by Ken Follett
"It is disgraceful, lord," said Nate more politely, and a sly look came over his face. "For example, Wulfric's son Davey wants to marry Amabel and take over her mother's land. It would make sense: Annet has never been able to manage her holding."
Sam spoke up. "My parents won't pay the entry fee--they're against the marriage."
Nate said: "Davey could pay it himself, though."
Ralph was surprised. "How?"
"He sold that new crop he grew in the forest."
"Madder. Obviously we didn't do a sufficiently thorough job of trampling it. How much did he get?"
"No one knows. But Gwenda has bought a young milking cow, and Wulfric has a new knife...and Amabel wore a yellow scarf to church on Sunday."
And Nate had been offered a fat bribe, Ralph guessed. "I hate to reward Davey's disobedience," he said. "But I'm desperate. Let him have the land."
"You would have to give him special permission to marry against his parents' will."
Davey had asked Ralph for this, and Ralph had turned him down, but that was before the plague decimated the peasantry. He did not like to revisit such decisions. However, it was a small price to pay. "I shall give him permission," he said.
"Very well."
"But let's go and see him. I'd like to make the offer in person."
Nate was startled, but of course made no objection.
The truth was that Ralph wanted to see Gwenda again. There was something about her that made his throat go dry. His last encounter with her, in the little hunting lodge, had not satisfied him for long. He had thought about her often in the weeks since then. He got little satisfaction nowadays from the kind of women he normally lay with: young prostitutes, tavern wenches, and maidservants. They all pretended to be delighted by his advances, though he knew they just wanted the present of money that came afterward. Gwenda, by contrast, made no secret of the fact that she loathed him and shuddered at his touch; and that pleased him, paradoxically, because it was honest and therefore real. After their meeting in the hunting lodge he had given her a purse of silver pennies, and she had thrown it back at him so hard that it had bruised his chest.
"They're in Brookfield today, turning their reaped barley," Nate said. "I'll take you there."
Ralph and his men followed Nate out of the village and along the bank of the stream at the edge of the great field. Wigleigh was always windy, but today the summer breeze was soft and warm, like Gwenda's breasts.
Some of the strips of land here had been reaped, but in others Ralph despaired to see overripe oats, barley rank with weeds, and one patch of rye that had been reaped but not bundled, so that the crop lay scattered on the ground.
A year ago he had thought that all his financial troubles were over. He had come home from the most recent French war with a captive, the Marquis de Neuchatel, and had negotiated a ransom of fifty thousand pounds. But the marquis's family had not been able to raise the money. Something similar had happened to the French king, Jean II, captured by the prince of Wales at the battle of Poitiers. King Jean had stayed in London for four years, technically a prisoner, though living in comfort at the Savoy, the new palace built by the duke of Lancaster. The king's ransom had been reduced, but still it had not been paid in full. Ralph had sent Alan Fernhill to Neuchatel to renegotiate his prisoner's ransom, and Alan had reduced the price to twenty thousand, but again the family had failed to pay it. Then the marquis had died of the plague, so Ralph was insolvent again, and had to worry about the harvest.
It was midday. The peasants were having their dinner at the side of the field. Gwenda, Wulfric, and Davey were sitting on the ground under a tree eating cold pork with raw onions. They all jumped to their feet when the horses came near. Ralph went over to Gwenda's family and waved the rest away.
Gwenda wore a loose green dress that hid her shape. Her hair was tied back, making her face more ratlike. Her hands were dirty, with earth under the nails. But, when Ralph looked at her, in his imagination he saw her naked, ready, waiting for him with an expression of resigned disgust at what he was about to do; and he felt aroused.
He looked away from her to her husband. Wulfric stared back at him with a level gaze, neither defiant nor cowed. There was a little gray now in his tawny beard, but still it would not grow over the scar of the sword cut Ralph had given him. "Wulfric, your son wants to marry Amabel and take over Annet's land."
Gwenda responded. She had never learned to speak only when spoken to. "You've stolen one son from me--will you take the other now?" she said bitterly.
Ralph ignored her. "Who will pay the heriot?"
Nate put in: "It's thirty shillings."
Wulfric said: "I haven't got thirty shillings."
Davey said calmly: "I can pay it."
He must have done very well out of his madder crop, Ralph thought, to be so cool about such a large sum of money. "Good," he said. "In that case--"
Davey interrupted him. "But on what terms are you offering it?"
Ralph felt his face redden. "What do you mean?"
Nate intervened again. "The same terms as those upon which Annet holds the land, of course."
Davey said: "Then I thank the earl, but I will not accept his gracious offer."
Ralph said: "What the devil are you talking about?"
"I would like to take over the land, my lord, but only as a free tenant, paying cash rent, without customary dues."
Sir Alan said threateningly: "Do you dare to haggle with the earl of Shiring, you insolent young dog?"
Davey was scared but defiant. "I've no wish to offend, lord. But I want to be free to grow whatever crop I can sell. I don't want to cultivate what Nate Reeve chooses, regardless of market prices."
Davey had inherited that streak of stubborn determination from Gwenda, Ralph thought. He said angrily: "Nate expresses my wishes! Do you think you know better than your earl?"
"Forgive me, lord, but you neither till the soil nor go to market."
Alan's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Ralph saw Wulfric glance at his scythe, lying on the ground, its sharp blade gleaming in the sunlight. On Ralph's other side, young Sam's horse skittered nervously, picking up its rider's tension. If it came to a fight, Ralph thought, would Sam fight for his lord, or for his family?
Ralph did not want a fight. He wanted to get the harvest in, and killing his peasants would make that harder. He restrained Alan with a gesture. "This is how the plague undermines morality," he said disgustedly. "I will give you what you want, Davey, because I must."
Davey swallowed drily and said: "In writing, lord?"
"You're demanding a copyhold, too?"
Davey nodded, too frightened to speak.
"Do you doubt the word of your earl?"
"No, lord."
"Then why demand a written lease?"
"For the avoidance of doubt in future years."
They all said that when they asked for a copyhold. What they meant was that if the lease was written down the landlord could not easily alter the terms. It was yet another encroachment on time-honored traditions. Ralph did not want to make a further concession--but, once again, he had no option if he wanted to get the harvest in.
And then he thought of a way he could use this situation to gain something else he wanted, and he cheered up.
"All right," he said. "I'll give you a written lease. But I don't want men leaving the fields during the harvest. Your mother can come to Earlscastle to collect the document next week."
Gwenda walked to Earlscastle on a baking hot day. She knew what Ralph wanted her for, and the prospect made her miserable. As she crossed the drawbridge into the castle, the rooks seemed to laugh derisively at her plight.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the compound, where the walls blocked the breeze. The squires were playing a game outside the stables. Sam was among them, and too absorbed to notice Gwenda.
They had tied a cat to a post at eye level in such a way that it could move its head and legs. A squire had to kill
the cat with his hands tied behind his back. Gwenda had seen the game before. The only way for the squire to achieve his object was to head-butt the wretched animal, but the cat naturally defended itself by scratching and biting the attacker's face. The challenger, a boy of about sixteen, was hovering near the post, watched by the terrified cat. Suddenly the boy jerked his head. His forehead smashed into the cat's chest, but the animal lashed out with its clawed paws. The squire yelped with pain and jumped back, his cheeks streaming blood, and all the other squires roared with laughter. Enraged, the challenger rushed at the post and butted the cat again. He was scratched worse, and he hurt his head, which they found even funnier. The third time he was more careful. Getting close, he feinted, making the cat lash out at thin air; then he delivered a carefully aimed strike right at the beast's head. Blood poured from its mouth and nostrils, and it slumped unconscious, though still breathing. He butted it a final time to kill it, and the others cheered and clapped.
Gwenda felt sickened. She did not much like cats--she preferred dogs--but it was unpleasant to see any helpless creature tormented. She supposed that boys had to do this sort of thing to prepare them for maiming and killing human beings in war. Did it have to be that way?
She moved on without speaking to her son. Perspiring, she crossed the second bridge and climbed the steps to the keep. The great hall was mercifully cool.
She was glad Sam had not seen her. She was hoping to avoid him as long as possible. She did not want him to suspect that anything was wrong. He was not notably sensitive, but he might detect his mother's distress.
She told the marshal of the hall why she was here, and he promised to let the earl know. "Is Lady Philippa in residence?" Gwenda asked hopefully. Perhaps Ralph would be inhibited by the presence of his wife.
But the marshal shook his head. "She's at Monmouth, with her daughter."
Gwenda nodded grimly and settled down to wait. She could not help thinking about her encounter with Ralph at the hunting lodge. When she looked at the unadorned gray wall of the great hall she saw him, staring at her as she undressed, his mouth slightly open in anticipation. As much as the intimacy of sex was a joy with the man she loved, so much was it loathsome with one she hated.
The first time Ralph had coerced her, more than twenty years ago, her body had betrayed her, and she had felt a physical pleasure, even while experiencing a spiritual revulsion. The same thing had happened with Alwyn the outlaw in the forest. But it had not occurred this time with Ralph in the hunting lodge. She attributed the change to age. When she had been a young girl, full of desire, the physical act had triggered an automatic response--something she could not help, although it had made her even more ashamed. Now in her maturity her body was not so vulnerable, the reflex not so ready. She could at least be grateful for that.
The stairs at the far end of the hall led to the earl's chamber. Men were going up and down constantly: knights, servants, tenants, bailiffs. After an hour, the marshal told her to go up.
She was afraid Ralph would want sex there and then, but she was relieved to find that he was having a business day. With him were Sir Alan and two priest-clerks sitting at a table with writing materials. One of the clerks handed her a small vellum scroll.
She did not look at it. She could not read.
"There," said Ralph. "Now your son is a free tenant. Isn't that what you always wanted?"
She had wanted freedom for herself, as Ralph knew. She had never achieved it--but Ralph was right, Davey had. That meant that her life had not been completely without purpose. Her grandchildren would be free and independent, growing what crops they chose, paying their rent and keeping for themselves everything else they earned. They would never know the miserable existence of poverty and hunger that Gwenda had been born to.
Was that worth all she had been through? She did not know.
She took the scroll and went to the door.
Alan came after her and spoke in a low voice as she was going out. "Stay here tonight, in the hall," he said. The great hall was where most of the castle's residents slept. "Tomorrow, be at the hunting lodge two hours after midday."
She tried to leave without replying.
Alan barred her way with his arm. "Understand?" he said.
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "I will be there in the afternoon."
He let her go.
She did not speak to Sam until late in the evening. The squires spent the whole afternoon at various violent games. She was glad to have the time to herself. She sat in the cool hall alone with her thoughts. She tried to tell herself that it was nothing for her to have sexual congress with Ralph. She was no virgin, after all. She had been married for twenty years. She had had sex thousands of times. It would all be over in a few minutes, and it would leave no scars. She would do it and forget it.
Until the next time.
That was the worst of it. He could go on coercing her indefinitely. His threat to reveal the secret of Sam's paternity would terrify her as long as Wulfric was alive.
Surely Ralph would tire of her soon, and go back to the firm young bodies of his tavern wenches?
"What's the matter with you?" Sam said when at dusk the squires came in for supper.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Davey's bought me a milking cow."
Sam looked a bit envious. He was enjoying life, but squires were not paid. They had little need of money--they were provided with food, drink, accommodation, and clothing--but, all the same, a young man liked to have a few pennies in his wallet.
They talked about Davey's forthcoming wedding. "You and Annet are going to be grandmothers together," Sam said. "You'll have to make your peace with her."
"Don't be stupid," Gwenda snapped. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Ralph and Alan emerged from the chamber when supper was served. All the residents and visitors assembled in the hall. The kitchen staff brought in three large pike baked with herbs. Gwenda sat near the foot of the table, well away from Ralph, and he took no notice of her.
After dinner she lay down to sleep in the straw on the floor beside Sam. It was a comfort to her to lie next to him, as she had when he was little. She remembered listening to his childish breathing, soft and contented, in the silence of the night. Drifting off, she thought about how children grew up to defy their parents' expectations. Her own father had wanted to treat her like a commodity to be traded, but she had angrily refused to be used that way. Now each of her sons was taking his own road through life, and in both cases it was not the one she had planned. Sam would be a knight, and Davey was going to marry Annet's daughter. If we knew how they would turn out, she thought, would we be so eager to have them?
She dreamed that she went to Ralph's hunting lodge and found that he was not there, but there was a cat on his bed. She knew she had to kill the cat, but she had her hands tied behind her back, so she butted it with her head until it died.
When she woke up she wondered if she could kill Ralph at the lodge.
She had killed Alwyn, all those years ago, sticking his own knife into his throat and pushing it up into his head until its point had come out through his eye. She had killed Sim Chapman, too, holding his head under the water while he wriggled and thrashed, keeping him there until he breathed the river into his lungs and died. If Ralph went to the hunting lodge alone, she might be able to kill him, if she chose her moment well.
But he would not be on his own. Earls never went anywhere alone. He would have Alan with him, as he had before. It was unusual for him to travel with only one companion. It was unlikely he would have none.
Could she kill them both? No one else knew she was going to meet them there. If she killed them and simply walked on home she would not even be suspected. No one knew of her motive--it was a secret, that was the whole point. Someone might realize she had been near the lodge at the time, but they would only ask her whether she had seen any suspicious-looking men in the vicinity--it would not occur to them that big strong Ralph might
have been murdered by a small middle-aged woman.
But could she do it? She thought about it, but she knew in her heart it was hopeless. They were experienced men of violence. They had been at war, off and on, for twenty years, most recently in the campaign of the winter before last. They had quick reflexes and their reactions were deadly. Many French knights had wanted to kill them, and had died trying.
She might have killed one, using guile and surprise, but not two.
She was going to have to submit to Ralph.
Grimly she went outside and washed her face and hands. When she came back into the great hall, the kitchen staff were putting out rye bread and weak ale for breakfast. Sam was dipping the stale bread into his ale to soften it. "You've got that look again," he said. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said. She drew her knife and cut a slab of the bread. "I've got a long walk ahead of me."
"Is that what you're worried about? You shouldn't really go on your own. Most women don't like to travel alone."
"I'm tougher than most women." She was pleased that he showed concern for her. It was something his real father, Ralph, would never have done. Wulfric had had some influence over the boy, after all. But she was embarrassed that he had read her expression and divined her state of mind. "You don't need to worry about me."
"I could come with you," he offered. "I'm sure the earl would let me. He doesn't need any squires today--he's going off somewhere with Alan Fernhill."
That was the last thing she wanted. If she failed to keep her rendezvous, Ralph would let out the secret. She could readily imagine the pleasure Ralph would take in that. He would not need much provocation. "No," she said firmly. "Stay here. You never know when your earl will call for you."
"He won't call for me. I should come with you."
"I absolutely forbid it." Gwenda swallowed a mouthful of her bread and stuffed the rest into her wallet. "You're a good boy to worry about me, but it's not necessary." She kissed his cheek. "Take care of yourself. Don't run unnecessary risks. If you want to do something for me, stay alive."
She walked away. At the door, she turned. He was watching her thoughtfully. She forced herself to give what she hoped was a carefree smile. Then she went out.
