Ken Follett - World Without End

Ralph seized the reins and jumped on his horse. Alan did the same. They kicked their beasts just as the mob from the courtroom came through the arch. The stable boy threw himself out of the way, terrified. The horses surged forward and away.

Someone in the crowd threw a knife. It stuck a quarter of an inch into Griffs flank, then fell away, serving only to spur the horse on.

They galloped flat out through the streets, scattering townspeople before them, careless of men, women, children and livestock. They charged through a gate in the old wall and passed into a suburb of houses interspersed with gardens and orchards. Ralph looked behind. No pursuers were in sight.

The sheriff’s men would come after them, of course, but they had first to fetch horses and saddle them. Ralph and Alan were already a mile from the market square, and their mounts showed no signs of tiring. Ralph was filled with glee. Five minutes ago he had reconciled himself to being hanged. Now he was free!

The road forked. Choosing at random, Ralph turned left. A mile away across the fields he could see woodland. Once there, he would turn off the track, and disappear.

But what would he do then?

“Earl Roland was clever,” Merthin said to Elizabeth Clerk. “He allowed justice to take its course almost to the end. He didn’t bribe the judge or influence the jury or intimidate the witnesses, and he avoided a quarrel with his son, Lord William. But he escaped the humiliation of seeing one of his men hanged.”

“Where is your brother now?” she said.

“No idea. I haven’t spoken to him or even seen him since that day.”

They were sitting in Elizabeth’s kitchen on Sunday afternoon. She had made dinner for him: boiled ham with stewed apples and winter greens, and a small jug of wine that her mother had bought, or perhaps stolen, from the inn where she worked.

Elizabeth said: “What will happen now?”

“The sentence of death still hangs over him. He can’t return to Wigleigh, or come here to Kingsbridge, without getting arrested. In effect, he’s declared himself an outlaw.”

“Is there nothing he can do?”

“He could get a pardon from the king – but that costs a fortune, far more money than he or I could raise.”

“And how do you feel about him?”

Merthin winced. “Well, he deserves punishment for what he did, of course. All the same, I can’t wish it on him. I just hope he’s all right, wherever he is.”

He had told the story of Ralph’s trial many times in the last few days, but Elizabeth had asked the most astute questions. She was intelligent and sympathetic. The thought crossed his mind that it would be no hardship to spend every Sunday afternoon this way.

Her mother, Sairy, was dozing by the fire, as usual, but now she opened her eyes and said: “My soul! I’ve forgotten the pie.” She stood up, patting her mussed grey hair. “I promised to ask Betty Baxter to make a pie with ham and eggs for the leather-tanners’ guild. They’re holding their last-before-Lent dinner at the Bell tomorrow.” She draped a blanket around her shoulders and went out.

It was unusual for them to be left alone together, and Merthin felt slightly awkward, but Elizabeth seemed relaxed enough. She said: “What are you doing with yourself, now that you no longer work on the bridge?”

“I’m building a house for Dick Brewer, among other things. Dick’s ready to retire and hand over to his son, but he says he’ll never stop work while he’s living at the Copper, so he wants a house with a garden outside the old city walls.”

“Oh – is that the building site beyond Lovers’ Field?”

“Yes. It will be the biggest house in Kingsbridge.”

“A brewer is never short of money.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“The site?”

“The house. It’s not finished, but it’s got four walls and a roof.”

“Now?”

“There’s still an hour of daylight.”

She hesitated, as if she might have had another plan; but then she said: “I’d love to.”

They put on heavy cloaks with hoods and went out. It was the first day of March. Flurries of snow chased them down the main street. They took the ferry to the suburban side.

Despite the ups and downs of the wool trade, the town seemed to grow a little every year, and the priory turned more and more of its pasture and orchards into house plots for rent. Merthin guessed there must be fifty dwellings that had not been here when he first came to Kingsbridge, as a boy, twelve years ago.

Dick Brewer’s new home was a two-storey structure set back from the road. As yet it had no window shutters or doors, so the gaps in the walls had been temporarily covered with hurdles, wood frames filled in with woven reeds. The front entrance was thus blocked, but Merthin took Elizabeth to the back, where there was a temporary wooden door with a lock.

Merthin’s assistant Jimmie, now sixteen, was in the kitchen, guarding the place from thieves. He was a superstitious boy, always crossing himself and throwing salt over his shoulder. He was sitting on a bench in front of a big fire, but he looked anxious. “Hello, master,” he said. “Now that you’re here, may I go and get my dinner? Lol Turner was supposed to bring it, but he hasn’t come.”

“Make sure you’re back before it gets dark.”

“Thank you.” He hurried off.

Merthin stepped through the doorway to the interior of the house. “Four rooms downstairs,” he said, showing her.

She was incredulous. “What will they use them all for?”

“Kitchen, parlour, dining room and hall.” There was no staircase yet, but Merthin climbed a ladder to the upper floor, and Elizabeth followed. “Four bedrooms,” he said as she reached the top.

“Who will live here?”

“Dick and his wife, his son Danny and his wife, and his daughter, who probably won’t remain single for ever.”

Most Kingsbridge families lived in one room, and all slept side by side on the floor: parents, children, grandparents and in-laws. Elizabeth said: “This place has more rooms than a palace!”

It was true. A nobleman with a big entourage might still live in two rooms: a bedchamber for himself and his wife, and a great hall for everyone else. But Merthin had now designed several houses for wealthy Kingsbridge merchants, and the luxury they all craved was privacy. It was a new trend, he thought.

“I suppose there will be glass in the windows,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes.” That was another trend. Merthin could remember the time when there was no glazier in Kingsbridge, just an itinerant who called every year or two. Now the city had a resident glazier.

They returned to the ground floor. Elizabeth sat on Jimmie’s bench in front of the fire and warmed her hands. Merthin sat beside her. “I’ll build a house like this for myself, one day,” he said. “In a big garden with fruit trees.”

To his surprise, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a nice dream,” she said.

They both stared into the fire. Her hair tickled Merthin’s cheek. After a moment, she laid a hand on his knee. In the silence, he could hear her breathing, and his own, and the crackle of burning logs.

“In your dream, who’s in the house?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Just like a man. I can’t see my house, but I know who’s in it: a husband, some babies, my mother, an elderly parent-in-law and three servants.”

“Men and women have different dreams.”

She lifted her head, looked at him and touched his face. “And when you put them together, you have a life.” She kissed his mouth.

He closed his eyes. He remembered the soft touch of her lips from years ago. Her mouth lingered on his for just a moment, then she drew back.