displaying his bad teeth. “The bridge is gone, my lord. I thought it was my Christian duty to help travelers like yourself, my lord.”
“Yes,” Fulk said. “What is your charge for ferrying us across?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Wulfric bowed; his black hair barely concealed a balding spot like a tonsure on the crown of his head.
“Surely you charge other people something?” Fulk glanced back—his horse was still hitched to the tree on the far side. “We have to get my horse across.”
“Sometimes people give me something,” Wulfric said. He went to the ropes, and Roger got back into the barge. “Just as—you know—a token.” Wulfric showed his teeth again in Fulk’s direction. “Just some of their produce, or something like that, but from my lord, I would take nothing.”
“Of course not,” Fulk said, looking around at Wulfric’s hut and the area around it, which had been his garden once and now lay fallow. “Do you still fish?”
“Oh, well,” Wulfric said, hauling ropes. “When I can, of course.”
The barge had reached the far side; Fulk watched Roger coax and whip his horse on board. Wulfric leaned against the tree, an alder whose bark showed deep scars from the ropes. “We hear something of what goes on, south,” Wulfric said. “In the war. The young prince, now, he seems to be doing somewhat better than last time.”
Fulk said, “He’ll be your king someday.”
Wulfric’s eyes widened; Fulk could see him imagining how he would report that to the next travelers. “My lord Stafford to me . . .” The barge was in midstream, with Fulk’s horse braced on all four legs, rigid, while Roger tried to soothe it.
Fulk said, “My bailiff was remiss—he never told me about your ferry. I’ll have to ask him about it.”
Wulfric went gray. He paused at the ropes.
“For example,” Fulk said, “what do you give me for your use of my river?”
“Oh, well,” Wulfric said, “you must nderstand, my lord—”
"A tenth seems fair enough, doesn’t it? A tenth for me and a tenth for the Church.”
Wulfric hauled the barge in to the bank and stood, half turned away from Fulk, watching Roger lead off the trembling horse. His knotted, freckled shoulders glistened with sweat. Finally he looked at Fulk. “A tenth, my lord.”
Fulk nodded. Roger stood nearby with both horses, waiting. Fulk reached into his wallet and took out a halfpenny. “For our passage.” He wondered if it was enough and decided Wulfric would never dare charge anyone more than a farthing. “Give my tenth to Gilbert at Stafford . Good day.”
“Good day,” Wulfric said, woodenly, and poked the halfpenny into a pouch at his belt. “My lord.”
Fulk mounted, and they rode off toward the monastery. After they had gone a little way, threading a path through a stand of alders and willows, Roger said, “God’s blood, the sour look on that one’s face deserves a blow.”
“Maybe.” It was difficult to enforce laws when people had grown used to ignoring them. He went over his talk with Wulfric in his mind, wondering if he’s played a tyrant, and decided he had not. Ahead, the ground rose steeply, covered with tangled berry patches and seeding grass. They rode up the hillside, avoiding the outcroppings of rock. A pheasant boomed up out of the high grass, almost under the hoofs of the horses, and they shied.
“It’s hot,” Roger called. “It’s going to be a hot summer.”
“It’s always a hot summer.”
They rode up onto the crest of the hill and looked down into a pine wood, across a slope littered with boulders and heavy brush.
“That old bee tree has fallen down,” Roger said, pointing. A huge old hollow oak tree that every summer had swarmed with bees and dripped honey lay now in a heap of dust and chunks of rotten wood across the slope, halfway to the edge of the forest. The bees were gone. Fulk nudged his horse down toward it, leaning back in his saddle—on this steep slope the horse hobbled
“Yes,” Fulk said. “What is your charge for ferrying us across?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Wulfric bowed; his black hair barely concealed a balding spot like a tonsure on the crown of his head.
“Surely you charge other people something?” Fulk glanced back—his horse was still hitched to the tree on the far side. “We have to get my horse across.”
“Sometimes people give me something,” Wulfric said. He went to the ropes, and Roger got back into the barge. “Just as—you know—a token.” Wulfric showed his teeth again in Fulk’s direction. “Just some of their produce, or something like that, but from my lord, I would take nothing.”
“Of course not,” Fulk said, looking around at Wulfric’s hut and the area around it, which had been his garden once and now lay fallow. “Do you still fish?”
“Oh, well,” Wulfric said, hauling ropes. “When I can, of course.”
The barge had reached the far side; Fulk watched Roger coax and whip his horse on board. Wulfric leaned against the tree, an alder whose bark showed deep scars from the ropes. “We hear something of what goes on, south,” Wulfric said. “In the war. The young prince, now, he seems to be doing somewhat better than last time.”
Fulk said, “He’ll be your king someday.”
Wulfric’s eyes widened; Fulk could see him imagining how he would report that to the next travelers. “My lord Stafford to me . . .” The barge was in midstream, with Fulk’s horse braced on all four legs, rigid, while Roger tried to soothe it.
Fulk said, “My bailiff was remiss—he never told me about your ferry. I’ll have to ask him about it.”
Wulfric went gray. He paused at the ropes.
“For example,” Fulk said, “what do you give me for your use of my river?”
“Oh, well,” Wulfric said, “you must nderstand, my lord—”
"A tenth seems fair enough, doesn’t it? A tenth for me and a tenth for the Church.”
Wulfric hauled the barge in to the bank and stood, half turned away from Fulk, watching Roger lead off the trembling horse. His knotted, freckled shoulders glistened with sweat. Finally he looked at Fulk. “A tenth, my lord.”
Fulk nodded. Roger stood nearby with both horses, waiting. Fulk reached into his wallet and took out a halfpenny. “For our passage.” He wondered if it was enough and decided Wulfric would never dare charge anyone more than a farthing. “Give my tenth to Gilbert at Stafford . Good day.”
“Good day,” Wulfric said, woodenly, and poked the halfpenny into a pouch at his belt. “My lord.”
Fulk mounted, and they rode off toward the monastery. After they had gone a little way, threading a path through a stand of alders and willows, Roger said, “God’s blood, the sour look on that one’s face deserves a blow.”
“Maybe.” It was difficult to enforce laws when people had grown used to ignoring them. He went over his talk with Wulfric in his mind, wondering if he’s played a tyrant, and decided he had not. Ahead, the ground rose steeply, covered with tangled berry patches and seeding grass. They rode up the hillside, avoiding the outcroppings of rock. A pheasant boomed up out of the high grass, almost under the hoofs of the horses, and they shied.
“It’s hot,” Roger called. “It’s going to be a hot summer.”
“It’s always a hot summer.”
They rode up onto the crest of the hill and looked down into a pine wood, across a slope littered with boulders and heavy brush.
“That old bee tree has fallen down,” Roger said, pointing. A huge old hollow oak tree that every summer had swarmed with bees and dripped honey lay now in a heap of dust and chunks of rotten wood across the slope, halfway to the edge of the forest. The bees were gone. Fulk nudged his horse down toward it, leaning back in his saddle—on this steep slope the horse hobbled
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