Ken Follett - World Without End

Nate looked at Gwenda. “I didn’t know she had a wheezy chest.”

“In the winter,” Gwenda said.

“A herb?” Nate said sceptically. “There’s enough here to dose all Kingsbridge. And you’ve been weeding it, to get more.”

“I like to do things properly,” Davey said.

It was a feeble response, and Nate ignored it. “This is an unauthorized crop,” he said. “First of all, serfs need permission for what they plant – they can’t go raising anything they like. That would lead to total chaos. Secondly, they can’t cultivate the lord’s forest, even by planting herbs.”

None of them had any answer to that. Those were the rules. It was frustrating: often peasants knew they could make money by growing non-standard crops that were in demand and fetched high prices: hemp for rope, flax for expensive underclothing, or cherries to delight rich ladies. But many lords and their bailiffs refused permission, out of instinctive conservatism.

Nate’s expression was venomous. “One son a runaway and a murderer,” he said. “The other defies his lord. What a family.”

He was entitled to feel angry, Gwenda thought. Sam had killed Jonno and got away with it. Nate would undoubtedly hate her family to his dying day.

Nate bent down and roughly pulled a plant out of the ground. “This will come before the manor court,” he said with satisfaction; and he turned and limped away through the trees.

Gwenda and her family followed. Davey was undaunted. “Nate will impose a fine, and I’ll pay it,” he said. “I’ll still make money.”

“What if he orders the crop destroyed?” Gwenda said.

“How?”

“It could be burned, or trampled.”

Wulfric put in: “Nate wouldn’t do that. The village wouldn’t stand for it. A fine is the traditional way to deal with this.”

Gwenda said: “I just worry about what Earl Ralph will say.”

Davey made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. “No reason why the earl should find out about a little thing like this.”

“Ralph takes a special interest in our family.”

“Yes, he does,” Davey said thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand what made him pardon Sam.”

The boy was not stupid. Gwenda said: “Perhaps Lady Philippa persuaded him.”

Sam said: “She remembers you, mother. She told me that when I was at Merthin’s house.”

“I must have done something to endear myself to her,” Gwenda said, extemporising. “Or it could be that she just felt compassion, one mother for another.” It was not much of a story, but Gwenda did not have a better one.

In the days since Sam had been released they had had several conversations about what might account for Ralph’s pardon. Gwenda just pretended to be as perplexed as everyone else. Fortunately Wulfric had never been the suspicious type.

They reached their house. Wulfric looked at the sky, said there was another good hour of light left and went into the garden to finish sowing peas. Sam volunteered to help him. Gwenda sat down to mend a rip in Wulfric’s hose. Davey sat opposite Gwenda and said: “I’ve got another secret to tell you.”

She smiled. She did not mind him having a secret if he told his mother. “Go on.”

“I have fallen in love.”

“That’s wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I’m very happy for you. What’s she like?”

“She’s beautiful.”

Gwenda had been speculating, before she found out about the madder, that Davey might be meeting a girl from another village. Her intuition had been right. “I had a feeling about this,” she said.

“Did you?” He seemed anxious.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. It just occurred to me that you might be meeting someone.”

“We go to the clearing where I’m growing the madder. That’s sort of where it started.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“More than a year.”

“It’s serious, then.”

“I want to marry her.”

“I’m so pleased.” She looked fondly at him. “You’re still only twenty, but that’s old enough if you’ve found the right person.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“What village is she from?”

“This one, Wigleigh.”

“Oh?” Gwenda was surprised. She had not been able to think of a likely girl here. “Who is she?”

“Mother, it’s Amabel.”

“No!”

“Don’t shout.”

“Not Annet’s daughter!”

“You’re not to be angry.”

“Not to be angry!” Gwenda struggled to calm herself. She was as shocked as if she had been slapped. She took several deep breaths. “Listen to me,” she said. “We have been at odds with that family for more than twenty years. That cow Annet broke your father’s heart and never left him alone afterwards.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all in the past.”

“It’s not – Annet still flirts with your father every chance she gets!”

“That’s your problem, not ours.”

Gwenda stood up, her sewing falling from her lap. “How can you do this to me? That bitch would be part of our family! My grandchildren would be her grandchildren. She’d be in and out of this house all the time, making a fool of your father with her coquettish ways and then laughing at me.”

“I’m not going to marry Annet.”

“Amabel will be just as bad. Look at her – she’s just like her mother!”

“She’s not, actually-”

“You can’t do this! I absolutely forbid it!”

“You can’t forbid it, Mother.”

“Oh, yes I can – you’re too young.”

“That won’t last for ever.”

Wulfric’s voice came from the doorway. “What’s all the shouting?”

“Davey says he wants to marry Annet’s daughter – but I won’t permit it.” Gwenda’s voice rose to a shriek. “Never! Never! Never!”

Earl Ralph surprised Nathan Reeve when he said he wanted to look at Davey’s strange crop. Nate mentioned the matter in passing, on a routine visit to Earlscastle. A bit of unlicensed cultivation in the forest was a trivial breach of the rules, regularly dealt with by a fine. Nate was a shallow man, interested in bribes and commissions, and he had little conception of the depth of Ralph’s obsession with Gwenda’s family: his hatred of Wulfric, his lust for Gwenda, and now the likelihood that he was Sam’s real father. So Nate was startled when Ralph said he would inspect the crop next time he was in the neighbourhood.

Ralph rode with Alan Fernhill from Earlscastle to Wigleigh on a fine day between Easter and Whitsun. When they reached the small timber manor house, there was the old housekeeper, Vira, bent and grey now but still hanging on. They ordered her to prepare their dinner, then found Nate and followed him into the forest.

Ralph recognized the plant. He was no farmer, but he knew the difference between one bush and another, and on his travels with the army he had observed many crops that did not grow naturally in England. He leaned down from his saddle and pulled up a handful. “This is called madder,” he said. “I’ve seen it in Flanders. It’s grown for the red dye that has the same name.”

Nate said: “He told me it was a herb called hagwort, used to cure a wheezy chest.”

“I believe it does have medicinal properties, but that’s not why people cultivate it. What will his fine be?”

“A shilling would be the usual amount.”

“It’s not enough.”

Nate looked nervous. “So much trouble is caused, lord, when these customs are flouted. I would rather not-”

“Never mind,” Ralph said. He kicked his horse and trotted through the middle of the clearing, trampling the bushes. “Come on, Alan,” he said. Alan imitated him, and the two of them cantered around in tight circles, flattening the growth. After a few minutes all the shrubs were destroyed.