The Pillars of the Earth (97 page)

“Be like me, and follow Bishop Henry—he knows which way the wind blows,” Waleran urged. “If everything works out right, Winchester will be made an archdiocese, and Henry will be the archbishop of Winchester—on a par with the archbishop of Canterbury. And when Henry dies, who knows? I could be the next archbishop. After that ... well, there are English cardinals already—one day there may be an English pope. ...”

William stared at Waleran, mesmerized, despite his own fear, by the naked ambition revealed on the bishop’s normally stony face. Waleran as pope? Anything was possible. But the immediate consequences of Waleran’s aspirations were more important. William could see that he was a pawn in Waleran’s game. Waleran had gained in prestige, with Bishop Henry, by his ability to deliver William and the knights of Shiring to one side or the other in the civil war. That was the price William had to pay for having the Church turn a blind eye to his crimes. “Do you mean ...” His voice was hoarse. He coughed and tried again. “Do you mean that you will hear my confession if I swear allegiance to Stephen and come over to his side again?”

The glitter went from Waleran’s eyes and his face became expressionless again. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he said.

William had no choice, but in any event he could see no reason to refuse. He had switched to Maud when she appeared to be winning, and he was quite ready to switch back now that Stephen seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Anyway, he would have consented to anything to be free of that awful terror of hell. “Agreed, then,” he said without further hesitation. “Only hear my confession, quickly.”

“Very well,” said Waleran. “Let us pray.”

As they went briskly through the service, William felt the load of guilt fall from his back, and he gradually began to be pleased about his triumph. When he emerged from the chapel his men could see that his spirits had lifted, and they cheered up immediately. William told them that they would once again be fighting for King Stephen, in accordance with the will of God as expressed by Bishop Waleran, and they made that the excuse for a celebration. Waleran called for wine.

While they were waiting for dinner, William said: “Stephen ought to confirm me in my earldom now.”

“He ought to,” Waleran agreed. “But that doesn’t mean he will.”

“But I’ve come over to his side!”

“Richard of Kingsbridge never left it.”

William permitted himself a smug smile. “I think I’ve disposed of the threat from Richard.”

“Oh? How?”

“Richard has never had any land. The only way he’s been able to keep up a knightly entourage is by using his sister’s money.”

“It’s unorthodox, but it’s worked so far.”

“But now his sister no longer has any money. I set fire to her barn yesterday. She’s destitute. And so is Richard.”

Waleran nodded acknowledgment. “In that case it’s only a matter of time before he disappears from sight. And then, I should think, the earldom is yours.”

Dinner was ready. William’s men-at-arms sat below the salt and flirted with the palace laundresses. William was at the head of the table with Waleran and his archdeacons. Now that he had relaxed, William rather envied the men with the laundresses: archdeacons made dull company.

Dean Baldwin offered William a dish of peas and said: “Lord William, how will you prevent someone else from doing what Prior Philip tried to do, and starting his own fleece fair?”

William was surprised by this question. “They wouldn’t dare!”

“Another monk wouldn’t dare, perhaps; but an earl might.”

“He’d need a license.”

“He might get one, if he fought for Stephen.”

“Not in this county.”

“Baldwin is right, William,” said Bishop Waleran. “All around the borders of your earldom there are towns that could hold a fleece fair: Wilton, Devizes, Wells, Marlborough, Wallingford. ...”

“I burned Kingsbridge, I can burn any place,” William said irritably. He took a swallow of wine. It angered him to have his victory deprecated.

Waleran took a roll of new bread and broke it without eating any. “Kingsbridge is an easy target,” he argued. “It has no town wall, no castle, not even a big church for people to take refuge in. And it’s run by a monk who has no knights or men-at-arms. Kingsbridge is defenseless. Most towns aren’t.”

Dean Baldwin added: “And when the civil war is over, whoever wins, you won’t even be able to burn a town like Kingsbridge and get away with it. That’s breaking the king’s peace. No king could overlook it in normal times.”

William saw their point and it made him angry. “Then the whole thing might have been for nothing,” he said. He put down his knife. His stomach was cramped with tension and he could no longer eat.

Waleran said: “Of course, if Aliena is ruined, that leaves a kind of vacancy.”

William did not follow him. “What do you mean?”

“Most of the wool in the county was sold to her this year. What will happen next year?”

“I don’t know.”

Waleran continued in the same thoughtful manner. “Apart from Prior Philip, all the wool producers for miles around are either tenants of the earl or tenants of the bishop. You’re the earl, in everything but name, and I’m the bishop. If we forced all our tenants to sell their fleeces to us, we would control two thirds of the wool trade in the county. We would sell at the Shiring Fleece Fair. There wouldn’t be enough business left to justify another fair, even if someone got a license.”

It was a brilliant idea, William saw immediately. “And we’d make as much money as Aliena did,” he pointed out.

“Indeed.” Waleran took a delicate bite of the meat in front of him and chewed reflectively. “So you’ve burned Kingsbridge, ruined your worst enemy, and established a new source of income for yourself. Not a bad day’s work.”

William took a deep draft of wine, and felt a glow in his belly. He looked down the table, and his eye lit on a plump dark-haired girl who was smiling coquettishly at two of his men. Perhaps he would have her tonight. He knew how it would be. When he got her in a corner, and threw her on the floor, and lifted her skirt, he would remember Aliena’s face, and the expression of terror and despair as she saw her wool going up in flames; and then he would be able to do it. He smiled at the prospect, and took another slice off the haunch of venison.

Prior Philip was shaken to the core by the burning of Kingsbridge. The unexpectedness of William’s move, the brutality of the attack, the dreadful scenes as the crowd panicked, the awful slaughter, and his own utter impotence, all combined to leave him stunned.

Worst of all was the death of Tom Builder. A man at the height of his skill, and a master of every aspect of his craft, Tom had been expected to continue to manage the building of the cathedral until it was finished. He was also Philip’s closest friend outside the cloisters. They had talked at least once a day, and struggled together to find solutions to the endless variety of problems that confronted them in their vast project. Tom had had a rare combination of wisdom and humility that made him a joy to work with. It seemed impossible that he was gone.

Philip felt that he did not understand anything anymore, he had no real power, and he was not competent to be in charge of a cow shed, much less a town the size of Kingsbridge. He had always believed that if he did his honest best and trusted in God, everything would turn out well in the end. The burning of Kingsbridge seemed to have proved him wrong. He lost all motivation, and sat in his house at the priory all day long, watching the candle burn down on the little altar, thinking disconnected, desolate thoughts, doing nothing.

It was young Jack who saw what had to be done. He got the dead bodies taken to the crypt, put the wounded in the monks’ dormitory, and organized emergency feeding for the living in the meadow on the other side of the river. The weather was warm, and everyone slept in the open air. The day after the massacre, Jack organized the dazed townspeople into teams of laborers and got them to clear the ashes and debris from the priory close, while Cuthbert Whitehead and Milius Bursar ordered supplies of food from surrounding farms. On the second day they buried their dead in one hundred and ninety-three new graves on the north side of the priory close.

Philip simply issued the orders that Jack proposed. Jack pointed out that most of the citizens who had survived the fire had lost very little of material value—just a hovel and a few sticks of furniture, in most cases. The crops were still in the fields, the livestock were in the pastures, and people’s savings were still where they had been buried, usually beneath the hearth of their homes, untouched by the above-ground blaze that had swept the town. The merchants whose stocks had burned were the greatest sufferers: some were ruined, as Aliena was; others had some of their wealth in buried silver, and would be able to start again. Jack proposed rebuilding the town immediately.

At Jack’s suggestion, Philip gave extraordinary permission for timber to be cut freely in the priory’s forests for the purpose of rebuilding houses, but only for one week. In consequence Kingsbridge was deserted for seven days while every family selected and felled the trees they would use for their new homes. During that week, Jack asked Philip to draw a plan of the new town. The idea caught Philip’s imagination and he came out of his depression.

He worked on his plan nonstop for four days. There would be large houses all around the priory walls, for the wealthy craftsmen and shopkeepers. He recalled the grid pattern of Winchester’s streets, and planned the new Kingsbridge on the same convenient basis. Straight streets, broad enough for two carts to pass, would run down to the river, with narrower cross streets. He made the standard building plot twenty-four feet wide, which was an ample frontage for a town house. Each plot would be a hundred and twenty feet deep, to make room for a decent backyard with a privy, a vegetable garden, and a stable, cow shed or pigsty. The bridge had burned down and the new one would be built in a more convenient position, at the bottom end of the new main street. The main road through the town would now go from the bridge straight up the hill, past the cathedral and out the far side, as in Lincoln. Another wide street would run from the priory gate to a new quay at the riverside, downstream from the bridge and around the bend in the river. That way, bulk supplies could reach the priory without using the main shopping street. There would be a completely new district of small houses around the new quay: the poor would be downstream of the priory, and their dirty habits would not foul the supply of fresh water to the monastery.

Planning the rebuilding brought Philip out of his helpless trance, but every time he looked up from his drawings he was swept by rage and grief for the people who had been lost. He wondered whether William Hamleigh was in fact the devil incarnate: he caused more misery than seemed humanly possible. Philip saw the same alternation of hope and bereavement on the faces of the townspeople as they arrived back from the forest with their loads of timber. Jack and the other monks had laid out the plan of the new town on the ground with stakes and string, and as the people chose their plots, every now and again someone would say gloomily: “But what’s the point? It might be burned again next year.” If there had been some hope of justice, some expectation that the evildoers might be punished, perhaps the people would not have been so inconsolable; but although Philip had written to Stephen, Maud, Bishop Henry, the archbishop of Canterbury, and the pope, he knew that in wartime there was little chance that a man as powerful and important as William would be brought to trial.

The larger building plots in Philip’s scheme were much in demand, despite higher rents, so he altered his plan to allow for more of them. Almost nobody wanted to build in the poorer quarter, but Philip decided to leave the layout as it was, for future use. Ten days after the fire, new wooden houses were going up on most plots, and another week later most of them were finished. Once the people had built their houses, work started again on the cathedral. The builders got paid and wanted to spend their money; so the shops reopened, and the smallholders brought their eggs and onions into town; and the scullery maids and laundresses recommenced work for the shopkeepers and craftsmen; and so, day by day, material life in Kingsbridge returned to normal.

But there were so many dead that it seemed like a town of ghosts. Every family had lost at least one member: a child, a mother, a husband, a sister. The people wore no badges of mourning but the lines of their faces showed grief as starkly as bare trees show winter. One of the worst hit was six-year-old Jonathan. He moped about the priory close like a lost soul, and eventually Philip realized he was missing Tom, who had, it seemed, spent more time with the boy than anyone had noticed. Once Philip understood this, he took care to set aside an hour each day for Jonathan, to tell him stories, play counting games, and listen to his voluble chatter.

Philip wrote to the abbots of all the major Benedictine monasteries in England and France, asking them if they could recommend a master builder to replace Tom. A prior in Philip’s position would normally consult his bishop about this, for bishops traveled widely and were likely to hear of good builders, but Bishop Waleran would not help Philip. The fact that the two of them were permanently at odds made Philip’s job lonelier than it should have been.

While Philip waited for replies from the abbots, the craftsmen looked instinctively to Alfred for leadership. Alfred was Tom’s son, he was a master mason, and he had for some time been operating his own semi-autonomous team on the site. He did not have Tom’s brain, unfortunately, but he was literate and authoritative, and he slipped gradually into the gap left by the death of his father.

There seemed to be a lot more problems and queries about the building than there had been in Tom’s time, and Alfred always seemed to come up with a question when Jack was nowhere to be found. No doubt that was natural: everyone in Kingsbridge knew the stepbrothers hated one another. However, the upshot was that Philip found himself once again bothered by endless questions of detail.