Ken Follett - World Without End

Ralph stared at him. He crouched down and held the candle close to Sam’s face, studying his features, trying to compare them with the face he saw when he looked into a mirror.

“What is it?” Sam said, spooked by Ralph’s intense stare.

Ralph did not answer. Was this his own child? It could be, he thought. It could easily be. Sam was a good-looking boy, and Ralph had been called handsome in his youth, before his nose got broken. In court earlier, Ralph had thought that something about Sam’s face rang a bell, and now he concentrated, searching his memory, trying to think who Sam reminded him of. That straight nose, the dark-eyed gaze, the head of thick hair that girls would envy…

Then he got it.

Sam looked like Ralph’s mother, the late Lady Maud.

“Dear God,” he said, and it came out as a whisper.

“What?” said Sam, his voice betraying fear. “What is this?”

Ralph had to say something. “Your mother…” he began, then he trailed off. His throat was constricted with emotion, making it difficult for him to get words out. He tried again. “Your mother has pleaded for you… most eloquently.”

Sam looked wary and said nothing. He thought Ralph had come here to mock him.

“Tell me,” Ralph said. “When you hit Jonno with that spade… did you mean to kill him? You can be honest, you have nothing more to fear.”

“Of course I meant to kill him,” Sam said. “He was trying to take me in.”

Ralph nodded. “I would have felt the same,” he said. He paused, staring at Sam, then said it again. “I would have felt the same.”

He stood up, turned to the ladder, hesitated, then turned back and put the candle on the ground next to Sam. Then he climbed up.

The jailer replaced the grating and locked it.

Ralph said to him: “There will be no hanging. The prisoner will be pardoned. I will speak to the sheriff immediately.”

As he left the room, the jailer sneezed.

When Merthin and Caris returned from Shiring to Kingsbridge, they found that Lolla had gone missing.

Their long-standing house servants, Arn and Em, were waiting at the garden gate and looked as if they had been stationed there all day. Em began to speak but burst into incoherent sobs, and Arn had to break the news. “We can’t find Lolla,” he said, distraught. “We don’t know where she is.”

At first Merthin misunderstood. “She’ll be here by supper time,” he said. “Don’t upset yourself, Em.”

“But she didn’t come home last night, nor the night before,” Arn said.

Merthin realized then what they meant. She had run away. A blast of fear like a winter wind chilled his skin and gripped his heart. She was only sixteen. For a moment he could not think rationally. He just pictured her, half way between child and adult, with the intense dark-brown eyes and sensual mouth of her mother, and an expression of blithe false confidence.

When rationality returned to him, he asked himself what had gone wrong. He had been leaving Lolla in the care of Arn and Em for a few days at a time ever since she was five years old, and she had never come to any harm. Had something changed?

He realized that he had hardly spoken to her since Easter Sunday, two weeks ago, when he had taken her by the arm and pulled her away from her disreputable friends outside the White Horse. She had sulked upstairs while the family ate dinner, and had not emerged even when Sam was arrested. She had still been in a snit a few days later, when Merthin and Caris had kissed her goodbye and set out for Shiring.

Guilt stabbed him. He had treated her harshly, and driven her away. Was Silvia’s ghost watching, and despising him for his failure to care for their daughter?

The thought of Lolla’s disreputable friends came back to him. “That fellow Jake Riley is behind this,” he said. “Have you spoken to him, Arn?”

“No, master.”

“I’d better do that right away. Do you know where he lives?”

“He lodges next to the fishmonger’s behind St Paul’s church.”

Caris said to Merthin: “I’ll go with you.”

They crossed the bridge back into the city and headed west. The parish of St Paul took in the industrial premises along the waterfront: abattoirs, leather tanners, sawmills, manufactories, and the dyers that had sprung up like September mushrooms since the invention of Kingsbridge Scarlet. Merthin headed for the squat tower of St Paul’s church, visible over the low roofs of the houses. He found the fish shop by smell, and knocked at a large, run-down house next door.

It was opened by Sal Sawyers, poor widow of a jobbing carpenter who had died in the plague. “Jake comes and goes, alderman,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for a week. He can do as he pleases, so long as he pays the rent.”

Caris said: “When he left, was Lolla with him?”

Sal warily looked sideways at Merthin. “I don’t like to criticize,” she said.

Merthin said: “Please just tell me what you know. I won’t be offended.”

“She’s usually with him. She does anything Jake wants, I’ll say no more than that. If you look for him, you’ll find her.”

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“He never says.”

“Can you think of anyone who might know?”

“He doesn’t bring his friends here, except for her. But I believe his pals are usually to be found at the White Horse.”

Merthin nodded. “We’ll try there. Thank you, Sal.”

“She’ll be all right,” Sal said. “She’s just going through a wild phase.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Merthin and Caris retraced their steps until they came to the White Horse, on the riverside near the bridge. Merthin recalled the orgy he had witnessed here at the height of the plague, when the dying Davey Whitehorse had given away all his ale. The place had stood empty for several years afterwards, but now it was once again a busy tavern. Merthin often wondered why it was popular. The rooms were cramped and dirty, and there were frequent fights. About once a year someone was killed there.

They went into a smoky parlour. It was mid-afternoon, but there were a dozen or so desultory drinkers sitting on benches. A small group was clustered around a backgammon board, and several small piles of silver pennies on the table indicated that money was being wagered on the outcome. A red-cheeked prostitute called Joy looked up hopefully at the newcomers, then saw who they were and relapsed into bored indolence. In a corner, a man was showing a woman an expensive-looking coat, apparently offering it for sale; but when he saw Merthin he folded the garment quickly and put it out of sight, and Merthin guessed it was stolen property.

The landlord, Evan, was eating a late dinner of fried bacon. He stood up, wiping his hands on his tunic, and said nervously: “Good day to you, alderman – an honour to have you in the house. May I draw you a pot of ale?”

“I’m looking for my daughter, Lolla,” Merthin said briskly.

“I haven’t seen her for a week,” said Evan.

Sal had said exactly the same about Jake, Merthin recalled. He said to Evan: “She may be with Jake Riley.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that they’re friendly,” Evan said tactfully. “He’s been gone about the same length of time.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He’s a close-lipped type, is Jake,” said Evan. “If you asked him how far it was to Shiring, he’d shake his head and frown and say it was none of his business to know such things.”

The whore, Joy, had been listening to the conversation, and now she chipped in. “He’s open-handed, though,” she said. “Fair’s fair.”

Merthin gave her a hard look. “And where does his money come from?”