"Yes, lord." Walter took from his saddlebag a pair of leather gauntlets with fine chain mail sewn to the knuckles and the backs of the fingers. He pulled them on slowly. All the villagers watched in dread, and Athelstan began to moan with terror.
Walter got off his horse, walked over to Athelstan and punched him in the stomach with one mailed fist. The thud as the blow landed was sickeningly loud. Athelstan doubled over, too winded to cry out. Gilbert and Hugh pulled him upright, and Walter punched his face. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose. One of the onlookers, a woman who was presumably his wife, screamed out and jumped on Walter, yelling: "Stop! Leave him! Don't kill him!"
Walter brushed her off, and two other women grabbed her and pulled her back. She continued to scream and struggle. The other peasants watched in mutinous silence as Walter beat Athelstan systematically until his body was limp, his face covered with blood and his eyes closed in unconsciousness.
"Let him go," William said at last.
Gilbert and Hugh released Athelstan. He slumped to the ground and lay still. The women released the wife and she ran to him, sobbing, and knelt beside him. Walter took off the gauntlets and wiped the blood and pieces of flesh off the chain mail.
William had already lost interest in Athelstan. Looking around the village, he saw a new-looking two-story wooden structure built on the edge of the brook. He pointed to it and said to Arthur: "What's that?"
"I haven't seen it before, lord," Arthur said nervously.
William thought he was lying. "It's a water mill, isn't it?"
Arthur shrugged, but his indifference was unconvincing. "I can't imagine what else it would be, right there by the stream."
How could he be so insolent, when he had just seen a peasant beaten half to death on William's orders? Almost desperately, William said: "Are my serfs allowed to build mills without my permission?"
"No, lord."
"Do you know why this is prohibited?"
"So that they will bring their grain to the lord's mills and pay him to grind it for them."
"And the lord will profit."
"Yes, lord." Arthur spoke in the condescending tone of one who explains something elementary to a child. "But if they pay a fine for building a mill, the lord will profit just the same."
William found his tone maddening. "No, he won't profit just the same. The fine is never as much as the peasants would otherwise have to pay. That's why they love to build mills. And that's why my father would never let them." Without giving Arthur the chance to reply, he kicked his horse and rode over to the mill. His knights followed, and the villagers tailed along behind them in a ragged crowd.
William dismounted. There was no doubt about what the building was. A large waterwheel was turning under the pressure of the fast-flowing stream. The wheel turned a shaft which went through the side wall of the mill. It was a solid wooden construction, made to last. Whoever built it had clearly expected to be free to use it for years.
The miller stood outside the open door, wearing a prepared expression of injured innocence. In the room behind him were sacks of grain in neat stacks. William dismounted. The miller bowed to him politely, but was there not a hint of scorn in his look? Once again William had the painful sense that these people thought he was a nobody, and his inability to impose his will on them made him feel impotent. Indignation and frustration welled up in him, and he yelled at the miller furiously. "Whatever made you think you could get away with this? Do you imagine that I'm stupid? Is that it? Is that what you think?" Then he punched the man in the face.
The miller gave an exaggerated cry of pain and fell to the ground quite unnecessarily.
William stepped over him and went inside. The shaft of the waterwheel was conected, by a set of wooden gears, to the shaft of the grindstone on the upper floor. The milled grain fell through a chute to the threshing floor at ground level. The second floor, which had to bear the weight of the grindstone, was supported by four stout timbers (taken from William's forest without permission, undoubtedly). If the timbers were cut the whole building would fall.
William went outside. Hugh Axe carried the weapon from which he got his name strapped to his saddle. William said: "Give me your battle-ax." Hugh obliged. William went back inside and began to attack the timber supports of the upper floor.
It gave him great satisfaction to feel the blade of the ax thud into the building that the peasants had so carefully constructed in their attempt to cheat him of his milling fees. They aren't laughing at me now, he thought savagely.
Walter came in and stood watching. William hacked a deep notch in one of the supports and then cut halfway through a second. The platform above, which carried the enormous weight of the millstone, began to tremble. William said: "Get a rope." Walter went out.
William cut int the other two timbers as deeply as he dared. The building was ready to collapse. Walter came back with some rope. William tied the rope to one of the timbers, then carried the other end outside and tied it around the neck of his war-horse.
The peasants watched in sullen silence.
When the rope was fixed, William said: "Where's the miller?"
The miller approached, still trying to look like one who is being unjustly dealt with.
William said: "Gervase, tie him up and put him inside."
The miller made a break for it, but Gilbert tripped him and sat on him, and Gervase tied his hands and feet with leather thongs. The two knights picked him up. He began to struggle and plead for mercy.
One of the villagers stepped out of the crowd and said: "You can't do this. It's murder. Even a lord can't murder people."
William pointed a trembling finger at him. "If you open your mouth again I'll put you inside with him."
For a moment the man looked defiant; then he thought better of it and turned away.
The knights came out of the mill. William walked his horse forward until it had taken up the slack in the rope. He slapped its rump, and it took the strain.
Inside the building, the miller began to scream. The noise was bloodcurdling. It was the sound of a man in mortal terror, a man who knew that within the next few moments he was going to be crushed to death.
The horse tossed its head, trying to slacken the rope around its neck. William yelled at it and kicked its rump to make it pull, then shouted at his knights: "Heave on the rope, you men!" The four knights grabbed the taut rope and pulled with the horse. The villagers' voices were raised in protest, but they were all too frightened to interfere. Arthur was standing to one side, looking sick.
The miller's screams became more shrill. William imagined the blind terror that must be possessing the man as he waited for his dreadful death. None of these peasants will ever forget the revenge of the Hamleighs, he thought.
The timber creaked loudly; then there was a loud crack as it broke. The horse bounded forward and the knights let go of the rope. A corner of the roof sagged. The women began to wail. The wooden walls of the mill seemed to shudder; the miller's screams rose higher; there was a mighty crash as the upper floor gave way; the screaming was cut off abruptly; and the ground shook as the grindstone landed on the threshing floor. The walls splintered, the roof caved in, and in a moment the mill was nothing but a pile of firewood with a dead man inside it.
William began to feel better.
Some of the villagers ran forward and began to dig into the debris frantically. If they were hoping to find the miller alive they would be disappointed. His body would be a grisly sight. That was all to the good.
Looking around, William spotted the red-cheeked girl with the red-cheeked baby, standing at the back of the crowd, as if she were trying to be inconspicuous. He remembered how the man with the black beard--presumably her father--had been keen to keep her out of sight. He decided to solve that mystery before leaving the village. He caught her eye and beckoned her. She looked behind her, hoping he was pointing at someone else. "You," William said. "Come here."
The man with the black b
eard saw her and gave a grunt of exasperation.
William said: "Who's your husband, wench?"
The father said: "She has no--"
He was too late, however, for the girl said: "Edmund."
"So you are married. But who's your father?"
"I am," said the man with the black beard. "Theobald."
William turned to Arthur. "Is Theobald a freeman?"
"He's a serf, lord."
"And when a serf's daughter marries, is it not the lord's right, as her owner, to enjoy her on the wedding night?"
Arthur was shocked. "Lord! That primitive custom has not been enforced in this part of the world in living memory!"
"True," said William. "The father pays a fine, instead. How much did Theobald pay?"
"He hasn't paid yet, lord, but--"
"Not paid! And she with a fat red-cheeked child!" Theobald said: "We never had the money, lord, and she was with child by Edmund, and wanted to be wed, but we can pay now, for we've got the crop in."
William smiled at the girl. "Let me see the baby."
She stared at him fearfully.
"Come. Give it to me.
She was afraid but she could not bring herself to hand over her baby. William stepped closer and gently took the child from her. Her eyes filled with terror but she did not resist him.
The baby began to squall. William held it for a moment, then grasped both its ankles in one hand and with a swift motion threw it into the air as high as he could.
The girl screamed like a banshee and gazed into the air as the baby flew upward.
The father ran forward with his arms outstretched to catch it as it fell.
While the girl was looking up and screaming, William took a handful of her dress and ripped it. She had a pink, rounded young body.
The father caught the baby safely.
The girl turned to run, but William caught her and threw her to the ground.
The father handed the baby to a woman and turned to look at William.
William said: "As I wasn't given my due on the wedding night, and the fine hasn't been paid, I'll take what's owed me now."
The father rushed at him.
William drew his sword.
The father stopped.
William looked at the girl, lying on the ground, trying to cover her nakedness with her hands. Her fear aroused him. "And when I've done, my knights will have her too," he said with a contented smile.
II
In three years Kingsbridge had changed beyond recognition.
William had not been here since the Whitsunday when Philip and his army of volunteers had frustrated Waleran Bigod's scheme. Then it had been forty or fifty wooden houses clustered around the priory gate and scattered along the muddy footpath that led to the bridge. Now, he saw as he approached the village across the undulating fields, there were three times as many houses, at least. They formed a brown fringe all around the gray stone wall of the priory and completely filled the space between the priory and the river. Several of the houses looked large. Within the priory close there were new stone buildings, and the walls of the church seemed to be going up fast. There were two new quays beside the river. Kingsbridge had become a town.
The appearance of the place confirmed a suspicion that had been growing in his mind since he had come home from the war. As he had toured around, collecting arrears of rent and terrorizing disobedient serfs, he had continually heard talk of Kingsbridge. Landless young men were going there to work; prosperous families were sending their sons to school at the priory; smallholders would sell their eggs and cheese to the men working on the building site; and everyone who could went there on holy days, even though there was no cathedral. Today was a holy day--Michaelmas Day, which fell on a Sunday this year. It was a mild early-autumn morning, nice weather for traveling, so there should be a good crowd. William expected to find out what drew them to Kingsbridge.
His five henchmen rode with him. They had done sterling work in the villages. The news of William's tour had spread with uncanny speed, and after the first few days people knew what to expect. At William's approach they would send the children and young women to hide in the woods. It pleased William to strike fear into people's hearts: it kept them in their place. They certainly knew he was in command now!
As his group came closer to Kingsbridge, he kicked his horse into a trot, and the others followed suit. Arriving at speed was always more impressive. Other people shrank back to the sides of the road, or jumped into the fields, to get out of the way of the big horses.
They clattered over the wooden bridge, making a loud noise and ignoring the tollhouse keeper, but the narrow street ahead of them was blocked by a cart loaded with barrels of lime and pulled by two huge, slow-moving oxen; and the knights' horses were forced to slow abruptly.
William looked around as they followed the cart up the hill. New houses, hastily built, filled the spaces between the old ones. He noticed a cookshop, an alehouse, a smithy and a shoemaker's. The air of prosperity was unmistakable. William was envious.
There were not many people in the streets, however. Perhaps they were all up at the priory.
With his knights behind him he followed the ox cart through the priory gates. It was not the kind of entrance he liked to make, and he had a pang of anxiety that people would notice and laugh at him, but happily nobody even looked.
By contrast with the deserted town outside the walls, the priory close was humming with activity.
William reined in and looked around, trying to take it all in. There were so many people, and there was so much going on, that at first he found it somewhat bewildering. Then the scene resolved into three sections.
Nearest him, at the western end of the priory close, there was a market. The stalls were set up in neat north-south rows, and several hundred people were milling about in the aisles, buying food and drink, hats and shoes, knives, belts, ducklings, puppies, pots, earrings, wool, thread, rope, and dozens of other necessities and luxuries. The market was clearly thriving, and all the pennies, half-pennies and farthings that were changing hands must add up to a great deal of money.
It was no wonder, William thought bitterly, that the market at Shiring was in decline, when there was a flourishing alternative here at Kingsbridge. The rents from stall holders, tolls on suppliers, and taxes on sales that should have been going into the earl of Shiring's treasury were instead filling the coffers of Kingsbridge Priory.
But a market needed a license from the king, and William was sure Prior Philip did not have one. He was probably planning to apply as soon as he was caught, like the Northbrook miller. Unfortunately it would not be so easy for William to teach Philip a lesson.
Beyond the market was a zone of tranquility. Adjacent to the cloisters, where the crossing of the old church used to be, there was an altar under a canopy, with a white-haired monk standing in front of it reading from a book. On the far side of the altar, monks in neat rows were singing hymns, although at this distance their music was drowned by the noise of the marketplace. There was a small congregation. This was probably nones, a service conducted for the benefit of the monks, William thought: all work and marketing would stop for the main Michaelmas service, of course.
At the far side of the priory close, the east end of the cathedral was being built. This was where Prior Philip was spending his rake-off from the market, William thought sourly. The walls were thirty or forty feet high, and it was already possible to see the outlines of the windows and the arches of the arcade. Workers swarmed all over the site. William thought there was something odd about the way they looked, and realized after a moment that it was their colorful dress. They were not regular laborers, of course--the paid work force would be on holiday today. These people were volunteers.
He had not expected that there would be so many of them. Hundreds of men and women were carrying stones and splitting timber and rolling barrels and heaving cartloads of sand up from the river, all working for nothing but forgiveness
of their sins.
The sly prior had a crafty setup, William observed enviously. The people who came to work on the cathedral would spend money at the market. People who came to the market would give a few hours to the cathedral, for their sins. Each hand washed the other.
He kicked his horse forward and rode across the graveyard to the building site, curious to see it more closely.
The eight massive piers of the arcade marched down either side of the site in four opposed pairs. From a distance, William had thought he could see the round arches joining one pier with the next, but now he realized the arches were not built yet--what he had seen was the wooden falsework, made in the same shape, upon which the stones would rest while the arches were being constructed and the mortar was drying. The falsework did not rest on the ground, but was supported on the out-jutting moldings of the capitals on top of the piers.
Parallel with the arcade, the outer walls of the aisles were going up, with regular spaces for the windows. Midway between each window opening, a buttress jutted out from the line of the wall. Looking at the open ends of the unfinished walls, William could see that they were not solid stone: they were in fact double walls with a space in between. The cavity appeared to be filled with rubble and mortar.
The scaffolding was made of stout poles roped together, with trestles of flexible saplings and woven reeds laid across the poles.
A lot of money had been spent here, William noted.
He rode on around the outside of the chancel, followed by his knights. Against the walls were wooden lean-to huts, workshops and lodges for the craftsmen. Most of them were locked shut now, for there were no masons laying stones or carpenters making falsework today. However, the supervising craftsmen--the master masons and the master carpenter--were directing the volunteer laborers, telling them where to stack the stones, timber, sand and lime they were carrying up from the riverside.
William rode around the east end of the church to the south side, where his way was blocked by the monastic buildings. Then he turned back, marveling at the cunning of Prior Philip, who had his master craftsmen busy on a Sunday and his laborers working for no pay.
As he reflected on what he was seeing, it seemed devastatingly clear that Prior Philip was largely responsible for the decline in the fortunes of the Shiring earldom. The farms were losing their young men to the building site, and Shiring--jewel of the earldom--was being eclipsed by the growing new town of Kingsbridge. Residents here paid rent to Philip, not William, and people who bought and sold goods at this market generated income for the priory, not the earldom. And Philip had the timber, the sheep farms and the quarry that had once enriched the earl.