The priory had a string of ponies for the senior monks and nuns to use when traveling, plus some carthorses for transporting goods. These were kept, along with the mounts of prosperous visitors, in a run of stone stables at the south end of the cathedral close. The nearby kitchen garden was manured with the straw from the stalls.
Ralph was in the stable yard, with the rest of Earl Roland's entourage. Their horses were saddled, ready to begin the two-day journey back to Roland's residence at Earlscastle, near Shiring. They were waiting only for the earl.
Ralph was holding his horse, a bay called Griff, and talking to his parents. 'I don't know why Stephen was made lord of Wigleigh while I got nothing,' he said. 'We're the same age, and he's no better than I am at riding or jousting or fencing.'
Every time they met, Sir Gerald asked the same hopeful questions, and Ralph had to give him the same inadequate answers. Ralph could have borne his disappointment more easily had it not been for his father's pathetic eagerness to see him elevated.
Griff was a young horse. He was a hunter: a mere squire did not merit a costly warhorse. But Ralph liked him. He responded gratifyingly well when Ralph urged him on in the hunt. Griff was excited by all the activity in the yard, and impatient to get going. Ralph murmured in his ear: 'Quiet, my lovely lad, you shall stretch your legs later.' The horse calmed down at the sound of his voice.
'Be constantly on the alert for ways to please the earl,' Sir Gerald said. 'Then he will remember you when there is a post to be filled.'
That was all very well, Ralph thought, but the real opportunities came only in battle. However, war might be a little nearer today than it had been a week ago. Ralph had not been in on the meetings between the earl and the wool merchants, but he gathered that the merchants were willing to lend money to King Edward. They wanted the king to take some decisive action against France, in retaliation for French attacks on the south coast ports.
Meanwhile, Ralph longed for some way to distinguish himself and begin to win back the honor the family had lost ten years ago - not just for his father, but for his own pride.
Griff stamped and tossed his head. To calm him, Ralph began to walk him up and down, and his father walked with him. His mother stood apart. She was upset about his broken nose.
With Father he walked past Lady Philippa, who was holding the bridle of a spirited courser with a firm hand while she talked to her husband, Lord William. She wore close-fitting clothes, which were suitable for a long ride but also emphasized her full bosom and long legs. Ralph was always on the lookout for excuses to talk to her, but it did him no good: he was just one of her father-in-law's followers, and she never spoke to him unless she had to.
As Ralph watched, she smiled at her husband and tapped him on the chest with the back of her hand in a gesture of mock reprimand. Ralph was filled with resentment. Why should it not be him with whom she was sharing such a moment of private amusement? No doubt she would if he were lord of forty villages, as William was.
Ralph felt that his life was all aspiration. When would he actually achieve something? He and his father walked the length of the yard then turned and came back.
He saw a one-armed monk come out of the kitchen and cross the yard, and was struck by how familiar the man looked. A moment later, he remembered how he knew the face. This was Thomas Langley, the knight who had killed two men-at-arms in the forest ten years ago. Ralph had not seen the man since that day, but his brother Merthin had, for the knight-become-monk was now responsible for supervising repairs to the priory buildings. Thomas wore a drab robe instead of the fine clothes of a knight, and had his head shaved in the monkish tonsure. He was heavier around the waist, but still carried himself like a fighting man.
As Thomas walked past, Ralph said casually to Lord William: 'There he goes - the mystery monk.'
William said sharply: 'What do you mean?'
'Brother Thomas. He used to be a knight, and no one knows why he joined the monastery.'
'What the devil do you know of him?' William's tone showed anger, although Ralph had said nothing offensive. Perhaps he was in a bad mood, despite the affectionate smiles of his beautiful wife.
Ralph wished he had not begun the conversation. 'I was here the day he came to Kingsbridge,' he said. He hesitated, recalling the oath the children had sworn that afternoon. Because of that, and because of William's inexplicable annoyance, Ralph did not tell the whole story. 'He staggered into town bleeding from a sword wound,' he went on. 'A boy remembers such things.'
Philippa said: 'How curious.' She looked at her husband. 'Do you know what Brother Thomas's story is?'
'Certainly not,' William snapped. 'How would I know a thing like that?'
She shrugged and turned away.
Ralph walked on, glad to get away. 'Lord William was lying,' he said to his father in a low voice. 'I wonder why.'
'Don't ask any more questions about that monk,' Father said anxiously. 'It's obviously a touchy subject.'
At last Earl Roland appeared. Prior Anthony was with him. The knights and squires mounted up. Ralph kissed his parents and swung himself into the saddle. Griff danced sideways, eager to be off. The motion made Ralph's broken nose hurt like fire. He gritted his teeth: there was nothing he could do but endure it.
Roland went up to his horse, Victory, a black stallion with a white patch over one eye. He did not mount, but took the bridle and began to walk, still in conversation with the prior. William called out: 'Sir Stephen Wigleigh and Ralph Fitzgerald, ride ahead and clear the bridge.'
Ralph and Stephen rode across the cathedral green. The grass was trampled and the ground muddy from the Fleece Fair. A few stalls were still doing business, but most were closing, and many had already gone. They passed out through the priory gates.
On the main street, Ralph saw the boy who had given him a broken nose. Wulfric, his name was, and he came from Stephen's village of Wigleigh. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen where Ralph had repeatedly punched him. Wulfric was outside the Bell Inn with his father, mother, and brother. They appeared to be about to leave.
You'd better hope you never meet me again, Ralph thought.
He tried to think of some insult to shout, but he was distracted by the sound of a crowd.
As he and Stephen rode down the main street, their horses stepping adroitly through the mud, they saw ahead of them a mob of people. Halfway down the hill, they were forced to stop.
The street was jammed by hundreds of men, women, and children shouting, laughing, and jostling for space. They all had their backs to Ralph. He looked over their heads.
At the front of this unruly procession was a cart drawn by an ox. Tied to the back of the cart was a half-naked woman. Ralph had seen this kind of thing before: to be whipped through the town was a common punishment. The woman wore only a skirt of rough wool secured at the waist by a cord. Her face, when he could see it, was begrimed, and her hair was filthy, so that at first he thought she was old. Then he saw her breasts and realized she was only in her twenties.
Her hands were bound together and attached by the same rope to the back end of the cart. She stumbled along behind it, sometimes falling and being dragged writhing through the mud until she managed to get back on her feet. The town constable followed, vigorously lashing her bare back with a bullwhip, a strip of leather at the end of a stick.
The crowd, led by a knot of young men, were taunting the woman, shouting insults, laughing, and throwing mud and rubbish. She delighted them by responding, screaming imprecations and spitting at anyone who got near her.
Ralph and Stephen urged their horses into the crowd. Ralph raised his voice. 'Clear the way!' he shouted at the top of his voice. 'Make way for the earl!'
Stephen did the same.
No one took any notice.