When it was Ralph’s turn to speak, he told the story that had been disbelieved by the jury of indictment, and he told it in a low voice, stumbling over his words. Alan Fernhill did better, saying firmly that Annet had been eager to lie with Ralph, and that the two lovers had asked him to make himself scarce while they enjoyed one another’s favours beside the stream. But the jury did not believe him: Ralph could tell by their faces. He began to feel almost bored by the proceedings, wishing they would be over, and his fate sealed.

As Alan stepped back, Ralph was conscious of a new figure at his shoulder, and a low voice said: “Listen to me.”

Ralph glanced behind and saw Father Jerome, the earl’s clerk, and the thought crossed his mind that a court such as this had no power over priests, even if they committed crimes.

The justice turned to the jury and asked for their verdict.

Father Jerome murmured: “Your horses stand outside, saddled and ready to go.”

Ralph froze. Was he hearing correctly? He turned and said: “What?”

“Run for it.”

Ralph looked behind him. A hundred men barred his way to the door, many of them armed. “It’s not possible.”

“Use the side door,” Jerome said, indicating with a slight inclination of his head the entrance through which the justice had come. Ralph saw immediately that only the Wigleigh people stood between him and the side door.

The foreman of the jury, Sir Herbert, stood up, looking self-important.

Ralph caught the eye of Alan Fernhill, standing beside him. Alan had heard everything and looked expectant.

“Go now!” whispered Jerome.

Ralph put his hand on his sword.

“We find Lord Ralph of Wigleigh guilty of rape,” said the foreman.

Ralph drew his sword. Waving it in the air, he dashed for the door.

There was a second of stunned silence, then everyone shouted at once. But Ralph was the one man in the room with a weapon in his hand, and he knew it would take the others a moment to draw.

Only Wulfric tried to stop him, stepping into his path heedlessly, not even looking scared, just determined. Ralph raised his sword and brought it down, as hard as he could, aiming at the middle of Wulfric’s skull, intending to cleave it in two. But Wulfric stepped nimbly back and to the side. Nevertheless, the point of the sword sliced through the left side of his face, cutting it open from the temple to the jaw. Wulfric cried out in sudden agony, and his hands flew to his cheek; and then Ralph was past him.

He flung open the door, stepped through and turned. Alan Fernhill dashed past him. The foreman of the jury was close behind Alan, sword drawn and raised. Ralph experienced a moment of pure elation. This was how things should be settled – by a fight, not a discussion. Win or lose, he preferred it this way.

With a yell of exhilaration he thrust at Sir Herbert. The point of his sword touched the foreman’s chest, ripping through his leather tunic; but the man was too distant for the blow to penetrate the ribs, and it merely cut his skin then glanced off the bones. All the same, Herbert cried out – more in fear than pain – and stumbled back, colliding with those behind him. Ralph slammed the door on them.

He found himself in a passage that ran the length of the house, with a door to the market square at one end and another to the stable yard at the other. Where were the horses? Jerome had said only that they were outside. Alan was already running for the back door, so Ralph followed. As they burst into the yard, a hubbub behind them told him that the courtroom door had been opened and the crowd was after him.

There was no sign of their horses in the yard.

Ralph ran under the arch that led to the front.

There stood the most welcome sight in the world: his hunter, Griff, saddled and pawing the ground, with Alan’s two-year-old Fletch beside him, both held by a barefoot stable boy with his mouth full of bread.

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?

39

“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.”