Ken Follett - World Without End

His dream was interrupted by a knock at the door. He was startled. Normally no one came to the island at night – except Caris, and she would not knock. “Who is it?” he called nervously.

Thomas Langley came in.

“Monks are supposed to be asleep at this time,” Merthin said.

“Godwyn doesn’t know I’m here.” Thomas looked at the slate. “You draw left-handed?”

“Left or right, it makes no difference. Would you like a cup of wine?”

“No, thanks. I’ll have to be up for Matins in a few hours, so I don’t want to get sleepy.”

Merthin liked Thomas. There had been a bond between them ever since that day, twelve years ago, when he had promised that if Thomas should die he would take a priest to the place where the letter was buried. Later, when they had worked together on cathedral repairs, Thomas had always been clear in his instructions and gracious to apprentices. He managed to be sincere about his religious calling without becoming prideful: all men of God should be like that, Merthin thought.

He waved Thomas to a chair by the fire. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about your brother. He has to be stopped.”

Merthin winced, as if at a sudden stab of pain. “If I could do anything, I would. But I haven’t seen him and, when I do, I’m not sure he will listen to me. There was a time when he looked to me for guidance, but I think those days are over.”

“I’ve just come from a meeting of the parish guild. They asked me to organize a militia.”

“Don’t expect me to be part of it.”

“No, I didn’t come for that purpose.” Thomas gave a wry smile. “Your many amazing talents don’t actually include military skills.”

Merthin nodded ruefully. “Thanks.”

“But there is something you could do to help me, if you would.”

Merthin felt uneasy. “Well, ask me.”

“The outlaws must have a hideout somewhere not far from Kingsbridge. I want you to think about where your brother might be. It’s probably a place you both know – a cave, perhaps, or an abandoned verderer’s hut in the forest.”

Merthin hesitated.

Thomas said: “I know you’d hate to betray him. But think of that first family he attacked: a decent, hard-working peasant, his pretty wife, a lad of fourteen and a little girl. Now three of them are dead and the little girl has no parents. Even though you love your brother, you have to help us catch him.”

“I know.”

“Can you think where he might be?”

Merthin was not yet ready to answer the question. “Will you take him alive?”

“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.