World Without End

Edmund rapped on the table. "I've called this emergency meeting of the parish guild to discuss the outlaw problem," he said. "But, as I'm getting old and lazy, I've asked my daughter to summarize the situation."

  Caris was a member of the parish guild now, by virtue of her success as a manufacturer of scarlet cloth. The new business had rescued her father's fortunes. Numerous other Kingsbridge people were prospering because of it, notably the Webber family. Her father had been able to fulfill his pledge to lend money for the building of the bridge, and in the general upturn several other merchants had done the same. Bridge building continued apace--supervised now by Elfric, not Merthin, unfortunately.

  Her father took little initiative these days. The moments when he was his sharp-witted former self were becoming rarer. She was worried about him, but there was nothing she could do. She felt the rage that had possessed her during her mother's illness. Why was there no help for him? Nobody understood what was wrong; no one could even put a name to his malady. They said it was old age, but he was not yet fifty!

  She prayed he would live to see her wedding. She was going to marry Merthin in Kingsbridge Cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair, now just a month away. The wedding of the daughter of the town's alderman would be a big event. There would be a banquet in the guildhall for the leading citizens, and a picnic in Lovers' Field for several hundred more guests. Some days her father would spend hours planning the menus and the entertainment, only to forget everything he had said and start again from scratch the next day.

  She put that out of her mind, and turned her attention to a problem she hoped would be more tractable. "In the last month there has been a big increase in attacks by outlaws," she said. "They take place mainly on Sundays, and the victims are invariably people bringing produce to Kingsbridge."

  She was interrupted by Elfric. "It's your fiance's brother that's doing it!" he said. "Talk to Merthin, not us."

  Caris suppressed a flash of exasperation. Her sister's husband never missed a chance to snipe at her. She was painfully aware of Ralph's likely involvement. It was a cause of agony to Merthin. Elfric relished that.

  Dick Brewer said: "I think it's Tam Hiding."

  "Perhaps it's both," Caris said. "I believe that Ralph Fitzgerald, who has some military training, may have joined forces with an existing band of outlaws and simply made them more organized and effective."

  Fat Betty Baxter, the town's most successful baker, said: "Whoever it is, they'll be the ruination of this town. No one comes to market anymore!"

  That was an exaggeration, but attendance at the weekly market was down drastically, and the effects were felt by just about every enterprise in town, from bakeries to brothels. "That's not the worst of it, though," Caris said. "In four weeks' time we've got the Fleece Fair. Several people here have invested enormous sums of money in the new bridge, which should be ready for use, with a temporary timber roadbed, in time for the opening. Most of us depend on the annual fair for our prosperity. I personally have a warehouse full of costly scarlet cloth to sell. If it gets around that people coming to Kingsbridge are likely to be robbed by outlaws, we may have no customers."

  She was even more worried than she let herself appear. Neither she nor her father had any cash left. Everything they had was either invested in the bridge or tied up in raw wool and scarlet cloth. The Fleece Fair was their chance to get their money back. If attendance was poor, they would be in deep trouble. Among other things, who would pay for the wedding?

  She was not the only worried citizen. Rick Silvers, the head of the jewelers' guild, said: "That would be the third bad year in succession." He was a prim, fussy man, always immaculately dressed. "It would finish some of my people," he went on. "We do half our year's business at the Fleece Fair."

  Edmund said: "It would finish this town. We can't let it happen."

  Several others joined in. Caris, who was unofficially presiding, let them grumble. A heightened sense of urgency would predispose them to accept the radical solution she was going to propose.

  Elfric said: "The sheriff of Shiring ought to do something about it. What's he paid for, if not to keep the peace?"

  Caris said: "He can't search the entire forest. He doesn't have enough men."

  "Earl Roland has."

  This was wishful thinking, but again Caris let the discussion run, so that when she proposed her solution they would be aware that there were no real alternatives.

  Edmund said to Elfric: "The earl won't help us--I've already asked him."

  Caris, who had in fact written Edmund's letter to Roland, said: "Ralph was the earl's man, and still is. You notice the outlaws don't attack people going to Shiring market."

  Elfric said indignantly: "Those Wigleigh peasants should never have made a complaint against a squire of the earl's--who do they think they are?"

  Caris was about to respond indignantly, but Betty Baxter beat her to it. "Oh, so you think lords should be allowed to rape anyone they like?"

  Edmund intervened. "That's a different question," he said briskly, showing some of his old authority. "It's happened, and Ralph is preying on us, so what are we going to do? The sheriff can't help us and the earl won't."

  Rick Silvers said: "What about Lord William? He took the side of the Wigleigh people--it's his fault that Ralph's an outlaw."

  "I asked him, too," Edmund said. "He said we're not in his territory."

  Rick said: "That's the trouble with having the priory as your landlord--what use is a prior when you need protection?"

  Caris said: "Another reason why we are applying to the king for a borough charter. We'd be under royal protection then."

  Elfric said: "We've got our own constable, what's he doing?"

  Mark Webber spoke. He was one of the constable's deputies. "We're ready to do whatever's necessary," he said. "Just give us the word."

  Caris said: "No one doubts your bravery. But your role is to deal with troublemakers within the town. John Constable doesn't have the expertise to hunt down outlaws."

  Mark, who was close to Caris because he ran her fulling mill at Wigleigh, was mildly indignant. "Well, who does, then?"

  Caris had been leading the discussion toward this question. "As a matter of fact, there is an experienced soldier who is willing to help us," she said. "I took the liberty of asking him to come here tonight, and he's waiting in the chapel." She raised her voice. "Thomas, will you join us?"

  Thomas Langley came out of the little chapel at the end of the hall.

  Rick Silvers said skeptically: "A monk?"

  "Before he was a monk, he was a soldier," Caris explained. "That's how he lost his arm."

  Elfric said grumpily: "Guild members' permission should have been sought before he was invited." No one took any notice, Caris was pleased to see: they were too interested to hear what Thomas would have to say.

  "You need to form a militia," Thomas began. "By all accounts there are twenty or thirty outlaws in the troop. That's not many. Most townsmen can use a longbow effectively, thanks to the Sunday morning practice sessions. A hundred of you, well prepared and intelligently led, could overcome the outlaws easily."

  "That's all very well," said Rick Silvers. "But we have to find them."

  "Of course," said Thomas. "But I feel sure there is someone in Kingsbridge who knows where they are."

  Merthin had asked the timber merchant, Jake Chepstow, to bring him a piece of slate from Wales--the largest piece he could find. Jake had come back from his next logging expedition with a thin sheet of gray Welsh slate about four feet square. Merthin had encased it in a wooden frame, and he used it for sketching plans.

  This evening, while Caris was at the parish guild, Merthin was at his own house on Leper Island, working on a map of the island. Renting parts of it for wharves and warehouses was the least of his ambitions. He foresaw an entire street of inns and shops crossing the island from one bridge to the other. He would construct the buildings himself and rent them to enterprising Kingsbridge traders.
It excited him to look into the future of the town and imagine the buildings and streets it was going to need. This was the kind of thing the priory would have done, if it had had better leadership.

  Included in the plan was a new house for him and Caris. This little place would be cozy when they were first married, but they would need more room eventually, especially if they had children. He had marked out a site on the southern shore, where they would get fresh air off the river. Most of the island was rocky, but the patch he had in mind featured a small area of cultivable soil where he might be able to grow some fruit trees. As he planned the house, he relished the vision of the two of them living side by side, day by day, always.

  His dream was interrupted by a knock at the door. He was startled. Normally no one came to the island at night--except Caris, and she would not knock. "Who is it?" he called nervously.

  Thomas Langley came in.

  "Monks are supposed to be asleep at this time," Merthin said.

  "Godwyn doesn't know I'm here." Thomas looked at the slate. "You draw left-handed?"

  "Left or right, it makes no difference. Would you like a cup of wine?"

  "No, thanks. I'll have to be up for Matins in a few hours, so I don't want to get sleepy."

  Merthin liked Thomas. There had been a bond between them ever since that day, twelve years ago, when he had promised that if Thomas should die he would take a priest to the place where the letter was buried. Later, when they had worked together on cathedral repairs, Thomas had always been clear in his instructions and gracious to apprentices. He managed to be sincere about his religious calling without becoming prideful: all men of God should be like that, Merthin thought.

  He waved Thomas to a chair by the fire. "What can I do for you?"

  "It's about your brother. He has to be stopped."

  Merthin winced, as if at a sudden stab of pain. "If I could do anything, I would. But I haven't seen him, and when I do, I'm not sure he will listen to me. There was a time when he looked to me for guidance, but I think those days are over."

  "I've just come from a meeting of the parish guild. They asked me to organize a militia."

  "Don't expect me to be part of it."

  "No, I didn't come for that purpose." Thomas gave a wry smile. "Your many amazing talents don't actually include military skills."

  Merthin nodded ruefully. "Thanks."

  "But there is something you could do to help me, if you would."

  Merthin felt uneasy. "Well, ask me."

  "The outlaws must have a hideout somewhere not far from Kingsbridge. I want you to think about where your brother might be. It's probably a place you both know--a cave, perhaps, or an abandoned verderer's hut in the forest."

  Merthin hesitated.

  Thomas said: "I know you'd hate to betray him. But think of that first family he attacked: a decent, hardworking peasant, his pretty wife, a lad of fourteen, and a little girl. Now three of them are dead and the little girl has no parents. Even though you love your brother, you have to help us catch him."

  "I know."

  "Can you think where he might be?"

  Merthin was not yet ready to answer the question. "Will you take him alive?"

  "If I can."

  Merthin shook his head. "Not good enough. I need a guarantee."

  Thomas was silent for a few moments. At last he said: "All right. I'll take him alive. I don't know how, but I'll find a way. I promise."

  "Thank you." Merthin paused. He knew he had to do this, but his heart rebelled. After a moment, he forced himself to speak. "When I was about thirteen we used to go hunting, often with older boys. We would stay out all day and cook whatever we shot. Sometimes we used to go as far as the Chalk Hills and meet the families who spend the summer up there grazing sheep. Shepherdesses tend to be quite free and easy--some would let you kiss them." He smiled briefly. "In winter, when they weren't there, we used their huts for shelter. That might be where Ralph is hiding out."

  "Thank you," said Thomas. He stood up.

  "Remember your promise."

  "I will."

  "You trusted me with a secret twelve years ago."

  "I know."

  "I never betrayed you."

  "I realize that."

  "Now I'm trusting you." Merthin knew that his words could be interpreted two ways: either as a plea for reciprocity, or as a veiled threat. That was all right. Let Thomas take it how he wished.

  Thomas put out his one hand, and Merthin clasped it. "I'll keep my word," Thomas said. Then he went out.

  Ralph and Tam rode side by side up the hill, followed by Alan Fernhill on his horse and the rest of the outlaws on foot. Ralph was feeling good: it had been another successful Sunday morning's work. Spring had arrived, and the peasants were beginning to bring the new season's produce to market. The members of the gang were carrying half a dozen lambs, a jar of honey, a stoppered jug of cream, and several leather bottles of wine. As usual, the outlaws had suffered only minor injuries, a few cuts and bruises inflicted by the more foolhardy of their victims.

  Ralph's partnership with Tam had been extraordinarily successful. A couple of hours' easy fighting brought them all they needed for a week of living in luxury. They spent the rest of their time hunting in the day and drinking in the evenings. There were no clodhopping serfs to badger them about boundary disputes or cheat them of rent. All they lacked were women, and today they had remedied that, by kidnapping two plump girls, sisters of about thirteen and fourteen years.

  His only regret was that he had never fought for the king. It had been his ambition since boyhood, and he still felt the tug. Being an outlaw was too easy. He could not feel very proud of killing unarmed serfs. The boy in him longed yet for glory. He had never proved, to himself and others, that he had in him the soul of a true knight.

  However, he would not allow that thought to lower his spirits. As he breasted the rise that hid the upland pasture where their hideout was, he looked forward to a feast tonight. They would roast a lamb on a spit and drink cream with honey. And the girls...Ralph decided he would make them lie side by side, so that each would see her sister being violated by one man after another. The thought made his heart beat faster.

  They came within sight of the stone shelters. They would not be able to use these much longer, Ralph reflected. The grass was growing and the shepherds would be here soon. Easter had been early this year, so Whitsun would come soon after May Day. The outlaws would have to find another base.

  When he was fifty yards from the nearest hut, he was shocked to see someone walk out of it.

  He and Tam both reined in, and the outlaws gathered around them, hands on their weapons.

  The man approached them, and Ralph saw that it was a monk. Tam, beside Ralph, said: "What in the name of heaven...?"

  One sleeve of the monk's robe flapped empty, and Ralph recognized him as Brother Thomas from Kingsbridge. Thomas walked up to them as if meeting them by chance on the main street. "Hello, Ralph," he said. "Remember me?"

  Tam said to Ralph: "Do you know this man?"

  Thomas came up on the right side of Ralph's horse and extended his good right arm to shake hands. What the hell was he doing here? On the other hand, what harm could there be in a one-armed monk? Baffled, Ralph reached down and took the proffered hand. Thomas slipped his hand up Ralph's arm and grasped his elbow.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ralph saw movement near the stone huts. Glancing up, he saw a man step out through the doorway of the nearest building, closely followed by a second man, then three more; then he saw that they were pouring out of all the huts--and fitting arrows to the tall longbows they carried. He realized that he and his band had been ambushed--but, in that moment, the grip on his elbow tightened and, with a sudden strong heave, he was pulled off his horse.

  A shout went up from the outlaws. Ralph crashed to the ground, landing on his back. His horse, Griff, skittered sideways, frightened. As Ralph tried to get up, Thomas fell on him like a tree, flattening
him to the ground, and lay on top of him like a lover. "Lie still and you won't get killed," he said in Ralph's ear.

  Then Ralph heard the sound of dozens of arrows being shot simultaneously from longbows, a deadly swish that was unmistakable, like the sudden wind of a flash thunderstorm. The noise was tremendous--there must have been a hundred archers, he thought. They had obviously crammed themselves into the shelters. Thomas's grasping Ralph's arm must have been the signal for them to come out and shoot.

  He considered fighting Thomas off, and thought better of it. He could hear the cries of the outlaws as the arrows struck home. From ground level he could not see much, but some of his men were drawing their swords. However, they were too far from the archers: if they ran at their enemy, they would be shot down before they could engage. It was a massacre, not a battle. Hooves drummed the earth, and Ralph wondered whether Tam was charging the archers or riding away.

  Confusion reigned, but not for long. Within moments he could tell that the outlaws were in full retreat.

  Thomas got off him, pulled a long dagger from under his Benedictine robe, and said: "Don't even think about drawing your sword."

  Ralph stood up. He looked at the archers, and recognized many of them: fat Dick Brewer, randy Edward Butcher, convivial Paul Bell, grumpy Bill Watkin--timid, law-abiding citizens of Kingsbridge, every one. He had been captured by tradesmen. But that was not the most surprising thing.

  He looked curiously at Thomas. "You saved my life, monk," he said.

  "Only because your brother asked me to," Thomas replied crisply. "If it had been up to me, you would have been dead before you hit the ground."

  The Kingsbridge jail was in the basement of the guildhall. The pen had stone walls, a dirt floor, and no windows. There was no fire either, and prisoners occasionally died of cold in the winter; but this was May, and Ralph had a wool cloak to keep him warm at night. He also had a few items of furniture--a chair, a bench, and a small table--rented from John Constable and paid for by Merthin. On the other side of the barred oak door was John Constable's office. On market days and during the fair he and his deputies sat there waiting to be summoned to deal with trouble.

  Alan Fernhill was in the cell with Ralph. A Kingsbridge archer had brought him down with an arrow in the thigh, and although the wound was not serious he had been unable to run. However, Tam Hiding had got away.