Ralph shook his head sadly. “We’re not going to fight,” he said. Those days are over.’

The door opened and John Constable stepped in. “The sheriff is outside,” he announced.

Maud put her arms around Ralph and clung to him, weeping. After a few moments, Gerald gently pulled her away.

John walked out and Ralph followed him. He was surprised not to be tied up or chained. He had escaped once before – were they not afraid he would do the same again? He walked through the constable’s office and out into the open air. His family came behind.

It must have been raining earlier, for now bright sunshine reflected off the wet street and Ralph had to screw up his eyes against the glare. As he adjusted to the light he recognized his own horse, Griff, saddled ready. The sight gladdened his heart. He took the reins and spoke into the horse’s ear. “You never betrayed me, boy, did you, eh?” The horse blew through its nostrils and stamped, pleased to have its master back.

The sheriff and several deputies were waiting, mounted and armed to the teeth: they were going to let Ralph ride to Shiring, but they were not taking any risks with him. There would be no escape this time, he realized.

Then he looked again. The sheriff was here, but the other armed riders were not his deputies. They were Earl Roland’s men. And there was the earl himself, black-haired and black-bearded, mounted on a grey charger. What was he doing here?

Without dismounting, the earl leaned down and handed a rolled sheet of parchment to John Constable. “Read that, if you can,” Roland said, speaking as always out of one side of his mouth. “It is a writ from the king. All the prisoners in the county are pardoned and freed – on condition they come with me to join the king’s army.”

Gerald shouted: “Hoorah!” Maud burst into tears. Merthin looked over the constable’s shoulder and read the writ.

Ralph looked at Alan, who said: “What does it mean?”

“It means we’re free!” Ralph said.

John Constable said: “It does, if I read it aright.” He looked at the sheriff. “Do you confirm this?”

“I do,” said the sheriff.

“Then there is no more to be said. These men are free to go with the earl.” The constable rolled up the parchment.

Ralph looked at his brother. Merthin was weeping. Were they tears of joy, or frustration?

He was given no more time to wonder. “Come on,” said Roland impatiently. “We’ve completed the formalities, let’s get on the road. The king is in France – we’ve a long way to go!” He wheeled his horse and rode down the main street.

Ralph kicked Griffs sides, and the horse eagerly broke into a trot and followed the earl.

41

“You can’t win,” Gregory Longfellow said to Prior Godwyn, sitting in the large chair in the hall of the prior’s house. “The king is going to grant a borough charter to Kingsbridge.”

Godwyn stared at him. This was the lawyer who had won two cases for him at the royal court, one against the earl and the other against the alderman. If such a champion declared himself beaten then, surely, defeat must be inevitable.

It was not to be borne. If Kingsbridge became a royal borough, the priory would be sidelined. For hundreds of years, the prior had ruled the town. In Godwyn’s eyes, the town existed only to serve the priory, which served God. Now the priory would become just part of a town ruled by merchants, serving the god of Money. And the Book of Life would show that the prior who let this happen was Godwyn.

Dismayed, he said: “Are you quite certain?”

“I’m always quite certain,” said Gregory.

Godwyn was aggravated. Gregory’s cocksure attitude was all very well when he was sneering at your opponents, but when he turned it on you it became infuriating. Angrily, Godwyn said: “You came all the way to Kingsbridge to tell me you can’t do what I asked for?”

“And to collect my fee,” Gregory said blithely.

Godwyn wished he could have him thrown into the fishpond in his London clothes.

It was the Saturday of Whitsun weekend, the day before the opening of the Fleece Fair. Outside, on the green to the west of the cathedral, hundreds of traders were setting up their stalls, and their conversations and cries to one another combined to make a roar that could be heard here in the hall of the prior’s house, where Godwyn and Gregory sat at either end of the dining table.

Philemon, sitting on the bench at the side, said to Gregory: “Perhaps you could explain to the lord prior how you have reached this pessimistic conclusion?” He was developing a tone of voice that sounded half obsequious and half contemptuous. Godwyn was not sure he liked it.

Gregory did not react to the tone. “Of course,” he said. “The king is in France.”

Godwyn said: “He has been there for almost a year, but nothing much has happened.”

“You will hear of action this winter.”

“Why?”

“You must have heard of the French raids on our southern ports.”

“I have,” Philemon said. “They say the French sailors raped nuns at Canterbury.”

“We always claim the enemy has raped nuns,” Gregory said with condescension. “It encourages the common people to support the war. But they did burn Portsmouth. And there has been serious disruption to shipping. You may have noticed a fall in the price you get for your wool.”

“We certainly have.”

“That’s partly due to the difficulty of shipping it to Flanders. And the price you’re paying for wine from Bordeaux is up for the same reason.”

We couldn’t afford wine at the old prices, Godwyn thought; but he did not say so.

Gregory went on: “These raids appear to be no more than preliminaries. The French are assembling an invasion fleet. Our spies say they already have more than two hundred vessels anchored in the mouth of the Zwyn river.”

Godwyn noted that Gregory talked of ‘our spies’ as if he were part of the government. In reality he was only retailing gossip. All the same, it sounded convincing. “But what does the French war have to do with whether or not Kingsbridge becomes a borough?”

“Taxes. The king needs money. The parish guild has argued that the town will be more prosperous, and therefore will pay more tax, if the merchants are freed from the control of the priory.”

“And the king believes this?”

“It has proved true before. That’s why kings create boroughs. Boroughs generate trade, and trade produces tax revenue.”

Money again, Godwyn thought with disgust. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Not in London. I advise you to concentrate on the Kingsbridge end. Can you persuade the parish guild to withdraw the application? What’s the old alderman like? Can he be bribed?”

“My uncle Edmund? He’s in poor health, and fading fast. But his daughter, my cousin Caris, is the real driving force behind this.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her at the trial. Rather arrogant, I felt.”

There was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Godwyn thought sourly. “She’s a witch,” he said.

“Is she, now? That might help.”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

Philemon said: “As a matter of fact, lord prior, there have been rumours.”

Gregory raised his eyebrows. “Interesting!”

Philemon went on: “She is a great friend of a wise woman called Mattie, who mixes potions for gullible townspeople.”

Godwyn was about to pour scorn on the witchcraft idea, then he decided to shut up. Any weapon that might shoot down the notion of a borough charter must surely have been sent by God. Perhaps Caris does use witchcraft, he thought; who knows?

Gregory said: “I see you hesitate. Of course, if you are fond of your cousin…”

“I was when we were younger,” Godwyn said, and he felt a pang of regret for the old simplicities. “But I regret to say she has not grown into a God-fearing woman.”

“In that case…”

“I must investigate this,” Godwyn said.