“I knew you would oppose me,” he said petulantly to Edmund. “You seem to think the priory exists for the benefit of Kingsbridge. You’ll just have to realize that it’s the other way around.”

Edmund rapidly became exasperated. “Don’t you see that we depend on one another? We thought you understood that interrelationship – that’s why we helped you get elected.”

“I was elected by the monks, not the merchants. The town may depend on the priory, but there was a priory here before there was a town, and we can exist without you.”

“You can exist, perhaps, but as an isolated outpost, rather than as the throbbing heart of a bustling city.”

Caris put in: “You must want Kingsbridge to prosper, Godwyn – why else would you have gone to London to oppose Earl Roland?”

“I went to the royal court to defend the ancient rights of the priory – as I am trying to do here and now.”

Edmund said indignantly: “This is treachery! We supported you as prior because you led us to believe you would build a bridge!”

“I owe you nothing,” Godwyn replied. “My mother sold her house to send me to the university – where was my rich uncle then?”

Caris was amazed that Godwyn was still resentful over what had happened ten years ago.

Edmund’s expression became coldly hostile. “I don’t think you have the right to force people to use the fulling mill,” he said.

A glance passed between Godwyn and Philemon, and Caris realized they knew this. Godwyn said: “There may have been times when the prior generously allowed the townspeople to use the mill without charge.”

“It was the gift of Prior Philip to the town.”

“I know nothing of that.”

“There must be a document in your records.”

Godwyn became angry. “The townspeople have allowed the mill to fall into disrepair, so that the priory has to pay to put it right. That is enough to annul any gift.”

Edmund was right, Caris realized: Godwyn was on weak ground. He knew about Prior Philip’s gift, but he intended to ignore it.

Edmund tried again. “Surely we can settle this between us?”

“I will not back down from my edict,” Godwyn said. “It would make me appear weak.”

That was what really bothered him, Caris realized. He was frightened that the townspeople would disrespect him if he changed his mind. His obstinacy came, paradoxically, from a kind of timidity.

Edmund said: “Neither of us wants the trouble and expense of another visit to the royal court.”

Godwyn bristled. “Are you threatening me with the royal court?”

“I’m trying to avoid it. But…”

Caris closed her eyes, praying that the two men would not push their argument to the brink. Her prayer was not answered.

“But what?” said Godwyn challengingly.

Edmund sighed. “But yes, if you force the townspeople to use the fulling mill, and prohibit home fulling, I will appeal to the king.”

“So be it,” said Godwyn.

34

The deer was a young female, a year or two old, sleek across the haunches, well muscled under a soft leather skin. She was on the far side of a clearing, pushing her long neck through the branches of a bush to reach a patch of scrubby grass. Ralph Fitzgerald and Alan Fernhill were on horseback, the hooves of their mounts muffled by the carpet of wet autumn leaves, and their dogs were trained to silence. Because of this, and perhaps because she was concentrating on straining to reach her fodder, the deer did not hear their approach until it was too late.

Ralph saw her first, and pointed across the clearing. Alan was carrying his longbow, grasping it and the reins in his left hand. With the speed of long practice, he fitted an arrow to the string in a heartbeat, and shot.

The dogs were slower. Only when they heard the thrum of the bowstring, and the whistle of the arrow as it flew through the air, did they react. Barley, the bitch, froze in place, head up, ears erect; and Blade, her puppy, now grown larger than his mother, uttered a low, startled woof.

The arrow was a yard long, flighted with swan feathers. Its tip was two inches of solid iron with a socket into which the shaft fitted tightly, it was a hunting arrow, with a sharp point: a battle arrow would have had a square head, so that it would punch through armour without being deflected.

Alan’s shot was good, but not perfect. It struck the deer low in the neck. She jumped with all four feet – shocked, presumably, by the sudden, agonizing stab. Her head came up out of the bush. For an instant, Ralph thought she was going to fall down dead, but a moment later she bounded away. The arrow was still buried in her neck, but the blood was oozing rather than spurting from the wound, so it must have lodged in her muscles, missing the major blood vessels.

The dogs leaped forward as if they, too, had been shot from bows; and the two horses followed without urging. Ralph was on Griff, his favourite hunter. He felt the rush of excitement that was what he mainly lived for. It was a tingling in the nerves, a constriction in the neck, an irresistible impulse to yell at the top of his voice; a thrill so like sexual excitement that he could hardly have said what the difference was.

Men such as Ralph existed to fight. The king and his barons made them lords and knights, and gave them villages and lands to rule over, for a reason: so that they would be able to provide themselves with horses, squires, weapons and armour whenever the king needed an army. But there was not a war every year. Sometimes two or three years would go by without so much as a minor police action on the borders of rebellious Wales or barbarian Scotland. Knights needed something to do in the interim. They had to keep fit and maintain their horsemanship and – perhaps most important of all – their blood lust. Soldiers had to kill, and they did it better when they longed for it.

Hunting was the answer. All noblemen, from the king down to minor lords such as Ralph, hunted whenever they got the chance, often several times a week. They enjoyed it, and it ensured they were fit for battle whenever called upon. Ralph hunted with Earl Roland on his frequent visits to Earlscastle, and often joined Lord William’s hunt at Casterham. When he was at his own village of Wigleigh, he went out with his squire, Alan, in the forests round about. They usually killed boar – there was not much meat on the wild pigs, but they were exciting to hunt because they put up a good fight. Ralph also went after foxes and the occasional, rare, wolf. But a deer was best: agile, fast, and a hundred pounds of good meat to take home.

Now Ralph thrilled to the feel of Griff beneath him, the horse’s weight and strength, the powerful action of its muscles and the drumbeat of its tread. The deer disappeared into the vegetation, but Barley knew where it had gone, and the horses followed the dogs. Ralph carried a spear ready in his right hand, a long shaft of ash with a fire-hardened point. As Griff swerved and jumped, Ralph ducked under overhanging branches and swayed with the horse, his boots firmly in the stirrups, keeping his seat effortlessly by the pressure of his knees.

In the undergrowth the horses were not as nimble as the deer, and they fell behind; but the dogs had the advantage, and Ralph heard frantic barking as they closed in. Then there was a lull, and in a few moments Ralph found out why: the deer had broken out of the vegetation on to a pathway, and was leaving the dogs behind. Here, however, the horses had the advantage, and they quickly passed the dogs and began to gain on the deer.

Ralph could see that the beast was weakening. He saw blood on its rump, and deduced that one of the dogs had got a bite. Its gait became irregular as it struggled to get away. It was a sprinter, made for the sudden quick dash, and it could not keep up its initial pace for long.

His blood raced as he closed on his prey. He tightened his grip on the lance. It took a great deal of strength to force a wooden point into the tough body of a big animal: the skin was leathery, the muscles dense, the bones hard. The neck was the softest target, if you could contrive to miss the vertebrae and hit the jugular vein. You had to choose the exact moment, then thrust quickly with all your might.