2 Merthin was eleven, a year older than his brother Ralph; but, to his intense annoyance, Ralph was taller and stronger. This caused trouble with the parents. Their father, Sir Gerald, was a soldier, and could not conceal his disappointment when Merthin proved unable to lift the heavy lance, or became exhausted before the tree was chopped down, or came home crying after losing a fight. Their mother, Lady Maud, made matters worse, embarrassing Merthin by being over-protective, when what he needed her to do was pretend not to notice. When Father showed his pride in Ralph’s strength, Mother tried to compensate by criticizing Ralph’s stupidity. Ralph was a bit slow on the uptake, but he could not help it, and being nagged about it only made him angry, so that he got into fights with other boys. Both parents were tetchy on the morning of All Hallows’ Day. Father had not wanted to come to Kingsbridge at all. But he had been compelled. He owed money to the priory, and he could not pay. Mother said they would take away his lands: he was lord of three villages near Kingsbridge. Father reminded her that he was directly descended from the Thomas who became earl of Shiring in the year that Archbishop Becket was murdered by King Henry II. That Earl Thomas had been the son of Jack Builder, the architect of Kingsbridge Cathedral, and Lady Aliena of Shiring – a near-legendary couple whose story was told, on long winter evenings, along with the heroic tales of Charlemagne and Roland. With such ancestry, Sir Gerald could not have his land confiscated by any monk, he bellowed, least of all that old woman Prior Anthony. When he started shouting, a look of tired resignation came over Maud’s face, and she turned away – though Merthin had heard her mutter: ‘The Lady Aliena had a brother, Richard, who was no good for anything but fighting.’ Prior Anthony might be an old woman, but he had at least been man enough to complain about Sir Gerald’s unpaid debts. He had gone to Gerald’s overlord, the present earl of Shiring, who happened also to be Gerald’s second cousin. Earl Roland had summoned Gerald to Kingsbridge today to meet with the prior and work out some resolution. Hence Father’s bad temper. Then Father was robbed. He discovered the loss after the All Hallows service. Merthin had enjoyed the drama: the darkness, the weird noises, the music beginning so quietly and then swelling until it seemed to fill the huge church, and finally the slow illumination of candles. He had also noticed, as the lights began to come on, that some people had been taking advantage of the darkness to commit minor sins for which they could now be forgiven: he had seen two monks hastily stop kissing, and a sly merchant remove his hand from the plump breast of a smiling woman who appeared to be someone else’s wife. Merthin was still in an excited mood when they returned to the hospital. As they were waiting for the nuns to serve breakfast, a kitchen boy passed through the room and went up the stairs carrying a tray with a big jug of ale and a platter of hot salt beef. Mother said grumpily: ‘I would think your relative, the earl, might invite us to breakfast with him in his private room. After all, your grandmother was sister to his grandfather.’ Father replied: ‘If you don’t want porridge, we can go to the tavern.’ Merthin’s ears pricked up. He liked tavern breakfasts of new bread and salt butter. But Mother said: ‘We can’t afford it.’ ‘We can,’ Father said, feeling for his purse; and that was when he realized it was gone. At first he looked around the floor, as if it might have fallen; then he noticed the cut ends of the leather thong, and he roared with indignation. Everyone looked at him except Mother, who turned away, and Merthin heard her mutter: ‘That was all the money we had.’ Father glared accusingly at the other guests in the hospital. The long scar that ran from his right temple to his left eye seemed to darken with rage. The room went quiet with tension: an angry knight was dangerous, even one who was evidently down on his luck. Then Mother said: ‘You were robbed in the church, no doubt.’ Merthin guessed that must be right. In the darkness, people had been stealing more than kisses. ‘Sacrilege, too!’ said Father. ‘I expect it happened when you picked up that little girl,’ Mother went on. Her face was twisted, as if she had swallowed something bitter. ‘The thief probably reached around your waist from behind.’ ‘He must be found!’ Father roared. The young monk called Godwyn spoke up. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened, Sir Gerald,’ he said. ‘I will go and tell John Constable right away. He can look out for a poor townsman who has suddenly become rich.’ That seemed to Merthin a very unpromising plan. There were thousands of townspeople and hundreds more visitors. The constable could not observe them all. But Father was slightly mollified. ‘The rogue shall hang!’ he said in a voice a little less loud. ‘And, meanwhile, perhaps you and Lady Maud, and your sons, would do us the honour of sitting at the table that is being set up in front of the altar,’ Godwyn said smoothly. Father grunted. He was pleased, Merthin knew, to be accorded higher status than the mass of guests, who would eat sitting on the floor where they had slept. The moment of potential violence passed, and Merthin relaxed a little; but, as the four of them took their seats, he wondered anxiously what would happen to the family now. His father was a brave soldier – everyone said that. Sir Gerald had fought for the old king at Boroughbridge, where a Lancashire rebel’s sword had given him the scar on his forehead. But he was unlucky. Some knights came home from battle with booty: plundered jewels, a cartload of costly Flemish cloth and Italian silk, or the beloved father of a noble family who could be ransomed for a thousand pounds. Sir Gerald never seemed to get much loot. But he still had to buy weapons, armour, and an expensive warhorse to enable him to do his duty and serve the king; and somehow the rents from his lands were never enough. So, against Mother’s will, he had started to borrow. The kitchen hands brought in a steaming cauldron. Sir Gerald’s family were served first. The porridge was made with barley and flavoured with rosemary and salt. Ralph, who did not understand the family crisis, started to talk excitedly about the All Hallows service, but the glum silence in which his comments were received shut him up. When the porridge was eaten, Merthin went to the altar. Behind it he had stashed his bow and arrows. People would hesitate to steal something from an altar. They might overcome their fears, if the reward were tempting enough, but a homemade bow was not much of a prize; and, sure enough, it was still there. He was proud of it. It was small, of course: to bend a full-size, six-foot bow took all the strength of a grown man. Merthin’s was four foot long, and slender, but in other respects it was just like the standard English longbow that had killed so many Scots mountain men, Welsh rebels, and French knights in armour. Father had not previously commented on the bow, and now he looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Where did you get the stave?’ he said. ‘They’re costly.’ ‘Not this one – it’s too short. A bowyer gave it me.’ Father nodded. ‘Apart from that it’s a perfect stave,’ he said. ‘It’s taken from the inside of the yew, where the sapwood meets the heartwood.’ He pointed to the two different colours. ‘I know,’ Merthin said eagerly. He did not often get the chance to impress his father. ‘The stretchy sapwood is best for the front of the bow, because it pulls back to its original shape; and the hard heartwood is best for the inside of the curve, because it pushes back when the bow is bent inwards.’ ‘Exactly,’ Father said. He handed the bow back. ‘But remember, this is not a nobleman’s weapon. Knights’ sons do not become archers. Give it to some peasant boy.’ Merthin was crestfallen. ‘I haven’t even tried it yet!’ Mother intervened. ‘Let them play,’ she said. ‘They’re only boys.’ ‘True,’ Father said, losing interest. ‘I wonder if those monks would bring us a jug of ale?’ ‘Off you go,’ Mother said. ‘Merthin, take care of your brother.’ Father grunted. ‘More likely to be the other way around.’ Merthin was stung. Father had no idea what went on. Merthin could look after himself, but Ralph on his own would get into fights. However, Merthin knew better than to take issue with his father in this mood, and he left the hospital without saying anything. Ralph trailed behind him. It was a clear, cold November day, and the sky was roofed with high pale-grey cloud. They left the cathedral close and walked down the main street, passing Cookshop Street, Leather Yard and Fish Lane. At the bottom of the hill they crossed the wooden bridge over the river, leaving the old city for the suburb called Newtown. Here the streets of timber houses ran between pastures and gardens. Merthin led the way to a meadow called Lovers’ Field. There, the town constable and his deputies had set up butts – targets for archery. Shooting practice after church was compulsory for all men, by order of the king. Enforcement was not much needed: it was no hardship to loose off a few arrows on a Sunday morning, and a hundred or so of the young men of the town were lining up for their turn, watched by women, children, and men who considered themselves too old, or too dignified, to be archers. Some had their own weapons. For those too poor to afford a bow, John Constable had inexpensive practice bows made of ash or hazel. It was like a feast day. Dick Brewer was selling tankards of ale from a barrel on a cart, and Betty Baxter’s four adolescent daughters were walking around with trays of spiced buns for sale. The wealthier townspeople were done up in fur caps and new shoes, and even the poorer women had dressed their hair and trimmed their cloaks with new braid. Merthin was the only child carrying a bow, and he immediately attracted the attention of other children. They crowded around him and Ralph, the boys asking envious questions, the girls looking admiring or disdainful according to temperament. One of the girls said: ‘How did you know how to make it?’ Merthin recognized her: she had stood near him in the cathedral. She was about a year younger than himself, he thought, and she wore a dress and cloak of expensive, close-woven wool. Merthin usually found girls of his own age tiresome: they giggled a lot and refused to take anything seriously. But this one looked at him and his bow with a frank curiosity that he liked. ‘I just guessed,’ he said. ‘That’s clever. Does it work?’ ‘I haven’t tried it. What’s your name?’ ‘Caris, from the Wooler family. Who are you?’ ‘Merthin. My father is Sir Gerald.’ Merthin pushed back the hood of his cape, reached inside it and took out a coiled bowstring. ‘Why do you keep the string in your hat?’ ‘So it won’t get wet if there’s rain. It’s what the real archers do.’ He attached the twine to the notches at either end of the stave, bending the bow slightly so that the tension would hold the string in place. ‘Are you going to shoot at the targets?’ ‘Yes.’ Another boy said: ‘They won’t let you.’ Merthin looked at him. He was about twelve, tall and thin with big hands and feet. Merthin had seen him last night in the priory hospital with his family: his name was Philemon. He had been hanging around the monks, asking questions and helping to serve supper. ‘Of course they’ll let me,’ Merthin told him. ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ ‘Because you’re too young.’ ‘That’s stupid.’ Even as he spoke, Merthin knew he should not be so sure: adults often were stupid. But Philemon’s assumption of superior knowledge irritated him, especially after he had shown confidence in front of Caris. He left the children and walked over to a group of men waiting to use a target. He recognized one of them: an exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered man called Mark Webber. Mark noticed the bow and spoke to Merthin in a slow, amiable voice. ‘Where did you get that?’ ‘I made it,’ Merthin said proudly. ‘Look at this, Elfric,’ Mark said to his neighbour. ‘He’s made a nice job of it.’ Elfric was a brawny man with a sly look. He gave the bow a cursory glance. ‘It’s too small,’ he said dismissively. ‘That’ll never fire an arrow to penetrate a French knight’s armour.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ Mark said mildly. ‘But I expect the lad’s got a year or two to go before he has to fight the French.’ John Constable called out: ‘We’re ready, let’s get started. Mark Webber, you’re first.’ The giant stepped up to the line. He picked up a stout bow and tested it, bending the thick wood effortlessly. The constable noticed Merthin for the first time. ‘No boys,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ Merthin protested. ‘Never mind why not, just get out of the way.’ Merthin heard some of the other children snigger. ‘There’s no reason for it!’ he said indignantly. ‘I don’t have to give reasons to children,’ John said. ‘All right, Mark, take your shot.’ Merthin was mortified. The oily Philemon had proved him wrong in front of everyone. He turned away from the targets. ‘I told you so,’ said Philemon. ‘Oh, shut up and go away.’ ‘You can’t make me go away,’ said Philemon, who was six inches taller than Merthin. Ralph put in: ‘I could, though.’ Merthin sighed. Ralph was unfailingly loyal, but he did not see that for him to fight Philemon would only make Merthin look like a weakling as well as a fool. ‘I’m leaving anyway,’ said Philemon. ‘I’m going to help Brother Godwyn.’ He walked off. The rest of the children began to drift away, seeking other curiosities. Caris said to Merthin: ‘You could go somewhere else to try the bow.’ She was obviously keen to see what would happen. Merthin looked around. ‘But where?’ If he was seen shooting unsupervised, the bow might be taken from him. ‘We could go into the forest.’ Merthin was surprised. Children were forbidden to go into the forest. Outlaws hid there, men and women who lived by stealing. Children might be stripped of their clothes, or made into slaves, and there were worse dangers that parents only hinted at. Even if they escaped such perils, the children were liable to be flogged by their fathers for breaking the rule. But Caris did not seem to be afraid, and Merthin was reluctant to appear less bold than she. Besides, the constable’s curt dismissal had made him feel defiant. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But we’ll have to make sure no one sees us.’ She had the answer to that. ‘I know a way.’ She walked towards the river. Merthin and Ralph followed. A small three-legged dog tagged along. ‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Merthin asked Caris. ‘He’s not mine,’ she said. ‘But I gave him a piece of mouldy bacon, and now I can’t shake him off.’ They walked along the muddy bank of the river, past warehouses and wharves and barges. Merthin covertly studied this girl who had so effortlessly become the leader. She had a square, determined face, neither pretty nor ugly, and there was mischief in her eyes, which were a greenish colour with brown flecks. Her light-brown hair was done in two plaits, as was the fashion among affluent women. Her clothes were costly, but she wore practical leather boots rather than the embroidered fabric shoes preferred by noble ladies. She turned away from the river and led them through a timber yard, and suddenly they were in scrubby woodland. Merthin felt a pang of unease. Now that he was in the forest, where there might be an outlaw lurking behind any oak tree, he regretted his bravado; but he would be ashamed to back out. They walked on, looking for a clearing big enough for archery. Suddenly Caris spoke in a conspiratorial voice. ‘You see that big holly bush?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘As soon as we’re past it, crouch down with me and keep silent.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You’ll see.’ A moment later Merthin, Ralph and Caris squatted behind the bush. The three-legged dog sat with them and looked hopefully at Caris. Ralph began to ask a question, but Caris hushed him. A minute later a little girl came by. Caris jumped out and grabbed her. The girl screamed. ‘Be quiet!’ Caris said. ‘We’re not far from the road, and we don’t want to be heard. Why are you following us?’ ‘You’ve got my dog, and he won’t come back!’ the child sobbed. ‘I know you, I met you in church this morning,’ Caris said to her in a softer voice. ‘All right, there’s nothing to cry about, we aren’t going to do you any harm. What’s your name?’ ‘Gwenda.’ ‘And the dog?’ ‘Hop.’ Gwenda picked up the dog, and he licked her tears. ‘Well, you’ve got him now. You’d better come with us, in case he runs off again. Besides, you might not be able to find your way back to town on your own.’ They went on. Merthin said: ‘What has eight arms and eleven legs?’ ‘I give up,’ Ralph said immediately. He always did. ‘I know,’ said Caris with a grin. ‘It’s us. Four children and the dog.’ She laughed. ‘That’s good.’ Merthin was pleased. People did not always get his jokes; girls almost never did. A moment later he heard Gwenda explaining it to Ralph: ‘Two arms, and two arms, and two arms, and two arms makes eight,’ she said. ‘Two legs . . .’ They saw no one, which was good. The small number of people who had legitimate business in the forest – woodcutters, charcoal burners, iron smelters – would not be working today, and it would be unusual to see an aristocratic hunting party on a Sunday. Anyone they met was likely to be an outlaw. But the chances were slim. It was a big forest, stretching for many miles. Merthin had never travelled far enough to see the end of it. They came to a wide clearing and Merthin said: ‘This will do.’ There was an oak tree with a broad trunk on the far edge, about fifty feet away. Merthin stood side-on to the target, as he had seen the men do. He took out one of his three arrows and fitted the notched end to the bowstring. The arrows had been as difficult to make as the bow. The wood was ash, and they had goose-feather flights. He had not been able to get iron for the points, so he had simply sharpened the ends then scorched the wood to harden it. He sighted on the tree, then pulled back on the bowstring. It took a great effort. He released the arrow. It fell to the ground well short of the target. Hop the dog scampered across the clearing to fetch it. Merthin was taken aback. He had expected the arrow to go winging through the air and embed its point in the tree. He realized that he had not bent the bow sufficiently. He tried the bow in his right hand and the arrow in his left. He was unusual in this respect, that he was neither right-handed nor left-handed, but a mixture. With the second arrow, he pulled on the bowstring and pushed the bow with all his might, and succeeded in bending them farther than before. This time, the arrow almost reached the tree. For his third shot he aimed the bow upwards, hoping the arrow would fly through the air in an arc and come down into the trunk. But he overcompensated, and the arrow went into the branches, and fell to the ground amid a flurry of dry brown leaves. Merthin was embarrassed. Archery was more difficult than he had imagined. The bow was probably all right, he guessed: the problem was his own proficiency, or lack of it. Once again, Caris seemed not to notice his discomfiture. ‘Let me have a go,’ she said. ‘Girls can’t shoot,’ Ralph said, and he snatched the bow from Merthin. Standing sideways-on to the target, as Merthin had, he did not shoot straight away, but flexed the bow several times, getting the feel of it. Like Merthin, he found it harder than he had at first expected, but after a few moments he seemed to get the hang of it. Hop had dropped all three arrows at Gwenda’s feet, and now the little girl picked them up and handed them to Ralph. He took aim without drawing the bow, sighting the arrow at the tree trunk, while there was no pressure on his arms. Merthin realized he should have done the same. Why did these things come so naturally to Ralph, who could never answer a riddle? Ralph drew the bow, not effortlessly but with a fluid motion, seeming to take the strain with his thighs. He released the arrow and it hit the trunk of the oak tree, sinking an inch or more into the soft outer wood. Ralph laughed triumphantly. Hop scampered after the arrow. When he reached the tree he stopped, baffled. Ralph was drawing the bow again. Merthin realized what he was intending to do. ‘Don’t—’ he said, but he was a moment too late. Ralph shot at the dog. The arrow hit the back of its neck and sunk in. Hop fell forward and lay twitching. Gwenda screamed. Caris said: ‘Oh, no!’ The two girls ran to the dog. Ralph was grinning. ‘What about that?’ he said proudly. ‘You shot her dog!’ Merthin said angrily. ‘Doesn’t matter – it only had three legs.’ ‘The little girl was fond of it, you idiot. Look at her crying.’ ‘You’re just jealous because you can’t shoot.’ Something caught Ralph’s eye. With a smooth movement he notched another arrow, swept the bow round in an arc and fired while it was still moving. Merthin did not see what he was shooting at until the arrow met its target, and a fat hare jumped into the air with the shaft sticking deep into its hindquarters. Merthin could not hide his admiration. Even with practice, not everyone could hit a running hare. Ralph had a natural gift. Merthin was jealous, although he would never admit it. He longed to be a knight, bold and strong, and fight for the king as his father did; and it dismayed him when he turned out to be hopeless at things such as archery. Ralph found a stone and crushed the hare’s skull, putting it out of its misery. Merthin knelt beside the two girls and Hop. The dog was not breathing. Caris gently drew the arrow out of its neck and handed it to Merthin. There was no gush of blood: Hop was dead. For a moment no one spoke. In the silence, they heard a man shout. Merthin sprang to his feet, heart thudding. He heard another shout, a different voice: there was more than one person. Both sounded aggressive and angry. Some kind of fight was going on. He was terrified, and so were the others. As they stood frozen, listening, they heard another sound, the noise made by a man running headlong through woodland, snapping fallen branches, flattening saplings, trampling dead leaves. He was coming their way. Caris spoke first. ‘The bush,’ she said, pointing to a big cluster of evergreen shrubs – probably the home of the hare Ralph had shot, Merthin thought. A moment later she was flat on her belly, crawling into the thicket. Gwenda followed, cradling the body of Hop. Ralph picked up the dead hare and joined them. Merthin was on his knees when he realized that they had left a tell-tale arrow sticking out of the tree trunk. He dashed across the clearing, pulled it out, ran back and dived under the bush. They heard the man breathing before they saw him. He was panting hard as he ran, drawing in ragged lungfuls of air in a way that suggested he was almost done in. The shouts were coming from his pursuers, calling to each other: ‘This way – over here!’ Merthin recalled that Caris had said they were not far from the road. Was the fleeing man a traveller who had been set upon by thieves? A moment later he burst into the clearing. He was a knight in his early twenties, with both a sword and a long dagger attached to his belt. He was well dressed, in a leather travelling tunic and high boots with turned-over tops. He stumbled and fell, rolled over, got up, then stood with his back to the oak tree, gasping for breath, and drew his weapons. Merthin glanced at his playmates. Caris was white with fear, biting her lip. Gwenda was hugging the corpse of her dog as if that made her feel safer. Ralph looked scared, too, but he was not too frightened to pull the arrow out of the hare’s rump and stuff the dead animal down the front of his tunic. For a moment the knight seemed to stare at the bush, and Merthin felt, with terror, that he must have seen the hiding children. Or perhaps he had noticed broken branches and crushed leaves where they had pushed through the foliage. Out of the corner of his eye, Merthin saw Ralph notch an arrow to the bow. Then the pursuers arrived. They were two men-at-arms, strongly built and thuggish-looking, carrying drawn swords. They wore distinctive two-coloured tunics, the left side yellow and the right green. One had a surcoat of cheap brown wool, the other a grubby black cloak. All three men paused, catching their breath. Merthin was sure he was about to see the knight hacked to death, and he suffered a shameful impulse to burst into tears. Then, suddenly, the knight reversed his sword and offered it, hilt first, in a gesture of surrender. The older man-at-arms, in the black cloak, stepped forward and reached out with his left hand. Warily, he took the proffered sword, handed it to his partner, then accepted the knight’s dagger. Then he said: ‘It’s not your weapons I want, Thomas Langley.’ ‘You know me, but I don’t know you,’ said Thomas. If he was feeling any fear, he had it well under control. ‘By your coats, you must be the queen’s men.’ The older man put the point of his sword to Thomas’s throat and pushed him up against the tree. ‘You’ve got a letter.’ ‘Instructions from the earl to the sheriff on the subject of taxes. You’re welcome to read it.’ This was a joke. The men-at-arms were almost certainly unable to read. Thomas had a cool nerve, Merthin thought, to mock men who seemed ready to kill him. The second man-at-arms reached under the sword of the first and grasped the wallet attached to Thomas’s belt. Impatiently, he cut the belt with his sword. He threw the belt aside and opened the wallet. He took out a smaller bag made of what appeared to be oiled wool, and drew from that a sheet of parchment, rolled into a scroll and sealed with wax. Could this fight be about nothing more than a letter? Merthin wondered. If so, what was written on the scroll? It was not likely to be routine instructions about taxes. Some terrible secret must be inscribed there. ‘If you kill me,’ the knight said, ‘the murder will be witnessed by whoever is hiding in that bush.’ The tableau froze for a split second. The man in the black cloak kept his sword point pressed to Thomas’s throat and resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder. The one in green hesitated, then looked at the bush. At that point, Gwenda screamed. The man in the green surcoat raised his sword and took two long strides across the clearing to the bush. Gwenda stood up and ran, bursting out of the foliage. The man-at-arms leaped after her, reaching out to grab her. Ralph stood up suddenly, raised the bow and drew it in one fluid motion, and shot an arrow at the man. It went through his eye and sank several inches into his head. His left hand came up, as if to grasp the arrow and pull it out; then he went limp and fell like a dropped sack of grain, hitting the ground with a thump Merthin could feel. Ralph ran out of the bush and followed Gwenda. At the edge of his vision Merthin perceived Caris going after them. Merthin wanted to flee too, but his feet seemed stuck to the ground. There was a shout from the other side of the clearing, and Merthin saw that Thomas had knocked aside the sword that threatened him and had drawn, from somewhere about his person, a small knife with a blade as long as a man’s hand. But the man-at-arms in the black cloak was alert, and jumped back out of reach. Then he raised his sword and swung at the knight’s head. Thomas dodged aside, but not fast enough. The edge of the blade came down on his left forearm, slicing through the leather jerkin and sinking into his flesh. He roared with pain, but did not fall. With a quick motion that seemed extraordinarily graceful, he swung his right hand up and thrust the knife into his opponent’s throat; then, his hand continuing in an arc, he pulled the knife sideways, severing most of the neck. Blood came like a fountain from the man’s throat. Thomas staggered back, dodging the splash. The man in black fell to the ground, his head hanging from his body by a strip. Thomas dropped the knife from his right hand and clutched his wounded left arm. He sat on the ground, suddenly looking weak. Merthin was alone with the wounded knight, two dead men-at-arms, and the corpse of a three-legged dog. He knew he should run after the other children, but his curiosity kept him there. Thomas now seemed harmless, he told himself. The knight had sharp eyes. ‘You can come out,’ he called. ‘I’m no danger to you in this state.’ Hesitantly, Merthin got to his feet and pushed his way out of the bush. He crossed the clearing and stopped several feet away from the sitting knight. Thomas said: ‘If they find out you’ve been playing in the forest, you’ll be flogged.’ Merthin nodded. ‘I’ll keep your secret, if you’ll keep mine.’ Merthin nodded again. In agreeing to the bargain, he was making no concessions. None of the children would tell what they had seen. There would be untold trouble if they did. What would happen to Ralph, who had killed one of the queen’s men? ‘Would you be kind enough to help me bind up this wound?’ said Thomas. Despite all that had happened, he spoke courteously, Merthin observed. The knight’s poise was remarkable. Merthin felt he wanted to be like that when he was grown up. At last Merthin’s constricted throat managed to produce a word. ‘Yes.’ ‘Pick up that broken belt, then, and wrap it around my arm, if you would.’ Merthin did as he was told. Thomas’s undershirt was soaked with blood, and the flesh of his arm was sliced open like something on a butcher’s slab. Merthin felt a little nauseated, but he forced himself to twist the belt around Thomas’s arm so that it pulled the wound closed and slowed the bleeding. He made a knot, and Thomas used his right hand to pull it tight. Then Thomas struggled to his feet. He looked at the dead men. ‘We can’t bury them,’ he said. ‘I’d bleed to death before the graves were dug.’ Glancing at Merthin, he added: ‘Even with you helping me.’ He thought for a moment. ‘On the other hand, I don’t want them to be discovered by some courting couple looking for a place to . . . be alone. Let’s lug the guts into that bush where you were hiding. Green coat first.’ They approached the body. ‘One leg each,’ said Thomas. With his right hand he grasped the dead man’s left ankle. Merthin took the other limp foot in both hands and heaved. Together they hauled the corpse into the shrubbery, next to Hop. ‘That will do,’ said Thomas. His face was white with pain. After a moment, he bent down and pulled the arrow out of the corpse’s eye. ‘Yours?’ he said with a raised eyebrow. Merthin took the arrow and wiped it on the ground to get rid of some of the blood and brains adhering to the shaft. In the same way they dragged the second body across the clearing, its loosely attached head trailing behind, and left it beside the first. Thomas picked up the two men’s dropped swords and threw them into the bush with the bodies. Then he found his own weapons. ‘Now,’ said Thomas, ‘I have a great favour to ask.’ He proffered his dagger. ‘Would you dig me a small hole?’ ‘All right.’ Merthin took the dagger. ‘Just here, right in front of the oak tree.’ ‘How big?’ Thomas picked up the leather wallet that had been attached to his belt. ‘Big enough to hide this for fifty years.’ Screwing up his courage, Merthin said: ‘Why?’ ‘Dig, and I’ll tell you as much of it as I can.’ Merthin scratched a square on the ground and began to loosen the cold earth with the dagger, then scoop it up with his hands. Thomas picked up the scroll and put it into the wool bag, then fastened the bag inside the wallet. ‘I was given this letter to deliver to the earl of Shiring,’ he said. ‘But it contains a secret so dangerous that I realized the bearer is sure to be killed, to make certain he can never speak of it. So I needed to disappear. I decided I would take sanctuary in a monastery, become a monk. I’ve had enough of fighting, and I’ve a lot of sins to repent. As soon as I went missing, the people who gave me the letter started to search for me – and I was unlucky. I was spotted in a tavern in Bristol.’ ‘Why did the queen’s men come after you?’ ‘She, too, would like to prevent the spread of this secret.’ When Merthin’s hole was eighteen inches deep, Thomas said: ‘That will do.’ He dropped the wallet inside. Merthin shovelled the earth back into the hole on top of the wallet, and Thomas covered the freshly turned earth with leaves and twigs until it was indistinguishable from the ground around it. ‘If you hear that I’ve died,’ said Thomas, ‘I’d like you to dig up this letter and give it to a priest. Would you do that for me?’ ‘All right.’ ‘Until that happens, you must tell no one. While they know I’ve got the letter, but they don’t know where it is, they’ll be afraid to do anything. But if you tell the secret, two things will happen. First, they will kill me. Then they will kill you.’ Merthin was aghast. It seemed unfair that he should be in so much danger just because he helped a man by digging a hole. ‘I’m sorry to scare you,’ said Thomas. ‘But, then, it’s not entirely my fault. After all, I didn’t ask you to come here.’ ‘No.’ Merthin wished with all his heart that he had obeyed his mother’s orders and stayed out of the forest. ‘I’m going to return to the road. Why don’t you go back the way you came? I bet you’ll find your friends waiting somewhere not far from here.’ Merthin turned to go. ‘What’s your name?’ the knight called after him. ‘Merthin, son of Sir Gerald.’ ‘Really?’ Thomas said, as if he knew Father. ‘Well, not a word, even to him.’ Merthin nodded and left. When he had gone fifty yards he vomited. After that he felt slightly better. As Thomas had predicted, the others were waiting for him, right at the edge of the wood, near the timber yard. They crowded around him, touching him as if to make sure he was all right, looking relieved yet ashamed, as if they were guilty about having left him. They were all shaken, even Ralph. ‘That man,’ he said. ‘The one I shot. Was he badly hurt?’ ‘He’s dead,’ Merthin said. He showed Ralph the arrow, still stained with blood. ‘Did you pull it out of his eye?’ Merthin would have liked to say he had, but he decided to tell the truth. ‘The knight pulled it out.’ ‘What happened to the other man-at-arms?’ ‘The knight cut his throat. Then we hid the bodies in the bush.’ ‘And he just let you go?’ ‘Yes.’ Merthin said nothing about the buried letter. ‘We have to keep this secret,’ Caris urged. ‘There will be terrible trouble if anyone finds out.’ Ralph said: ‘I’ll never tell.’ ‘We should swear an oath,’ Caris said. They stood in a little ring. Caris stuck out her arm so that her hand was in the centre of the circle. Merthin placed his hand over hers. Her skin was soft and warm. Ralph added his hand, then Gwenda did the same, and they swore by the blood of Jesus. Then they walked back into the town. Archery practice was over, and it was time for the midday meal. As they crossed the bridge, Merthin said to Ralph: ‘When I grow up, I want to be like that knight – always courteous, never frightened, deadly in a fight.’ ‘Me, too,’ said Ralph. ‘Deadly.’ In the old city, Merthin felt an irrational sense of surprise that normal life was going on all around: the sound of babies crying, the smell of roasting meat, the sight of men drinking ale outside taverns. Caris stopped outside a big house on the main street, just opposite the entrance to the priory precincts. She put an arm around Gwenda’s shoulders and said: ‘My dog at home has had puppies. Do you want to see them?’ Gwenda still looked frightened and close to tears, but she nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, please.’ That was clever as well as kind, Merthin thought. The puppies would be a comfort to the little girl – and a distraction, too. When she returned to her family, she would talk about the puppies and be less likely to speak of going into the forest. They said goodbye, and the girls went into the house. Merthin found himself wondering when he would see Caris again. Then his other troubles came back to him. What was his father going to do about his debts? Merthin and Ralph turned into the cathedral close, Ralph still carrying the bow and the dead hare. The place was quiet. The guest house was empty but for a few sick people. A nun said to them: ‘Your father is in the church, with the earl of Shiring.’ They went into the great cathedral. Their parents were in the vestibule. Mother was sitting at the foot of a pillar, on the outjutting corner where the round column met the square base. In the cold light that came through the tall windows, her face was still and serene, almost as if she were carved of the same grey stone as the pillar against which she leaned her head. Father stood beside her, his broad shoulders slumped in an attitude of resignation. Earl Roland faced them. He was older than Father, but with his black hair and vigorous manner he seemed more youthful. Prior Anthony stood beside the earl. The two boys hung back at the door, but Mother beckoned them. ‘Come here,’ she said. ‘Earl Roland has helped us come to an arrangement with Prior Anthony that solves all our problems.’ Father grunted, as if he was not as grateful as she for what the earl had done. ‘And the priory gets my lands,’ he said. ‘There’ll be nothing for you two to inherit.’ ‘We’re going to live here, in Kingsbridge,’ Mother went on brightly. ‘We’ll be corrodiaries of the priory.’ Merthin said: ‘What’s a corrodiary?’ ‘It means the monks will provide us with a house to live in and two meals a day, for the rest of our lives. Isn’t that wonderful?’ Merthin could tell that she did not really think it was wonderful. She was pretending to be pleased. Father was clearly ashamed to have lost his lands. There was more than a hint of disgrace in this, Merthin realized. Father addressed the earl. ‘What about my boys?’ Earl Roland turned and looked at them. ‘The big one looks promising,’ he said. ‘Did you kill that hare, lad?’ ‘Yes, lord,’ Ralph said proudly. ‘Shot it with an arrow.’ ‘He can come to me as a squire in a few years’ time,’ the earl said briskly. ‘We’ll teach him to be a knight.’ Father looked pleased. Merthin felt bewildered. Big decisions were being made too quickly. He was outraged that his younger brother should be so favoured while no mention was made of himself. ‘That’s not fair!’ he burst out. ‘I want to be a knight, too!’ His mother said: ‘No!’ ‘But I made the bow!’ Father gave a sigh of exasperation and looked disgusted. ‘You made the bow, did you, little one?’ the earl said, and his face showed disdain. ‘In that case, you shall be apprenticed to a carpenter.’