Mama paused, resting, then said: “What have you been doing this morning?”
“Watching the archery.” Caris held her breath, frightened that Mama might guess her guilty secret, as she often did.
But Mama looked at Gwenda. “Who is your little friend?”
“Gwenda. I’ve brought her to see the puppies.”
“That’s lovely.” Mama suddenly looked tired. She closed her eyes and turned her head aside.
The girls crept out quietly.
Gwenda was looking shocked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“A wasting disease.” Caris hated to talk about it. Her mother’s illness gave her the unnerving feeling that nothing was certain, anything could happen, there was no safety in the world. It was even more frightening than the fight they had witnessed in the forest. If she thought about what might happen, and the possibility that her mother might die, she suffered a panicky fluttering sensation in her chest that made her want to scream.
The middle bedroom was used in summer by the Italians, wool buyers from Florence and Prato who came to do business with Papa. Now it was empty. The puppies were in the back bedroom, which belonged to Caris and her sister, Alice. They were seven weeks old, ready to leave their mother, who was growing impatient with them. Gwenda gave a sigh of joy and immediately got down on the floor with them.
Caris picked up the smallest of the litter, a lively female, always going off on her own to explore the world. “This is the one I’m going to keep,” she said. “She’s called Scrap.” Holding the little dog soothed her, and helped her forget about the things that troubled her.
The other four clambered all over Gwenda, sniffing her and chewing her dress. She picked up an ugly brown dog with a long muzzle and eyes set too close together. “I like this one,” she said. The puppy curled up in her lap.
Caris said: “Would you like to keep him?”
Tears came to Gwenda’s eyes. “Could I?”
“We’re allowed to give them away.”
“Really?”
“Papa doesn’t want any more dogs. If you like him, you can have him.”
“Oh, yes,” Gwenda said in a whisper. “Yes, please.”
“What will you name him?”
“Something that reminds me of Hop. Perhaps I’ll call him Skip.”
“That’s a good name.” Skip had already gone to sleep in Gwenda’s lap, Caris saw.
The two girls sat quietly with the dogs. Caris thought about the boys they had met, the little red-haired one with the golden-brown eyes and his tall, handsome younger brother. What had made her take them into the forest? It was not the first time she had yielded to a stupid impulse. It tended to happen when someone in authority ordered her not to do something. Her Aunt Petranilla was a great rule-maker. “Don’t feed that cat, we’ll never get rid of it. No ball games in the house. Stay away from that boy, his family are peasants.” Rules that constrained her behaviour seemed to drive Caris crazy.
But she had never done something this foolish. She felt shaky when she thought of it. Two men had died. But what might have happened was worse. The four children might have been killed too.
She wondered what the fight had been about, and why the men-at-arms had been chasing the knight. Obviously it was not a simple robbery. They had spoken about a letter. But Merthin had said no more about that. Probably he had learned nothing further. It was just another of the mysteries of adult life.
Caris had liked Merthin. His boring brother, Ralph, was just like every other boy in Kingsbridge, boastful and aggressive and stupid, but Merthin seemed different. He had intrigued her right from the start.
Two new friends in one day, she thought, looking at Gwenda. The little girl was not pretty. She had dark brown eyes set close together above a beaky nose. She had picked a dog that looked a bit like her, Caris realized with amusement. Gwenda’s clothes were old, and must have been worn by many children before her. Gwenda was calmer now. She no longer looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. She, too, had been soothed by the puppies.
There was a familiar lopsided tread in the hall below, and a moment later a voice bellowed: “Bring me a flagon of ale, for the love of the saints, I’ve got a thirst like a carthorse.”
“It’s my father,” Caris said. “Come and meet him.” Seeing that Gwenda looked anxious, she added: “Don’t worry, he always shouts like that, but he’s really nice.”
The girls went downstairs with their puppies. “What’s happened to all my servants?” Papa roared. “Have they run away to join the fairy folk?” He came stomping out of the kitchen, trailing his twisted right leg as always, carrying a big wooden cup slopping over with ale. “Hello, my little buttercup,” he said to Caris in a softer voice. He sat on the big chair at the head of the table and took a long draft from the cup. “That’s better,” he said, wiping his straggly beard with his sleeve. He noticed Gwenda. “A little daisy to go with my buttercup?” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Gwenda, from Wigleigh, my lord,” she said, awestruck.
“I gave her a puppy,” Caris explained.
“That’s a good idea!” Papa said. “Puppies need affection, and no one can love a puppy the way a little girl does.”
On the stool beside the table Caris saw a cloak of scarlet cloth. It had to be imported, for English dyers did not know how to achieve such a bright red. Following her eye, Papa said: “It’s for your mother. She’s always wanted a coat of Italian red. I’m hoping it will encourage her to get well enough to wear it.”
Caris touched it. The wool was soft and close-woven, as only the Italians could make it. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Aunt Petranilla entered from the street. She bore some resemblance to Papa, but was purse-mouthed where he was hearty. She was more like her other brother Anthony, the prior of Kingsbridge: they were both tall, imposing figures, whereas Papa was short, barrel-chested and lame.
Caris disliked Petranilla. She was clever as well as mean, a deadly combination in an adult: Caris was never able to outwit her. Gwenda sensed Caris’s dislike, and looked apprehensively at the newcomer. Only Papa was pleased to see her. “Come in, sister,” he said. “Where are all my servants?”
“I can’t think why you imagine I should know that, having just come from my own house at the other end of the street, but if I had to guess, Edmund, I should say that your cook is in the henhouse, hoping to find an egg to make you a pudding, and your maid is upstairs, helping your wife to a close-stool, which she generally requires about midday. As for your apprentices, I hope they are both on guard duty at the warehouse by the riverside, making sure that no holiday revellers take it into their drunken heads to light a bonfire within a spark’s fly of your wool store.”
She often spoke like this, giving a little sermon in answer to a simple question. Her manner was supercilious, as always, but Papa did not mind, or pretended not to. “My remarkable sister,” he said. “You’re the one who inherited our father’s wisdom.”
Petranilla turned to the girls. “Our father was descended from Tom Builder, the stepfather and mentor of Jack Builder, architect of Kingsbridge Cathedral,” she said. “Father vowed to give his firstborn to God but, unfortunately, his firstborn was a girl – me. He named me after St Petranilla – who was the daughter of St Peter, as I’m sure you know – and he prayed for a boy next time. But his first son was born deformed, and he did not want to give God a flawed gift, so he brought Edmund up to take over the wool business. Happily, his third child was our brother Anthony, a well-behaved and God-fearing child, who entered the monastery as a boy and is now, we are all proud to say, the prior.”
She would have become a priest, had she been a man, but as it was she had done the next best thing and brought up her son, Godwyn, to be a monk at the priory. Like Grandfather Wooler, she had given a child to God. Caris had always felt sorry for Godwyn, her older cousin, for having Petranilla as a mother.