World Without End

It was a low room almost completely filled by a bedstead. Ralph stood by the window in his undershirt. His boots and outer clothing were piled on the floor. His face was flushed with drink, but his speech was clear and steady. “Take off your dress,” he said with a smile of anticipation.

Gwenda said: “No.”

He looked startled.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” she said.

“Why did you tell Alan you wanted to see me in private?”

“So that you would think I was willing to have sex with you.”

“But if not… why are you here?”

“To beg you to ask the king for a pardon.”

“But you’re not offering yourself to me?”

“Why would I? I did that once before, and you broke your word. You reneged on the deal. I gave you my body, but you didn’t give my husband his land.” She allowed the contempt she felt to be heard in her tone of voice. “You would do the same again. Your honour is nothing. You remind me of my father.”

Ralph coloured. It was an insult to tell an earl that he could not be trusted, and even more offensive to compare him with a landless labourer who trapped squirrels in the woods. Angrily he said: “Do you imagine this is the way to persuade me?”

“No. But you’re going get that pardon.”

“Why?”

“Because Sam is your son.”

Ralph stared at her for a moment. “Hah,” he said contemptuously. “As if I would believe that.”

“He is your son,” she repeated.

“You can’t prove that.”

“No, I can’t,” she said. “But you know that I lay with you at the Bell in Kingsbridge nine months before Sam was born. True, I lay with Wulfric, too. So which of you is his father? Look at the boy! He has some of Wulfric’s ma

She saw a thoughtful expression appear on Ralph’s face, and knew that something she had said had hit the mark.

“Most of all, think about his character,” she said, pressing home. “You heard the evidence at the trial. Sam didn’t just fight Jo

Ralph was staring at her with a horrified look.

“Where does the killer instinct come from, Ralph?” she said. “Look in your own black heart. Sam is your son. And, God forgive me, he’s mine.”

When Gwenda had gone, Ralph sat on the bed in the little chamber, staring at the flame of the candle. Was it possible? Gwenda would lie, if it suited her, of course; there was no question of trusting her. But Sam could be Ralph’s son as easily as Wulfric’s. They had both lain with Gwenda at the crucial time. The truth might never be known for sure.

Even the possibility that Sam might be his child was enough to fill Ralph’s heart with dread. Was he about to hang his own son? The dreadful punishment he had devised for Wulfric might be inflicted on himself.

It was already night. The hanging would take place at dawn. Ralph did not have long to decide.

He picked up the candle and left the little room. He had intended to satisfy a carnal desire there. Instead he had been given the shock of his life.

He went outside and crossed the courtyard to the cell block. On the ground floor of the building were offices for the sheriff’s deputies. He went inside and spoke to the man on guard duty. “I want to see the murderer, Sam Wigleigh.”

“Very good, my lord,” the jailer said. “I’ll show you the way.” He led Ralph into the next room, carrying a lamp.

There was a grating set in the floor, and a bad smell. Ralph looked down through the grating. The cell was nine or ten feet deep with stone walls and a dirt floor. There was no furniture: Sam sat on the floor with his back against the wall. Beside him was a wooden jug, presumably containing water. A small hole in the floor appeared to be the toilet. Sam glanced up, then looked away indifferently.

“Open up,” said Ralph.

The jailer unlocked the grating with a key. It swung up on a hinge.

“I want to go down.”

The jailer was surprised, but did not dare argue with an earl. He picked up a ladder that was leaning against the wall and slid it into the cell. “Take care, please, my lord,” he said nervously. “Remember, the villain has nothing to lose.”

Ralph climbed down, carrying his candle. The smell was disgusting, but he hardly cared. He reached the foot of the ladder and turned.

Sam looked up at him resentfully and said: “What do you want?”

Ralph stared at him. He crouched down and held the candle close to Sam’s face, studying his features, trying to compare them with the face he saw when he looked into a mirror.

“What is it?” Sam said, spooked by Ralph’s intense stare.

Ralph did not answer. Was this his own child? It could be, he thought. It could easily be. Sam was a good-looking boy, and Ralph had been called handsome in his youth, before his nose got broken. In court earlier, Ralph had thought that something about Sam’s face rang a bell, and now he concentrated, searching his memory, trying to think who Sam reminded him of. That straight nose, the dark-eyed gaze, the head of thick hair that girls would envy…

Then he got it.

Sam looked like Ralph’s mother, the late Lady Maud.

“Dear God,” he said, and it came out as a whisper.

“What?” said Sam, his voice betraying fear. “What is this?”

Ralph had to say something. “Your mother…” he began, then he trailed off. His throat was constricted with emotion, making it difficult for him to get words out. He tried again. “Your mother has pleaded for you… most eloquently.”

Sam looked wary and said nothing. He thought Ralph had come here to mock him.

“Tell me,” Ralph said. “When you hit Jo

“Of course I meant to kill him,” Sam said. “He was trying to take me in.”

Ralph nodded. “I would have felt the same,” he said. He paused, staring at Sam, then said it again. “I would have felt the same.”

He stood up, turned to the ladder, hesitated, then turned back and put the candle on the ground next to Sam. Then he climbed up.

The jailer replaced the grating and locked it.

Ralph said to him: “There will be no hanging. The prisoner will be pardoned. I will speak to the sheriff immediately.”

As he left the room, the jailer sneezed.