Her shaking hand betrayed her fear, but he ignored the cup and wagged his finger at her. “Labourers have been disappearing from my villages – and when I inquire after them, I find they have moved to villages belonging to you, where they get higher wages.”
Caris nodded. “If you were selling a horse, and two men wanted to buy it, wouldn’t you give it to the one who offered the higher price?”
“That’s not the same.”
“I think it is. Have some ale.”
With a sudden sideswipe of his hand, he knocked the cup from her grasp. It fell to the floor, the ale spilling into the straw. “They’re my labourers.”
Her hand was bruised, but she tried to ignore the pain. She bent down, picked up the cup and set it on the sideboard. “Not really,” she said. “If they’re labourers, that means you’ve never given them any land, so they have the right to go elsewhere.”
“I’m still their lord, damn it! And another thing. I offered a tenancy to a free man the other day and he refused it, saying he could get a better bargain from Kingsbridge Priory.”
“Same thing, Ralph. I need all the people I can get, so I give them what they want.”
“You’re a woman, you don’t think things through. You can’t see that it will all end with everyone paying more for the same peasants.”
“Not necessarily. Higher wages might attract some of those who at present do no work at all – outlaws, for example, or those vagabonds who go around living off what they find in plague-emptied villages. And some who are now labourers might become tenants, and work harder because they’re cultivating their own land.”
He banged the table with his fist, and she blinked at the sudden noise. “You’ve no right to change the old ways!”
“I think I have.”
He grabbed the front of her robe. “Well, I’m not putting up with it!”
“Take your hands off me, you clumsy oaf,” she said.
At that moment, Brother Thomas came in. “You sent for me – what the devil is going on here?”
He stepped smartly across the room, and Ralph let go of Caris’s robe as if it had suddenly caught fire. Thomas had no weapons and only one arm, but he had got the better of Ralph once before; and Ralph was scared of him.
Ralph took a step back, then realized he had revealed his fear, and looked ashamed. “We’re done here!” he said loudly, and turned to the door.
Caris said: “What I’m doing in Outhenby and elsewhere is perfectly legitimate, Ralph.”
“It’s interfering with the natural order!” he said.
“There’s no law against it.”
Alan opened the door for his master.
“You wait and see,” said Ralph, and he went out.
In March that year, 1349, Gwenda and Wulfric went with Nathan Reeve to the midweek market at the small town of Northwood.
They were working for Sir Ralph now. Gwenda and Wulfric had escaped the plague, so far, but several of Ralph’s labourers had died of it, so he needed help; and Nate, the bailiff of Wigleigh, had offered to take them on. He could afford to pay normal wages, whereas Perkin had been giving them nothing more than their food.
As soon as they announced they were going to work for Ralph, Perkin discovered that he could now afford to pay them normal wages – but he was too late.
On this day they took a cartload of logs from Ralph’s forest to sell in Northwood, a town that had had a timber market since time immemorial. The boys, Sam and David, went with them: there was no one else to look after them. Gwenda did not trust her father, and her mother had died two years ago. Wulfric’s parents were long dead.
Several other Wigleigh folk were at the market. Father Gaspard was buying seeds for his vegetable garden, and Gwenda’s father, Joby, was selling freshly killed rabbits.
Nate, the bailiff, was a stunted man with a twisted back, and he could not lift logs. He dealt with customers while Wulfric and Gwenda did the lifting. At midday he gave them a penny to buy their dinner at the Old Oak, one of the taverns around the square. They got bacon boiled with leeks and shared it with the boys. David, at eight years of age, still had a child’s appetite, but Sam was a fast-growing ten and perpetually hungry.
While they were eating, they overheard a conversation that caught Gwenda’s attention.
There was a group of young men standing in a corner, drinking large tankards of ale. They were all poorly dressed, except one with a bushy blond beard who had the superior clothes of a prosperous peasant or a village craftsman: leather trousers, good boots and a new hat. The sentence that caused Gwenda to prick up her ears was: “We pay two pence a day for labourers at Outhenby.”
She listened hard, trying to learn more, but caught only scattered words. She had heard that some employers were offering more than the traditional penny a day, because of the shortage of workers caused by the plague. She had hesitated to believe such stories, which sounded too good to be true.
She said nothing for the moment to Wulfric, who had not heard the magic words, but her heart beat faster. She and her family had endured so many years of poverty. Was it possible that life might get better for them?
She had to find out more.
When they had eaten, they sat on a bench outside, watching the boys and some other children running around the broad trunk of the tree that gave the tavern its name. “Wulfric,” she said quietly. “What if we could earn two pence a day – each?”
“How?”
“By going to Outhenby.” She told him what she had overheard. “It could be the beginning of a new life for us,” she finished.
“Am I never to get back my father’s lands, then?”
She could have hit him with a stick. Did he really still think that was going to happen? How foolish could he be?
She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible. “It’s twelve years since you were disinherited,” she said. “In that time Ralph has become more and more powerful. And there’s never been the least sign that he might mellow towards you. What do you think the chances are?”
He did not answer that question. “Where would we live?”
“They must have houses in Outhenby.”
“But will Ralph let us go?”
“He can’t stop us. We’re labourers, not serfs. You know that.”
“But does Ralph know it?”
“Let’s not give him the chance to object.”
“How could we manage that?”
“Well…” She had not thought this through, but now she saw that it would have to be done precipitately. “We could leave today, from here.”
It was a scary thought. They had both lived their entire lives in Wigleigh. Wulfric had never even moved house. Now they were contemplating going to live in a village they had never seen without even going back to say goodbye.
But Wulfric was worrying about something else. He pointed at the hunchbacked bailiff, crossing the square to the chandler’s shop. “What would Nathan say?”
“We won’t tell him what we’re planning. We’ll give him some story – say we want to stay here overnight, for some reason, and return home tomorrow. That way, nobody will know where we are. And we’ll never go back to Wigleigh.”
“Never go back,” Wulfric said despondently.
Gwenda controlled her impatience. She knew her husband. Once Wulfric was set on a course he was unstoppable, but he took a long time to decide. He would come round to this idea eventually. He was not closed-minded, just cautious and deliberate. He hated to make decisions in a rush – whereas she thought it was the only way.
The young man with the blond beard came out of the Old Oak. Gwenda looked around: none of the Wigleigh folk was in sight. She stood up and accosted the man. “Did I hear you say something about two pence a day for labourers?” she said.
“That’s right, mistress,” he replied. “In the vale of Outhenby, just half a day south-west of here. We need all we can get.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the ploughman of Outhenby. My name is Harry.”
Outhenby must be a large and prosperous village to have a ploughman all of its own, Gwenda reasoned. Most ploughmen worked for a group of villages. “And who is lord of the manor?”
“The prioress of Kingsbridge.”
“Caris!” That was wonderful news. Caris could be trusted. Gwenda’s spirits lifted further.
“Yes, she is the current prioress,” Harry said. “A very determined woman.”
“I know.”
“She wants her fields cultivated so that she can feed the sisters, and she’s not listening to excuses.”
“Do you have houses at Outhenby for labourers to live in? With their families?”
“Plenty, unfortunately. We’ve lost many people to the plague.”
“You said it was south-west of here.”
“Take the southerly road to Badford, then follow the Outhen upstream.”
Caution returned to Gwenda. “I’m not going,” she said quickly.
“Ah. Of course.” He did not believe her.
“I was really asking on behalf of a friend.” She turned away.
“Well, tell your friend to come as soon as he can – we’ve got spring ploughing and sowing to finish yet.”
“All right.”
She felt slightly dizzy, as if she had taken a draught of strong wine. Two pence a day – working for Caris – and miles away from Ralph, Perkin and flirty Annet! It was a dream.
She sat back down beside Wulfric. “Did you hear all that?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. He pointed to a figure standing by the tavern door. “And so did he.”
Gwenda looked. It was her father.
*
“Put that horse in the traces,” Nate said to Wulfric around mid-afternoon. “It’s time to go home.”
Wulfric said: “We’ll be needing our wages for the week so far.”
“You’ll be paid on Saturday as usual,” Nate said dismissively. “Hitch that nag.”
Wulfric did not move towards the horse. “I’ll trouble you to pay me today,” he insisted. “I know you’ve got the money, you’ve sold all that timber.”
Nate turned and looked directly at him. “Why should you be paid early?” he said irritably.
“Because I shan’t be returning to Wigleigh with you tonight.”
Nate was taken aback. “Why not?”
Gwenda took over. “We’re going to Melcombe,” she said.
“What?” Nate was outraged. “People like you have no business travelling to Melcombe!”
“We met a fisherman who needs crew for two pence a day.” Gwenda had worked out this story to throw any pursuit off the scent.
Wulfric added: “Our respects to Sir Ralph, and may God be with him in the future.”
Gwenda added: “But we don’t expect to see him ever again.” She said it just to hear the sweet sound of it: never to see Ralph again.
Nathan said indignantly: “He may not wish you to leave!”
“We’re not serfs, we have no land. Ralph cannot forbid us.”
“You’re the son of a serf,” Nathan said to Wulfric.
“But Ralph denied me my inheritance,” Wulfric replied. “He cannot now demand my fealty.”
“It’s a dangerous thing for a poor man to stand on his rights.”
“That’s true,” Wulfric conceded. “But I’m doing it, all the same.”
Nate was beaten. “You shall hear more of this,” he said.
“Would you like me to put the horse to the cart?”
Nate scowled. He could not do it himself. Because of his back, he had difficulty with complicated physical tasks, and the horse was taller than he. “Yes, of course,” he said.
“I’ll be glad to. Would you kindly pay me first?”
Looking furious, Nate took out his purse and counted six silver pennies.
Gwenda took the money and Wulfric hitched up the horse.
Nate drove away without another word.
“Well!” said Gwenda. “That’s done.” She looked at Wulfric. He was smiling broadly. She asked him: “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve been wearing a collar for years, and suddenly it’s been taken off.”
“Good.” That was how she wanted him to feel. “Now let’s find a place to stay the night.”
The Old Oak was in a prime position in the market square, and charged top prices. They walked around the little town looking for somewhere cheaper. Eventually they went into the Gate House, where Gwenda negotiated accommodation for the four of them – supper, a mattress on the floor and breakfast – for a penny. The boys would need a decent night’s sleep and some breakfast if they were to walk all morning.
She could hardly sleep for excitement. She was also worried. What was she taking her family to? She had only the word of one man, a stranger, for what they would find when they reached Outhenby. She really ought to have sought confirmation before committing herself.
But she and Wulfric had been stuck in a hole for ten years, and Harry Ploughman of Outhenby was the first person to offer them a way out of it.
The breakfast was meagre: thin porridge and watery cider. Gwenda bought a big loaf of new bread for them to eat on the road, and Wulfric filled his leather flask with cold water from a well. They passed through the city gate an hour after sunrise and set off on the road south.
As they walked, she thought about Joby, her father. As soon as he learned that she had not returned to Wigleigh, he would remember the conversation he had overheard, and he would guess she had gone to Outhenby. He would not be fooled by the story about Melcombe: he was an accomplished deceiver himself, too experienced to be taken in by a simple ruse. But would anyone think to ask him where she had gone? Everyone knew she never spoke to her father. And, if they did ask him, would he blurt out what he suspected? Or would some vestige of paternal feeling cause him to protect her?
There was nothing she could do about it, so she put him out of her mind.
It was good weather for travelling. The ground was soft with recent rain, and there was no dust; but today was a dry day with fitful sunshine, neither cold nor hot. The boys quickly grew tired, especially David, the younger, but Wulfric was good at distracting them with songs and rhymes, quizzing them about the names of trees and plants, playing number games and telling stories.
Gwenda could hardly believe what they had done. This time yesterday, it had looked as if their life would never change: hard work, poverty and frustrated aspirations would be their lot for ever. Now they were on the road to a new life.
She thought of the house where she had lived with Wulfric for ten years. She had not left much behind: a few cooking pots, a stack of newly chopped firewood, half a ham and four blankets. She had no clothes other than what she was wearing, and neither did Wulfric or the boys; no jewellery, ribbons, gloves or combs. Ten years ago, Wulfric had had chickens and pigs in his yard, but they had gradually been eaten or sold during the years of penury. Their meagre possessions could be replaced with a week’s wages at the promised Outhenby rates.
In accordance with Harry’s directions they took the road south to a muddy ford across the Outhen, then turned west and followed the river upstream. As they progressed, the river narrowed, until the land funnelled between two ranges of hills. “Good, fertile soil,” Wulfric said. “It’ll need the heavy plough, though.”
At noon they came to a large village with a stone church. They went to the door of a timber manor house next to the church. With trepidation, Gwenda knocked. Was she about to be told that Harry Ploughman did not know what he was talking about, and there was no work here? Had she made her family walk half a day for nothing? How humiliating it would be to have to return to Wigleigh and beg to be taken on again by Nate Reeve.
A grey-haired woman came to the door. She looked at Gwenda with the suspicious glare that villagers everywhere gave to strangers. “Yes?”
“Good day, mistress,” Gwenda said. “Is this Outhenby?”
“It is.”
“We’re labourers looking for work. Harry Ploughman told us to come here.”
“Did he, now?”
Was there something wrong, Gwenda wondered, or was this woman just a grumpy old cow? She almost asked the question out loud. Stopping herself, she said: “Does Harry live at this house?”
“Certainly not,” the woman replied. “He’s just a ploughman. This is the bailiff’s house.”
Some conflict between bailiff and ploughman, Gwenda guessed. “Perhaps we should see the bailiff, then.”
“He’s not here.”
Patiently, Gwenda said: “Would you be kind enough to tell us where we might find him?”
The woman pointed across the valley. “North Field.”
Gwenda turned to look in the direction indicated. When she turned back, the woman had disappeared into the house.
Wulfric said: “She didn’t seem pleased to see us.”
“Old women hate change,” Gwenda commented. “Let’s find this bailiff.”
“The boys are tired.”
“They can rest soon.”
They set off across the fields. There was plenty of activity on the strips. Children were picking stones off ploughed land, women were sowing seeds and men were carting manure. Gwenda could see the ox team in the distance, eight mighty beasts patiently dragging the plough through the wet, heavy soil.
They came upon a group of men and women trying to move a horse-drawn harrow that had got stuck in a ditch. Gwenda and Wulfric joined in pushing it out. Wulfric’s broad back made the difference, and the harrow was freed.
All the villagers turned and looked at Wulfric. A tall man with an old burn mark disfiguring one side of his face said amiably: “You’re a useful fellow – who are you?”
“I’m Wulfric, and my wife is Gwenda. We’re labourers looking for work.”
“You’re just what we need, Wulfric,” the man said. “I’m Carl Shaftesbury.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “Welcome to Outhenby.”
*
Ralph came eight days later.
Wulfric and Gwenda had moved into a small, well-built house with a stone chimney and an upstairs bedroom where they could sleep separately from the boys. They got a wary reception from the older, more conservative villagers – notably Will Bailiff and his wife, Vi, who had been so rude to them on the day they arrived. But Harry Ploughman and the younger set were excited by the changes and glad to have help in the fields.
They were paid two pence a day, as promised, and Gwenda looked forward eagerly to the end of their first full week, when they each got twelve pence – a shilling! – double the highest sum they had ever earned. What would they do with all that money?
Neither Wulfric nor Gwenda had worked anywhere but Wigleigh, and they were surprised to find that not all villages were the same. The ultimate authority here was the prioress of Kingsbridge, and that made a difference. Ralph’s rule was personal and arbitrary: appealing to him was hazardous. By contrast, Outhenby folk seemed to know what the prioress would want in most situations, and they could settle disputes by figuring out what she would say if asked to adjudicate.
A mild disagreement of this kind was going on when Ralph came.
They were all walking home from the fields at sundown, the adults work-weary, the children running on ahead, and Harry Ploughman bringing up the rear with the unharnessed oxen. Carl Shaftesbury, the man with the burned face, who was a newcomer like Gwenda and Wulfric, had caught three eels at dawn for his family’s supper, as it was Friday. The question was whether labourers had the same right as tenants to take fish from the Outhen river on fast days. Harry Ploughman said the privilege extended to all Outhenby residents. Vi Bailiff said that tenants owed customary dues to the landlord, which labourers did not, and those who had extra duties should have extra privileges.
Will Bailiff was called upon for a decision, and he ruled against his wife. “I believe the Mother Prioress would say that if the church wishes people to eat fish, then fish must be provided for them to eat,” he said; and that was accepted by everyone.
Looking towards the village, Gwenda saw two horsemen.
A cold wind gusted suddenly.
The visitors were half a mile away across the fields, and heading for the houses at an angle to the path the villagers were taking. She could tell they were men-at-arms. They had big horses and their clothes looked bulky – men of violence generally wore heavily padded coats. She nudged Wulfric.
“I’ve seen them,” he said grimly.
Such men had no casual reason to come to a village. They despised the people who grew the crops and cared for the livestock. They normally visited only to take from the peasants those things they were too proud to provide for themselves, bread and meat and drink. Their view of what they were entitled to, or how much they should pay, always differed from that of the peasants; so there was invariably trouble.
Within the next couple of minutes all the villagers saw them, and the group went quiet. Gwenda noticed that Harry turned the oxen slightly and headed for the far end of the village, though she could not immediately guess why.
Gwenda felt sure the two men had come to find runaway labourers. She found herself praying they would turn out to be the former employers of Carl Shaftesbury or one of the other newcomers. However, as the villagers came closer to the horsemen she recognized Ralph Fitzgerald and Alan Fernhill, and her heart sank.
This was the moment she had dreaded. She had known there was a chance Ralph would find out where they had gone: her father could make a good guess, and he could not be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. And although Ralph had no right to take them back, he was a knight and a nobleman, and such people generally did as they pleased.
It was too late to run. The group was walking along a path between broad ploughed fields: if some of them broke away and fled, Ralph and Alan would immediately see them and give chase; and then Gwenda and her family would lose whatever protection they might gain from being with other villagers. They were trapped in the open.
She called to her boys: “Sam! David! Come here!”
They did not hear, or did not want to, and they ran on. Gwenda went after them, but they thought it was a game, and tried to outrun her. They were almost at the village now, and she found she was too tired to catch them. Almost in tears, she shouted: “Come back!”
Wulfric took over. He ran past her and easily caught up with David. He scooped the boy up in his arms. But he was too late to catch Sam, who ran laughing in among the scattered houses.
The horsemen were reined in by the church. As Sam ran towards them, Ralph nudged his horse forward, then leaned down from the saddle and picked the boy up by his shirt. Sam gave a shout of fright.
Gwenda screamed.
Ralph sat the boy on his horse’s wither.
Wulfric, carrying David, came to a stop in front of Ralph.
Ralph said: “Your son, I presume.”
Gwenda was appalled. She was afraid for her son. It would be beneath Ralph’s dignity to attack a child, but there might be an accident. And there was another danger.
Seeing Ralph and Sam together, Wulfric might realize they were father and son.
Sam was still a little boy, of course, with a child’s body and face, but he had Ralph’s thick hair and dark eyes, and his bony shoulders were wide and square.
Gwenda looked at her husband. Wulfric’s expression showed no sign that he had seen what was so obvious to her. She surveyed the faces of the other villagers. They seemed oblivious to the stark truth – except for Vi Bailiff, who was giving Gwenda a hard stare. That old battleaxe might have guessed. But no one else had – yet.
Will came forward and addressed the visitors. “Good day to you, sirs. I’m Will, the bailiff of Outhenby. May I ask-”
“Shut your mouth, bailiff,” said Ralph. He pointed at Wulfric. “What is he doing here?”
Gwenda sensed a slight easing of tension as the other villagers realized they were not the target of the lord’s wrath.
Will replied: “My lord, he’s a labourer, hired on the authority of the prioress of Kingsbridge-”
“He’s a runaway, and he’s got to come home,” Ralph said.
Will fell silent, frightened.
Carl Shaftesbury said: “And what authority do you claim for this demand?”
Ralph peered at Carl, as if memorizing his face. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll disfigure the other side of your face.”
Will said nervously: “We don’t want any bloodshed.”
“Very wise, bailiff,” said Ralph. “Who is this insolent peasant?”
“Never you mind who I am, knight,” said Carl rudely. “I know who you are. You’re Ralph Fitzgerald, and I saw you convicted of rape and sentenced to death at Shiring court.”
“But I’m not dead, am I?” Ralph said.
“You should be, though. And you have no feudal rights over labourers. If you try to use force, you’ll be taught a sharp lesson.”
Several people gasped. This was a reckless way to speak to an armed knight.
Wulfric said: “Be quiet, Carl. I don’t want you killed for my sake.”
“It’s not for your sake,” Carl said. “If this thug is allowed to drag you off, next week someone will come for me. We have to stick together. We’re not helpless.”
Carl was a big man, taller than Wulfric and almost as broad, and Gwenda could see that he meant what he said. She was appalled. If they started fighting there would be terrible violence – and her Sam was still sitting on the horse with Ralph. “We’ll just go with Ralph,” she said frantically. “It will be better.”
Carl said: “No, it won’t. I’m going to stop him taking you away, whether you want me to or not. It’s for my own good.”
There was a murmur of assent. Gwenda looked around. Most of the men were holding shovels or hoes, and they looked ready to swing them, though they also looked scared.
Wulfric turned his back on Ralph and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “You women, take the children into the church – quickly, now!”
Several women snatched up toddlers and grabbed youngsters by the arms. Gwenda stayed where she was, and so did several of the younger women. The villagers instinctively moved closer together, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Ralph and Alan looked disconcerted. They had not expected to face a crowd of fifty or more belligerent peasants. But they were on horseback, so they could get away any time they wanted.
Ralph said: “Well, perhaps I’ll just take this little boy to Wigleigh.”
Gwenda gasped with horror.
Ralph went on: “Then, if his parents want him, they can come back where they belong.”
Gwenda was beside herself. Ralph had Sam, and he could ride away at any moment. She fought down a hysterical scream. If he turned his horse, she decided, she would throw herself at him and try to drag him off the saddle. She moved a step closer.
Then, behind Ralph and Alan, she saw the oxen. Harry Ploughman was driving them through the village from the other end. Eight massive beasts lumbered up to the scene in front of the church, then stopped, looking around dumbly, not knowing which way to go. Harry stood behind them. Ralph and Alan found themselves in a triangular trap, hemmed in by the villagers, the oxen and the stone church.
Harry had planned this to stop Ralph riding away with Wulfric and herself, Gwenda guessed. But the tactic did just as well for this situation.
Carl said: “Put the child down, Sir Ralph, and go in peace.”
The trouble was, Gwenda thought, it was now difficult for Ralph to back down without losing face. He was going to have to do something to avoid looking foolish, which was the ultimate horror for proud knights. They talked all the time about their honour, but that meant nothing – they were thoroughly dishonourable when it suited them. What they really prized was their dignity. They would rather die than be humiliated.
The tableau was frozen for several moments: the knight and the child on the horse, the mutinous villagers, and the dumb oxen.
Then Ralph lowered Sam to the ground.
Tears of relief came to Gwenda’s eyes.
Sam ran to her, threw his arms around her waist and began to cry.
The villagers relaxed, the men lowering their shovels and hoes.
Ralph pulled on his horse’s reins and shouted: “Hup! Hup!” The horse reared. He dug in his spurs and rode straight at the crowd. They scattered. Alan rode behind him. The villagers desperately threw themselves out of the way, ending up in tangled heaps on the muddy ground. They were trampled by one another but not, miraculously, by the horses.
Ralph and Alan laughed loudly as they rode out of the village, as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a huge joke.
But, in reality, Ralph had been shamed.
And that, Gwenda felt sure, meant that he would be back.
Earlscastie had not changed. Twelve years ago, Merthin recalled, he had been asked to demolish the old fortress and build a new, modern palace fit for an earl in a peaceful country. But he had refused, preferring to design the new bridge at Kingsbridge. Since then, it seemed, the project had languished, for here was the same figure-eight wall with two drawbridges, and the old-fashioned keep ensconced in the upper loop, where the family lived like frightened rabbits at the end of a burrow, unaware that there was no longer any danger from the fox. The place must have been much the same in the days of Lady Aliena and Jack Builder.
Дата добавления: 2015-11-04; просмотров: 29 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |