World Without End

They set off early next morning with a small entourage. It was harvest time and, in the North Field, the men were reaping tall stalks of rye while the women followed behind, binding the sheaves.

Lately Ralph had spent more time worrying about the harvest than about Philippa. This was not because of the weather, which was fine, but the plague. He had too few tenants and almost no labourers. Many had been stolen from him by unscrupulous landlords such as Prioress Caris, who seduced other lords’ men by offering high wages and attractive tenancies. In desperation, Ralph had given some of his serfs free tenancies, which meant they had no obligation to work on his land – an arrangement that left Ralph denuded of labour at harvest time. In consequence, it was likely that some of his crops would rot in the fields.

However, he felt his troubles would be over if he could marry Philippa. He would have ten times the land he now controlled, plus income from a dozen other sources including courts, forests, markets and mills. And his family would be restored to its rightful place in the nobility. Sir Gerald would be the father of an earl before he died.

He wondered again what Gregory had in mind. Philippa had set herself a challenging task, in defying the formidable will and powerful co

They arrived at Earlscastle shortly before noon. The sound of the rooks quarrelling on the battlements always reminded Ralph of the time he had spent here as a squire in the service of Earl Roland – the happiest days of his life, he sometimes thought. But the place was very quiet now, without an earl. There were no squires playing violent games in the lower compound, no warhorses snorting and stamping as they were groomed and exercised outside the stables, no men-at-arms throwing dice on the steps of the keep.

Philippa was in the old-fashioned hall with Odila and a handful of female attendants. Mother and daughter were working on a tapestry together, sitting side by side on a bench in front of the loom. The picture looked as if it would show a forest scene, when finished. Philippa was weaving brown thread for the tree trunks and Odila bright green for the leaves.

“Very nice, but it needs more life,” Ralph said, making his voice cheerful and friendly. “A few birds and rabbits, and maybe some dogs chasing a deer.”

Philippa was as immune to his charm as ever. She stood up and stepped back, away from him. The girl did the same. Ralph noticed that mother and daughter were equal in height. Philippa said: “Why have you come here?”

Have it your way, Ralph thought resentfully. He half turned away from her. “Sir Gregory here has something to say to you,” he said, and he went to a window and looked out, as if bored.

Gregory greeted the two women formally, and said he hoped he was not intruding on them. It was rubbish – he did not give a hoot for their privacy – but the courtesy seemed to mollify Philippa, who invited him to sit down. Then he said: “The king is a

Philippa bowed her head. “I am very sorry indeed to have displeased his majesty.”

“He wishes to reward his loyal servant, Sir Ralph, by making him earl of Shiring. At the same time, he will be providing a young, vigorous husband for you, and a good stepfather for your daughter.” Philippa shuddered, but Gregory ignored that. “He is mystified by your stubborn defiance.”

Philippa looked scared, as well she might. Things would have been different if she had had a brother or an uncle to stick up for her, but the plague had wiped out her family. As a woman without male relations, she had no one to defend her from the king’s wrath. “What will he do?” she said apprehensively.

“He has not mentioned the word ‘treason’… yet.”

Ralph was not sure Philippa could legally be accused of treason, but all the same the threat caused her to turn pale.

Gregory went on: “He has asked me, in the first instance, to reason with you.”

Philippa said: “Of course, the king sees marriage as a political matter-”

“It is political,” Gregory interrupted. “If your beautiful daughter, here, were to fancy herself in love with the charming son of a scullery maid, you would say to her, as I say to you, that noblewomen may not marry whomever they fancy; and you would lock her in her room and have the boy flogged outside her window until he renounced her for ever.”

Philippa looked affronted. She did not like being lectured on the duties of her station by a mere lawyer. “I understand the obligations of an aristocratic widow,” she said haughtily. “I am a countess, my grandmother was a countess, and my sister was a countess until she died of the plague. But marriage is not just politics. It is also a matter of the heart. We women throw ourselves on the mercy of the men who are our lords and masters, and who have the duty of wisely deciding our fate; and we beg that what we feel in our hearts be not entirely ignored. Such pleas are usually heard.”

She was upset, Ralph could see, but still in control, still full of contempt. That word ‘wisely’ had a sarcastic sting.

“In normal times, perhaps you would be right, but these are strange days,” Gregory replied. “Usually, when the king looks around him for someone worthy of an earldom, he sees a dozen wise, strong, vigorous men, loyal to him and keen to serve him in any way they can, any of whom he could appoint to the title with confidence. But now that so many of the best men have been struck down by the plague, the king is like a housewife who goes to the fishmonger at the end of the afternoon – forced to take whatever is left on the slab.”

Ralph saw the force of the argument, but also felt insulted. However, he pretended not to notice.

Philippa changed her tack. She waved a servant over and said: “Bring us a jug of the best Gascon wine, please. And Sir Gregory will be having di

“Yes, my lady.”

Gregory said: “You’re most kind, countess.”

Philippa was incapable of coquetry. To pretend that she was simply being hospitable, with no ulterior motive, was beyond her. She returned straight to the subject. “Sir Gregory, I have to tell you that my heart, my soul and my entire being revolt against the prospect of marrying Sir Ralph Fitzgerald.”

“But why?” said Gregory. “He’s a man like any other.”

“No, he’s not,” she said.

They were speaking about Ralph as if he were not there, in a way that he found deeply offensive. But Philippa was desperate, and would say anything; and he was curious to know just what it was about him that she disliked so much.

She paused, collecting her thoughts. “If I say rapist, torturer, murderer… the words just seem too abstract.”

Ralph was taken aback. He did not think of himself that way. Of course, he had tortured people in the king’s service, and he had raped A

Philippa went on: “Human beings have within them something that prevents them from doing such things. It is the ability… no, the compulsion to feel another’s pain. We can’t help it. You, Sir Gregory, could not rape a woman, because you would feel her grief and agony, you would suffer with her, and this would compel you to relent. You could not torture or murder for the same reason. One who lacks the faculty to feel another’s pain is not a man, even though he may walk on two legs and speak English.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, but even so Ralph heard her clearly. “And I will not lie in bed with an animal.”

Ralph burst out: “I am not an animal!”