The Pillars of the Earth

  "Yes, thank you."

  Matthew looked at William and his face registered surprise. "Young William Hamleigh, isn't it?"

  William was embarrassed to be recognized, even though it was inevitable. "Keep your sugar for the children," he said, although he had not been offered any. "I don't care for it."

  "Very well, lord." Matthew's look said that he had not got where he was today by making trouble for the sons of the gentry. He turned back to Aliena. "Your father brought back some wonderful soft silk--I'll show you later."

  "Thank you," she said.

  Matthew went away.

  William said: "Effeminate fool."

  Aliena said: "Why were you so rude to him?"

  "I don't let servants call me 'Young William.' " This was not a good way to begin wooing a lady. William realized with a sinking feeling that he had got off to a bad start. He had to be charming. He smiled and said: "If you were my wife, my servants would call you lady."

  "Did you come here to talk about marriage?" she said, and William thought he detected a note of incredulity in her voice.

  "You don't know me," William said in a tone of protest. He was failing to keep this conversation under control, he realized miserably. He had planned a little small talk before getting down to business, but she was so direct and candid that he was forced to blurt out his message. "You misjudged me. I don't know what I did, last time we met, to make you dislike me; but whatever your reason, you were too hasty."

  She looked away, considering her reply. Behind her, William saw the knight and the man-at-arms come down the stairs and go out through the door, looking purposeful. A moment later a man in clerical robes--presumably the earl's secretary--appeared from above and beckoned. Two knights got up and went upstairs: Ralph of Lyme, flashing the red lining of his cloak, and an older man with a bald head. Clearly the men waiting in the hall were seeing the earl, in ones and twos, in his chamber. But why?

  "After all this time?" Aliena was saying. She was suppressing some emotion. It might have been anger, but William had a sneaking feeling it was laughter. "After all the trouble, and anger, and scandal; just when it's dying down at last, now you tell me I made a mistake?"

  When she put it that way it did seem a bit implausible, William realized. "It hasn't died down at all--people are still talking about it, my mother is still furious and my father can't hold his head up in public," he said wildly. "It's not over for us."

  "This is all about family honor for you, isn't it?"

  There was a dangerous note in her voice, but William ignored it. He had just realized what the earl must be doing with all these knights and men-at-arms: he was sending messages. "Family honor?" he said distractedly. "Yes."

  "I know I ought to think about honor, and alliances between families, and all that," Aliena said. "But that's not all there is to marriage." She seemed to ponder for a moment, then reach a decision. "Perhaps I should tell you about my mother. She hated my father. My father isn't a bad man, in fact he's a great man, and I love him, but he's dreadfully solemn and strict, and he never understood Mother. She was a happy, lighthearted person who loved to laugh and tell stories and have music, and Father made her miserable." There were tears in Aliena's eyes, William noted vaguely, but he was thinking about messages. "That's why she died--because he wouldn't let her be happy. I know it. And he knows it too, you see. That's why he promised he would never make me marry someone I don't like. Do you understand, now?"

  Those messages are orders, William was thinking; orders to Earl Bartholomew's friends and allies, warning them to get ready to fight. And the messengers are evidence.

  He realized Aliena was staring at him. "Marry someone you don't like?" he said, echoing her final words. "Don't you like me?"

  Her eyes flashed anger. "You haven't been listening," she said. "You're so self-centered that you can't think about anyone else's feelings for a moment. Last time you came here, what did you do? You talked and talked about yourself and never asked me one question!"

  Her voice had risen to a shout, and when she stopped, William noticed that the men on the other side of the room had fallen silent, listening. He felt embarrassed. "Not so loud," he said to her.

  She took no notice. "You want to know why I don't like you? All right, I'll tell you. I don't like you because you have no refinement. I don't like you because you can hardly read. I don't like you because you're only interested in your dogs and your horses and your self."

  Gilbert Catface and Jack fitz Guillaume were laughing aloud now. William felt his face reddening. Those men were nobodies, they were knights, and they were laughing at him, the son of Lord Percy Hamleigh. He stood up. "All right," he said urgently, trying to stop Aliena.

  It was no good. "I don't like you because you're selfish, dull and stupid," she yelled. All the knights were laughing now. "I dislike you, I despise you, I hate you and I loathe you. And that's why I won't marry you!"

  The knights cheered and applauded. William cringed inside. Their laughter made him feel small, weak and helpless, like a little boy, and when he was a little boy he had been frightened all the time. He turned away from Aliena, fighting to control his facial expression and hide his feelings. He crossed the room as fast as he could without running, while the laughter grew louder. At last he reached the door, flung it open, and stumbled out. He slammed it behind him and ran down the stairs, choking with shame; and the fading sound of their derisive laughter rang in his ears all the way across the muddy courtyard to the gate.

  The path from Earlscastle to Shiring crossed a main road after about a mile. At the crossroads a traveler could turn north, for Gloucester and the Welsh border, or south, for Winchester and the coast. William and Walter turned south.

  William's anguish had turned to rage. He was too furious to speak. He wanted to hurt Aliena and kill all those knights. He would have liked to thrust his sword into each laughing mouth and drive it down each throat. And he had thought of a way to avenge himself on at least one of them. If it worked, he would get the proof he needed at the same time. The prospect gave him savage consolation.

  First he had to catch one of them. As soon as the road ran into woodland, William dismounted and began to walk, leading his horse. Walter followed in silence, respecting his mood. William came to a narrower stretch of track and stopped. He turned to Walter and said: "Who's better with a knife, you or me?"

  "Fighting at close quarters, I'm better," Walter said guardedly. "But you throw more accurately, lord." They all called him lord when he was angry.

  "I suppose you can trip a bolting horse, and make him fall?" William said.

  "Yes, with a good stout pole."

  "Go and find a small tree, then, and pull it up and trim it; then you'll have a good stout pole."

  Walter went off.

  William led the two horses through the woods and tied them up in a clearing a good way from the road. He took off their saddles and removed some of the cords and straps from the tack--enough to bind a man hand and foot, with a little over. His plan was crude, but there was no time to devise something more elaborate, so he would have to hope for the best.

  On his way back to the road he found a stout piece of oak deadfall, dry and hard, to use as a club.

  Walter was waiting with his pole. William selected the place where the groom would lie in wait, behind the broad trunk of a beech tree that grew close to the path. "Don't shove the pole out too soon, or the horse will jump over it," he cautioned. "But don't leave it too late, because you can't trip him by his back legs. The ideal is to push it between his forelegs. And try to stick the end into the ground so he doesn't kick it aside."

  Walter nodded. "I've seen this done before."

  William walked about thirty yards back toward Earlscastle. His role would be to make sure the horse bolted, so that it would be going too fast to avoid Walter's pole. He hid himself as close to the road as he could. Sooner or later one of Earl Bartholomew's messengers would come along. William hoped it would be soon. H
e was anxious about whether this was going to work, and he was impatient to get it over with.

  Those knights had no idea, while they were laughing at me, that I was spying on them, he thought, and it soothed him a little. But one of them is about to find out. And then he'll be sorry he laughed. Then he'll wish he had gone down on his knees and kissed my boots, instead of laughing. He's going to weep and beg and plead with me to forgive him, and I'm just going to hurt him all the more.

  He had other consolations. If his plan worked out, it might ultimately bring about the downfall of Earl Bartholomew and the resurrection of the Hamleighs. Then all those who had snickered at the canceled wedding would tremble in fear, and some of them would suffer more than fear.

  The downfall of Bartholomew would also be the downfall of Aliena, and that was the best part. Her swollen pride and her superior manner would have to change after her father had been hanged as a traitor. If she wanted soft silk and sugar cones then, she would have to marry William to get them. He imagined her, humble and contrite, bringing him a hot pastry from the kitchen, looking up at him with those big dark eyes, eager to please him, hoping for a caress, her soft mouth slightly open, begging to be kissed.

  His fantasy was disturbed by hoofbeats on the winter-hard mud of the road. He drew his knife and hefted it, reminding himself of its weight and balance. At the point, it was sharpened on both sides, for better penetration. He stood upright, flattened his back against the tree that concealed him, held the knife by the blade, and waited, hardly breathing. He was nervous. He was afraid he might miss with the knife, or the horse might not fall, or the rider might kill Walter with a lucky stroke, so that William would have to fight him alone.... Something bothered him about the hoofbeats as they came closer. He saw Walter peering at him through the vegetation with a worried frown: he had heard it too. Then William realized what it was. There was more than one horse. He had to make a quick decision. Would they attack two people? That might be too much like a fair fight. He decided to let them go, and wait for a lone rider. It was disappointing, but this was the wisest course. He waved a hand at Walter in a wiping-out gesture. Walter nodded understanding and sank back under cover.

  A moment later two horses came into view. William saw a flash of red silk: Ralph of Lyme. Then he saw the bald head of Ralph's companion. The two men trotted past and disappeared from view.

  Despite the sense of anticlimax, William was gratified to have confirmation of his theory that the earl was sending these men out on errands. However, he wondered anxiously whether Bartholomew might have a policy of sending them in pairs. It would be a natural precaution. Everyone traveled in groups when possible, for safety. On the other hand, Bartholomew had a lot of messages and a limited number of men, and he might see it as an extravagance to use two knights to take one message. Furthermore, the knights were violent men who could be relied upon to give the average outlaw a hard fight--a fight from which the outlaw would gain little, because a knight did not have much worth stealing, other than his sword, which was hard to sell without answering awkward questions, and his horse, which was liable to be crippled in the ambush. A knight was safer than most people in the forest.

  William scratched his head with the hilt of his knife. It could go either way.

  He settled down to wait. The forest was quiet. A feeble winter sun came out, shone fitfully through the dense greenery for a while, and then disappeared. William's belly reminded him that it was past dinnertime. A deer crossed the path a few yards away, unaware that she was watched by a hungry man. William became impatient.

  If another pair of riders came along, he decided, he would have to attack. It was risky, but he had the advantage of surprise, and he had Walter, who was a formidable fighter. Besides, it might be his last chance. He knew he could get killed, and he was afraid, but that might be better than living on in constant humiliation. At least it was an honorable end to die in a fight.

  What would be best of all, he thought, would be for Aliena to appear, all alone, cantering on a white pony. She would come crashing off the horse, bruising her arms and legs, and tumble into a bramble thicket. The thorns would scratch her soft skin, drawing blood. William would jump on top of her and pin her to the ground. She would be mortified.

  He played with that idea, elaborating her injuries, relishing the way her chest heaved up and down as he sat astride her, and imagining the expression of abject terror on her face when she realized she was completely in his power; and then he heard hoofbeats again.

  This time there was only one horse.

  He straightened up, took out his knife, pressed his back against the tree, and listened again.

  It was a good, fast horse, not a war-horse but probably a solid courser. It was carrying a moderate weight, such as a man with no armor, and coming at a steady all-day trot, not even breathing hard. William caught Walter's eye and nodded: this was the one, here was the evidence. He raised his right arm, holding the knife by the tip of the blade.

  In the distance, William's own horse whinnied.

  The sound carried clearly through the still forest and was perfectly audible over the light tattoo of the approaching horse. The horse heard it, and broke its stride. Its rider said "Whoa," and slowed it to a walk. William cursed under his breath. The rider would be wary now, and that would make everything more difficult. Too late, William wished he had taken his own horse farther away.

  He could not tell how far away the approaching horse was now that it was walking. Everything was going wrong. He resisted the temptation to look out from behind his tree. He listened hard, taut with strain. Suddenly he heard the horse snort, shockingly close, and then it appeared a yard from where he stood. It saw him a moment after he saw it. It shied, and the rider let out a grunt of surprise.

  William cursed. He realized instantly that the horse might turn and bolt the wrong way. He ducked back behind the tree and came out on the other side, behind the horse, with his throwing arm raised. He caught a glimpse of the rider, bearded and frowning as he tugged at the reins: it was tough old Gilbert Catface. William threw the knife.

  It was a perfect throw. The knife struck the horse's rump pointfirst and sank an inch or more into its flesh.

  The horse seemed to start, as a man does when shocked; then, before Gilbert could react, it broke into a panic-stricken gallop and took off at top speed--heading straight for Walter's ambush.

  William ran after it. The horse covered the distance to where Walter was in a few moments. Gilbert was making no effort to control his mount--he was too busy trying to stay in the saddle. They drew level with Walter's position, and William thought: Now, Walter, now!

  Walter timed his move so finely that William never actually saw the pole shoot out from behind the tree. He just saw the horse's forelegs crumple, as if all the strength had left them suddenly. Then its hind legs seemed to catch up with its forelegs, so that they all became entangled. Finally its head went down, its hindquarters went up, and it fell heavily.

  Gilbert flew through the air. Going after him, William was brought up short by the fallen horse.

  Gilbert landed well, rolled over and got to his knees. For a moment William was afraid he might run off and escape. Then Walter came out of the undergrowth, launched himself through the air, and cannoned into Gilbert's back, knocking him flat.

  Both men hit the ground hard. They recovered their balance at the same time, and William saw to his horror that the wily Gilbert had come up with a knife in his hand. William leaped over the fallen horse and swung the oak club at Gilbert just as Gilbert raised his knife. The club hit the side of Gilbert's head.

  Gilbert staggered but got to his feet. William damned him for being so tough. William drew back the club for another swing but Gilbert was faster, and lunged at William with the knife. William was dressed for courting, not fighting, and the sharp blade sliced through his fine wool cloak; but he jumped back quickly enough to save his skin. Gilbert continued coming at him, keeping him off balance so that he c
ould not wield the club. Each time Gilbert lunged, William jumped back; but William never had quite enough time to recover, and Gilbert rapidly closed on him. Suddenly William was afraid for his life. Then Walter came up behind Gilbert and kicked his legs from under him.

  William sagged with relief. For a moment there he had thought he was going to die. He thanked God for Walter.

  Gilbert tried to get up but Walter kicked him in the face. William hit him with the club twice for good measure, and after that Gilbert lay still.

  They rolled him onto his front, and Walter sat on his head while William tied his hands behind his back. Then William took off Gilbert's long black boots and bound his bare ankles together with a strong piece of leather harness.

  He stood up. He grinned at Walter, and Walter smiled. It was a relief to have this slippery old fighter securely tied up.

  The next step was to make Gilbert confess.

  He was coming round. Walter turned him over. When Gilbert saw William he registered recognition, then surprise, then fear. William was gratified. Gilbert was already regretting his laughter, William thought. In a while he was going to regret it even more.

  Gilbert's horse was on its feet, remarkably. It had run a few yards off, but had stopped and was now looking back, breathing hard and starting every time the wind rustled in the trees. William's knife had fallen out of its rump. William picked up his knife and Walter went to catch the horse.

  William was listening for the sound of riders. Another messenger might come along at any moment. If that happened Gilbert would have to be dragged out of sight and kept quiet. But no riders came, and Walter was able to catch Gilbert's horse without too much difficulty.

  They slung Gilbert across the back of his horse, then led it through the forest to where William had left their own mounts. The other horses became agitated when they smelled the blood seeping from the wound in Gilbert's horse's rump, so William tethered it a little way off.

  He looked around for a tree suitable to his purpose. He located an elm with a stout branch protruding at a height of eight or nine feet off the ground. He pointed it out to Walter. "I want to suspend Gilbert from this bough," he said.