World Without End (37 page)

A tall figure appeared in the doorway. Gwenda saw only the shape, then it disappeared again. Gwenda felt herself thrown to the ground. For a moment she was stunned. When she came to her senses, Jonah was kneeling on her, tying her hands with a rope.

The tall figure reappeared, and Gwenda recognized Wulfric. This time he was carrying a big oak bucket. Swiftly, he emptied the bucket onto the burning straw, putting out the flames. Then he changed his grip, swung the bucket, and hit the kneeling Jonah a mighty blow on top of the head.

Jonah's grip on Gwenda relaxed. She pulled her wrists apart and felt the rope loosen. Wulfric swung the bucket and hit Jonah a second time, even harder. Jonah's eyes closed and he slumped to the floor.

Joby put out the flames of his burning beard by pressing his sleeve against it, then sank to his knees, moaning in agony.

Wulfric picked up the unconscious Jonah by his tunic front. 'Who on earth is this?'

'His name is Jonah. My father wanted to sell me to him.'

Wulfric lifted the man by the belt, carried him to the front door, and threw him out into the road.

Joby groaned. 'Help me, my face is burned.'

'Help you?' said Wulfric. 'You've set fire to my house and attacked my laborer, and you want me to help you? Get out!'

Joby got to his feet, moaning piteously, and staggered to the front door. Gwenda searched her heart and found no compassion. What little love she might have had left for him had been destroyed tonight. As he went out through the door, she hoped he would never speak to her again.

Perkin came to the back door, carrying a rush light. 'What happened?' he said. 'I thought I heard a scream.' Gwenda saw Annet hovering behind him.

Wulfric answered the question. 'Joby came here with another ruffian. They tried to take Gwenda away.'

Perkin grunted. 'You seem to have dealt with the problem.'

'Without difficulty.' Wulfric realized he still had the bucket in his hand, and he put it down.

Annet said: 'Are you hurt?'

'Not in the least.'

'Do you need anything?'

'I just want to go to sleep.'

Perkin and Annet took the hint and went away. No one else seemed to have heard the commotion. Wulfric closed the doors.

He looked at Gwenda in the firelight. 'How do you feel?'

'Shaky.' She sat on the bench and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table.

He went to the cupboard. 'Drink a little wine to steady yourself.' He took out a small barrel, put it on the table, and got two cups off the shelf.

Gwenda was suddenly alert. Could this be her chance? She tried to pull herself together. She would have to act quickly.

Wulfric poured wine into the cups, then returned the barrel to the cupboard.

Gwenda had only a second or two. While his back was turned, she reached into her bosom and pulled out the bag that hung around her neck on its leather thong. She fumbled the vial from the bag. With a trembling hand she unstoppered it and emptied it into his cup.

He turned around as she was pushing the bag back into her neckline. She patted herself as if she had merely been straightening her clothing. Typical man, he noticed nothing amiss, and sat opposite her at the table.

She picked up her cup and raised it in a toast. 'You saved me,' she said. 'Thank you.'

'Your hand is shaking,' he said. 'You've had a nasty shock.'

They both drank.

Gwenda wondered how long the potion would take to have its effect.

Wulfric said: 'You saved me, by helping me in the fields. Thank you.'

They drank again.

'I don't know what's worse,' Gwenda said. 'To have a father like mine, or to be like you and have no father at all.'

'I feel sorry for you,' Wulfric said thoughtfully. 'At least I have good memories of my parents.' He emptied his cup. 'I don't usually drink wine - I don't like that woozy feeling - but this is great.'

She watched him carefully. Mattie Wise had said that he would become amorous. Gwenda looked for the signs. Sure enough, he soon began to stare as if seeing her for the first time. After a while he said: 'You know, you've got such a nice face. There's a lot of kindness in it.'

Now she was supposed to use her feminine wiles to seduce him. But, she realized with a panicky feeling, she had had no practice at this. Women such as Annet did it all the time. However, when she thought of the things Annet did - smilingly coyly, touching her hair, fluttering her eyelashes - she could not bring herself even to try. She would just feel stupid.

'You're kind,' she said, talking to gain time. 'But your face shows something else.'

'What?'

'Strength. The kind that comes, not from big muscles, but from determination.'

'I feel strong tonight.' He grinned. 'You said no man could dig over twenty acres - but I feel as if I could, right now.'

She put her hand over his on the table. 'Enjoy your rest,' she said. 'There's plenty of time for digging.'

He looked at her small hand on his large one. 'We've got different color skin,' he said, as if discovering an amazing fact. 'Look: yours is brown, mine's pink.'

'Different skin, different hair, different eyes. I wonder what our babies would be like?'

He smiled at the thought. Then his expression changed as he realized something was wrong with what she had said. Abruptly, his face became grave. The change might have been comical if she had not cared so much about his feelings for her. He said solemnly: 'We're not going to have babies.' He took his hand away.

'Let's not think about that,' she said desperately.

'Don't you sometimes wish...' He tailed off.

'What?'

'Don't you sometimes wish the world could be different from the way it is?'

She got up, walked around the table, and sat close to him. 'Don't wish,' she said. 'We're alone, and it's night. You can do anything you want.' She looked directly into his eyes. 'Anything.'

He stared back at her. She saw the yearning in his face, and realized with a thrill of triumph that he desired her. It had required a potion to bring it out, but it was unmistakably genuine. Right now he wanted nothing in the world other than to make love to her.

Still he made no move.

She took his hand. He did not resist as she drew it to her lips. She held the big, rough fingers, then pressed the palm to her mouth. She kissed it, then licked it with the tip of her tongue. Then she pressed his hand to one breast.

His hand closed over it, making it seem very small. His mouth opened a fraction, and she could see that he was breathing hard. She tilted her head back, ready to be kissed, but he did nothing.

She stood up and quickly pulled her dress up over her head and threw it to the floor. She stood naked in front of him in the firelight. He gazed at her, eyes wide, mouth open, as if he were witnessing a miracle.

She took his hand again. This time, she touched it to the soft place between her thighs. It covered the triangle of hair there. She was so wet that his finger slipped inside her, and she gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.

But he did nothing of his own volition, and she understood that he was paralyzed by indecision. He wanted her, but he had not forgotten Annet. Gwenda could move him like a puppet all night, perhaps even have sex with his inert body, but that would change nothing. She needed him to take the initiative.

She leaned forward, still holding his hand against her groin. 'Kiss me,' she said. She moved her face closer to his. 'Please,' she said. She was an inch away from his mouth. She would not get nearer: he had to close the gap.

Suddenly, he moved.

He withdrew his hand, turned away from her, and stood up. 'This is wrong,' he said.

And she knew that she had lost.

Tears came to her eyes. She picked up her dress from the floor and held it in front of her, covering her nakedness.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't have done any of those things. I misled you. I've been cruel.'

No, you haven't, she thought. I've been cruel. I've misled you. But you were too strong. You're too loyal, too faithful. You're too good for me.

But she said nothing.

He kept his gaze steadfastly away from her. 'You must go to the cowshed,' he said. 'Go to sleep. We'll feel differently in the morning. It might be all right then.'

She ran out through the back door, not bothering to get dressed. It was moonlight, but there was no one to see her, and she would not have cared anyway. She was inside the cowshed in seconds.

At one end of the wooden building was a raised loft where clean straw was kept. That was where she made her bed each night. She climbed the ladder and threw herself down, too miserable to care about the sharp prickle of straw on her bare skin. She wept with disappointment and shame.

When eventually she calmed down, she stood up and put her dress on, then wrapped a blanket around her. As she did so, she thought she heard a step outside. She looked through a gap in the rough wattle-and-daub of the wall.

The moon was almost full, and she could see clearly. Wulfric was outside. He walked toward the door of the cowshed. Gwenda's heart leaped. Perhaps it was not all over yet. But he hesitated at the door, then walked away. He returned to the house, turned at the kitchen door, came back to the cowshed, and turned again.

She watched him pace up and down, her heart thudding, but she did not move. She had done all she could to encourage him. He had to take the last step himself.

He stopped at the kitchen door. His body was profiled by the moonlight, a silver line running from his forelock to his boots. She saw clearly as he reached into his drawers. She knew what he was going to do: she had seen her older brother do the same thing. She heard Wulfric groan as he began to rub himself with the motion that caricatured lovemaking. She stared at him, beautiful in the moonlight, wasting his desire, and she felt as if her heart would break.

20

Godwyn moved against Blind Carlus on the Sunday before the birthday of St. Adolphus.

On that Sunday every year, a special service was held in Kingsbridge Cathedral. The bones of the saint were carried around the church by the prior, followed by the monks in procession; and they prayed for good harvest weather.

As always, it was Godwyn's job to prepare the church for the service - placing candles, getting incense ready, and moving furniture - helped by novices and employees such as Philemon. The Feast of St. Adolphus required a secondary altar, an elaborately carved wooden table set on a platform that could be moved about the church as required. Godwyn placed this altar on the eastern edge of the crossing and put on it a pair of silver-gilt candlesticks. As he did so, he anxiously mulled over his position.

Now that he had persuaded Thomas to stand for election as prior, his next step was to eliminate the opposition. Carlus ought to be an easy target - but in a way, that was a disadvantage, for Godwyn did not want to appear callous.

He placed in the center of the altar a reliquary cross, a bejeweled gold crucifix with a core of wood from the True Cross. This, the actual timber upon which Christ was killed, had been miraculously found a thousand years ago by Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, and pieces of it had found their way to churches all over Europe.

As Godwyn was arranging the ornaments on the altar, he saw Mother Cecilia nearby and broke off from his work to speak to her. 'I understand that Earl Roland has recovered his mind,' he said. 'Praise God.'

'Amen,' she said. 'The fever was on him so long that we feared for his life. Some evil humor must have entered his brain after his skull was fractured. Nothing he said made sense. Then, this morning, he woke up and spoke normally.'

'You cured him.'

'God cured him.'

'Still, he should be grateful to you.'

She smiled. 'You're young, Brother Godwyn. You'll learn that men of power never show gratitude. Whatever we give them, they accept as their right.'

Her condescension annoyed Godwyn, but he concealed his irritation. 'At any rate, we can now hold the election for prior, at last.'

'Who will win?'

'Ten monks have promised firmly to vote for Carlus, and only seven for Thomas. With the candidates' own votes, that makes the score eleven to eight, with six uncommitted.'

'So it could go either way.'

'But Carlus is in the lead. Thomas could do with your support, Mother Cecilia.'

'I don't have a vote.'

'But you have influence. If you were to say that the monastery needs stricter control and a measure of reform, and you felt Thomas was more likely to deliver such a program, it would sway some of the waverers.'

'I ought not to take sides.'

'Perhaps not, but you could say that you will not continue to subsidize the monks unless they manage their money better. What could be wrong with that?'

Her bright eyes glittered with amusement: she was not so easily persuaded. 'That would be a coded message of support for Thomas.'

'Yes.'

'I am strictly neutral. I will happily work with whomever the monks choose. And that's my last word, Brother.'

He bowed his head deferentially. 'I respect your decision, of course.'

She nodded and moved away.

Godwyn was pleased. He had never expected her to endorse Thomas. She was conservative. Everyone assumed she favored Carlus. But Godwyn could now spread the word that she would be content with either candidate. In effect, he had undermined her implicit support for Carlus. She might even be cross when she heard what use he was making of her words, but she would not withdraw her statement of neutrality.

I am so clever, he thought; I really deserve to be prior.

Neutralizing Cecilia was helpful, but it would not be enough to crush Carlus. Godwyn needed to give the monks a vivid demonstration of how incompetent Carlus was to lead them. He was hoping anxiously for such an opportunity today.

Carlus and Simeon were in the church now, rehearsing the service. Carlus was the acting prior, so he had to lead the procession, carrying the ivory-and-gold reliquary that contained the bones of the saint. Simeon, the treasurer and Carlus's crony, was walking him through it, and Godwyn could see Carlus counting his paces, so that he would be able to do it on his own. The congregation was impressed when Carlus moved around confidently despite his blindness: it seemed like a minor miracle.