Epic Historial Collection (133 page)

The voice that emerged from the hubbub was that of Pierre Paris, one of the masons who had come from Saint-Denis. After six years in Kingsbridge his English was still imperfect, and his anger made his accent thicker, but he was not discouraged. “You cannot dismiss men on a Tuesday,” he said.

“That's right,” said Jack Blacksmith. “You have to give them until the end of the week, at least.”

Jack's stepbrother Alfred chimed in. “I remember when my father was building a house for the earl of Shiring, and Will Hamleigh came and dismissed the whole crew. My father told him he had to give everyone a week's wages, and held his horse's head until he handed over the money.”

Thank you for nothing, Alfred, thought Jack. He said doggedly: “You might as well hear the rest. From now on, there's no work on saint's days, and no promotions.”

That made them angrier. “Unacceptable,” someone said, and several of the others repeated it: “Unacceptable, unacceptable.”

Jack found that infuriating. “What are you talking about? If the priory hasn't got the money, you're not going to get paid. What's the point of chanting ‘Unacceptable, unacceptable,' like a class of schoolboys learning Latin?”

Edward Twonose spoke up again. “We're not a class of schoolboys, we're a lodge of masons,” he said. “The lodge has the right of promotion, and nobody can take it away.”

“And if there's no money for the extra pay?” Jack said hotly.

One of the younger masons said: “I don't believe that.”

It was Dan Bristol, one of the summer workers. He was not a skillful cutter but he could lay stones very accurately and fast. Jack said to him: “How can you say you don't believe it? What do you know about the priory's finances?”

“I know what I see,” Dan said. “Are the monks starving? No. Are there candles in the church? Yes. Is there wine in the stores? Yes. Does the prior go barefoot? No. There's money. He just doesn't want to give it to us.”

Several people agreed loudly. In fact, he was wrong about at least one item, and that was the wine; but no one would believe Jack now—he had become the representative of the priory. That was not fair: he was not responsible for Philip's decisions. He said: “Look, I'm only telling you what the prior said to me. I don't guarantee that it's true. But if he tells us there's not enough money, and we don't believe him, what can we do?”

“We can
all
stop work,” said Dan. “Immediately.”

“That's right,” said another voice.

This was getting out of control, Jack realized with a sense of panic. “Wait a moment,” he said. Desperately he searched for something to say that would bring down the temperature. “Let's go back to work now, and this afternoon I'll try to persuade Prior Philip to moderate his plans.”

“I don't think we should work,” Dan said.

Jack could not believe this was happening. He had anticipated many threats to the building of his dream church, but he had not foreseen that the craftsmen would sabotage it. “Why shouldn't we work?” he said incredulously. “What's the point?”

Dan said: “As things stand, half of us aren't even sure we're going to get paid for the rest of the week.”

“Which is against all custom and practice,” said Pierre Paris. The phrase
custom and practice
was much used in court.

Jack said desperately: “At least work while I'm trying to talk Philip around.”

Edward Twonose said: “If we work, can you guarantee that everyone will be paid for the whole week?”

Jack knew he could offer no such guarantee, with Philip in his present mood. It crossed his mind to say yes anyway, and pay the money himself, if necessary; but he realized immediately that his entire savings would not be enough to cover a week's wages here. So he said: “I'll do my level best to persuade him, and I think he'll agree.”

“Not good enough for me,” said Dan.

“Nor me,” said Pierre.

Dan said: “No guarantee, no work.”

To Jack's dismay, there was general agreement.

He saw that if he continued to oppose them he would lose what little authority he had left. “The lodge must act as one man,” he said, quoting a much-used form of words. “Are we all in favor of a stoppage?”

There was a chorus of assent.

“So be it,” said Jack dismally. “I'll tell the prior.”

 

Bishop Waleran rode into Shiring followed by a small army of attendants. Earl William was waiting for him in the porch of the church on the market square. William frowned in puzzlement: he had been expecting a site meeting, not a state visit. What was the devious bishop up to now?

With Waleran was a stranger on a chestnut gelding. The man was tall and rangy, with heavy black eyebrows and a large curved nose. He wore a scornful expression that seemed permanent. He rode beside Waleran, as if they were equals, but he was not wearing the clothes of a bishop.

When they dismounted, Waleran introduced the stranger. “Earl William, this is Peter of Wareham, who is an archdeacon in the service of the archbishop of Canterbury.”

No explanation of what Peter is doing here, William thought. Waleran is definitely up to something.

The archdeacon bowed and said: “Your bishop has told me of your generosity to Holy Mother Church, Lord William.”

Before William could reply, Waleran pointed to the parish church. “This building will be pulled down to make room for the new church, Archdeacon,” he said.

“Have you appointed a master mason yet?” Peter asked.

William wondered why an archdeacon from Canterbury was so interested in the parish church of Shiring. But perhaps he was just being polite.

“No, I haven't found a master yet,” Waleran said. “There are plenty of builders looking for work, but I can't get anyone from Paris. It seems the whole world wants to build churches like Saint-Denis, and the masons who know the style are in heavy demand.”

“It could be important,” said Peter.

“There's a builder who may be able to help waiting to see us later.”

Once again William was a little puzzled. Why did Peter think it was important to build in the style of Saint-Denis?

Waleran said: “The new church will be much bigger, of course. It will protrude a good deal farther into the square here.”

William did not like the proprietorial air Waleran was assuming. Now he interjected: “I can't have the church encroaching on the market square.”

Waleran looked irritated, as if William had spoken out of turn. “Whyever not?” he said.

“Every inch of the square makes money on market days.”

Waleran looked as if he was disposed to argue, but Peter said with a smile: “We mustn't block the silver fountain!”

“That's right,” William said. He was paying for this church. Happily, the fourth bad harvest had made little difference to his income. Smaller peasants paid rent in kind, and many of them had given William his sack of grain and brace of geese even though they were living on acorn soup. Furthermore, that sack of grain was worth ten times what it had fetched five years ago, and the increase in the price more than compensated for the tenants who had defaulted and the serfs who had starved to death. He still had the resources to finance the new building.

They walked around to the back of the church. Here was an area of housing that generated minimal income. William said: “We can build out at this end, and knock down all these houses.”

“But most of them are clerical residences,” Waleran objected.

“We'll find other houses for the clergymen.”

Waleran looked dissatisfied, but said no more on that subject.

On the north side of the church a broad-shouldered man of about thirty years bowed to them. By his dress William judged him to be a craftsman. Archdeacon Baldwin, the bishop's close colleague, said: “This is the man I told you about, my lord bishop. His name is Alfred of Kingsbridge.”

At first glance the man was not very prepossessing: he was rather ox-like, big and strong and dumb. But on closer examination there was a cunning look about his face, rather like a fox or a sly dog.

Archdeacon Baldwin said: “Alfred is the son of Tom Builder, the first master at Kingsbridge; and was himself master for a while, until he was usurped by his stepbrother.”

The son of Tom Builder. This was the man who had married Aliena, William realized. But he had never consummated the marriage. William looked at him with keen interest. He would never have guessed this man to be impotent. He appeared healthy and normal. But Aliena could have a strange effect on a man.

Archdeacon Peter was saying: “Have you worked in Paris, and learned the style of Saint-Denis?”

“No—”

“But we must have a church built in the new style.”

“At present I'm working at Kingsbridge, where my brother is master. He brought the new style back from Paris and I've learned it from him.”

William wondered how Bishop Waleran had managed to suborn Alfred without arousing suspicion; then he remembered that the Kingsbridge sub-prior, Remigius, was a tool of Waleran. Remigius must have made the initial approach.

He remembered something else about Kingsbridge. He said to Alfred: “But your roof fell down.”

“That wasn't my fault,” Alfred said. “Prior Philip insisted on a change of design.”

“I know Philip,” said Peter, and there was venom in his voice. “A stubborn, arrogant man.”

“How do you know him?” William asked.

“Many years ago I was a monk at the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest when Philip was in charge there,” Peter said bitterly. “I criticized his slack regime, and he made me almoner to get me out of the way.” Peter's resentment still burned hot, it was clear. No doubt that was a factor in whatever Waleran was scheming.

William said: “Be that as it may, I don't think I want to hire a builder whose roofs fall down, no matter what excuses there might be.”

Alfred said: “I'm the only master builder in England who has worked on a new-style church, apart from Jack Jackson.”

William said: “I don't care about Saint-Denis. I believe my poor mother's soul will be served just as well by a traditional design.”

Bishop Waleran and Archdeacon Peter exchanged a look. After a moment, Waleran spoke to William in a lowered voice. “One day this church could be Shiring Cathedral,” he said.

Everything became clear to William. Many years ago Waleran had schemed to have the seat of the diocese moved from Kingsbridge to Shiring, but Prior Philip had outmaneuvered him. Now Waleran had revived the plan. This time, it seemed, he would go about it more deviously. Last time he had simply asked the archbishop of Canterbury to grant his request. This time he was going to start building a new church, one large and prestigious enough to be a cathedral, and at the same time develop allies such as Peter within the archbishop's circle, before making his application. That was all very well, but William just wanted to build a church in memory of his mother, to ease her soul's passage through the eternal fires; and he resented Waleran's attempt to take over the scheme for his own purposes. On the other hand, it would be a tremendous boost to Shiring to have the cathedral here, and William would profit from that.

Alfred was saying: “There's something else.”

Waleran said: “Yes?”

William looked at the two men. Alfred was bigger, stronger and younger than Waleran, and he could have knocked Waleran to the ground with one of his big hands tied behind his back; yet he was acting like the weak man in a confrontation. Years ago it would have made William angry to see a prissy white-skinned priest dominate a strong man, but he no longer got upset about such things: that was the way of the world.

Alfred lowered his voice and said: “I can bring the entire Kingsbridge work force with me.”

Suddenly his three listeners were riveted.

“Say that again,” said Waleran.

“If you hire me as master builder, I'll bring all the craftsmen from Kingsbridge with me.”

Waleran said warily: “How do we know you're telling the truth?”

“I don't ask you to trust me,” Alfred said. “Give me the job conditionally. If I don't do what I promise, I'll leave without pay.”

For different reasons all three of his listeners hated Prior Philip, and they were immediately gripped by the prospect of striking such a blow at him.

Alfred added: “Several of the masons worked on Saint-Denis.”

Waleran said: “But how can you bring them with you?”

“Does it matter? Let's just say they prefer me to Jack.”

William thought Alfred was lying about this, and Waleran appeared to think the same, for he tilted back his head and gave Alfred a long look down his pointed nose. However, Alfred had seemed to be telling the truth earlier. Whatever the true reason might be, he seemed convinced that he could bring the Kingsbridge craftsmen with him.