Pillars of the Earth, book 2 72 страница

At this point, Merthin spoke for the first time. “I have a suggestion,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

He said: “Let the town build a new hospital. I will donate a large site on Leper Island. Let it be staffed by a convent of nuns quite separate from the priory, a new group. They will be under the spiritual authority of the bishop of Shiring, of course, but have no connection with the prior of Kingsbridge or any of the physicians at the monastery. Let the new hospital have a lay patron, who would be a leading citizen of the town, chosen by the guild, and would appoint the prioress.”

They were all quiet for a long moment, letting this radical proposal sink in. Caris was thunderstruck. A new hospital… on Leper Island… paid for by the townspeople… staffed by a new order of nuns… having no connection with the priory…

She looked around the group. Philemon and Sime clearly hated the idea. Henri, Claude and Lloyd just looked bemused.

At last the bishop said: “The patron will be very powerful – representing the townspeople, paying the bills and appointing the prioress. Whoever plays that role will control the hospital.”

“Yes,” said Merthin.

“If I authorize a new hospital, will the townspeople be willing to resume paying for the tower?”

Madge Webber spoke for the first time. “If the right patron is appointed, yes.”

“And who should it be?” said Henri.

Caris realized that everyone was looking at her.

*

A few hours later, Caris and Merthin wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks, put on boots and walked through the snow to the island, where he showed her the site he had in mind. It was on the west side, not far from his house, overlooking the river.

She was still dizzy from the sudden change in her life. She was to be released from her vows as a nun. She would become a normal citizen again, after almost twelve years. She found she could contemplate leaving the priory without anguish. The people she had loved were all dead: Mother Cecilia, Old Julie, Mair, Tilly. She liked Sister Joan and Sister Oonagh well enough, but it was not the same.

And she would still be in charge of a hospital. Having the right to appoint and dismiss the prioress of the new institution, she would be able to run the place according to the new thinking that had grown out of the plague. The bishop had agreed to everything.

“I think we should use the cloister layout again,” Merthin said. “It seemed to work really well for the short time you were in charge.”

She stared at the sheet of unmarked snow and marvelled at his ability to imagine walls and rooms where she could see only whiteness. “The entrance arch was used almost like a hall,” she said. “It was the place where people waited, and where the nuns first examined the patients before deciding what to do with them.”

“You would like it larger?”

“I think it should be a real reception hall.”

“All right.”

She was bemused. “This is hard to believe. Everything has turned out just as I would have wanted it.”

He nodded. “That’s how I worked it out.”

“Really?”

“I asked myself what you would wish for, then I figured out how to achieve it.”

She stared at him. He had said it lightly, as if merely explaining the reasoning process that had led him to his conclusions. He seemed to have no idea how momentous it was to her that he should be thinking about her wishes and how to achieve them.

She said: “Has Philippa had the baby yet?”

“Yes, a week ago.”

“What did she have?”

“A boy.”

“Congratulations. Have you seen him?”

“No. As far as the world is concerned, I’m only his uncle. But Ralph sent me a letter.”

“Have they named him?”

“Roland, after the old earl.”

Caris changed the subject. “The river water isn’t very pure this far downstream. A hospital really needs clean water.”

“I’ll lay a pipe to bring you water from farther upstream.”

The snowfall eased and then stopped, and they had a clear view of the island.

She smiled at him. “You have the answer to everything.”

He shook his head. “These are the easy questions: clean water, airy rooms, a reception hall.”

“And what are the difficult ones?”

He turned to face her. There were snowflakes in his red beard. He said: “Questions like: Does she still love me?”

They stared at one another for a long moment.

Caris was happy.

Part Seven. March to November, 1361

Wulfric at forty was still the handsomest man Gwenda had ever seen. There were threads of silver now in his tawny hair, but they just made him look wise as well as strong. When he was young his broad shoulders had tapered dramatically to a narrow waist, whereas nowadays the taper was not so sharp nor the waist so slim – but he could still do the work of two men. And he would always be two years younger than she.

She thought she had changed less. She had the kind of dark hair that did not go grey until late in life. She was no heavier than she had been twenty years ago, although since having the children her breasts and belly were not quite as taut as formerly.

It was only when she looked at her son Davey, at his smooth skin and the restless spring in his step, that she felt her years. Now twenty, he looked like a male version of herself at that age. She, too, had had a face with no lines, and she had walked with a jaunty stride. A lifetime of working in the fields in all weathers had wrinkled her hands, and given her cheeks a raw redness just beneath the skin, and taught her to walk slowly and conserve her strength.

Davey was small like her, and shrewd, and secretive: since he was little she had never been sure what he was thinking. Sam was the opposite: big and strong, not clever enough to be deceitful, but with a mean streak that Gwenda blamed on his real father, Ralph Fitzgerald.

For several years now the two boys had been working alongside Wulfric in the fields – until two weeks ago, when Sam had vanished.

They knew why he had gone. All winter long he had been talking about leaving Wigleigh and moving to a village where he could earn higher wages. He had disappeared the moment the spring ploughing began.

Gwenda knew he was right about the wages. It was a crime to leave your village, or to accept pay higher than the levels of 1347, but all over the country restless young men were flouting the law, and desperate farmers were hiring them. Landlords such as Earl Ralph could do little more than gnash their teeth.

Sam had not said where he would go, and he had given no warning of his departure. If Davey had done the same, Gwenda would have known he had thought things out carefully and decided this was the best way. But she felt sure Sam had just followed an impulse. Someone had mentioned the name of a village, and he had woken up early the next morning and decided to go there immediately.

She told herself not to worry. He was twenty-two years old, big and strong. No one was going to exploit him or ill-treat him. But she was his mother, and her heart ached.

If she could not find him, no one else could, she figured, and that was good. All the same she yearned to know where he was living, and if he was working for a decent master, and whether the people were kind to him.

That winter, Wulfric had made a new light plough for the sandier acres of his holding, and one day in spring Gwenda and he went to Northwood to buy an iron ploughshare, the one part they could not make for themselves. As usual, a small group of Wigleigh folk travelled together to the market. Jack and Eli, who operated the fulling mill for Madge Webber, were stocking up on supplies: they had no land of their own so they bought all their food. Annet and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Amabel, had a dozen hens in a crate, to sell at the market. The bailiff, Nathan, came too, with his grown son Jonno, the childhood enemy of Sam.

Annet still flirted with every good-looking man who crossed her path, and most of them grinned foolishly and flirted back. On the journey to Northwood she chatted with Davey. Although he was less than half her age, she simpered and tossed her head and smacked his arm in mock reproach, just as if she were twenty-two rather than forty-two. She was not a girl any more, but she did not seem to know it, Gwenda thought sourly. Annet’s daughter, Amabel, who was as pretty as Annet had once been, walked a little apart, and seemed embarrassed by her mother.

They reached Northwood at mid-morning. After Wulfric and Gwenda had made their purchase, they went to get their dinner at the Old Oak tavern.

For as long as Gwenda could remember there had been a venerable oak outside the inn, a thick squat tree with malformed branches that looked like a bent old man in winter and cast a welcome deep shade in summer. Her sons had chased one another around it as little boys. But it must have died or become unstable, for it had been chopped down, and now there was a stump, as wide across as Wulfric was tall, used by the customers as a chair, a table, and – for one exhausted carter – a bed.

Sitting on its edge, drinking ale from a huge tankard, was Harry Ploughman, the bailiff of Outhenby.

Gwenda was taken back twelve years in a blink. What came to her mind, so forcefully that it brought tears to her eyes, was the hope that had lifted her heart as she and her family had set out, that morning in Northwood, to walk through the forest to Outhenby and a new life. The hope had been crushed, in less than a fortnight, and Wulfric had been taken back to Wigleigh – the memory still made her burn with rage – with a rope around his neck.

But Ralph had not had things all his own way since then. Circumstances had forced him to give Wulfric back the lands his father had held, which for Gwenda had been a savagely satisfying outcome, even though Wulfric had not been smart enough to win a free tenancy, unlike some of his neighbours. Gwenda was glad they were now tenants rather than labourers, and Wulfric had achieved his life’s ambition; but she still longed for more independence – a tenancy free of feudal obligations, with a cash rent to pay, the whole agreement written down in the manorial records so that no lord could go back on it. It was what most serfs wanted, and more of them were getting it since the plague.

Harry greeted them effusively and insisted on buying them ale. Soon after Wulfric and Gwenda’s brief stay at Outhenby, Harry had been made bailiff by Mother Caris, and he still held that position, though Caris had long ago renounced her vows, and Mother Joan was now prioress. Outhenby continued prosperous, to judge by Harry’s double chin and alehouse belly.

As they were preparing to leave with the rest of the Wigleigh folk, Harry spoke to Gwenda in a low voice. “I’ve got a young man called Sam labouring for me.”

Gwenda’s heart leaped. “My Sam?”

“Can’t possibly be, no.”

She was bewildered. Why mention him, in that case?

But Harry tapped his wine-red nose, and Gwenda realized he was being enigmatic. “This Sam assures me that his lord is a Hampshire knight I’ve never heard of, who has given him permission to leave his village and work elsewhere, whereas your Sam’s lord is Earl Ralph, who never lets his labourers go. Obviously I couldn’t employ your Sam.”

Gwenda understood. That would be Harry’s story if official questions were asked. “So, he’s in Outhenby.”

“Oldchurch, one of the smaller villages in the valley.”

“Is he well?” she asked eagerly.

“Thriving.”

“Thank God.”

“A strong boy and a good worker, though he can be quarrelsome.”

She knew that. “Is he living in a warm house?”

“Lodging with a good-hearted older couple whose own son has gone to Kingsbridge to be apprenticed to a tanner.”

Gwenda had a dozen questions, but suddenly she noticed the bent figure of Nathan Reeve leaning on the doorpost of the tavern entrance, staring at her. She suppressed a curse. There was so much she wanted to know, but she was terrified of giving Nate even a clue to Sam’s whereabouts. She needed to be content with what she had. And she was thrilled that at least she knew where he could be found.

She turned away from Harry, trying to give the impression of casually ending an unimportant conversation. Out of the corner of her mouth she said: “Don’t let him get into fights.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

She waved perfunctorily and went after Wulfric.

Walking home with the others, Wulfric carried the heavy ploughshare on his shoulder with no apparent effort. Gwenda was bursting to tell him the news, but she had to wait until the group straggled out along the road, and she and her husband were separated from the others by a few yards. Then she repeated the conversation, speaking quietly.

Wulfric was relieved. “At least we know where the lad has got to,” he said, breathing easily despite his load.

“I want to go to Outhenby,” Gwenda said.

Wulfric nodded. “I thought you might.” He rarely challenged her, but now he expressed a misgiving. “Dangerous, though. You’ll have to make sure no one finds out where you’ve gone.”

“Exactly. Nate mustn’t know.”

“How will you manage that?”

“He’s sure to notice that I’m not in the village for a couple of days. We’ll have to think of a story.”

“We can say you’re sick.”

“Too risky. He’ll probably come to the house to check.”

“We could say you’re at your father’s place.”

“Nate won’t believe that. He knows I never stay there longer than I have to.” She gnawed at a hangnail, racking her brains. In the ghost stories and fairy tales that people told around the fire on long winter evenings, the characters generally believed one another’s lies without question; but real people were less easily duped. “We could say I’ve gone to Kingsbridge,” she said at last.

“What for?”

“To buy laying hens at the market, perhaps.”

“You could buy hens from Annet.”

“I wouldn’t buy anything from that bitch, and people know it.”

“True.”

“And Nate knows I’ve always been a friend of Caris, so he’ll believe I could be staying with her.”

“All right.”

It was not much of a story, but she could not think of anything better. And she was desperate to see her son.

She left the next morning.

She slipped out of the house before dawn, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the cold March wind. She walked softly through the village in pitch darkness, finding her way by touch and memory. She did not want to be seen and questioned before she had even left the neighbourhood. But no one was up yet. Nathan Reeve’s dog growled quietly then recognized her tread, and she heard a soft thump as he wagged his tail against the side of his wooden kennel.

She left the village and followed the road through the fields. When dawn broke she was a mile away. She looked at the road behind her. It was empty. No one had followed her.

She chewed a crust of stale bread for breakfast, then stopped at mid-morning at a tavern where the Wigleigh-to-Kingsbridge road crossed the Northwood-to-Outhenby road. She recognized no one at the inn. She watched the door nervously as she ate a bowl of salt-fish stew and drank a pint of cider. Every time someone came in she got ready to hide her face, but it was always a stranger, and no one took any notice of her. She left quickly, and set off on the road to Outhenby.

She reached the valley around mid-afternoon. It was twelve years since she had been here, but the place had not changed much. It had recovered from the plague remarkably quickly. Apart from some small children playing near the houses, most of the villagers were at work, ploughing and sowing, or looking after new lambs. They stared at her across the fields, knowing she was a stranger, wondering about her identity. Some of them would recognize her close up. She had been here for only ten days, but those had been dramatic times, and they would remember. Villagers did not often see such excitement.

She followed the river Outhen as it meandered along the flat plain between two ranges of hills. She went from the main village through smaller settlements that she knew, from the time she had spent here, as Ham, Shortacre and Longwater, to the smallest and most remote, Oldchurch.

Her excitement grew as she approached, and she even forgot her sore feet. Oldchurch was a hamlet, with thirty hovels, none big enough to be a manor house or even a bailiff’s home. However, in accordance with the name there was an old church. It was several hundred years of age, Gwenda guessed. It had a squat tower and a short nave, all built of crude masonry, with tiny square windows placed apparently at random in the thick walls.

She walked to the fields beyond. She ignored a group of shepherds in a distant pasture: shrewd Harry Ploughman would not waste big Sam on such light work. He would be harrowing, or clearing a ditch, or helping to manage the eight-ox plough team. Searching the three fields methodically, she looked for a crowd of mostly men, with warm hats and muddy boots and big voices to call to one another across the acres; and a young man a head taller than the others. When she did not at first see her son, she suffered renewed apprehension. Had he already been recaptured? Had he moved to another village?

She found him in a line of men digging manure into a newly ploughed strip. He had his coat off, despite the cold, and he was hefting an oak spade, the muscles of his back and arms bunching and shifting under his old linen shirt. Her heart filled with pride to see him, and to think that such a man had come from her diminutive body.

They all looked up as she approached. The men stared at her in curiosity: Who was she and what was she doing here? She walked straight up to Sam and embraced him, even though he stank of horse dung. “Hello, Mother,” he said, and all the other men laughed.

She was puzzled by their hilarity.

A wiry man with one empty eye socket said: “There, there, Sam, you’ll be all right now,” and they laughed again.

Gwenda realized they thought it funny that a big man such as Sam should have his little mother come and check on him as if he were a wayward boy.

“How did you find me?” Sam said.

“I met Harry Ploughman at Northwood Market.”

“I hope no one tracked you here.”

“I left before it was light. Your father was to tell people I went to Kingsbridge. No one followed me.”

They talked for a few minutes, then he said he had to get back to work, or the other men would resent his leaving it all to them. “Go back to the village and find old Liza,” he said. “She lives opposite the church. Tell her who you are and she’ll give you some refreshment. I’ll be there at dusk.”

Gwenda glanced up at the sky. It was a dark afternoon, and the men would be forced to stop work in an hour or so. She kissed Sam’s cheek and left him.

She found Liza in a house slightly larger than most – it had two rooms rather than one. The woman introduced her husband, Rob, who was blind. As Sam had promised, Liza was hospitable: she put bread and pottage on the table and poured a cup of ale.

Gwenda asked about their son, and it was like turning on a tap. Liza talked unstoppably about him, from babyhood to apprenticeship, until the old man interrupted her harshly with one word: “Horse.”

They fell silent, and Gwenda heard the rhythmic thud of a trotting horse.

“Smallish mount,” blind Rob said. “A palfrey, or a pony. Too little for a nobleman or a knight, though it might be carrying a lady.”

Gwenda felt a shiver of fear.

“Two visitors within an hour,” Rob observed. “Must be connected.”

That was what Gwenda was afraid of.

She got up and looked out of the door. A sturdy black pony was trotting along the path between the houses. She recognized the rider immediately, and her heart sank: it was Jonno Reeve, the son of the bailiff of Wigleigh.

How had he found her?

She tried to duck quickly back into the house, but he had seen her. “Gwenda!” he shouted, and reined in his horse.

“You devil,” she said.

“I wonder what you’re doing here?” he said mockingly.

“How did you get here? No one was following me.”

“My father sent me to Kingsbridge, to see what mischief you might be making there, but on the way I stopped at the Cross Roads tavern, and they remembered you taking the road to Outhenby.”

She wondered whether she could outwit this shrewd young man. “And why should I not visit my old friends here?”

“No reason,” he said. “Where’s your runaway son?”

“Not here, though I hoped he might be.”

He looked momentarily uncertain, as if he thought she might be telling the truth. Then he said: “Perhaps he’s hiding. I’ll look around.” He kicked his horse on.

Gwenda watched him go. She had not fooled him, but perhaps she had planted a doubt in his mind. If she could get to Sam first she might be able to conceal him.

She walked quickly through the little house, with a hasty word to Liza and Rob, and left by the back door. She headed across the field, staying close to the hedge. Looking back towards the village, she could see a man on horseback moving out at an angle to her direction. The day was dimming, and she thought her own small figure might be indistinguishable against the dark background of the hedge.

She met Sam and the others coming back, their spades over their shoulders, their boots thick with muck. From a distance, at first sight, Sam could have been Ralph: the figure was the same, and the confident stride, and the set of the handsome head on the strong neck. But as he talked she could see Wulfric in him too: he had a way of turning his head, a shy smile and a deprecating gesture of the hand that exactly imitated his foster father.

The men spotted her. They had been tickled by her arrival earlier, and now the one-eyed man called out: “Hello, Mother!” and they all laughed.

She took Sam aside and said: “Jonno Reeve is here.”

“Hell!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said you weren’t followed!”

“I didn’t see him, but he picked up my trail.”

“Damn. Now what do I do? I’m not going back to Wigleigh!”

“He’s looking for you, but he left the village heading east.” She scanned the darkening landscape but could not see much. “If we hurry back to Oldchurch we could hide you – in the church, perhaps.”

“All right.”

They picked up their pace. Gwenda said over her shoulder: “If you men come across a bailiff called Jonno… you haven’t seen Sam from Wigleigh.”

“Never heard of him, Mother,” said one, and the others concurred. Serfs were generally ready to help one another outwit the bailiff.

Gwenda and Ralph reached the settlement without seeing Jonno. They headed for the church. Gwenda thought they could probably get in: country churches were usually empty and bare inside, and generally left open. But if this one should turn out to be an exception, she was not sure what they would do.

They threaded through the houses and came within sight of the church. As they passed Liza’s front door, Gwenda saw a black pony. She groaned. Jonno must have doubled back under cover of the dusk. He had gambled that Gwenda would find Sam and bring him to the village, and he had been right. He had his father Nate’s low cunning.

She took Sam’s arm to hurry him across the road and into the church – then Jonno stepped out from Liza’s house.

“Sam,” he said. “I thought you’d be here.”

Gwenda and Sam stopped and turned.

Sam leaned on his wooden spade. “What are you going to do about it?”

Jonno was grinning triumphantly. “Take you back to Wigleigh.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

A group of peasants, mostly women, appeared from the west side of the village and stopped to watch the confrontation.

Jonno reached into his pony’s saddlebag and brought out some kind of metal device with a chain. “I’m going to put a leg iron on you,” he said. “And if you’ve got any sense you won’t resist.”

Gwenda was surprised by Jonno’s nerve. Did he really expect to arrest Sam all on his own? He was a beefy lad, but not as big as Sam. Did he hope the villagers would help him? He had the law on his side, but few peasants would think his cause just. Typical young man, he had no sense of his own limitations.

Sam said: “I used to beat the shit out of you when we were boys, and I’ll do the same today.”

Gwenda did not want them to fight. Whoever won, Sam would be wrong in the eyes of the law. He was a runaway. She said: “It’s too late to go anywhere now. Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?”

Jonno gave a disparaging laugh. “And let Sam slip away before dawn, the way you sneaked out of Wigleigh? Certainly not. He sleeps in irons tonight.”

The men Sam had been working with appeared, and stopped to see what was going on. Jonno said: “All law-abiding men have a duty to help me arrest this runaway, and anyone who hinders me will be subject to the punishment of the law.”

“You can rely on me,” said the one-eyed man. “I’ll hold your horse.” The others chuckled. There was little sympathy for Jonno. On the other hand, no villager spoke in Sam’s defence.

Jonno moved suddenly. With the leg iron in both hands, he stepped towards Sam and bent down, trying to snap the device on to Sam’s leg in one surprise move.

It might have worked on a slow-moving older man, but Sam reacted quickly. He stepped back then kicked out, landing one muddy boot on Jonno’s outstretched left arm.

Jonno gave a grunt of pain and anger. Straightening up, he drew back his right arm and swung the iron, intending to hit Sam over the head with it. Gwenda heard a frightened scream and realized it came from herself. Sam darted back another step, out of range.

Jonno saw that his blow was going to miss, and let go of the iron at the last moment.

It flew through the air. Sam flinched away, turning and ducking, but he could not dodge it. The iron hit his ear and the chain whipped across his face. Gwenda cried out as if she herself had been hurt. The onlookers gasped. Sam staggered, and the iron fell to the ground. There was a moment of suspense. Blood came from Sam’s ear and nose. Gwenda took a step towards him, stretching out her arms.

Then Sam recovered from the shock.

He turned back to Jonno and swung his heavy wooden spade in one graceful movement. Jonno had not quite recovered his balance after the effort of his throw, and he was unable to dodge. The edge of the spade caught him on the side of the head. Sam was strong, and the sound of wood on bone rang out across the village street.

Jonno was still reeling when Sam hit him again. Now the spade came straight down from above. Swung by both Sam’s arms, it landed on top of Jonno’s head, edge first, with tremendous force. This time the impact did not ring out, but sounded more like a dull thud, and Gwenda feared Jonno’s skull had cracked.

As Jonno slumped to his knees, Sam hit him a third time, another full-force blow with the oak blade, this one across his victim’s forehead. An iron sword could hardly have been more damaging, Gwenda thought despairingly. She stepped forward to restrain Sam, but the village men had had the same idea a moment earlier, and got there before her. They pulled Sam away, two of them holding each arm.

Jonno lay on the ground, his head in a pool of blood. Gwenda was sickened by the sight, and could not help thinking of the boy’s father, Nate, and how grieved he would be by his son’s injuries. Jonno’s mother had died of the plague, so at least she was in a place where grief could not afflict her.

Gwenda could see that Sam was not badly hurt. He was bleeding, but still struggling with his captors, trying to get free so that he could attack again. Gwenda bent over Jonno. His eyes were closed and he was not moving. She put a hand on his heart and felt nothing. She tried for a pulse, the way Caris had shown her, but there was none. Jonno did not seem to be breathing.

The implications of what had happened dawned on her, and she began to weep.

Jonno was dead, and Sam was a murderer.

On Easter Sunday that year, 1361, Caris and Merthin had been married ten years.

Standing in the cathedral, watching the Easter procession, Caris recalled their wedding. Because they had been lovers, off and on, for so long, they had seen the ceremony as no more than confirmation of a long-established fact, and they had foolishly envisaged a small, quiet event: a low-key service in St Mark’s church and a modest dinner for a few people afterwards at the Bell. But Father Joffroi had informed them, the day before, that by his calculation at least two thousand people were planning to attend the wedding, and they had been forced to move it to the cathedral. Then it turned out that, without their knowledge, Madge Webber had organized a banquet in the guild hall for leading citizens and a picnic in Lovers’ Field for everyone else in Kingsbridge. So, in the end, it had been the wedding of the year.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04