The Pillars of the Earth (67 page)

He had thought about her obsessively ever since. He had even tried to track her down. A verderer had been caught trying to sell William’s war-horse in Shiring, and had confessed, under torture, that he had stolen it from a girl answering to the description of Aliena. William had learned from the Winchester jailer that she had visited her father before he died. And his friend Mistress Kate, the owner of a brothel he frequented, had told him she had offered Aliena a place in her house. But the trail had petered out. “Don’t let her prey on your mind, Willy-boy,” Kate had said sympathetically. “You want big tits and long hair? We’ve got it. Take Betty and Millie together, tonight, four big breasts all to yourself, why don’t you?” But Betty and Millie had not been innocent, and white-skinned, and frightened half to death; and they had not pleased him. In fact, he had not achieved real satisfaction with a woman since that night with Aliena here in the earl’s chamber.

He put the thought of her out of his mind. Bishop Waleran was speaking to Mother. “I suppose you know that the prior of Kingsbridge has taken possession of your quarry?”

They did not know. William was astonished, and Mother was furious. “What?” she said. “How?”

“Apparently your men-at-arms succeeded in turning away the quarry men, but the next day when they woke up they found the quarry overrun with monks singing hymns, and they were afraid to lay hands on men of God. Prior Philip then hired your quarrymen, and now they’re all working together in perfect harmony. I’m surprised the men-at-arms didn’t come back to you to report.”

“Where are they, the cowards?” Mother screeched. She was red in the face. “I’ll see to them—I’ll make them cut off their own balls—”

“I see why they didn’t come back,” Waleran said.

“Never mind the men-at-arms,” Father said. “They’re just soldiers. That sly prior is the one responsible. I never imagined he could pull a trick like this. He’s outwitted us, that’s all.”

“Exactly,” said Waleran. “For all his air of saintly innocence, he’s got the cunning of a house rat.”

William thought that Waleran, too, was like a rat, a black one with a pointed snout and sleek black hair, sitting in a corner with a crust in its paws, darting wary glances around the room as it nibbled its dinner. Why was he interested in who occupied the quarry? He was as cunning as Prior Philip: he, too, was plotting something.

Mother said: “We can’t let him get away with this. The Hamleighs must not be seen to be defeated. That prior must be humiliated.”

Father was not so sure. “It’s only a quarry,” he said. “And the king did—”

“It’s not just the quarry, it’s the family’s honor,” Mother interrupted. “Never mind what the king said.”

William agreed with Mother. Philip of Kingsbridge had defied the Hamleighs, and he had to be crushed. If people were not afraid of you, you had nothing. But he did not see what the problem was. “Why don’t we go in with some men and just throw the prior’s quarrymen out?”

Father shook his head. “It’s one thing to obstruct the king’s wishes passively, as we did by working the quarry ourselves; but quite another to send armed men to expel workmen who are there by express permission of the king. I could lose the earldom for that.”

William reluctantly saw his point of view. Father was always cautious, but he was usually justified.

Bishop Waleran said: “I have a suggestion.” William had felt sure he had something up his embroidered black sleeve. “I believe this cathedral should not be built at Kingsbridge.”

William was mystified by this remark. He did not see its relevance. Nor did Father. But Mother’s eyes widened, she stopped scratching her face for a moment, and she said thoughtfully: “That’s an interesting idea.”

“In the old days most cathedrals were in villages such as Kingsbridge,” Waleran went on. “Many of them were moved to towns sixty or seventy years ago, during the time of the first King William. Kingsbridge is a small village in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing there but a run-down monastery that isn’t rich enough to maintain a cathedral, let alone build one.”

Mother said: “And where would
you
wish it built?”

“Shiring,” said Waleran. “It’s a big town—the population must be a thousand or more—and it has a market and an annual fleece fair. And it’s on a main road. Shiring makes sense. And if we both campaign for it—the bishop and the earl united—we could push it through.”

Father said: “But if the cathedral were at Shiring, the Kingsbridge monks would not be able to look after it.”

“That’s the
point
,”
Mother said impatiently. “Without the cathedral, Kingsbridge would be nothing, the priory would sink back into obscurity, and Philip would once again be a nonentity, which is what he deserves.”

“So who would look after the new cathedral?” Father persisted.

“A new chapter of canons,” Waleran said. “Appointed by me.”

William had been as puzzled as his father, but now he began to see Waleran’s thinking: in moving the cathedral to Shiring, Waleran would also take personal control of it.

“What about the money?” said Father. “Who would pay for the new cathedral, if not Kingsbridge Priory?”

“I think we’d find that most of the priory’s property is dedicated to the cathedral,” Waleran said. “If the cathedral moves, the property goes with it. For example, when King Stephen divided up the old earldom of Shiring, he gave the hill farms to Kingsbridge Priory, as we know only too well; but he did that in order to help finance the new cathedral. If we told him that someone else was building the new cathedral, he would expect the priory to release those lands to the new builders. The monks would put up a fight, of course; but examination of their charters would settle the matter.”

The picture was becoming clearer to William. Not only would Waleran get control of the cathedral by this stratagem; he would also get his hands on most of the priory’s wealth.

Father was thinking the same thing. “It’s a grand scheme for you, Bishop, but what’s in it for me?”

It was Mother who answered him. “Can’t you see?” she said tetchily. “You own Shiring. Think how much prosperity would come to the town along with the cathedral. There would be hundreds of craftsmen and laborers building the church for years: they all have to live somewhere and pay you rent, and buy food and clothing at your market. Then there will be the canons who run the cathedral; and the worshipers who will come to Shiring instead of Kingsbridge at Easter and Whitsun for the big services; and the pilgrims who come to visit the shrines. ... They all spend money.” Her eyes were bright with greed. William could not remember seeing her so enthusiastic for a long time. “If we handle this right, we could turn Shiring into one of the most important cities in the kingdom!”

And it will be mine, William thought. When Father dies I will be the earl.

“All right,” said Father. “It will ruin Philip, it will bring power to you, Bishop, and it will make me rich. How could it be done?”

“The decision to move the location of the cathedral must be made by the archbishop of Canterbury, theoretically.”

Mother looked at him sharply. “Why ‘theoretically’?”

“Because there is no archbishop just now. William of Corbeil died at Christmas and King Stephen has not yet nominated his successor. However, we know who is likely to get the job: our old friend Henry of Winchester. He wants the job; the pope has already given him interim control; and his brother is the king.”

“How much of a friend is he?” said Father. “He didn’t do much for you when you were trying to get this earldom.”

Waleran shrugged. “He’ll help me if he can. We’ll have to make a convincing case.”

Mother said: “He won’t want to make powerful enemies, just now, if he’s hoping to be made archbishop.”

“Correct. But Philip isn’t powerful enough to matter. He’s not likely to be consulted about the choice of archbishop.”

“So why shouldn’t Henry just give us what we want?” William asked.

“Because he’s
not
the archbishop, not yet; and he knows that people are watching him to see how he behaves during his caretakership. He wants to be seen making judicious decisions, not just handing out favors to his friends. Plenty of time for that
after
the election.”

Mother said reflectively: “So the best that can be said is that he will listen sympathetically to our case. What is our case?”

“That Philip can’t build a cathedral, and we can.”

“And how shall we persuade him of that?”

“Have you been to Kingsbridge lately?”

“No.”

“I was there at Easter.” Waleran smiled. “They haven’t started building yet. All they’ve got is a flat piece of ground with a few stakes banged into the soil and some ropes marking where they hope to build. They’ve started digging foundations, but they’ve only gone down a few feet. There’s a mason working there with his apprentice, and the priory carpenter, and occasionally a monk or two doing some laboring. It’s a very unimpressive sight, especially in the rain. I’d like Bishop Henry to see it.”

Mother nodded sagely. William could see that the plan was good, even though he hated the thought of collaborating with the loathsome Waleran Bigod.

Waleran went on: “We’ll brief Henry beforehand on what a small and insignificant place Kingsbridge is, and how poor the monastery is; then we’ll show him the site where it has taken them more than a year to dig a few shallow holes; then we’ll take him to Shiring and impress him with how fast we could build a cathedral there, with the bishop and the earl and the townspeople all putting their maximum energies into the project.”

“Will Henry come?” Mother said anxiously.

“All we can do is ask,” Waleran replied. “I’ll invite him to visit on Whitsunday in his archiepiscopal role. That will flatter him by implying that we already consider him to be the archbishop.”

Father said: “We must keep this secret from Prior Philip.”

“I don’t think that will be possible,” Waleran said. “The bishop can’t make a surprise visit to Kingsbridge—it would look very odd.”

“But if Philip knows in advance that Bishop Henry is coming, he might make a big effort to advance the building program.”

“What with? He hasn’t any money, especially now that he’s hired all your quarrymen. Quarrymen can’t build walls.” Waleran shook his head from side to side with a satisfied smile. “In fact, there isn’t a thing he can do except hope the sun shines on Whitsunday.”

At first Philip was pleased that the bishop of Winchester was to come to Kingsbridge. It would mean an open-air service, of course, but that was all right. They would hold it where the old cathedral used to be. In case of rain, the priory carpenter would build a temporary shelter over the altar and the area immediately around it, to keep the bishop dry; and the congregation could just get wet. The visit seemed like an act of faith on Bishop Henry’s part, as if he were saying that he still considered Kingsbridge to be a cathedral, and the lack of a real church was just a temporary problem.

However, it occurred to him to wonder what Henry’s motive was. The usual reason for a bishop to visit a monastery was to get free food, drink and lodging for himself and his entourage; but Kingsbridge was famous—not to say notorious—for the plainness of its food and the austerity of its accommodation, and Philip’s reforms had merely raised its standard from dreadful to barely adequate. Henry was also the richest clergyman in the kingdom, so he certainly was not coming to Kingsbridge for its food and drink. But he had struck Philip as a man who did nothing without a reason.

The more Philip thought about it, the more he suspected that Bishop Waleran had something to do with it. He had expected Waleran to arrive at Kingsbridge within a day or two of the letter, to discuss arrangements for the service and hospitality for Henry, and to make sure Henry would be pleased and impressed with Kingsbridge; and as the days went by and Waleran did not show up, Philip’s misgivings deepened.

However, even in his most mistrustful moments he had not dreamed of the treachery that was revealed, ten days before Whitsun, by a letter from the prior of Canterbury Cathedral. Like Kingsbridge, Canterbury was a cathedral run by Benedictine monks, and monks always helped one another if they could. The prior of Canterbury, who naturally worked closely with the acting archbishop, had learned that Waleran had invited Henry to Kingsbridge for the express purpose of persuading him to move the diocese, and the new cathedral, to Shiring.

Philip was shocked. His heart beat faster and the hand holding the letter trembled. It was a fiendishly clever move by Waleran, and Philip had not anticipated it, had not imagined anything like it.

It was his own lack of foresight that shook him. He knew how treacherous Waleran was. The bishop had tried to double-cross him, a year ago, over the Shiring earldom. And he would never forget how angry Waleran had been when Philip had outwitted him. He could picture Waleran’s face, suffused with rage, as he said
I swear by all that’s holy, you’ll never build your church
.
But as time went by the menace of that oath had faded, and Philip’s guard had slipped. Now here was a brutal reminder that Waleran had a long memory.

“Bishop Waleran says you have no money, and in fifteen months you have built nothing,” the prior of Canterbury wrote. “He says that Bishop Henry will see for himself that the cathedral will never get built if it is left to Kingsbridge Priory to build it. He argues that the time to make the move is now, before any real progress is made.”

Waleran was too cunning to get caught in an outright lie, so he was purveying a gross exaggeration. Philip had in fact achieved a great deal. He had cleared the ruins, approved the plans, laid out the new east end, made a start on the foundations, and begun felling trees and quarrying stone. But he did not have much to show a visitor. And he had overcome terrific obstacles to achieve this much—reforming the priory’s finances, winning a major grant of lands from the king, and defeating Earl Percy over the quarry. It was not fair!

With the letter from Canterbury in his hand, he went to his window and looked out over the building site. Spring rains had turned it into a sea of mud. Two young monks with their hoods pulled over their heads were carrying timber up from the riverside. Tom Builder had made a contraption with a rope and a pulley for lifting barrels of earth out of the foundation hole, and he was operating the winding wheel while his son Alfred, down in the hole, filled the barrels with wet mud. They looked as though they could work at that pace forever and never make any difference. Anyone but a professional would see this scene and conclude that no cathedral would be built here this side of the Day of Judgment.