World Without End (146 page)

If she could not find him, no one else could, she figured, and that was good. All the same she yearned to know where he was living, and if he was working for a decent master, and whether the people were kind to him.

That winter, Wulfric had made a new light plow for the sandier acres of his holding, and one day in spring Gwenda and he went to Northwood to buy an iron plowshare, the one part they could not make for themselves. As usual, a small group of Wigleigh folk traveled together to the market. Jack and Eli, who operated the fulling mill for Madge Webber, were stocking up on supplies: they had no land of their own, so they bought all their food. Annet and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Amabel, had a dozen hens in a crate, to sell at the market. The bailiff, Nathan, came too, with his grown son Jonno, the childhood enemy of Sam.

Annet still flirted with every good-looking man that crossed her path, and most of them grinned foolishly and flirted back. On the journey to Northwood she chatted with Davey. Although he was less than half her age, she simpered and tossed her head and smacked his arm in mock reproach, just as if she were twenty-two rather than forty-two. She was not a girl any more, but she did not seem to know it, Gwenda thought sourly. Annet's daughter, Amabel, who was as pretty as Annet had once been, walked a little apart, and seemed embarrassed by her mother.

They reached Northwood at mid-morning. After Wulfric and Gwenda had made their purchase, they went to get their dinner at the Old Oak Tavern.

For as long as Gwenda could remember there had been a venerable oak outside the inn, a thick, squat tree with malformed branches that looked like a bent old man in winter and cast a welcome deep shade in summer. Her sons had chased one another around it as little boys. But it must have died or become unstable, for it had been chopped down, and now there was a stump, as wide across as Wulfric was tall, used by the customers as a chair, a table, and - for one exhausted carter - a bed.

Sitting on its edge, drinking ale from a huge tankard, was Harry Plowman, the bailiff of Outhenby.

Gwenda was taken back twelve years in a blink. What came to her mind, so forcefully that it brought tears to her eyes, was the hope that had lifted her heart as she and her family had set out, that morning in Northwood, to walk through the forest to Outhenby and a new life. The hope had been crushed, in less than a fortnight, and Wulfric had been taken back to Wigleigh - the memory still made her burn with rage - with a rope around his neck.

But Ralph had not had things all his own way since then. Circumstances had forced him to give Wulfric back the lands his father had held, which for Gwenda had been a savagely satisfying outcome, even though Wulfric had not been smart enough to win a free tenancy, unlike some of his neighbors. Gwenda was glad they were now tenants rather than laborers, and Wulfric had achieved his life's ambition; but she still longed for more independence - a tenancy free of feudal obligations, with a cash rent to pay, the whole agreement written down in the manorial records so that no lord could go back on it. It was what most serfs wanted, and more of them were getting it since the plague.

Harry greeted them effusively and insisted on buying them ale. Soon after Wulfric and Gwenda's brief stay at Outhenby, Harry had been made bailiff by Mother Caris, and he still held that position, though Caris had long ago renounced her vows, and Mother Joan was now prioress. Outhenby continued to be prosperous, to judge by Harry's double chin and alehouse belly.

As they were preparing to leave with the rest of the Wigleigh folk, Harry spoke to Gwenda in a low voice. 'I've got a young man called Sam laboring for me.'

Gwenda's heart leaped. 'My Sam?'

'Can't possibly be, no.'

She was bewildered. Why mention him, in that case?

But Harry tapped his wine-red nose, and Gwenda realized he was being enigmatic. 'This Sam assures me that his lord is a Hampshire knight I've never heard of, who has given him permission to leave his village and work elsewhere, whereas your Sam's lord is Earl Ralph, who never lets his laborers go. Obviously I couldn't employ your Sam.'

Gwenda understood. That would be Harry's story if official questions were asked. 'So, he's in Outhenby.'

'Oldchurch, one of the smaller villages in the valley.'

'Is he well?' she asked eagerly.

'Thriving.'

'Thank God.'

'A strong boy and a good worker, though he can be quarrelsome.'

She knew that. 'Is he living in a warm house?'

'Lodging with a good-hearted older couple whose own son has gone to Kingsbridge to be apprenticed to a tanner.'

Gwenda had a dozen questions, but suddenly she noticed the bent figure of Nathan Reeve leaning on the doorpost of the tavern entrance, staring at her. She suppressed a curse. There was so much she wanted to know, but she was terrified of giving Nate even a clue to Sam's whereabouts. She needed to be content with what she had. And she was thrilled that at least she knew where he could be found.

She turned away from Harry, trying to give the impression of casually ending an unimportant conversation. Out of the corner of her mouth she said: 'Don't let him get into fights.'

'I'll do what I can.'

She waved perfunctorily and went after Wulfric.

Walking home with the others, Wulfric carried the heavy plowshare on his shoulder with no apparent effort. Gwenda was bursting to tell him the news, but she had to wait until the group straggled out along the road, and she and her husband were separated from the others by a few yards. Then she repeated the conversation, speaking quietly.

Wulfric was relieved. 'At least we know where the lad has got to,' he said, breathing easily despite his load.

'I want to go to Outhenby,' Gwenda said.

Wulfric nodded. 'I thought you might.' He rarely challenged her, but now he expressed a misgiving. 'Dangerous, though. You'll have to make sure no one finds out where you've gone.'

'Exactly. Nate mustn't know.'

'How will you manage that?'

'He's sure to notice that I'm not in the village for a couple of days. We'll have to think of a story.'

'We can say you're sick.'

'Too risky. He'll probably come to the house to check.'

'We could say you're at your father's place.'

'Nate won't believe that. He knows I never stay there longer than I have to.' She gnawed at a hangnail, racking her brains. In the ghost stories and fairy tales that people told around the fire on long winter evenings, the characters generally believed one another's lies without question; but real people were less easily duped. 'We could say I've gone to Kingsbridge,' she said at last.

'What for?'

'To buy laying hens at the market, perhaps.'

'You could buy hens from Annet.'

'I wouldn't buy anything from that bitch, and people know it.'

'True.'

'And Nate knows I've always been a friend of Caris, so he'll believe I could be staying with her.'

'All right.'

It was not much of a story, but she could not think of anything better. And she was desperate to see her son.

She left the next morning.

She slipped out of the house before dawn, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the cold March wind. She walked softly through the village in pitch darkness, finding her way by touch and memory. She did not want to be seen and questioned before she had even left the neighborhood. But no one was up yet. Nathan Reeve's dog growled quietly then recognized her tread, and she heard a soft thump as he wagged his tail against the side of his wooden kennel.

She left the village and followed the road through the fields. When dawn broke, she was a mile away. She looked at the road behind her. It was empty. No one had followed her.

She chewed a crust of stale bread for breakfast, then stopped at mid-morning at a tavern where the Wigleigh-to-Kingsbridge road crossed the Northwood-to-Outhenby road. She recognized no one at the inn. She watched the door nervously as she ate a bowl of salt-fish stew and drank a pint of cider. Every time someone came in she got ready to hide her face, but it was always a stranger, and no one took any notice of her. She left quickly, and set off on the road to Outhenby.

She reached the valley around mid-afternoon. It was twelve years since she had been here, but the place had not changed much. It had recovered from the plague remarkably quickly. Apart from some small children playing near the houses, most of the villagers were at work, plowing and sowing, or looking after new lambs. They stared at her across the fields, knowing she was a stranger, wondering about her identity. Some of them would recognize her close up. She had been here for only ten days, but those had been dramatic times, and they would remember. Villagers did not often see such excitement.

She followed the River Outhen as it meandered along the flat plain between two ranges of hills. She went from the main village through smaller settlements that she knew, from the time she had spent here, as Ham, Shortacre, and Longwater, to the smallest and most remote, Oldchurch.

Her excitement grew as she approached, and she even forgot her sore feet. Oldchurch was a hamlet, with thirty hovels, none big enough to be a manor house or even a bailiff's home. However, in accordance with the name, there was an old church. It was several hundred years of age, Gwenda guessed. It had a squat tower and a short nave, all built of crude masonry, with tiny square windows placed apparently at random in the thick walls.

She walked to the fields beyond. She ignored a group of shepherds in a distant pasture: shrewd Harry Plowman would not waste big Sam on such light work. He would be harrowing, or clearing a ditch, or helping to manage the eight-ox plow team. Searching the three fields methodically, she looked for a crowd of mostly men, with warm hats and muddy boots and big voices to call to one another across the acres; and a young man a head taller than the others. When she did not at first see her son, she suffered renewed apprehension. Had he already been recaptured? Had he moved to another village?

She found him in a line of men digging manure into a newly plowed strip. He had his coat off, despite the cold, and he was hefting an oak spade, the muscles of his back and arms bunching and shifting under his old linen shirt. Her heart filled with pride to see him, and to think that such a man had come from her diminutive body.

They all looked up as she approached. The men stared at her in curiosity: Who was she and what was she doing here? She walked straight up to Sam and embraced him, even though he stank of horse dung. 'Hello, Mother,' he said, and all the other men laughed.

She was puzzled by their hilarity.

A wiry man with one empty eye socket said: 'There, there, Sam, you'll be all right now,' and they laughed again.

Gwenda realized they thought it funny that a big man such as Sam should have his little mother come and check on him as if he were a wayward boy.

'How did you find me?' Sam said.

'I met Harry Plowman at Northwood market.'

'I hope no one tracked you here.'

'I left before it was light. Your father was to tell people I went to Kingsbridge. No one followed me.'

They talked for a few minutes, then he said he had to get back to work, or the other men would resent his leaving it all to them. 'Go back to the village and find old Liza,' he said. 'She lives opposite the church. Tell her who you are and she'll give you some refreshment. I'll be there at dusk.'

Gwenda glanced up at the sky. It was a dark afternoon, and the men would be forced to stop work in an hour or so. She kissed Sam's cheek and left him.

She found Liza in a house slightly larger than most - it had two rooms rather than one. The woman introduced her husband, Rob, who was blind. As Sam had promised, Liza was hospitable: she put bread and pottage on the table and poured a cup of ale.

Gwenda asked about their son, and it was like turning on a tap. Liza talked unstoppably about him, from babyhood to apprenticeship, until the old man interrupted her harshly with one word: 'Horse.'

They fell silent, and Gwenda heard the rhythmic thud of a trotting horse.

'Smallish mount,' blind Rob said. 'A palfrey, or a pony. Too little for a nobleman or a knight, though it might be carrying a lady.'

Gwenda felt a shiver of fear.

'Two visitors within an hour,' Rob observed. 'Must be connected.'

That was what Gwenda was afraid of.

She got up and looked out of the door. A sturdy black pony was trotting along the path between the houses. She recognized the rider immediately, and her heart sank: it was Jonno Reeve, the son of the bailiff of Wigleigh.

How had he found her?

She tried to duck quickly back into the house, but he had seen her. 'Gwenda!' he shouted, and reined in his horse.

'You devil,' she said.

'I wonder what you're doing here,' he said mockingly.

'How did you get here? No one was following me.'

'My father sent me to Kingsbridge, to see what mischief you might be making there, but on the way I stopped at the Cross Roads Tavern, and they remembered you taking the road to Outhenby.'

She wondered whether she could outwit this shrewd young man. 'And why should I not visit my old friends here?'

'No reason,' he said. 'Where's your runaway son?'

'Not here, though I hoped he might be.'

He looked momentarily uncertain, as if he thought she might be telling the truth. Then he said: 'Perhaps he's hiding. I'll look around.' He kicked his horse on.

Gwenda watched him go. She had not fooled him, but perhaps she had planted a doubt in his mind. If she could get to Sam first she might be able to conceal him.

She walked quickly through the little house, with a hasty word to Liza and Rob, and left by the back door. She headed across the field, staying close to the hedge. Looking back toward the village, she could see a man on horseback moving out at an angle to her direction. The day was dimming, and she thought her own small figure might be indistinguishable against the dark background of the hedge.

She met Sam and the others coming back, their spades over their shoulders, their boots thick with muck. From a distance, at first sight, Sam could have been Ralph: the figure was the same, and the confident stride, and the set of the handsome head on the strong neck. But as he talked she could see Wulfric in him, too: he had a way of turning his head, a shy smile, and a deprecating gesture of the hand that exactly imitated his foster father.