World Without End

83

The town of Shiring had a carnival air during sessions of the county court. All the i

Earl Ralph was one of the few people who could cross the square quickly. He rode with three knights ahead of him and a handful of servants behind, and his entourage went through the melee like a ploughshare, turning the crowd aside by the force of their momentum and their carelessness for the safety of people in their way.

They rode on up the hill to the sheriff’s castle. In the courtyard they wheeled with a flourish and dismounted. The servants immediately began shouting for ostlers and porters. Ralph liked people to know he had arrived.

He was tense. The son of his old enemy was about to be tried for murder. He was on the brink of the sweetest revenge imaginable, but some part of him feared it might not happen. He was so on edge that he felt slightly ashamed: he would not have wanted his knights to know how much this meant to him. He was careful to conceal, even from Alan Fernhill, how eager he was that Sam should hang. He was afraid something would go wrong at the last minute. No one knew better than he how the machinery of justice could fail: after all, he himself had escaped hanging twice.

He would sit on the judge’s bench during the trial, as was his right, and do his best to make sure there was no upset.

He handed his reins to a groom and looked around. The castle was not a military fortification. It was more like a tavern with a courtyard, though strongly built and well guarded. The sheriff of Shiring could live here safe from the vengeful relatives of the people he arrested. There were basement dungeons in which to keep prisoners, and guest apartments where visiting judges could stay unmolested.

Sheriff Bernard showed Ralph to his room. The sheriff was the king’s representative in the county, responsible for collecting taxes as well as administering justice. The post was lucrative, the salary usefully supplemented by gifts, bribes, and percentages skimmed off the top of fines and forfeited bail money. The relationship between earl and sheriff could be fractious: the earl ranked higher, but the sheriff’s judicial power was independent. Bernard, a rich wool merchant of about Ralph’s age, treated Ralph with an uneasy mixture of camaraderie and deference.

Philippa was waiting for Ralph in the apartment set aside for them. Her long grey hair was tied up in an elaborate headdress, and she wore an expensive coat in drab shades of grey and brown. Her haughty ma

He greeted his sons, Gerry and Roley. He was not sure how to deal with children, and he had never seen much of his own: as babies they had been cared for by women, of course, and now they were at the monks’ school. He addressed them somewhat as if they were squires in his service, giving them orders at one moment and joshing them in a friendly way the next. He would find them easier to talk to when they were older. It did not seem to matter: they regarded him as a hero whatever he did.

“Tomorrow you shall sit on the judge’s bench in the court room,” he said. “I want you to see how justice is done.”

Gerry, the elder, said: “Can we look around the market this afternoon?”

“Yes – get Dickie to go with you.” Dickie was one of the Earlscastle servants. “Here, take some money to spend.” He gave them each a handful of silver pe

The boys went out. Ralph sat down across the room from Philippa. He never touched her, and tried always to keep his distance so that it would not happen by accident. He felt sure that she dressed and acted like an old woman to make sure he was not attracted to her. She also went to church every day.

It was a strange relationship for two people who had once conceived a child together, but they had been stuck in it for years and it would never change. At least it left him free to fondle servant girls and tumble tavern wenches.

However, they had to talk about the children. Philippa had strong views and, over the years, Ralph had realized it was easier to discuss things with her, rather than make unilateral decisions and then have a fight when she disagreed.

Now Ralph said: “Gerald is old enough to be a squire.”

Philippa said: “I agree.”

“Good!” said Ralph, surprised – he had expected an argument.

“I’ve already spoke to David Monmouth about him,” she added.

That explained her willingness. She was one jump ahead. “I see,” he said, playing for time.

“David agrees, and suggests we send him as soon as he is fourteen.”

Gerry was only just thirteen. Philippa was in fact postponing Gerry’s departure by almost a year. But this was not Ralph’s main worry. David, earl of Monmouth, was married to Philippa’s daughter, Odila. “Being a squire is supposed to turn a boy into a man,” Ralph said. “But Gerry will get too easy a ride with David. His stepsister is fond of him – she’ll probably protect him. He could have it too soft.” After a moment’s reflection, he added: “I expect that’s why you want him to go there.”

She did not deny it, but said: “I thought you would be glad to strengthen your alliance with the earl of Monmouth.”

She had a point. David was Ralph’s most important ally in the nobility. Placing Gerry in the Monmouth household would create another bond between the two earls. David might become fond of the boy. In later years, perhaps David’s sons would be squires at Earlscastle. Such family co

“Of course.”

“Well, all right then.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” Philippa stood up.

But Ralph was not finished. “Now what about Roley? He could go too, so that they would be together.”

Philippa did not like this idea at all, Ralph could tell, but she was too clever to contradict him flatly. “Roley’s a bit young,” she said, as if thinking it over. “And he hasn’t properly learned his letters yet.”

“Letters aren’t as important to a nobleman as learning to fight. After all, he is second in line to the earldom. If anything should happen to Gerry…”

“Which God forbid.”

“Amen.”

“All the same, I think he should wait until he’s fourteen.”

“I don’t know. Roley’s always been a bit womanish. Sometimes he reminds me of my brother, Merthin.” He saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She was afraid of letting her baby go, he guessed. He was tempted to insist, just to torture her. But ten was young for a squire. “We’ll see,” he said noncommittally. “He’ll have to be toughened up sooner or later.”

“All in good time,” said Philippa.

The judge, Sir Lewis Abingdon, was not a local man, but a London lawyer from the king’s court, sent on tour to try serious cases in county-courts. He was a beefy type with a pink face and a fair beard. He was also ten years younger than Ralph.

Ralph told himself he should not be surprised. He was now forty-four. Half his own generation had been wiped out by the plague. Nevertheless, he continued to be startled by distinguished and powerful men who were younger than he.

They waited, with Gerry and Roley, in a side chamber at the Courthouse i