Epic Historial Collection (100 page)

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.

But as the weeks went by Alfred gained in confidence, until one day he came to Philip and said: “Wouldn't you rather have the cathedral vaulted?”

Tom's design called for a wooden ceiling over the center of the church, and vaulted stone ceilings over the narrower side aisles. “Yes, I would,” Philip said. “But we decided on a wooden ceiling to save money.”

Alfred nodded. “The trouble is, a wooden ceiling can burn. A stone vault is fireproof.”

Philip studied him for a moment, wondering whether he had underestimated Alfred. Philip would not have expected Alfred to propose a variation on his father's design: that was more the kind of thing Jack would do. But the idea of a fireproof church was very striking, especially since the whole town had burned down.

Thinking along the same lines, Alfred said: “The only building left standing in the town after the fire was the new parish church.”

And the new parish church—built by Alfred—had a stone vault, Philip thought. But a snag occurred to him. “Would the existing walls take the extra weight of a stone roof?”

“We'd have to reinforce the buttresses They'd stick out a bit more, that's all.”

He had really thought this out, Philip realized. “What about the cost?”

“It will cost more in the long run, of course, and the whole church will take three or four extra years to complete. But it won't make any difference to your annual outlay.”

Philip liked the idea more and more. “But will it mean we have to wait another year before we can use the chancel for services?”

“No. Stone or wood, we can't start on the ceiling until next spring, because the clerestory must harden before we put any weight on it. The wood ceiling is quicker to build, by a few months; but either way, the chancel will be roofed by the end of next year.”

Philip considered. It was a matter of balancing the advantage of a fireproof roof against the disadvantage of another four years of building—and another four years of cost. The extra cost seemed a long way in the future, and the gain in safety was immediate. “I think I'll discuss it with the brothers in chapter,” he said. “But it sounds like a good idea to me.”

Alfred thanked him and went out, and after he had gone Philip sat staring at the door, wondering whether he really needed to search for a new master builder after all.

 

Kingsbridge made a brave show on Lammas Day. In the morning, every household in the town made a loaf—the harvest was just in, so flour was cheap and plentiful. Those who did not have an oven of their own baked their loaf at a neighbor's house, or in the vast ovens belonging to the priory and the town's two bakers, Peggy Baxter and Jack-atte-Noven. By midday the air was full of the smell of new bread, making everyone hungry. The loaves were displayed on tables set up in the meadow across the river, and everyone walked around admiring them. No two were alike. Many had fruit or spices inside: there was plum bread, raisin bread, ginger bread, sugar bread, onion bread, garlic bread, and many more. Others were colored green with parsley, yellow with egg yolk, red with sandalwood or purple with turnsole. There were lots of odd shapes: triangles, cones, balls, stars, ovals, pyramids, flutes, rolls, and even figures of eight. Others were even more ambitious: there were loaves in the shapes of rabbits, bears, monkeys and dragons. There were houses and castles of bread. But the most magnificent, by general agreement, was the loaf made by Ellen and Martha, which was a representation of the cathedral as it would look when finished, based on the design by her late husband, Tom.

Ellen's grief had been terrible to see. She had wailed like a soul in torment, night after night, and no one had been able to comfort her. Even now, two months later, she was haggard and hollow-eyed; but she and Martha seemed able to help one another, and making the bread cathedral had given them some kind of consolation.

Aliena spent a long time staring at Ellen's construction. She wished there was something she could do to find comfort. She had no enthusiasm for anything. When the tasting began, she went from table to table listlessly, not eating. She had not even wanted to build a house for herself, until Prior Philip told her to snap out of it, and Alfred brought her the wood and assigned some of his men to help her. She was still eating at the monastery every day, when she remembered to eat at all. She had no energy. If it occurred to her to do something for herself—make a kitchen bench from leftover timber, or finish the walls of her house by filling in the chinks with mud from the river, or make a snare to catch birds so that she could feed herself—she would remember how hard she had worked to build up her trade as a wool merchant, and how quickly it had all gone to ruin, and she would lose her enthusiasm. So she went on from day to day, getting up late, going to the monastery for dinner if she felt hungry, spending the day watching the river flow by, and going to sleep in the straw on the floor of her new house when darkness fell.

Despite her lassitude, she knew that this Lammas Day festival was no more than a pretense. The town had been rebuilt, and people were going about their business as before, but the massacre threw a long shadow, and she could sense, beneath the facade of well-being, a deep undercurrent of fear. Most people were better than Aliena at acting as if all was well, but in truth they all felt as she did, that this could not last, and whatever they built now would be destroyed again.

While she stood looking vacantly at the piles of bread, her brother, Richard, arrived. He came across the bridge from the deserted town, leading his horse. He had been away, fighting for Stephen, since before the massacre, and he was astonished by what he found. “What the devil happened here?” he said to her. “I can't find our house—the whole town has changed!”

“William Hamleigh came on the day of the fleece fair, with a troop of men-at-arms, and burned the town,” Aliena said.

Richard paled with shock, and the scar on his right ear showed livid. “William!” he breathed. “That devil.”

“We've got a new house, though,” Aliena said expressionlessly. “Alfred's men built it for me. But it's much smaller, and it's down by the new quay.”

“What happened to you?” he said, staring at her. “You're practically bald, and you've got no eyebrows.”

“My hair caught fire.”

“He didn't…”

Aliena shook her head. “Not this time.”

One of the girls brought Richard some salt bread to taste. He took some but did not eat it. He looked stunned.

“I'm glad you're safe, anyway,” Aliena said.

He nodded. “Stephen is marching on Oxford, where Maud is holed up. The war could be over soon. But I need a new sword—I came to get some money.” He ate some bread. The color came back to his face. “By God, this tastes good. You can cook me some meat later.”

Suddenly she was afraid of him. She knew he was going to be furious with her and she had no strength to stand up to him. “I haven't any meat,” she said.

“Well, get some from the butcher, then!”

“Don't be angry, Richard,” she said. She began to tremble.

“I'm not angry,” he said irritably. “What's the matter with you?”

“All my wool was burned in the fire,” she said, and stared at him in fear, waiting for him to explode.

He frowned, looked at her, swallowed, and threw away the crust of his bread. “All of it?”

“All of it.”

“But you must have some money still.”

“None.”

“Why not? You always had a great chest full of pennies buried under the floor—”

“Not in May. I had spent it all on wool—every penny. And I borrowed forty pounds from poor Malachi, which I can't repay. I certainly can't buy you a new sword. I can't even buy a piece of meat for your supper. We're completely penniless.”

“Then how am I supposed to carry on?” he shouted angrily. His horse pricked up its ears and fidgeted uneasily.

“I don't know!” Aliena said tearfully. “Don't shout, you're frightening the horse.” She began to cry.

“William Hamleigh did this,” Richard said through his teeth. “One of these days I'm going to butcher him like a fat pig, I swear by all the saints.”

Alfred came up to them, his bushy beard full of crumbs of bread, with a corner of a plum loaf in his hand. “Try this,” he said to Richard.

“I'm not hungry,” Richard said ungraciously.

Alfred looked at Aliena and said: “What's the matter?”