World Without End

by Ken Follett

  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 have come, with armed deputies, to arrest him; and if he evaded them, he would have been 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 favor; 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 favors 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.

  He flung open the door, stepped through, and turned. Alan Fernhill dashed past him. The foreman of the jury was close behind Alan, sword drawn and raised. Ralph experienced a moment of pure elation. This was how things should be settled--by a fight, not a discussion. Win or lose, he preferred it this way.

  With a yell of exhilaration he thrust at Sir Herbert. The point of his sword touched the foreman's chest, ripping through his leather tunic; but the man was too distant for the blow to penetrate the ribs, and it merely cut his skin then glanced off the bones. All the same, Herbert cried out--more in fear than pain--and stumbled back, colliding with those behind him. Ralph slammed the door on them.

  He found himself in a passage that ran the length of the house, with a door to the market square at one end and another to the stable yard at the other. Where were the horses? Jerome had said only that they were outside. Alan was already running for the back door, so Ralph followed. As they burst into the yard, a hubbub behind them told him that the courtroom door had been opened and the crowd was after him.

  There was no sign of their horses in the yard.

  Ralph ran under the arch that led to the front.

  There stood the most welcome sight in the world: his hunter, Griff, saddled and pawing the ground, with Alan's two-year-old Fletch beside him, both held by a barefoot stable boy with his mouth full of bread.

  Ralph seized the reins and jumped on his horse. Alan did the same. They kicked their beasts just as the mob from the courtroom came through the arch. The stable boy threw himself out of the way, terrified. The horses surged forward and away.

  Someone in the crowd threw a knife. It stuck a quarter of an inch into Griff's flank, then fell away, serving only to spur the horse on.

  They galloped flat out through the streets, scattering townspeople before them, careless of men, women, children, and livestock. They charged through a gate in the old wall and passed into a suburb of houses interspersed with gar
dens and orchards. Ralph looked behind. No pursuers were in sight.

  The sheriff's men would come after them, of course, but they had first to fetch horses and saddle them. Ralph and Alan were already a mile from the market square, and their mounts showed no signs of tiring. Ralph was filled with glee. Five minutes ago he had reconciled himself to being hanged. Now he was free!

  The road forked. Choosing at random, Ralph turned left. A mile away across the fields he could see woodland. Once there, he would turn off the track, and disappear.

  But what would he do then?

  39

  "Earl Roland was clever," Merthin said to Elizabeth Clerk. "He allowed justice to take its course almost to the end. He didn't bribe the judge or influence the jury or intimidate the witnesses, and he avoided a quarrel with his son, Lord William. But he escaped the humiliation of seeing one of his men hanged."

  "Where is your brother now?" she said.

  "No idea. I haven't spoken to him or even seen him since that day."

  They were sitting in Elizabeth's kitchen on Sunday afternoon. She had made dinner for him: boiled ham with stewed apples and winter greens, and a small jug of wine that her mother had bought, or perhaps stolen, from the inn where she worked.

  Elizabeth said: "What will happen now?"

  "The sentence of death still hangs over him. He can't return to Wigleigh, or come here to Kingsbridge, without getting arrested. In effect, he's declared himself an outlaw."

  "Is there nothing he can do?"

  "He could get a pardon from the king--but that costs a fortune, far more money than he or I could raise."

  "And how do you feel about him?"

  Merthin winced. "Well, he deserves punishment for what he did, of course. All the same, I can't wish it on him. I just hope he's all right, wherever he is."

  He had told the story of Ralph's trial many times in the last few days, but Elizabeth had asked the most astute questions. She was intelligent and sympathetic. The thought crossed his mind that it would be no hardship to spend every Sunday afternoon this way.

  Her mother, Sairy, was dozing by the fire, as usual, but now she opened her eyes and said: "My soul! I've forgotten the pie." She stood up, patting her mussed gray hair. "I promised to ask Betty Baxter to make a pie with ham and eggs for the leather-tanners guild. They're holding their last-before-Lent dinner at the Bell tomorrow." She draped a blanket around her shoulders and went out.

  It was unusual for them to be left alone together, and Merthin felt slightly awkward, but Elizabeth seemed relaxed enough. She said: "What are you doing with yourself, now that you no longer work on the bridge?"

  "I'm building a house for Dick Brewer, among other things. Dick's ready to retire and hand over to his son, but he says he'll never stop work while he's living at the Copper, so he wants a house with a garden outside the old city walls."

  "Oh--is that the building site beyond Lovers' Field?"

  "Yes. It will be the biggest house in Kingsbridge."

  "A brewer is never short of money."

  "Would you like to see it?"

  "The site?"

  "The house. It's not finished, but it's got four walls and a roof."

  "Now?"

  "There's still an hour of daylight."

  She hesitated, as if she might have had another plan; but then she said: "I'd love to."

  They put on heavy cloaks with hoods and went out. It was the first day of March. Flurries of snow chased them down the main street. They took the ferry to the suburban side.

  Despite the ups and downs of the wool trade, the town seemed to grow a little every year, and the priory turned more and more of its pasture and orchards into house plots for rent. Merthin guessed there must be fifty dwellings that had not been here when he first came to Kingsbridge, as a boy, twelve years ago.

  Dick Brewer's new home was a two-story structure set back from the road. As yet it had no window shutters or doors, so the gaps in the walls had been temporarily covered with hurdles, wood frames filled in with woven reeds. The front entrance was thus blocked, but Merthin took Elizabeth to the back, where there was a temporary wooden door with a lock.

  Merthin's sixteen-year-old assistant, Jimmie, was in the kitchen, guarding the place from thieves. He was a superstitious boy, always crossing himself and throwing salt over his shoulder. He was sitting on a bench in front of a big fire, but he looked anxious. "Hello, master," he said. "Now that you're here, may I go and get my dinner? Lol Turner was supposed to bring it, but he hasn't come."

  "Make sure you're back before it gets dark."

  "Thank you." He hurried off.

  Merthin stepped through the doorway to the interior of the house. "Four rooms downstairs," he said, showing her.

  She was incredulous. "What will they use them all for?"

  "Kitchen, parlor, dining room, and hall." There was no staircase yet, but Merthin climbed a ladder to the upper floor, and Elizabeth followed. "Four bedrooms," he said as she reached the top.

  "Who will live here?"

  "Dick and his wife, his son Danny and his wife, and his daughter, who probably won't remain single for ever."

  Most Kingsbridge families lived in one room, and all slept side by side on the floor: parents, children, grandparents, and in-laws. Elizabeth said: "This place has more rooms than a palace!"

  It was true. A nobleman with a big entourage might still live in two rooms: a bedchamber for himself and his wife, and a great hall for everyone else. But Merthin had now designed several houses for wealthy Kingsbridge merchants, and the luxury they all craved was privacy. It was a new trend, he thought.

  "I suppose there will be glass in the windows," Elizabeth said.

  "Yes." That was another trend. Merthin could remember the time when there was no glazier in Kingsbridge, just an itinerant who called every year or two. Now the city had a resident glazier.

  They returned to the ground floor. Elizabeth sat on Jimmie's bench in front of the fire and warmed her hands. Merthin sat beside her. "I'll build a house like this for myself, one day," he said. "In a big garden with fruit trees."

  To his surprise, she leaned her head on his shoulder. "What a nice dream," she said.

  They both stared into the fire. Her hair tickled Merthin's cheek. After a moment, she laid a hand on his knee. In the silence, he could hear her breathing, and his own, and the crackle of burning logs.

  "In your dream, who's in the house?" she said.

  "I don't know."

  "Just like a man. I can't see my house, but I know who's in it: a husband, some babies, my mother, an elderly parent-in-law, and three servants."

  "Men and women have different dreams."

  She lifted her head, looked at him, and touched his face. "And when you put them together, you have a life." She kissed his mouth.

  He closed his eyes. He remembered the soft touch of her lips from years ago. Her mouth lingered on his for just a moment, then she drew back.

  He felt oddly detached, as if he were watching himself from a corner of the room. He did not know how he felt. He looked at her and saw again how lovely she was. He asked himself what was so striking about her, and realized immediately that everything was in harmony, like the parts of a beautiful church. Her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones, and her forehead were just as he would have drawn them if he had been God creating a woman.

  She looked back at him with calm blue eyes. "Touch me," she said. She opened her cloak.

  He took her breast gently in his hand. He remembered doing this, too. Her breasts were firm and flat against her chest. Her nipple hardened immediately to his touch, betraying her calm demeanor.

  "I want to be in your dream house," she said, and she kissed him again.

  She was not acting on the spur of the moment; Elizabeth never did. She had been thinking about this. While he had been casually visiting her, enjoying her company without thinking any farther, she had been imagining their life together. Perhaps she had even planned this scene. That would explai
n why her mother had left them with an excuse about a pie. He had almost spoiled her plan by proposing to show her Dick Brewer's house, but she had improvised.

  There was nothing wrong with such an unemotional approach. She was a reasoning person. It was one of the things he liked about her. He knew that passions burned nonetheless beneath the surface.

  What seemed wrong was his own lack of feeling. It was not his way to be coolly rational about women--quite the reverse. When he had felt love, it had taken him over, making him feel rage and resentment as well as lust and tenderness. Now he felt interested, flattered, and titillated, but he was not out of control.

  She sensed that his kiss was lukewarm, and drew back. He saw the ghost of an emotion on her face, fiercely suppressed, but he knew there was fear behind the mask. She was so poised, by nature, that it must have cost her a lot to be so forward, and she dreaded rejection.

  She drew away from him, stood up, and lifted the skirt of her dress. She had long, shapely legs covered with nearly invisible fine blond hair. Although she was tall and slim, her body widened just below the hips in a delightfully womanly way. His gaze homed in helplessly on the delta of her sex. Her hair was so fair that he could see through it, to the pale swelling of the lips and the delicate line between them.

  He looked up to her face and read desperation there. She had tried everything, and she saw that it had not worked.

  Merthin said: "I'm sorry."

  She dropped her skirts.

  "Listen," he said. "I think--"

  She interrupted him. "Don't speak." Her desire was turning to anger. "Whatever you say now will be a lie."

  She was right. He had been trying to formulate some soothing half-truth: he was not feeling well, or Jimmie might be back at any moment. But she did not want to be mollified. She had been rebuffed, and feeble excuses would only make her feel patronized as well.

  She stared at him, grief struggling with rage on the battleground of her beautiful face. Tears of frustration came to her eyes. "Why not?" she cried; but when he opened his mouth to reply she said: "Don't answer! It won't be the truth"; and again she was right.

  She turned to go, then came back. "It's Caris," she said, her face working with emotion. "That witch has cast a spell on you. She won't marry you, but no one else can have you. She's evil!"