Epic Historial Collection (132 page)

The devastation had shocked Elizabeth too. “It's terrible,” she said. “I can't believe it. There's nothing left.”

Aliena nodded grimly. “Nothing,” she echoed. “There'll be no harvest this year.”

“What will the people do?”

“I don't know.” Feeling a mixture of compassion and fear, Aliena said: “It's going to be a bloody winter.”

II

One morning four weeks after the great storm, Martha asked Jack for more money. Jack was surprised. He already gave her sixpence a week for housekeeping, and he knew that Aliena gave her the same. On that she had to feed four adults and two children, and supply two houses with firewood and rushes; but there were plenty of big families in Kingsbridge who only had sixpence a week for everything, food and clothing and rent too. He asked her why she needed more.

She looked embarrassed. “All the prices have gone up. The baker wants a penny for a four-pound loaf, and—”

“A penny! For a four-pounder?” Jack was outraged. “We should make an oven and bake our own.”

“Well, sometimes I do pan bread.”

“That's right.” Jack realized they had had pan-baked bread two or three times during the last week or so.

Martha said: “But the price of flour has gone up too, so we don't save much.”

“We should buy wheat and grind it ourselves.”

“It's not allowed. We're supposed to use the priory mill. Anyway, wheat is expensive also.”

“Of course.” Jack realized he was being silly. Bread was dear because flour was dear, and flour was dear because wheat was dear, and wheat was dear because the storm had wiped out the harvest, and there was no getting away from it. He saw that Martha looked troubled. She always got very upset if she thought he was displeased. He smiled to show her it was all right, and patted her shoulder. “It's not your fault,” he said.

“You sound so cross.”

“Not with you.” He felt guilty. Martha would rather cut off her hand than cheat him, he knew. He did not really understand why she was so devoted to him. If it was love, he thought, surely she would have got fed up by now, for she and the whole world knew that Aliena was the love of his life. He had once contemplated sending her away, to force her out of her rut: that way perhaps she would fall for a suitable man. But he knew in his heart that it would not work and would only make her desperately unhappy. So he let it be.

He reached inside his tunic for his purse, and took out three silver pennies. “You'd better have twelvepence a week, and see if you can manage on that,” he said. It seemed a lot. His pay was only twenty-four pennies a week, although he got perquisites as well, candles and robes and boots.

He swallowed the rest of a mug of beer and went out. It was unusually cold for early autumn. The weather was still strange. He walked briskly along the street and entered the priory close. It was still a little before sunrise and only a handful of craftsmen were here. He walked up the nave, looking at the foundations. They were almost complete, which was fortunate, as the mortar work would probably have to stop early this year because of the cold weather.

He looked up at the new transepts. His pleasure in his own creation was blighted by the cracks. They had reappeared on the day after the great storm. He was terribly disappointed. It had been a phenomenal tempest, of course, but his church was designed to survive a hundred such storms. He shook his head in perplexity, and climbed the turret stairs to the gallery. He wished he could talk to someone who had built a similar church, but nobody in England had, and even in France they had not yet gone this high.

On impulse, he did not go to his tracing floor, but continued up the staircase to the roof. The lead had all been laid, and he saw that the pinnacle that had been blocking the flow of rainwater now had a generous gutter running through its base. It was windy up on the roof, and he tried to keep hold of something whenever he was near the edge: he would not be the first builder to be blown off a roof to his death by a gust of wind. The wind always seemed stronger up here than it did on the ground. In fact, the wind seemed to increase disproportionately as you climbed….

He stood still, staring into space. The wind increased disproportionately as you climbed. That was the answer to his puzzle. It was not the
weight
of his vault that was causing the cracks—it was the
height
. He had built the church strong enough to bear the weight, he was sure; but he had not thought about the wind. These towering walls were constantly buffeted, and because they were so high, the wind was enough to crack them. Standing on the roof, feeling its force, he could just imagine the effect it was having on the tautly balanced structure below him. He knew the building so well that he could almost feel the strain, as if the walls were part of his body. The wind pushed sideways against the church, just as it was pushing against him; and because the church could not bend, it cracked.

He was quite sure he had found the explanation; but what was he going to do about it? He needed to strengthen the clerestory so that it could withstand the wind. But how? To build massive buttresses up against the walls would destroy the stunning effect of lightness and grace that he had achieved so successfully.

But if that was what it took to make the building stand up, he would have to do it.

He went down the stairs again. He felt no more cheerful, even though he had finally understood the problem; for it looked as if the solution would destroy his dream. Perhaps I was arrogant, he thought. I was so sure I could build the most beautiful cathedral in the world. Why did I imagine I could do better than anyone else? What made me think I was special? I should have copied another master's design exactly, and been content.

Philip was waiting for him at the tracing floor. There was a worried frown on the prior's brow, and the fringe of graying hair around his shaved head was untidy. He looked as if he had been up all night.

“We've got to reduce our expenditure,” he said without preamble. “We just haven't got the money to carry on building at our present rate.”

Jack had been afraid of this. The hurricane had destroyed the harvest throughout most of southern England: it was sure to have an effect on the priory's finances. Talk of cutbacks always made him anxious. In his heart he was afraid that if building slowed down too much he might not live to see his cathedral completed. But he did not let his fear show. “Winter's coming,” he said casually. “Work always slows down then anyway. And winter will be early this year.”

“Not early enough,” Philip said grimly. “I want to cut our outgoings in half, immediately.”

“In half!” It sounded impossible.

“The winter layoff begins today.”

This was worse than Jack had anticipated. The summer workers normally left around the beginning of December. They spent the winter months building wooden houses or making plows and carts, either for their families or to earn money. This year their families would not be pleased to see them. Jack said: “Do you know you're sending them to homes where people are already starving?”

Philip just stared back at him angrily.

“Of course you know it,” Jack said. “Sorry I asked.”

Philip said forcefully: “If I don't do this now, then one Saturday in midwinter the entire work force will stand in line for their pay and I will show them an empty chest.”

Jack shrugged helplessly. “There's no arguing with that.”

“It's not all,” Philip warned. “From now on there's to be no hiring, even to replace people who leave.”

“We haven't been hiring for months.”

“You hired Alfred.”

“That was different.” Jack was embarrassed. “Anyway, no hiring.”

“And no upgrading.”

Jack nodded. Every now and again an apprentice or a laborer asked to be upgraded to mason or stonecutter. If the other craftsmen judged that his skills were adequate, the request would be granted, and the priory would have to pay him higher wages. Jack said: “Upgrading is the prerogative of the masons' lodge.”

“I'm not trying to alter that,” Philip said. “I'm asking the masons to postpone all promotions until the famine is over.”

“I'll put it to them,” Jack said noncommittally. He had a feeling there could be trouble over that.

Philip pressed on. “From now on there'll be no work on saint's days.”

There were too many saint's days. In principle, they were holidays, but whether workers were paid for the holiday was a matter for negotiation. At Kingsbridge the rule was that when two or more saint's days fell in the same week, the first was a paid holiday and the second was an unpaid optional day off. Most people chose to work the second. Now, however, they would not have that option. The second saint's day would be an obligatory unpaid holiday.

Jack was feeling uncomfortable about the prospect of explaining these changes to the lodge. He said: “All this would go down a lot better if I could present it to them as a matter for discussion, rather than as something already settled.”

Philip shook his head. “Then they'd think it was open to negotiation, and some of the proposals might be softened. They'd suggest working half the saint's days, and allowing a limited number of upgrades.”

He was right, of course. “But isn't that reasonable?” Jack said.

“Of course it's
reasonable
,” Philip said irritably. “It's just that there's no room for adjustment. I'm already worried that these measures won't be sufficient—I can't make any concessions.”

“All right,” Jack said. Philip was clearly in no mood to compromise right now. “Is there anything else?” he said warily.

“Yes. Stop buying supplies. Run down your stocks of stone, iron and timber.”

“We get the timber free!” Jack protested.

“But we have to pay for it to be carted here.”

“True. All right.” Jack went to the window and looked down at the stones and tree trunks stacked in the priory close. It was a reflex action: he already knew how much he had in stock. “That's not a problem,” he said after a moment. “With the reduced work force, we've got enough materials to last us until next summer.”

Philip sighed wearily. “There's no guarantee we'll be taking on summer workers next year,” he said. “It depends on the price of wool. You'd better warn them.”

Jack nodded. “It's as bad as that, is it?”

“It's worse than I've ever known it,” Philip said. “What this country needs is three years of good weather. And a new king.”

“Amen to that,” said Jack.

Philip returned to his house. Jack spent the morning wondering how to handle the changes. There were two ways to build a nave: bay by bay, beginning at the crossing and working west; or course by course, laying the base of the entire nave first and then working up. The second way was faster but required more masons. It was the method Jack had intended to use. Now he reconsidered. Building bay by bay was more suited to a reduced work force. It had another advantage, too: any modifications he introduced into his design to take account of wind resistance could be tested in one or two bays before being used throughout the building.

He also brooded over the long-term effect of the financial crisis. Work might slow down more and more, over the years. Gloomily he saw himself growing old and gray and feeble without achieving his life's ambition, and eventually being buried in the priory graveyard in the shadow of a still unfinished cathedral.

When the noon bell rang he went to the masons' lodge. The men were sitting down to their ale and cheese, and he noticed for the first time that many of them had no bread. He asked the masons who normally went home to dinner if they would stay for a moment. “The priory is running short of money,” he said.

“I've never known a monastery that didn't, sooner or later,” said one of the older men.

Jack looked at him. He was called Edward Twonose because he had a wart on his face almost as big as his nose. He was a good stone carver, with a sharp eye for exact curves, and Jack always used him for shafts and drums. Jack said: “You'd have to admit that this place manages its money better than most. But Prior Philip can't avert storms and bad harvests, and now he needs to reduce his expenditure. I'll tell you about it before you have your dinners. First of all, we're not taking in any more supplies of stone or timber.”

The craftsmen from the other lodges were drifting in to listen. One of the old carpenters, Peter, said: “The wood we've got won't last the winter.”

“Yes, it will,” Jack said. “We'll be building more slowly, because we'll have fewer craftsmen. The winter layoff starts today.”

He knew immediately that he had handled the announcement wrongly. There were protests from all sides, several men speaking at once. I should have broken it to them gently, he thought. But he had no experience of this kind of thing. He had been master for seven years, but in that time there had been no financial crises.