The Pillars of the Earth (135 page)

William said: “Louis.”

Louis raised his head, but he looked confused. He had not yet recovered.

William said: “Hugh, help Louis into one of the carts. Walter, put Guillaume’s body into the other.” He left them to it and went outside.

None of the villagers would have horses, but the miller did, a dappled cob grazing the sparse grass on the riverbank. William found the miller’s saddle and put it on the cob.

A little while later he rode away from Cowford with Walter and Gervase driving the ox carts.

His fury did not abate on the journey to Bishop Waleran’s castle. In fact, as he brooded over what he had learned he got angrier. It was bad enough that the outlaws had been able to defy him; it was worse that they were led by his old enemy Richard; and it was intolerable that they should call Richard the rightful earl. If they were not put down decisively, very soon Richard would use them to launch a direct attack on William. It would be totally illegal for Richard to take over the earldom that way, of course; but William had a feeling that complaints of illegal attack, coming from him, might not get a sympathetic hearing. The fact that William had been ambushed, overcome by outlaws, and robbed, and that the whole county would shortly be laughing at his humiliation, was not the worst of his problems. Suddenly his hold over his earldom was seriously threatened.

He had to kill Richard, of course. The question was how to find him. He brooded over the problem all the way to the castle; and by the time he arrived he had figured out that Bishop Waleran probably held the key.

They rode into Waleran’s castle like a comic procession at a fair, the earl on a dappled cob and his knights driving ox carts. William roared peremptory orders at the bishop’s men, sending one to fetch an infirmarer for Hugh and Louis and another to get a priest to pray for the soul of Guillaume. Gervase and Walter went to the kitchen for beer, and William entered the keep and was admitted to Waleran’s private quarters. William hated to have to ask Waleran for anything, but he needed Waleran’s help in locating Richard.

The bishop was reading an accounts roll, an endless list of numbers. He looked up and saw the rage on William’s face. “What happened?” he said, in a tone of mild amusement that always infuriated William.

William gritted his teeth. “I’ve discovered who is organizing and leading these damned outlaws.”

Waleran raised an eyebrow.

“It’s Richard of Kingsbridge.”

“Ah.” Waleran nodded understanding. “Of course. It makes sense.”

“It makes danger,” William said angrily. He hated it when Waleran was cool and reflective about things. “They call him ‘the rightful earl.’ ” He pointed a finger at Waleran. “You certainly don’t want that family back in charge of this earldom—they hate you, and they’re friends with Prior Philip, your old enemy.”

“All right, calm down,” Waleran said condescendingly. “You’re quite right, I can’t have Richard of Kingsbridge taking over the earldom.”

William sat down. His body was beginning to ache. These days he felt the aftereffects of a fight in a way he never used to. He had strained muscles, sore hands, and bruises where he had been struck or had fallen. I’m only thirty-seven, he thought; is this when old age begins? He said: “I have to kill Richard. Once he’s gone, the outlaws will degenerate into a helpless rabble.”

“I agree.”

“Killing him will be easy. The problem is finding him. But you can help me with that.”

Waleran rubbed his sharp nose with his thumb. “I don’t see how.”

“Listen. If they’re organized, they must
be
somewhere.”

“I don’t know what you mean. They’re in the forest.”

“You can’t find outlaws in the forest, normally, because they’re scattered all over the place. Most of them don’t spend two nights running in the same spot. They make a fire anywhere, and sleep in trees. But if you want to organize such people, you have to gather them all together in one place. You have to have a permanent hideout.”

“So we have to discover the location of Richard’s hideout.”

“Exactly.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“That’s where you come in.”

Waleran looked skeptical.

William said: “I bet half the people in Kingsbridge know where it is.”

“But they won’t tell us. Everyone in Kingsbridge hates you and me.”

“Not everyone,” said William. “Not quite.”

Sally thought Christmas was wonderful.

The special Christmas food was mostly sweet: gingerbread dolls; frumenty, made with wheat and eggs and honey; perry, the sweet pear wine that made her giggly; and Christmas umbles, tripes boiled for hours, then baked in a sweet pie. There was less of it this year, because of the famine, but Sally enjoyed it just as much.

She liked decorating the house with holly and hanging up the kissing-bush, although the kissing made her giggle even more than the pear wine. The first man across the threshold brought luck, as long as he was black-haired: Sally’s father had to stay indoors all Christmas morning, for his red hair would bring people bad luck. She loved the Nativity play in the church. She liked to see the monks dressed up as Eastern kings and angels and shepherds, and she laughed fit to bust when all the false idols fell down as the Holy Family arrived in Egypt.

But best of all was the boy bishop. On the third day of Christmas, the monks dressed the youngest novice in bishop’s robes, and everyone had to obey him.

Most of the townspeople waited in the priory close for the boy bishop to come out. Inevitably he would order the older and more dignified citizens to do menial tasks such as fetching firewood and mucking out pigsties. He also put on exaggerated airs and graces and insulted those in authority. Last year he had made the sacrist pluck a chicken: the result was hilarious, for the sacrist had no idea what to do and there were feathers everywhere.

He emerged in great solemnity, a boy of about twelve years with a mischievous grin, dressed in a purple silk robe and carrying a wooden crozier, and riding on the shoulders of two monks, with the rest of the monastery following. Everyone clapped and cheered. The first thing he did was to point to Prior Philip and say: “You, lad! Get over to the stable and groom the donkey!”

Everyone roared with laughter. The old donkey was notoriously bad-tempered and was never brushed. Prior Philip said: “Yes, my lord bishop,” with a good-natured grin, and went off to do his task.

“Forward!” the boy bishop commanded. The procession moved out of the priory close, with the townspeople following. Some people hid away and locked their doors, for fear that they would be picked on to perform some unpleasant task; but then they missed the fun. All Sally’s family had come: her mother and father, her brother, Tommy, Aunt Martha, and even Uncle Richard, who had returned home unexpectedly last night.

The boy bishop led them first to the alehouse, as was traditional. There he demanded free beer for himself and all the novices. The brewer handed it over with good grace.

Sally found herself sitting on a bench next to Brother Remigius, one of the older monks. He was a tall, unfriendly man and she had never spoken to him before, but now he smiled at her and said: “It’s nice that your Uncle Richard came home at Christmas.”

Sally said: “He gave me a wooden pussycat that he carved himself with his knife.”

“That’s nice. Will he stay long, do you think?”

Sally frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I expect he has to go back soon.”

“Yes. He lives in the forest now.”

“Do you know where?”

“Yes. It’s called Sally’s Quarry. That’s my name!” She laughed.

“So it is,” said Brother Remigius. “How interesting.”

When they had drunk, the boy bishop said: “And now—Andrew Sacrist and Brother Remigius will do the Widow Poll’s washing.”

Sally squealed with laughter and clapped her hands. Widow Poll was a rotund, red-faced woman who took in laundry. The fastidious monks would hate the job of washing the smelly undershirts and stockings that people changed every six months.

The crowd left the alehouse and carried the boy bishop in procession to Poll’s one-room house down by the quay. Poll had a laughing fit and turned even redder when they told her who was going to do her laundry.

Andrew and Remigius carried a heavy basket of dirty clothing from the house to the riverbank. Andrew opened the basket and Remigius, with an expression of utter distaste on his face, pulled out the first garment. A young woman called out saucily: “Careful with that one, Brother Remigius, it’s my chemise!” Remigius flushed and everyone laughed. The two middle-aged monks put a brave face on it and began to wash the clothes in the river water, with the townspeople calling advice and encouragement. Andrew was thoroughly fed up, Sally could see, but Remigius had a strangely contented look on his face.

* * *

A huge iron ball hung by a chain from a wooden scaffold, like a hangman’s noose dangling from a gallows. There was also a rope tied to the ball. This rope ran over a pulley on the upright post of the scaffold and hung down to the ground, where two laborers held it. When the laborers hauled on the rope, the ball was pulled up and back until it touched the pulley, and the chain lay horizontally along the arm of the scaffold.

Most of the population of Shiring was watching.

The men let go of the rope. The iron ball dropped and swung, smashing into the wall of the church. There was a terrific thud, the wall shuddered, and William felt the impact in the ground beneath his feet. He thought how he would like to have Richard clamped to the wall in just the place where the ball would hit. He would be squashed like a fly.

The laborers hauled on the rope again. William realized he was holding his breath as the iron ball stopped at the top of its travel. The men let go; the ball swung; and this time it tore a hole in the stone wall. The crowd applauded.

It was an ingenious mechanism.

William was happy to see work progressing on the site where he would build the new church, but he had more urgent matters on his mind today. He looked around for Bishop Waleran, and spotted him standing with Alfred Builder. William approached them and drew the bishop aside. “Is the man here yet?”

“He may be,” said Waleran. “Come to my house.”

They crossed the market square. Waleran said: “Have you brought your troops?”

“Of course. Two hundred of them. They’re waiting in the woods just outside town.”

They went into the house. William smelled boiled ham and his mouth watered, despite his urgent haste. Most people were being sparing with food at the moment, but with Waleran it seemed to be a matter of principle not to let the famine change his way of life. The bishop never ate much, but he liked everyone to know that he was far too rich and powerful to be affected by mere harvests.

Waleran’s place was a typical narrow-fronted town house, with a hall at the front and a kitchen behind, and a yard at the back with a cesspit, a beehive and a pigsty. William was relieved to see a monk waiting in the hall.

Waleran said: “Good day, Brother Remigius.”

Remigius said: “Good day, my lord bishop. Good day, Lord William.”

William looked eagerly at the monk. He was a nervous man with an arrogant face and prominent blue eyes. His face was vaguely familiar, as one among many tonsured heads at services in Kingsbridge. William had been hearing about him for years, as Waleran’s spy in Prior Philip’s camp, but this was the first time he had spoken to the man. “Have you got some information for me?” he said.

“Possibly,” Remigius replied.

Waleran threw off his fur-trimmed cloak and went to the fire to warm his hands. A servant brought hot elderberry wine in silver goblets. William took some and drank it, waiting impatiently for the servant to leave.

Waleran sipped his wine and gave Remigius a hard look. As the servant went out Waleran said to the monk: “What excuse did you give for leaving the priory?”

“None,” Remigius replied.

Waleran raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not going back,” Remigius said defiantly.

“How so?”

Remigius took a deep breath. “You’re building a cathedral here.”

“It’s just a church.”

“It’s going to be very big. You’re planning to make this the cathedral church, eventually.”

Waleran hesitated, then said: “Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you’re right.”

“The cathedral will have to be run by a chapter, either of monks or of canons.”

“So?”

“I want to be prior.”

That made sense, William thought.

Waleran said tartly: “And you’re so confident of getting the job that you’ve left Kingsbridge without Philip’s permission and with no excuse.”

Remigius looked uncomfortable. William sympathized with him: Waleran in a scornful mood was enough to make anyone fidget. “I hope I’m not overconfident,” Remigius said.

“Presumably you can lead us to Richard.”

“Yes.”

William interrupted excitedly: “Good man! Where is he?”

Remigius remained silent and looked at Waleran.

William said: “Come on, Waleran, give him the job, for God’s sake!”

Still Waleran hesitated. William knew he hated to feel coerced. At last Waleran said: “All right. You shall be prior.”

William said: “Now, where’s Richard?”

Remigius continued to look at Waleran. “From today?”

“From today.”

Remigius now turned to William. “A monastery isn’t just a church and a dormitory. It needs lands, farms, churches paying tithes,”

“Tell me where Richard is, and I’ll give you five villages with their parish churches, just to start you off,” William said.

“The foundation will need a proper charter.”

Waleran said: “You shall have it, never fear.”

William said: “Come on, man, I’ve got an army waiting outside town. Where’s Richard’s hideout?”

“It’s a place called Sally’s Quarry, just off the Winchester road.”

“I know it!” William had to restrain himself from giving a whoop of triumph. “It’s a disused quarry. Nobody goes there anymore.”

“I remember,” said Waleran. “It hasn’t been worked for years. It’s a good hideout—you wouldn’t know it was there unless you actually walked into it.”