Ken Follett - World Without End

He had to give in.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. He realized he was speaking through gritted teeth, and made an effort to be nonchalant. “After all, he has been brought home and humiliated. That may be enough.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“All right, Nate,” Ralph said. For a moment words stuck in his throat, he hated so much to give Wulfric his heart’s desire. But this was more important. “Tell Wulfric he can have his father’s lands back.”

“I’ll do that before nightfall,” Nate said, and he left.

Gregory said: “What were you saying about the earldom?”

Ralph picked his words carefully. “After Earl Roland died at the battle of Crécy, I thought the king might have considered making me the earl of Shiring, especially as I had saved the life of the young prince of Wales.”

“But Roland had a perfectly good heir – who himself had two sons.”

“Exactly. And now all three are dead.”

“Hmm.” Gregory took a draught from his goblet. “This is good wine.”

“Gascon,” said Ralph.

“I suppose it comes into Melcombe.”

“Yes.”

“Delicious.” Gregory drank some more. He seemed to be about to say something, so Ralph remained silent. Gregory took a long time choosing his words. At last he said: “There is, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Kingsbridge, a letter that… ought not to exist.”

Ralph was mystified. What was coming now?

Gregory went on: “For many years, this document was in the hands of someone who could be relied upon, for various complicated reasons, to keep it safe. Lately, however, certain questions have been asked, suggesting to me that the secret may be in danger of getting out.”

All this was too enigmatic. Ralph said impatiently: “I don’t understand. Who has been asking embarrassing questions?”

“The prioress of Kingsbridge.”

“Oh.”

“It’s possible she may have simply picked up some hint, and her questions may be harmless. But what the king’s friends fear is that the letter may have got into her possession.”

“What is in the letter?”

Once again, Gregory chose his words warily, tiptoeing across a raging river on carefully placed stepping stones. “Something touching the king’s beloved mother.”

“Queen Isabella.” The old witch was still alive, living in splendour in her castle at Lynn, spending her days reading romances in her native French, so people said.

“In short,” said Gregory, “I need to find out whether the prioress has this letter or not. But no one must know of my interest.”

Ralph said: “Either you have to go to the priory and search through the nuns’ documents… or the documents must come to you.”

“The second of those two.”

Ralph nodded. He was beginning to understand what Gregory wanted him to do.

Gregory said: “I have made some very discreet inquiries, and discovered that no one knows exactly where the nuns’ treasury is.”

“The nuns must know, or some of them.”

“But they won’t say. However, I understand you’re an expert in… persuading people to reveal secrets.”

So Gregory knew of the work Ralph had done in France. There was nothing spontaneous about this conversation, Ralph realized. Gregory must have planned it. In fact it was probably the real reason he had come to Kingsbridge. Ralph said: “I may be able to help the king’s friends solve this problem…”

“Good.”

“…if I were promised the earldom of Shiring as my reward.”

Gregory frowned. “The new earl will have to marry the old countess.”

Ralph decided to hide his eagerness. Instinct told him that Gregory would have less respect for a man who was driven, even just partly, by lust for a woman. “Lady Philippa is five years older than I am, but I have no objection to her.”

Gregory looked askance. “She’s a very beautiful woman,” he said. “Whoever the king gives her to should think himself a lucky man.”

Ralph realized he had gone too far. “I don’t wish to appear indifferent,” he said hastily. “She is indeed a beauty.”

“But I thought you were already married,” Gregory said. “Have I made a mistake?”

Ralph caught Alan’s eye, and saw that he was keenly curious to hear what Ralph would say next.

Ralph sighed. “My wife is very ill,” he said. “She hasn’t long to live.”

Gwenda lit the fire in the kitchen of the old house where Wulfric had lived since he was born. She found her cooking pots, filled one with water at the well and threw in some early onions, the first step in making a stew. Wulfric brought in more firewood. The boys happily went out to play with their old friends, unaware of the depth of the tragedy that had befallen their family.

Gwenda busied herself with household chores as the evening darkened outside. She was trying not to think. Everything that came into her mind just made her feel worse: the future, the past, her husband, herself. Wulfric sat and looked into the flames. Neither of them spoke.

Their neighbour, David Johns, appeared with a big jug of ale. His wife was dead of the plague, but his grown-up daughter, Joanna, followed him in. Gwenda was not happy to see them: she wanted to be miserable in private. But their intentions were kind, and it was impossible to spurn them. Gwenda glumly wiped the dust from some wooden cups, and David poured ale for everyone.

“We’re sorry things worked out this way, but we’re glad to see you,” he said as they drank.

Wulfric emptied his cup with one huge swallow and held it out for more.

A little later Aaron Appletree and his wife Ulla came in. She carried a basket of small loaves. “I knew you wouldn’t have any bread, so I made some,” she said. She handed them around and the house filled with the mouth-watering smell. David Johns poured them some ale, and they sat down. “Where did you get the courage to run away?” Ulla asked admiringly. “I would have died of fright!”

Gwenda began to tell the story of their adventures. Jack and Eli Fuller arrived from the mill, bringing a dish of pears baked in honey. Wulfric ate plenty and drank deep. The atmosphere lightened, and Gwenda’s mood lifted a little. More neighbours came, each bringing a gift. When Gwenda told how the villagers of Outhenby with their spades and hoes had faced down Ralph and Alan, everyone rocked with delighted laughter.

Then she came to the events of today, and she descended into despair again. “Everything was against us,” she said bitterly. “Not just Ralph and his ruffians, but the king and the church. We had no chance.”

The neighbours nodded gloomily.

“And then, when he put a rope around my Wulfric’s neck…” She was filled with bleak despair. Her voice cracked, and she could not go on. She took a gulp of ale and tried again. “When he put a rope around Wulfric’s neck – the strongest and bravest man I’ve ever known, any of us has ever known, led through the village like a beast, and that heartless, crass, bullying Ralph holding the rope – I just wanted the heavens to fall in and kill us all.”

These were strong words, but the others agreed. Of all the things the gentry could do to peasants – starve them, cheat them, assault them, rob them – the worst was to humiliate them. They never forgot it.

Suddenly Gwenda wanted the neighbours to leave. The sun had gone down and it was dusk outside. She needed to lie down and close her eyes and be alone with her thoughts. She did not want to talk even to Wulfric. She was about to ask everyone to go when Nate Reeve walked in.

The room went quiet.

“What do you want?” Gwenda said.

“I bring you good news,” he said brightly.

She made a sour face. “There can be no good news for us today.”