The Tide Mill Read online

  “As an apprentice?”

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “What would I be, then?”

  “A sawdust-boy. One week in two. But you’d be learning. If an apprenticeship comes up, you’ll be well placed for it.”

  Ralf wondered if this had anything to do with what had happened at the harvest, with Eaton and Cebert. Last weekend his mother was sure to have spoken of it, and to have searched, however desperately, for a way to get her son out of the village.

  The owner of the yard was a master: and, of course, every craftsman there was in the guild. Ralf had been impressed by the atmosphere of efficiency, of work at the edge of what was possible. They used the latest techniques and materials, his father had said. The yard designed and built most of the boats on this part of the coast. It had also, twenty years ago, made the Meg.

  A sawdust-boy was the lowliest creature in any woodsmith’s shop. His opportunities for practical education were limited. But if he had eyes, he could see what the men were up to, especially if one of those men were his own father: a father whose licence, moreover, would not be in abeyance for ever. Once Linsell had paid his debts he would be free to start again, and Ralf could join him. He had already said as much.

  If Ralf was to be a tradesman, he could think of nothing he would rather do than work in wood. And if he could not secure an apprenticeship, and thereby guaranteed entry to the guild, he would find his way in by any means possible.

  “What do you think, Ralf?”

  “Who will help Grandfather?”

  “You’ll still be here, half the time. Your grandfather approves.”

  This had definitely been plotted among the adults. Even part-time, he would be earning more than he did in the boat, and he saw that, until now, he had been more of a burden than a help. While he was at Rushton there would be one less mouth to feed, and his sister could have the room to herself, which would solve an imminent problem.

  The nights were drawing in. With the dark evenings there would be less opportunity for outings with Godric – who would, anyway, in a few weeks’ time, be leaving for the Abbey. Ralf would be losing little there.

  All these were advantages of the scheme, but the greatest was the chance to be with his father.

  “Well, Ralf? Do you want to try it?”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Ralf started at Rushton immediately. The walk was too long to be made twice in a working day, but short enough to let them leave their departure until Monday morning.

  The first week was hard. He missed his mother and sister, his grandfather and Godric too. His duties consisted of sweeping, tending gluepots, cleaning grates, fetching charcoal and working the bellows at the forge. He was not allowed near anything which might be construed as skilled work: even the grindstones were turned by an older boy, an apprentice. The various craftsmen treated him with indifference, though not unkindly, perhaps from the obvious esteem in which they held his father, whose expertise, Ralf saw, was applied only to the most advanced and demanding operations. Six fishing-boats were in progress, in the main shed; outside, on frameworks poised above slipways into the harbour, a dredging-barge and a brig were taking shape. Ralf perceived that his presence was superfluous and that he had been accepted only propter patrem – for his father’s sake. For that reason particularly, he worked as hard and as well as he could.

  He slept on a narrow cot placed in the corner of his father’s room. His father lodged with the chief sawyer, whose family shared a house with two others in the centre of the town. Except for the streets he needed to traverse, in his first week Ralf saw little more of Rushton than he already knew.

  As he approached his grandfather’s cottage the following Saturday he saw ladders against the eaves and four men with spar-knives and leggetts renewing the thatch. The Whitlocks’ roof, starkly pale, had already been finished. The Rendells’ was to be next.

  Ralf called at the Hall and spent time with Godric before attending his lesson with Father Pickard. The following Wednesday, and on Friday, Ralf and Godric managed late-afternoon excursions with the hobby. On the Sunday, Ralf went again to the Hall, and then it was Monday morning, long before dawn, and he was starting out beside his father, through rain, along the muddy coast road.

  November came, and with it Godric’s departure. By now Ralf’s was a familiar face at the Hall, and by now he was confirmed in his opinion of Godric’s sister. Her aloofness seemed to feed upon his reaction to it. Their occasional and accidental meetings were barely polite.

  Early in February, Ralf was engaged to work at Rushton full-time. His hourly wage was increased. He was allowed to sharpen tools, to undertake coarse shaping with sandstones, then medium shaping, and then fine shaping, with dogfish skins. He helped the sawyers and learned about selecting wood; the seasoner showed him how the stacks were made, and taught him the arcanum of circulating air. Master Brocq, the owner, on discovering that Ralf could read and write, saved clerks’ fees by getting him to copy bills of sale; and, on discovering that his sweeper could draw as well, set him to producing sketches for prospective customers. Orders accrued from at least two of these, and Ralf’s wage was again increased. Another sawdust-boy was engaged, but still there was no sign of an apprenticeship.

  Rushton’s population naturally included girls, in whom, as the seasons passed, Ralf began to take interest. In the narrow, crowded streets, overhung by the upper storeys of the houses, shops and taverns, he took special notice of the ones who cast glances in his direction: and of these there were not a few. The chief sawyer, his father’s landlord, had a daughter. She laughed too loudly, Ralf did not care for her face, and she was already promised elsewhere, but he liked to study her. A new aesthetic was appearing in him, the aesthetic of women. Their merits were various, bewildering, and sometimes intoxicating. With an appreciative eye he appraised the curves of the sawyer’s daughter, the course followed by the material of her skirt when she was seated, the shape of her arms and the quality of her skin. In the same way he was alive to the emerging womanliness of Godric’s sister, whose December birthday, it transpired, had been less than six months after his own.

  As she left girlhood behind, Ralf kept revising upwards his estimation of her beauty. Were it not for her nature, he might have allowed himself to become trapped by it, like a beetle that has stumbled into a pot of face-powder, hopelessly doomed to unrequited love. He rather liked the idea. But her manner towards him made it impossible, and at home he contented himself with musing upon Mary Ibbott, whose looks, while inferior, were also to his taste.

  Her conceit was not; but, even had he adored her, she was, for now at least, unattainable in precisely the opposite way. As the daughter of cottars, she was a cottar herself and the property of the manor. Her future husband, if a freeman, would have to buy her release.

  Ralf insisted on giving nearly all his wages to his father, to hasten the day when he got his licence back and could start up again on his own. Their plan of working together was now a settled thing. Once officially articled to his father, Ralf could hope to enter the guild seven years later. In defiance of what had happened they would take premises nowhere but Alincester, become the foremost company; and refuse all work for the Diocese. His mother would be restored to her rightful place, and Imogen would have more than a chance of choosing among eligible freemen. Ralf thought that she too, although still only fifteen, was already beautiful. Perhaps in time she would even surpass Eloise de Maepe: if not by the perfect symmetry of her features, or her spun-gold hair, or her sea-grey eyes, then certainly by the English sweetness of her temper. It was impossible to dislike her. She could only be envied, and that without her knowledge.

  Ralf’s protectiveness grew ever fiercer. He could not bear the idea of her growing up among ploughboys and cowherds. That was another reason why he made himself work so hard. A year ago, at sixteen, he had begun single-handedly to deliver finished shallops along the coast. After each delivery he hurried back to Rushton
on foot, eager for the next commission, or to help wherever he was wanted.

  By now he was an apprentice in all but name. If the guild found out, there would be trouble, but his father was so well liked that not one of the guildsmen or apprentices said anything. Ralf used tools almost without restriction, was left alone to build jigs or fasten cramps, had the run of the woodyard, and sometimes worked for hours unsupervised. In the evenings, with his father, he talked over whatever he had done that was new or interesting. He was forbidden to make notes, for fear of the guild, but even the guild could not prevent him from committing things to memory.

  His wages went up again. Master Brocq offered a senior apprenticeship. Linsell urged Ralf to take it. He refused. By his calculations, no more than two years now separated his father from his licence.

  The twenty-fifth of March, Lady Day, commemorating the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary, fell this year on a Thursday. Second only to Christmas, the holiday was marked everywhere with celebrations. By permission of Master Brocq, Ralf and his father set out on the Wednesday afternoon in time to reach Mape before nightfall. They were not due to return until Monday.

  Having changed his clothes and eaten, Ralf took a package he had brought from Rushton and went to Father Pickard’s door.

  “For me?” the Father said, once they were inside and he had been handed his Lady Day gift. “You shouldn’t be spending your money on me. I know how hard you work for it.” He placed the package on the table, untied the ribbon and unfolded the linen covering.

  On top, tied with two white ribbons, lay a vellum scroll on which Ralf had inscribed Chapter Seven of St Matthew, in English. It had taken him many evenings to complete. He had illuminated the initial letter of the first, seventh, thirteenth, and twenty-first verses as skilfully as he knew how, in crimson, green and blue. Each was formed into a bird: nuthatch, swallow, stilt, shelduck. The same colours appeared in the design along the borders, which incorporated a continuous scene of Mape, of the church and churchyard, the yew, the village green, the staith, the fishmonger’s dray, the reed-cutting, the ploughing, the harvest, the Long Barn and Hall.

  As he unrolled the vellum and held it towards the lamp, the beginnings of tears appeared in Father Pickard’s eyes.

  Ralf said, “I want to thank you. For being so patient and kind. For everything.”

  Father Pickard blinked and looked down at the package. “And something else. What is this?”

  “Paper.”

  There were two quires, of the best Ancona stock: a week’s wages for Ralf.

  “Paper? But why? Why should you —”

  “Towards all the parchment you’ve given me.”

  “Upon my word, Ralf. Upon my word.” He sat down at the table in a daze. “Please. Be seated. You must excuse me if I’m … if …” He shook his head. “I’m … You see, no one has … to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever given me anything. Like this, I mean.” He shook his head again and with one hand raised the vellum. “Your work is very fine. You should consider becoming a scribe.”

  This was a conversation they had had before. “I like the work I do, Father. I like it better than anything.”

  “They’re treating you well, at that yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a solid trade. Necessary. Noble in its way. I don’t forget our Lord was the son of a carpenter. Even so, Ralf …” He gave a rueful smile. “I cannot persuade you. But of this, perhaps I can. Please call me by that carpenter’s name. It is my name also. Joseph.”

  9

  The following afternoon was sunny. Ralf and Godric went for a walk. From the Angmer road they turned into a narrow lane which led gently uphill, through the poplar plantation.

  Godric’s peregrine was at Leckbourne. He was allowed to keep his horse there, too. Some of the boys even had dogs. The Abbot and a number of the monks, Godric had said, were enthusiastic hunters. He had also told Ralf something about his studies. Otherwise, he divulged little.

  A change had come over him after starting at the Abbey. He was no longer so open, nor quite so eager for Ralf’s company, and on occasion their days at Mape would coincide without much more of a meeting than in the churchyard after mass.

  They were both older now, and Godric was mixing with noblemen’s sons, but there was something else at work. Ralf could not understand what.

  Despite all this, Godric was still his best friend. Ralf confided everything in him: his plans for the future, what happened at the yard, and even the early revelations of the apprentices concerning what men did with women. Godric had known no more of the mechanics than Ralf himself. They had been equally shocked and only half disbelieving of the apprentices’ boasts.

  That had been more than three years ago. Since then the subject had not been mentioned. Every passing month drew Godric closer to his ordination. At eighteen, he was already almost a priest.

  The poplar plantation occupied about eighty acres to the east and north of the village. The trees provided poles and fenceposts for the manor, or were sold to a merchant. The timber was easily worked, stable, and durable.

  At a glance Ralf, taught by his father, could now tell every sort of tree, and with little more than a glance he could value it for its wood. As he and Godric descended towards the village, he described what poplar was used for and explained why the trees were spaced as they were and why the lower branches had been lopped. Godric seemed to be listening. He was interested in everything to do with the management of his father’s land, just as if he himself, and not his eldest brother, were going to inherit it.

  The celandines and windflowers had fully opened. Fresh shoots of nettle, dog’s mercury and arum were pushing forth, and the goat-willows by the river were thick with grey catkins.

  It was possible to make a shortcut to the village by crossing on a precarious and irregular line of stepping-stones, formed by old masonry in the stream-bed. Hundreds of years ago, it was said, there had been a mill on this spot. Remnants of the race, a few mossy blocks of stone much overgrown with ferns, could just be made out on the far bank.

  “Do you remember when I fell in?” Ralf said, once they had gained safety.

  “I do.” Godric halted and looked back. “Where would the mill-house have been, then?”

  “By the race.”

  “So it would.” Godric seemed reluctant to leave.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr Caffyn says he’s heard a rumour about the milling charge. It might be increased again this autumn, even though wheat’s still going down.”

  He set off once more, Ralf beside him.

  At Lady Day, accounts were settled and rents became due. It marked not just the Incarnation but the beginning of the secular year. The Steward’s ledgers had been made up, Godric said, and the profits of the manor calculated.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, and keep it quiet, but the figures could be better. I was thinking how it might be if my father could rebuild that mill.”

  “Why doesn’t he?”

  Godric explained about the Molarius, the licence and the tithe.

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Ralf said.

  “It’s the law. Anyway, the money goes to the Church.”

  “What about a windmill?”

  “The same.”

  “But the pushmill’s not tithed.”

  “No.”

  They reached the village.

  “See you later, then,” Godric said.

  Three times a year, at Michaelmas, Christmas and Lady Day, there were public celebrations at the Hall. At Michaelmas a feast was held in the Long Barn, to which were invited all of Mape’s two hundred inhabitants, freeborn and tied. After that there would be a procession, followed by a concert. The Christmas celebrations were just as carefree, and included a Nativity play at the church. In this, seven years ago, Ralf had been coerced into taking the part of a shepherd, with two lines to speak, both of which he had delivered wrongly.

  If Lady Day fell during Lent, there
was no feast after mass, or merry-making of any kind. Instead an evening recital was staged in the Long Barn. The words of the Magnificat were spoken; there would be plain singing; and perhaps a dreary performance on the rebeck, psaltery or flute by visiting musicians or, even worse, by amateurs from the manor. While attendance was not compulsory, absence without good reason was frowned upon, and this year, as last, Ralf had been unable to think of a way to escape.

  When he and his family, summoned by the church bell, got to the Long Barn, nearly half the village had gathered and the business of seating was beginning. Ralf had reached the age at which he felt uncomfortable to be seen sitting with his sister and parents. Having already noticed Godric on the far side, he made his way there.

  Yet more people were arriving and finding places, sitting on the clean straw that the Baron had caused to be laid out. He and his family and retainers would be seated in greater dignity, on cloth-covered bales set against the side wall, at the front of the audience.

  At the back, beyond the open doorway, the afternoon was turning to dusk; the barn was lit by twenty or thirty tallow lamps, set high on the eave-beams.

  Ralf sat down on the bale next to Godric. They chatted while the barn filled. Ralf watched the space round his family being taken up. There was still room nearer the front, and he noticed a vacancy beside Mary Ibbott, who was sitting cross-legged and, leaning away from him, talking to another girl.

  He thought about plucking up the courage to join her, and was on the point of doing so when the Baron and his family appeared.

  Ralf stood aside while they and the chief retainers took their seats. He had been noticed by the Steward and the Clerk, by Godric’s brother Henry and the Baroness, and by the Baron himself: but Eloise had all but ignored him. Seated with her hands in her lap, she was now staring ahead, above the audience, above Mary Ibbott, and seemed lost in study of the featureless and unprepossessing wall opposite.

  Her dark-green robe was one he had never seen before, with a brooch above the left breast, silver, like the tiny crucifix she wore always at her neck. A pair of dark-green slippers peeped out below her skirt. The style of her hair was also new. It had been formed into a single loose plait, long and very thick, with a chaplet of white anemones.