World Without End (75 page)

'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.

Today was their last here. The sheriff was due at midday to take them to Shiring. They had already been sentenced to death, in their absence, for the rape of Annet, and for the crimes they had committed in that court under the judge's eye: wounding the foreman of the jury, wounding Wulfric, and escaping. When they got to Shiring they would be hanged.

An hour before noon, Ralph's parents brought them dinner: hot ham, new bread, and a jug of strong ale. Merthin came with them, and Ralph surmised that this was good-bye.

His father confirmed it. 'We'll not follow you to Shiring,' he said.

His mother added: 'We don't want to see you - ' She broke down, but he knew what she was going to say. They would not journey to Shiring to see him hang.

Ralph drank the ale but found it difficult to eat. He was going to the gallows, and food seemed pointless. Anyway, he had no appetite. Alan tucked in: he seemed to have no sense of the doom that awaited him.

The family sat in an awkward silence. Although these were their last minutes together, no one knew what to say. Maud wept quietly, Gerald looked thunderous, and Merthin sat with his head in his hands. Alan Fernhill just looked bored.

Ralph had a question for his brother. Part of him did not want to ask it, but now he realized that this was his last chance. 'When Brother Thomas pulled me off my horse, protecting me from the arrows, I thanked him for saving my life,' he said. Looking at his brother, he went on: 'Thomas said he did it for you, Merthin.'

Merthin just nodded.

'Did you ask him to?'

'Yes.'

'So you knew what was going to happen.'

'Yes.'

'So...how did Thomas know where to find me?'

Merthin did not answer.

Ralph said: 'You told him, didn't you?'

Their father was shocked. 'Merthin!' he said. 'How could you?'

Alan Fernhill said: 'You treacherous swine.'

Merthin said to Ralph: 'You were murdering people! Innocent peasants and their wives and children! You had to be stopped!'

Ralph did not feel angry, somewhat to his surprise. He felt a choking sensation. He swallowed, then said: 'But why did you ask Thomas to spare my life? Was it because you preferred that I should hang?'

Maud said: 'Ralph, don't,' and sobbed.

'I don't know,' Merthin said. 'Perhaps I just wanted you to live a little longer.'

'But you did betray me.' Ralph found that he was on the verge of breaking down. Tears seemed to gather behind his eyes, and he felt the pressure in his head. 'You betrayed me,' he repeated.

Merthin stood up and said angrily: 'By God, you deserved it!'

Maud said: 'Don't fight.'

Ralph shook his head sadly. 'We're not going to fight,' he said. 'Those days are over.'

The door opened and John Constable stepped in. 'The sheriff is outside,' he announced.

Maud put her arms around Ralph and clung to him, weeping. After a few moments, Gerald gently pulled her away.

John walked out and Ralph followed him. He was surprised not to be tied up or chained. He had escaped once before - were they not afraid he would do the same again? He walked through the constable's office and out into the open air. His family came behind.

It must have been raining earlier, for now bright sunshine reflected off the wet street, and Ralph had to screw up his eyes against the glare. As he adjusted to the light, he recognized his own horse, Griff, saddled ready. The sight gladdened his heart. He took the reins and spoke into the horse's ear. 'You never betrayed me, boy, did you, eh?' The horse blew through its nostrils and stamped, pleased to have its master back.

The sheriff and several deputies were waiting, mounted and armed to the teeth: they were going to let Ralph ride to Shiring, but they were not taking any risks with him. There would be no escape this time, he realized.

Then he looked again. The sheriff was here, but the other armed riders were not his deputies. They were Earl Roland's men. And there was the earl himself, black-haired and black-bearded, mounted on a gray charger. What was he doing here?

Without dismounting, the earl leaned down and handed a rolled sheet of parchment to John Constable. 'Read that, if you can,' Roland said, speaking as always out of one side of his mouth. 'It is a writ from the king. All the prisoners in the county are pardoned and freed - on condition they come with me to join the king's army.'

Gerald shouted: 'Hoorah!!' Maud burst into tears. Merthin looked over the constable's shoulder and read the writ.

Ralph looked at Alan, who said: 'What does it mean?'

'It means we're free!' Ralph said.

John Constable said: 'It does, if I read it aright.' He looked at the sheriff. 'Do you confirm this?'

'I do,' said the sheriff.

'Then there is no more to be said. These men are free to go with the earl.' The constable rolled up the parchment.

Ralph looked at his brother. Merthin was weeping. Were they tears of joy, or frustration?

He was given no more time to wonder. 'Come on,' said Roland impatiently. 'We've completed the formalities, let's get on the road. The king is in France - we've a long way to go!' He wheeled his horse and rode down the main street.

Ralph kicked Griff's sides, and the horse eagerly broke into a trot and followed the earl.

41

'You can't win,' Gregory Longfellow said to Prior Godwyn, sitting in the large chair in the hall of the prior's house. 'The king is going to grant a borough charter to Kingsbridge.'

Godwyn stared at him. This was the lawyer who had won two cases for him at the royal court, one against the earl and the other against the alderman. If such a champion declared himself beaten then, surely, defeat must be inevitable.

It was not to be borne. If Kingsbridge became a royal borough, the priory would be sidelined. For hundreds of years, the prior had ruled the town. In Godwyn's eyes, the town existed only to serve the priory, which served God. Now the priory would become just part of a town ruled by merchants, serving the god of Money. And the Book of Life would show that the prior who let this happen was Godwyn.

Dismayed, he said: 'Are you quite certain?'

'I'm always quite certain,' said Gregory.

Godwyn was aggravated. Gregory's cocksure attitude was all very well when he was sneering at your opponents, but when he turned it on you it became infuriating. Angrily, Godwyn said: 'You came all the way to Kingsbridge to tell me you can't do what I asked for?'

'And to collect my fee,' Gregory said blithely.

Godwyn wished he could have him thrown into the fishpond in his London clothes.

It was the Saturday of Whitsun weekend, the day before the opening of the Fleece Fair. Outside, on the green to the west of the cathedral, hundreds of traders were setting up their stalls, and their conversations and cries to one another combined to make a roar that could be heard here in the hall of the prior's house, where Godwyn and Gregory sat at either end of the dining table.