, such as paying their taxes or electing their Members of Parliament. In addition there was a host of accused men, victims, witnesses and sureties. A court brought a lot of business to the inns of a town.
Wulfric kept them waiting. Ralph said: “What do you think they’re talking about, up there?”
Merthin said: “Annet may be inclined to take the money. Her father would support her in that, and perhaps her husband, Billy Howard, too. But Wulfric is the type who thinks telling the truth is more important than money. His wife, Gwenda, will support him out of loyalty, and Father Gaspard will do the same on principle. Most importantly, they’ll have to consult Lord William; and he’ll do what Lady Philippa wants. She hates you, for some reason. On the other hand, a woman is more likely to choose reconciliation over confrontation.”
“So it could go either way.”
“Exactly.”
The patrons of the inn finished their breakfasts and began to drift out, heading across the square to the Courthouse inn, where the session would be held. Soon it would be too late.
At last Wulfric reappeared. “She says no,” he said abruptly, and he turned away.
“Just a minute!” Merthin said.
Wulfric took no notice, and disappeared again up the stairs.
Ralph cursed. For a while he had hoped for a reprieve. Now he was in the hands of the jury.
He heard the sound of a handbell being rung vigorously outside. A sheriff’s deputy was summoning all concerned to the court. Merthin stood up. Reluctantly, Ralph followed suit.
They walked back to the Courthouse and went into the large back room. At the far end, the justice’s bench stood on a raised dais. Although always called a bench, it was in fact a carved wooden chair like a throne. The justice was not seated, but his clerk was at a table in front of the dais, reading a scroll. Two long benches for the jurymen stood to one side. There were no other seats in the room: everyone else would stand wherever he wished. Order was maintained by the power of the justice to sentence instantly anyone who misbehaved: no trial was necessary for a crime that the judge had himself witnessed. Ralph spotted Alan Fernhill, looking terrified, and stood beside him without speaking.
Ralph began to think he should never have come here. He could have made an excuse: sickness, a misunderstanding about dates, a horse lamed on the road. But that would only have brought him a postponement. Eventually the sheriff would come, with armed deputies, to arrest him; and if he evaded them he would be declared an outlaw.
However, that was better than hanging. He wondered if he should flee now. He could probably fight his way out of the tavern. But he would not get far on foot. He would be chased by half the town, and if they did not catch him the sheriff’s deputies would follow on horseback. And his flight would be seen as an admission of guilt. As things stood, he still had a chance of acquittal. Annet might be too intimidated to give her evidence clearly. Perhaps key witnesses would fail to show up. There could be some last-minute intervention by Earl Roland.
The courtroom filled up: Annet, the villagers, Lord William and Lady Philippa, Edmund Wooler and Caris, Prior Godwyn and his slimy assistant Philemon. The clerk banged on his table for quiet, and the justice came through a side door. It was Sir Guy de Bois, a large landholder. He had a bald head and a fat belly. He was an old comrade-in-arms of the earl’s, which might stand in Ralph’s favour; but, on the other side of the balance, he was Lady Philippa’s uncle, and she might have whispered malice in his ear. He had the flushed look of a man who has breakfasted on salt beef and strong ale. He sat down, farted loudly, sighed with satisfaction and said: “All right, let’s get on with it.”
Earl Roland was not present.
Ralph’s case came first: it was the one that most interested everybody, including the justice. The indictment was read, and Annet was called to give her evidence.
Ralph found it strangely difficult to concentrate. He had heard it all before, of course, but he should have been listening hard for any discrepancy in the story Annet told today, any sign of uncertainty, any hesitation or faltering. But he felt fatalistic. His enemies were out in full force. His one powerful friend, Earl Roland, was absent. Only his brother stood beside him, and Merthin had already tried his best to help, and failed. Ralph was doomed.
The witnesses followed: Gwenda, Wulfric, Peg, Gaspard. Ralph had thought he had absolute power over these people, but somehow they had conquered him. The foreman of the jury, Sir Herbert Montain, was one of those who had refused to shake Ralph’s hand, and he asked questions that seemed designed to emphasize the horror of the crime: How bad was the pain? How much blood? Was she weeping?
When it was Ralph’s turn to speak, he told the story that had been disbelieved by the jury of indictment, and he told it in a low voice, stumbling over his words. Alan Fernhill did better, saying firmly that Annet had been eager to lie with Ralph, and that the two lovers had asked him to make himself scarce while they enjoyed one another’s favours beside the stream. But the jury did not believe him: Ralph could tell by their faces. He began to feel almost bored by the proceedings, wishing they would be over, and his fate sealed.
As Alan stepped back, Ralph was conscious of a new figure at his shoulder, and a low voice said: “Listen to me.”
Ralph glanced behind and saw Father Jerome, the earl’s clerk, and the thought crossed his mind that a court such as this had no power over priests, even if they committed crimes.
The justice turned to the jury and asked for their verdict.
Father Jerome murmured: “Your horses stand outside, saddled and ready to go.”
Ralph froze. Was he hearing correctly? He turned and said: “What?”
“Run for it.”
Ralph looked behind him. A hundred men barred his way to the door, many of them armed. “It’s not possible.”
“Use the side door,” Jerome said, indicating with a slight inclination of his head the entrance through which the justice had come. Ralph saw immediately that only the Wigleigh people stood between him and the side door.
The foreman of the jury, Sir Herbert, stood up, looking self-important.
Ralph caught the eye of Alan Fernhill, standing beside him. Alan had heard everything and looked expectant.
“Go now!” whispered Jerome.
Ralph put his hand on his sword.
“We find Lord Ralph of Wigleigh guilty of rape,” said the foreman.
Ralph drew his sword. Waving it in the air, he dashed for the door.
There was a second of stunned silence, then everyone shouted at once. But Ralph was the one man in the room with a weapon in his hand, and he knew it would take the others a moment to draw.
Only Wulfric tried to stop him, stepping into his path heedlessly, not even looking scared, just determined. Ralph raised his sword and brought it down, as hard as he could, aiming at the middle of Wulfric’s skull, intending to cleave it in two. But Wulfric stepped nimbly back and to the side. Nevertheless, the point of the sword sliced through the left side of his face, cutting it open from the temple to the jaw. Wulfric cried out in sudden agony, and his hands flew to his cheek; and then Ralph was past him.
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