World Without End

  "Did you say Kingsbridge?" said one of them in surprise. "I know you," he said, standing up. "I've seen you before."

  Caris recognized him. "Lord William of Caster," she said.

  "I am the earl of Shiring, now," he said. "My father died of his wounds an hour ago."

  "May his soul rest in peace. We have come here to see your brother, Bishop Richard, who is our abbot."

  "You're too late," William said. "My brother, too, is dead."

  Later in the morning, when the fog had lifted and the battlefield looked like a sunlit slaughterhouse, Earl William took Caris and Mair to see King Edward.

  Everyone was astonished at the tale of the two nuns who had followed the English army all through Normandy, and soldiers who had faced death only yesterday were fascinated by their adventures. William told Caris that the king would want to hear the story from her own lips.

  Edward III had been king for nineteen years, but he was still only thirty-three years old. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was imposing rather than handsome, with a face that might have been molded for power: a big nose, high cheekbones, and luxuriant long hair just beginning to recede from his high forehead. Caris saw why people called him a lion.

  He sat on a stool in front of his tent, fashionably dressed in two-colored hose and a cape with a scalloped border. He wore no armor or weapons: the French had vanished, and in fact a force of vengeful troops had been sent out to hunt down and kill any stragglers. A handful of barons stood around.

  As Caris told how she and Mair had sought food and shelter in the devastated landscape of Normandy, she wondered if the king felt criticized by her tale of hardship. However, he seemed not to think the sufferings of the people reflected on him. He was as delighted with her exploits as if he were hearing of someone who had been brave during a shipwreck.

  She ended by telling him of her disappointment on finding, after all her travails, that Bishop Richard, from whom she had hoped for justice, was dead. "I beg Your Majesty to order the prior of Kingsbridge to restore to the nuns the money he stole."

  Edward smiled ruefully. "You're a brave woman, but you know nothing of politics," he said with condescension. "The king can't get involved in an ecclesiastical quarrel such as this. We would have all our bishops banging on our door in protest."

  That might be so, Caris reflected, but it did not prevent the king interfering with the church when it suited his own purposes. However, she said nothing.

  Edward went on: "And it would do your cause harm. The church would be so outraged that every cleric in the land would oppose our ruling, regardless of its merits."

  There might be something in that, she judged. But he was not as powerless as he pretended. "I know you will remember the wronged nuns of Kingsbridge," she said. "When you appoint the new bishop of Kingsbridge, please tell him our story."

  "Of course," said the king, but Caris had the feeling he would forget.

  The interview seemed to be over, but then William said: "Your Majesty, now that you have graciously confirmed my elevation to my father's earldom, there is the question of who is to be lord of Caster."

  "Ah, yes. Our son the prince of Wales suggests Sir Ralph Fitzgerald, who was knighted yesterday for saving his life."

  Caris murmured: "Oh, no!"

  The king did not hear her, but William did, and he obviously felt the same way. He was not quite able to hide his indignation as he said: "Ralph was an outlaw, guilty of numerous thefts, murders, and rapes, until he obtained a royal pardon by joining your majesty's army."

  The king was not as moved by this as Caris expected. He said: "All the same, Ralph has fought with us for seven years now. He has earned a second chance."

  "Indeed he has," William said diplomatically. "But, given the trouble we've had with him in the past, I'd like to see him settle down peacefully for a year of two before he's ennobled."

  "Well, you will be his overlord, so you'll have to deal with him," Edward granted. "We won't impose him on you against your will. However, the prince is keen that he should have some further reward." The king thought for a few moments, then said: "Don't you have a cousin who is eligible for marriage?"

  "Yes, Matilda," said William. "We call her Tilly."

  Caris knew Tilly. She was at the nunnery school.

  "That's right," said Edward. "She was your father Roland's ward. Her father had three villages near Shiring."

  "Your Majesty has a good memory for detail."

  "Marry Lady Matilda to Ralph and give him her father's villages," said the king.

  Caris was appalled. "But she's only twelve!" she burst out.

  William said to her: "Hush!"

  King Edward turned a cold gaze on her. "The children of the nobility must grow up fast, Sister. Queen Philippa was fourteen when I married her."

  Caris knew she should shut up, but she could not. Tilly was only four years older than the daughter she might have had, if she had given birth to Merthin's baby. "There's a big difference between twelve and fourteen," she said desperately.

  The young king became even more frosty. "In the royal presence, people give their opinions only when asked. And the king almost never asks for the opinions of women."

  Caris realized she had taken the wrong tack. Her objection to the marriage was not based on Tilly's age so much as Ralph's character. "I know Tilly," she said. "You can't marry her to that brute Ralph."

  Mair said in a scared whisper: "Caris! Remember who you're speaking to!"

  Edward looked at William. "Take her away, Shiring, before she says something that cannot be overlooked."

  William took Caris's arm and firmly marched her out of the royal presence. Mair followed. Behind them, Caris heard the king say: "I can see how she survived in Normandy--the locals must have been terrified of her." The noblemen around him laughed.

  "You must be mad!" William hissed.

  "Must I?" Caris said. They were out of earshot of the king now, and she raised her voice. "In the last six weeks the king has caused the deaths of thousands of men, women, and children, and burned their crops and their homes. And I have tried to save a twelve-year-old girl from being married to a murderer. Tell me again, Lord William, which of us is mad?"

  51

  In the year 1347 the peasants of Wigleigh suffered a poor harvest. The villagers did what they always did in such times: they ate less food, postponed the purchase of hats and belts, and slept closer together for warmth. Old Widow Huberts died earlier than expected; Janey Jones succumbed to a cough that she might have survived in a good year; and Joanna David's new baby, who might otherwise have had a chance, failed to make it to his first birthday.

  Gwenda kept an anxious eye on her two little boys. Sam, the eight-year-old, was big for his age, and strong: he had Wulfric's physique, people said, though Gwenda knew that in truth he was like his real father, Ralph Fitzgerald. Even so, Sam was visibly thinner by December. David, named after Wulfric's brother who had died when the bridge collapsed, was six. He resembled Gwenda, being small and dark. The poor diet had weakened him, and all through the autumn he suffered minor ailments: a cold, then a skin rash, then a cough.

  All the same, she took the boys with her when she went with Wulfric to finish sowing the winter wheat on Perkin's land. A bitterly cold wind swept across the open fields. She dropped seeds into the furrows, and Sam and David chased off the daring birds who tried to snatch the corn before Wulfric turned the earth over. As they ran, and jumped, and shouted, Gwenda marveled that these two fully functioning miniature human beings had come from inside her body. They turned the chasing of the birds into some kind of competitive game, and she delighted in the miracle of their imagination. Once part of her, they were now able to have thoughts she did not know about.

  Mud clung to their feet as they tramped up and down. A fast-running stream bordered the big field, and on the far bank stood the fulling mill Merthin had built nine years ago. The distant rumble of its pounding wooden hammers accompanied their work. The mill was run
by two eccentric brothers, Jack and Eli--both unmarried men with no land--and an apprentice boy who was their nephew. They were the only villagers who had not suffered on account of the bad harvest: Mark Webber paid them the same wages all winter long.

  It was a short midwinter day. Gwenda and her family finished sowing just as the gray sky began to darken, and the twilight gathered mistily in the distant woods. They were all tired.

  There was half a sack of seed leftover, so they took it to Perkin's house. As they approached the place, they saw Perkin himself coming from the opposite direction. He was walking beside a cart on which his daughter, Annet, was riding. They had been to Kingsbridge to sell the last of the year's apples and pears from Perkin's trees.

  Annet still retained her girlish figure, although she was now twenty-eight, and had had a child. She called attention to her youthfulness with a dress that was a little too short and a hairstyle that was charmingly disarrayed. She looked silly, Gwenda thought. Her opinion was shared by every woman in the village and none of the men.

  Gwenda was shocked to see that Perkin's cart was full of fruit. "What happened?" she said.

  Perkin's face was grim. "Kingsbridge folk are having a hard winter just like us," he said. "They've no money to buy apples. We shall have to make cider with this lot."

  That was bad news. Gwenda had never known Perkin to come home from the market with so much unsold produce.

  Annet seemed unworried. She held out a hand to Wulfric, who helped her down from the cart. As she stepped to the ground, she stumbled, and fell against him with her hand on his chest. "Oops!" she said, and smiled at him as she recovered her balance. Wulfric flushed with pleasure.

  You blind idiot, Gwenda thought.

  They went inside. Perkin sat at the table, and his wife, Peggy, brought him a bowl of pottage. He cut a thick slice from the loaf on the board. Peggy served her own family next. Annet, her husband Billy Howard, Annet's brother Rob, and Rob's wife. She gave a little to Annet's four-year-old daughter, Amabel, and to Rob's two small boys. Then she invited Wulfric and his family to sit down.

  Gwenda spooned up the broth hungrily. It was thicker than the pottage she made: Peggy was putting stale bread in, whereas in Gwenda's house the bread never lasted long enough to go stale. Perkin's family got cups of ale, but Gwenda and Wulfric were not offered any: hospitality went only so far in hard times.

  Perkin was jocular with his customers, but otherwise a sourpuss, and the atmosphere in his house was always more or less dismal. He talked in a disheartened way about the Kingsbridge market. Most of the traders had had a bad day. The only ones doing any business were those who sold essentials such as corn, meat, and salt. No one was buying the now-famous Kingsbridge Scarlet cloth.

  Peggy lit a lamp. Gwenda wanted to go home, but she and Wulfric were waiting for their wages. The boys began to misbehave, running around the room and bumping into adults. "It's getting near their bedtime," said Gwenda, though it was not really.

  At last Wulfric said: "If you'll give us our wages, Perkin, we'll leave."

  "I haven't got any money," Perkin said.

  Gwenda stared at him. He had never said anything like this in the nine years she and Wulfric had been working for him.

  Wulfric said: "We must have our wages. We've got to eat."

  "You've had some pottage, haven't you?" Perkin said.

  Gwenda was outraged. "We work for money, not pottage!"

  "Well, I haven't got any money," Perkin repeated. "I went to market to sell my apples, but no one bought them, so I've got more apples than we can eat, and no money."

  Gwenda was so shocked that she did not know what to say. It had never occurred to her that Perkin might not pay them. She felt a stab of fear as she realized there was nothing she could do about it.

  Wulfric said slowly: "Well, what's to be done about it? Shall we go to the Long Field and take the seeds back out of the ground?"

  "I'll have to owe you this week's wages," Perkin said. "I'll pay you when things get better."

  "And next week?"

  "I won't have any money next week, either--where do you think it's to come from?"

  Gwenda said: "We'll go to Mark Webber. Perhaps he can employ us at the fulling mill."

  Perkin shook his head. "I spoke to him yesterday, in Kingsbridge, and asked if he could hire you. He said no. He's not selling enough cloth. He'll continue to employ Jack and Eli and the boy, and stockpile the cloth until trade picks up, but he can't take on any extra hands."

  Wulfric was bewildered. "How are we to live? How will you get your spring plowing done?"

  "You can work for food," Perkin offered.

  Wulfric looked at Gwenda. She choked back a scornful retort. She and her family were in deep trouble, and this was not the moment to antagonize anyone. She thought fast. They did not have much choice: eat or starve. "We'll work for food, and you'll owe us the money," she said.

  Perkin shook his head. "What you're suggesting may be fair--"

  "It is fair!"

  "All right, it is fair, but just the same I can't do it. I don't know when I'll have the money. Why, I could owe you a pound come Whitsun! You can work for food, or not at all."

  "You'll have to feed all four of us."

  "Yes."

  "But only Wulfric will work."

  "I don't know--"

  "A family wants more than food. Children need clothes. A man must have boots. If you can't pay me, I will have to find some other way of providing such things."

  "How?"

  "I don't know." She paused. The truth was, she had no idea. She fought down panic. "I may have to ask my father how he manages."

  Peggy put in: "I wouldn't do that, if I were you--Joby will tell you to steal."

  Gwenda was stung. What right did Peggy have to take a supercilious attitude? Joby had never employed people then told them at the end of the week that he could not pay them. But she bit her tongue and said mildly: "He fed me through eighteen winters, even if he did sell me to outlaws at the end."

  Peggy tossed her head and abruptly began to pick up the bowls from the table.

  Wulfric said: "We should go."

  Gwenda did not move. Whatever advantages she could gain had to be won now. When she left this house, Perkin would consider that a bargain had been struck, and could not be renegotiated. She thought hard. Remembering how Peggy had given ale only to her own family, she said: "You won't fob us off with stale fish and watery beer. You'll feed us exactly the same as yourself and your family--meat, bread, ale, whatever it may be."

  Peggy made a deprecating noise. She had been planning to do just what Gwenda feared, it seemed.

  Gwenda added: "That is, if you want Wulfric to do the same work as you and Rob." They all knew perfectly well that Wulfric did more work than Rob and twice as much as Perkin.

  "All right," Perkin said.

  "And this is strictly an emergency arrangement. As soon as you get money, you have to start paying us again at the old rate--a penny a day each."

  "Yes."

  There was a short silence. Wulfric said: "Is that it?"

  "I think so," Gwenda said. "You and Perkin should shake hands on the bargain."

  They shook hands.

  Taking their children, Gwenda and Wulfric left. It was now full dark. Clouds hid the stars, and they had to make their way by the glimmer of light shining through cracks in shutters and around doors. Fortunately they had walked from Perkin's house to their own a thousand times before.

  Wulfric lit a lamp and built up the fire while Gwenda put the boys to bed. Although there were bedrooms upstairs--they were still living in the large house that had been occupied by Wulfric's parents--nevertheless they all slept in the kitchen, for warmth.

  Gwenda felt depressed as she wrapped the boys in blankets and settled them near the fire. She had grown up determined not to live the way her mother did, in constant worry and want. She had aspired to independence: a patch of land, a hardworking husband, a reasonable lord. Wu
lfric yearned to get back the land his father had farmed. In all those aspirations they had failed. She was a pauper, and her husband a landless laborer whose employer could not even pay him a penny a day. She had ended up exactly like her mother, she thought; and she felt too bitter for tears.

  Wulfric took a pottery bottle from a shelf and poured ale into a wooden cup. "Enjoy it," Gwenda said sourly. "You won't be able to buy your own ale for a while."

  Wulfric said conversationally: "It's amazing that Perkin has no money. He's the richest man in the village, apart from Nathan Reeve."

  "Perkin has money," Gwenda said. "There's a jar of silver pennies under his fireplace. I've seen it."

  "Then why won't he pay us?"

  "He doesn't want to dip into his savings."

  Wulfric was taken aback. "But he could pay us, if he wanted to?"

  "Of course."

  "Then why am I going to work for food?"

  Gwenda let out an impatient grunt. Wulfric was so slow on the uptake. "Because the alternative was no work at all."

  Wulfric was feeling that they had been hoodwinked. "We should have insisted on payment."

  "Then why didn't you?"

  "I didn't know about the jar of pennies under the fireplace."

  "For God's sake, do you think a man as rich as Perkin can be impoverished by failing to sell one cartload of apples? He's been the largest landholder in Wigleigh ever since he got hold of your father's acres ten years ago. Of course he has savings!"

  "Yes, I see that."

  She stared into the fire while he finished the ale, then they went to bed. He put his arms around her, and she rested her head on his chest, but she did not want to make love. She was too angry. She told herself she should not take it out on her husband: Perkin had let them down, not Wulfric. But she was angry with Wulfric--furious. As she sensed him drifting off to sleep, she realized that her anger was not about their wages. That was the kind of misfortune that afflicted everyone from time to time, like bad weather and barley mold.

  What, then?

  She recalled the way Annet had fallen against Wulfric as she stepped down from the cart. When she remembered Annet's coquettish smile, and Wulfric's flush of pleasure, she wanted to slap his face. I'm angry with you, she thought, because that worthless, empty-headed flirt can still make you look such a damn fool.