The Pillars of the Earth (66 page)

Two or three faces peeped fearfully from the doorway. The men soon realized they were looking at ordinary, corporeal monks and workmen, not visions or spirits, and they stepped out of the lodge for a better view. Two men-at-arms came out, buckling their sword belts, and stood staring. This was the crucial moment for Philip: what would the men-at-arms do?

The sight of them, big and bearded and dirty, with their chainlink belts, their swords and daggers, and their heavy leather jerkins, brought back to Philip a vivid, crystal-clear memory of the two soldiers who had burst into his home when he was six years old and killed his mother and father. He was stabbed, suddenly and unexpectedly, by grief for the parents he hardly remembered. He stared with loathing at Earl Percy’s men, not seeing them but seeing instead an ugly man with a bent nose and a dark man with blood in his beard; and he was filled with rage and disgust and a fierce determination that such mindless, godless ruffians should be defeated.

For a while they did nothing. Gradually all the earl’s quarrymen came out of the lodge. Philip counted them: there were twelve workmen plus the men-at-arms.

The sun peeped over the horizon.

The Kingsbridge quarrymen were already digging out stones. If the men-at-arms wanted to stop them, they would have to lay hands on the monks who surrounded and protected the workers. Philip had gambled that the men-at-arms would hesitate to do violence to praying monks.

So far he was right: they were hesitating.

The two novices who had been left behind now arrived, leading the horses and the cart. They looked around fearfully. Philip indicated with a gesture where they should pull up. Then he turned, met Tom Builder’s eye, and nodded.

Several stones had been cut by this time, and now Tom directed some of the younger monks to pick up the stones and carry them to the cart. The earl’s men watched this new development with interest. The stones were too heavy to be lifted by one man, so they had to be lowered from the scaffolding by ropes, then carried across the ground on stretchers. As the first stone was manhandled into the cart, the men-at-arms went into a huddle with Harold. Another stone was put into the cart. The two men-at-arms separated from the crowd around the lodge and walked over to the cart. One of the novices, Philemon, climbed into the cart and sat on the stones, looking defiant. Brave lad! thought Philip, but he was afraid.

The men approached the cart. The four monks who had carried the two stones stood in front of it, forming a barrier. Philip tensed. The men stopped and stood face to face with the monks. They both put their hands to the hilts of their swords. The singing stopped as everyone watched with bated breath.

Surely, Philip thought, they won’t be able to bring themselves to put defenseless monks to the sword. Then he thought how easy it would be for them, big strong men who were accustomed to the slaughter of the battlefield, to run their sharp swords through these people from whom they had nothing to fear, not even retaliation. Then again, they must consider the divine punishment they would risk by murdering men of God. Even thugs such as these must know that eventually they would stand at the Day of Judgment. Were they afraid of the eternal fire? Perhaps; but they were also afraid of their employer, Earl Percy. Philip guessed that the thought uppermost in their minds must be whether he would consider they had an adequate excuse for their failure to keep the Kingsbridge men out of the quarry. He watched them, hesitating in front of a handful of young monks, hands on their swords, and imagined them weighing the danger of failing Percy against the wrath of God.

The two men looked at one another. One shook his head. The other shrugged. Together, they walked out of the quarry.

The cantor hit a new note and the monks burst into a triumphant hymn. A shout of victory went up from the quarrymen. Philip sagged with relief. For a moment it had looked dreadfully dangerous. He could not help beaming with pleasure. The quarry was his.

He blew out his candle and went over to the cart. He embraced each of the four monks who had faced the men-at-arms, and the two novices who had brought the cart. “I’m proud of you,” he said warmly. “And I believe God is too.”

The monks and the quarrymen were all shaking hands and congratulating one another. Otto Blackface came over to Philip and said: “That was well done, Father Philip. You’re a brave man, if I may say so.”

“God protected us,” Philip said. His eye fell on the earl’s quarry men, standing in a disconsolate group around the door of their lodge. He did not want to make enemies of them, for while they were at a loose end there would always be a danger that Percy would use them to make further trouble. Philip decided to speak to them.

He took Otto’s arm and led him over to the lodge. “God’s will has been done here today,” he said to Harold. “I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“We’re out of work,” Harold said. “That’s a hard feeling.”

Philip suddenly saw a way to get Harold’s men on his side. Impulsively he said: “You can be back in work today, if you want. Work for me. I’ll hire your whole team. You won’t even have to move out of your lodge.”

Harold was surprised at this turn of events. He looked startled, then recovered his composure and said: “At what wages?”

“Standard rates,” Philip replied promptly. “Twopence a day for craftsmen, a penny a day for laborers, fourpence for yourself, and you pay your own apprentices.”

Harold turned away and looked at his colleagues. Philip drew Otto away to let them discuss the proposal in private. Philip could not really afford twelve more men, and if they accepted his offer he would have to postpone further the day when he could hire masons. That meant he would be cutting stone faster than he could use it. He would build up a stockpile, but it would be bad for his flow of cash. However, having all Percy’s quarrymen on the priory payroll would be a good defensive move. If Percy wanted to try again to work the quarry himself, he would first have to hire a team of quarrymen; which might be difficult, once the news of today’s events got around. And if at some future date Percy should try another stratagem to close the quarry, Philip would have a stockpile of stone.

Harold appeared to be arguing with his men. After a few moments he left them and approached Philip again. “Who’s to be in charge, if we work for you?” he said. “Me, or your own master quarry man?”

“Otto here is in charge,” Philip said without hesitation. Harold certainly could not be in charge, in case his loyalty should be won back by Percy. And there could not be two masters, for that would lead to disputes. “You can still run your own team,” Philip said to Harold. “But Otto will be over you.”

Harold looked disappointed and returned to his men. The discussion continued. Tom Builder joined Philip and Otto. “Your plan worked, Father,” he said with a broad grin. “We repossessed the quarry without shedding a drop of blood. You’re amazing.”

Philip was inclined to agree, and realized he was guilty of the sin of pride. “It was God who worked the miracle,” he said, reminding himself as well as Tom.

Otto said: “Father Philip has offered to hire Harold and his men to work with me.”

“Really!” Tom looked displeased. It was the master builder who was supposed to recruit craftsmen, not the prior. “I shouldn’t have thought he could afford it.”

“I can’t,” Philip admitted. “But I don’t want these men hanging around with nothing to do, waiting for Percy to think of another way to get the quarry back.”

Tom looked thoughtful, then he nodded. “And it will do no harm to have a reserve of stone in case Percy succeeds.”

Philip was glad Tom saw the sense of what he had done.

Harold seemed to be reaching agreement with his men. He came back to Philip and said: “Will you pay the wages to me, and leave me to distribute the money as I think fit?”

Philip was dubious. That meant the master could take more than his share. But he said: “It’s up to the master builder.”

“It’s common enough,” Tom said. “If that’s what your team wants, I’m willing.”

“In that case, we accept,” Harold said.

Harold and Tom shook hands. Philip said: “So everyone gets what they want. Good!”

“There’s one who hasn’t got what they want,” Harold said.

“Who’s that?” said Philip.

“Earl Percy’s wife, Regan,” Harold said lugubriously. “When she finds out what’s happened here there’s going to be blood all over the floor.”

There was no hunting today, so the young men at Earlscastle played one of William Hamleigh’s favorite games, stoning the cat.

There were always plenty of cats in the castle, and one more or less made no difference. The men closed the doors and shuttered the windows of the hall of the keep, and pushed the furniture up against the wall so that the cat could not hide behind anything; then they made a pile of stones in the middle of the room. The cat, an aging mouser with gray in its fur, sensed the bloodlust in the air and sat near the door, hoping to get out.

Each man had to put a penny into the pot for each stone he threw, and the man who threw the fatal stone took the pot.

As they drew lots to determine the order of throwing, the cat became agitated, pacing up and down in front of the door.

Walter threw first. This was lucky, for although the cat was wary it did not know the nature of the game, and might be taken by surprise. With his back to the animal, Walter picked a stone from the pile and concealed it in his hand; then he turned around slowly and threw suddenly.

He missed. The stone thudded into the door and the cat jumped and ran. The others jeered.

It was unlucky to throw second, for the cat was fresh and light on its feet, whereas later it would be tired and possibly injured. A young squire was next. He watched the cat run around the room, looking for a way out, and waited until it slowed down; then he threw. It was a good shot but the cat saw it coming and dodged it. The men groaned.

It ran around the room again, faster now, getting panicky, jumping up onto the trestles and boards that were stacked against the wall, jumping back down to the floor. An older knight threw next. He feinted a throw, to see which way the cat would jump, then threw for real when it was running, aiming a little ahead of it. The others applauded his cunning, but the cat saw the stone coming and stopped suddenly, avoiding it.

In desperation the cat tried to squeeze behind an oak chest in a corner. The next thrower saw an opportunity and seized it: he threw quickly, while the cat was stationary, and struck its rump. A great cheer went up. The cat gave up trying to squeeze behind the chest and ran on around the room, but now it was limping and it moved more slowly.

It was William’s turn next.

He thought he could probably kill the cat if he was careful. In order to tire it a little more he yelled at it, making it run faster for a moment; then he feinted a throw, with the same effect. If one of the others had delayed like this he would have been booed, but William was the earl’s son, so they waited patiently. The cat slowed down, obviously in pain. It approached the door hopefully. William drew back his arm. Unexpectedly the cat stopped against the wall beside the door. William began to throw. Before the stone left his hand the door was flung open, and a priest in black stood there. William threw, but the cat sprang like an arrow from a bow, howling triumphantly. The priest in the doorway gave a frightened, high-pitched shriek, and clutched at the skirts of his robes. The young men burst out laughing. The cat cannoned into the priest’s legs, then landed on its feet and shot out through the door. The priest stood frozen in an attitude of fright, like an old woman scared by a mouse, and the young men roared with laughter.

William recognized the priest. It was Bishop Waleran.

He laughed all the more. The fact that the womanish priest who had been frightened by a cat was also a rival of the family made it even better.

The bishop recovered his composure very quickly. He flushed red, pointed an accusing finger at William, and said in a grating voice: “You’ll suffer eternal torment in the lowest depths of hell.”

William’s laughter turned to terror in a flash. His mother had given him nightmares, when he was small, by telling him what the devils did to people in hell, burning them in the flames and poking their eyes out and cutting off their private parts with sharp knives, and ever since then he hated to hear talk of it, “Shut up!” he screamed at the bishop. The room fell silent. William drew his knife and walked toward Waleran. “Don’t you come here preaching, you snake!” Waleran did not look frightened at all, just intrigued, as if he was interested to have discovered William’s weakness; and that made William angrier still. “I’ll swing for you, so help me—”

He was mad enough to knife the bishop, but he was stopped by a voice from the staircase behind him. “William! Enough!”

It was his father.

William stopped and, after a moment, sheathed his knife.

Waleran came into the hall. Another priest followed him and shut the door behind him: Dean Baldwin.

Father said: “I’m surprised to see you, Bishop.”

“Because last time we met, you induced the prior of Kingsbridge to double-cross me? Yes, I suppose you would be surprised. I’m not normally a forgiving man.” He turned his icy gaze on William again for a moment, then looked back at Father. “But I don’t bear a grudge when it’s against my interest. We need to talk.”

Father nodded thoughtfully. “You’d better come upstairs. You too, William.”

Bishop Waleran and Dean Baldwin climbed the stairs to the earl’s quarters, and William followed. He felt let down because the cat had escaped. On the other hand, he realized that he too had had a lucky escape: if he had touched the bishop he probably would have been hanged for it. But there was something about Waleran’s delicacy, his preciousness, that William hated.

They went into Father’s chamber, the room where William had raped Aliena. He remembered that scene every time he was here: her lush white body, the fear on her face, the way she had screamed, the twisted expression on her little brother’s face as he had been forced to look on, and then—William’s masterstroke—the way he had let Walter enjoy her afterward. He wished he had kept her here, a prisoner, so that he could have her anytime he wanted.