Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [385]
“Stephen Shockley’s a member of the city guild now,” he pointed out. “Why quarrel with him? We need friends, not enemies.”
Walter stared at him, amazed. “Shockley? A friend?”
Edward shrugged. “Why not? If he’s useful.”
The older man was silent. His life had been led for revenge, and he had been successful. He longed to humiliate a Shockley. But his clear-sighted mind told him his son was right. He scowled.
Edward went on. It was something, he realised, that he had wanted to say for some time.
“Make him a friend. Soon we’ll be richer than Shockley. That’s what I want.”
The two generations faced each other and then, to Edward’s surprise, the older man gave way.
“Do what you like, damn you.” And he turned away.
The next day Edward Wilson went into the city of New Sarum and after a satisfactory interview with Bishop Wyvil’s steward, transferred the mill at a handsome profit to the bishop, who he knew had always wanted to get it.
“Now the bishop’s our friend as well.” He smiled.
Sometimes in the years that followed, he had to admit that old Walter might, after all, have been right; for the profits they could have reaped from the fulling mill were handsome. The cloth industry, in particular the production of broadcloth, was booming. But then so was every other aspect of their business. Though other parts of the country were still suffering from the shock of the plague, Wiltshire, and the city of Salisbury in particular, were thriving. And the Wilsons still continued to thrive more than most.
It is often supposed – quite erroneously – that the Black Death of 1348 was an isolated event which was not repeated until the great plague of 1665.
In fact, throughout the intervening centuries, there were numerous outbreaks of the plague; and probably the most severe of all, almost as terrible as the original, was the second visitation of 1361. It raged in London with a particular fury.
The plague had been in London for a week when Agnes Mason once again gathered her family together and prepared to lead them to the high ground.
“We’ll go to the sheep house,” she told them. She knew it had not been used that year.
The group that set out from the village this time was rather different. Agnes’s children were grown: her elder girl had a husband now. But they had quietly loaded the carts under her directions, just as they had twelve years before. Only John was missing. Agnes had invited her stepson and his family to join them, but when he had refused she was not surprised and had not pressed the matter.
She herself had changed though. Her reddish hair was grey; twelve years had seen her body grow thin, and a nagging arthritis made her walk with a slight limp. It was not only her body that had started to fail her with the passing of the years: there was a weariness of spirit about her this time as she led them up the path past the manor.
It was as she had just reached the crest of the ridge overlooking the valley that they met Walter Wilson.
Edward always remembered the encounter.
His father had stood in the middle of the path, scowling at them and barring their way. The party stopped, eyeing him nervously. But it was only Walter and Agnes who spoke.
“Where are you going?”
“To the sheep house.”
Walter shook his head.
“I’m using it.” It lay on land where he had grazed his sheep from time to time, even though it had been deserted that year.
“You’re not,” she replied firmly.
“Going to tomorrow,” he retorted sourly. “Not yours anyway. Stay out.”
“The lord of the manor let me use it before,” she told him.
“He won’t now. I rent this land.”
Neither of them moved,