Epic Historial Collection (149 page)

She had already taken the reins of power. The castle servants were lazy after years of slack management and she had smartened them up. She had reorganized the stores, had the great hall painted, and cleaned out the bakehouse and the brewery. The kitchen had been so filthy that she had burned it down and built a new one. She had started to pay out the weekly wages herself, as a sign that she was in charge; and she had dismissed three men-at-arms for persistent drunkenness.

She had also ordered a new castle to be built an hour's ride from Kingsbridge. Earlscastle was too far from the cathedral. Jack had drawn a design for the new place. They would move in as soon as the keep was built. Meanwhile, they would split their time between Earlscastle and Kingsbridge.

They had already spent several nights together in Aliena's old room at Earlscastle, far from Philip's disapproving gaze. They had been like honeymooners, swamped by insatiable physical passion. Perhaps it was because for the first time ever they had a bedroom with a door they could lock. Privacy was an extravagance of lords: everyone else slept and made love downstairs in the communal hall. Even couples who lived in a house were always liable to be seen by their children, or relatives, or neighbors dropping by: people locked their doors when they were out, not when they were in. Aliena had never been dissatisfied with that, but now she had discovered the special thrill of knowing you could do anything you liked without the risk of being seen. She thought of some of the things she and Jack had done in the past two weeks, and she blushed.

Jack was waiting for her in the partly built nave of the cathedral, with Martha and Tommy and Sally. At weddings, the couple normally exchanged vows in the church porch, then went inside for the mass. Today the first bay of the nave would serve as porch. Aliena was glad they were getting married in the church Jack was building. It was as much a part of Jack as the clothes he wore or the way he made love. His cathedral was going to be like him: graceful, inventive, cheerful, and totally unlike anything that had gone before.

She looked lovingly at him. He was thirty years old. He was such a handsome man, with his mane of red hair and his sparkling blue eyes. He had been a very ugly boy, she remembered: she had thought him somewhat beneath her notice. But he had fallen in love with her at the very start, he said; and he still winced when he remembered how they had all laughed at him because he said he had never had a father. It was nearly twenty years ago. Twenty years…

She might never have seen Jack again had it not been for Prior Philip, who now entered the church from the cloisters and came smiling into the nave. He looked genuinely thrilled to be marrying them at last. She thought of her first meeting with him. She recalled vividly the despair she had felt when the wool merchant tried to cheat her, after all the effort and heartbreak that had gone into amassing that sack of fleeces; and her overwhelming gratitude to the young black-haired monk who had saved her and said: “I'll buy your wool any time….” His hair was gray now.

He had saved her, then he had almost destroyed her, by forcing Jack to choose between her and the cathedral. He was a hard man on questions of right and wrong; a bit like her father. However, he had wanted to perform the marriage service.

Ellen had cursed Aliena's first wedding, and the curse had worked. Aliena was glad. If her marriage to Alfred had not been completely insupportable she might be living with him still. It was odd to reflect on what might have been: it gave her chills, like bad dreams and dreadful imaginings. She recalled the pretty, sexy Arab girl in Toledo who had fallen in love with Jack: what if he had married her? Aliena would have arrived in Toledo, with her baby in her arms, to find Jack in the lap of domesticity, sharing his body and his mind with someone else. The thought was horrifying.

She listened to him mumbling the Paternoster. It seemed amazing, now, to think that when she came to live in Kingsbridge she had paid no more attention to him than to the grain merchant's cat. But he had noticed her: he had loved her secretly all those years. How patient he had been! He had watched as the younger sons of the county gentry came to court her, one by one, and went away again disappointed or offended or defiant. He had seen—clever, clever boy that he was—that she could not be won by wooing; and he had approached her sidelong, as a friend rather than a lover, meeting her in the woods and telling her stories and making her love him without her noticing. She remembered that first kiss, so light and casual, except that it had burned her lips for weeks afterward. She remembered the second kiss even more vividly. Every time she heard the rumble of the fulling mill she remembered the dark, unfamiliar, unwelcome surge of lust that she had felt.

One of the abiding regrets of her life was the way she had turned cold after that. Jack had loved her totally and honestly, and she had been so frightened that she had turned away, pretending she did not care for him. It had hurt him deeply; and although he had continued to love her, and the wound had healed, it left a scar, as deep wounds do; and sometimes she saw that scar, in the way he looked at her when they quarreled and she spoke coldly to him, and his eyes seemed to say: Yes, I know you, you can be cold, you can hurt me, I must be on my guard.

Was there a wary look in his eyes now, as he vowed to be loving and faithful to her all the rest of his life? He's got reason enough to doubt me, she thought. I married Alfred, and what greater betrayal could there be than that? But then I made up for it, by searching half of Christendom to find Jack.

Such disappointments, betrayals and reconciliations were the stuff of married life, but she and Jack had gone through them before the wedding. Now, at least, she felt confident that she knew him. Nothing was likely to surprise her. It was a funny way to do things, but it might be better than making your vows first and getting to know your spouse afterward. The priests would not agree, of course; indeed, Philip would be apoplectic if he knew what was going through her mind; but then again, priests knew less about love than anyone.

She made her vows, repeating the words after Philip, thinking to herself how beautiful was the promise
With my body I worship you
. Philip would never understand that.

Jack put a ring on her finger. I've been waiting for this all my life, she thought. They looked into one another's eyes. Something had changed in him, she could tell. She realized that until this moment he had never really been sure of her. Now he looked deeply content.

“I love you,” he said. “I always will.”

That was his vow. The rest was religion, but now he had made his own promise; and Aliena realized that she, too, had been unsure of him until now. In a moment they would walk forward into the crossing for the mass; and after that they would accept the congratulations and good wishes of the townspeople, and take them home and give them food and ale and make merry; but this small instant was just for them. Jack's look said
You and me, together, always;
and Aliena thought
At last
.

It felt very peaceful.

K
INGSBRIDGE WAS STILL GROWING
. It had long ago overflowed its original walls, which now enclosed fewer than half the houses. About five years ago the guild had built a new wall, taking in the suburbs that had grown up outside the old town; and now there were more suburbs outside the new wall. The meadow on the other side of the river, where the townspeople had traditionally held Lammas Day and Midsummer Eve festivities, was now a small village, called Newport.

On a cold Easter Sunday, Sheriff William Hamleigh rode through Newport and crossed the stone bridge that led into what was now called the old town of Kingsbridge. Today the newly completed Kingsbridge Cathedral would be consecrated. He passed through the formidable city gate and went up the main street, which had recently been paved. The dwellings on either side were all stone houses with shops in the undercrofts and living quarters above. Kingsbridge was bigger, busier and wealthier than Shiring had ever been, William thought bitterly.

He reached the top of the street and turned into the priory close; and there, before his eyes, was the reason for the rise of Kingsbridge and the decline of Shiring: the cathedral.

It was breathtaking.

The immensely tall nave was supported by a row of graceful flying buttresses. The west end had three huge porticos, like giants' doorways, and rows of tall, slender, pointed windows above, flanked by slim towers. The concept had been heralded in the transepts, finished eighteen years ago, but this was the astonishing consummation of the idea. There had never been a building like this anywhere in England.

The market still took place here every Sunday, and the green in front of the church door was packed with stalls. William dismounted and left Walter to take care of the horses. He limped across the green to the church: he was fifty-four years old, and heavy, and he suffered constant pain from gout in his legs and feet. Because of the pain he was more or less permanently angry.

The church was even more impressive inside. The nave followed the style of the transepts, but the master builder had refined his design, making the columns even more slender and the windows larger. But there was yet another innovation. William had heard people talk of the colored glass made by craftsmen Jack Jackson had brought over from Paris. He had wondered why there was such a fuss about it, for he imagined that a colored window would be just like a tapestry or a painting. Now he saw what they meant. The light from outside shone through the colored glass, making it glow, and the effect was quite magical. The church was full of people craning their necks to stare up at the windows. The pictures showed Bible stories, Heaven and Hell, saints and prophets, disciples, and some of the Kingsbridge citizens who had presumably paid for the windows in which they appeared—a baker carrying his tray of loaves, a tanner and his hides, a mason with his compasses and level. I bet Philip made a fat profit out of those windows, William thought sourly.

The church was packed for the Easter service. The market was spreading into the interior of the building, as always happened, and walking up the nave William was offered cold beer, hot gingerbread and a quick fuck up against the wall for threepence. The clergy were forever trying to ban peddlers from churches but it was an impossible task. William exchanged greetings with the more important citizens of the county. But despite the social and commercial distractions William found his eye and his thoughts constantly drawn upward by the sweeping lines of the arcade. The arches and the windows, the piers with their clustered shafts, and the ribs and segments of the vaulted ceiling all seemed to point toward heaven in an inescapable reminder of what the building was for.

The floor was paved, the pillars were painted, and every window was glazed: Kingsbridge and its priory were rich, and the cathedral proclaimed their prosperity. In the small chapels of the transepts were gold candlesticks and jeweled crosses. The citizens also displayed their wealth, with richly colored tunics, silver brooches and buckles, and gold rings.

His eye fell on Aliena.

As always, his heart missed a beat. She was as beautiful as ever, although she had to be over fifty years old now. She still had a mass of curly hair, but it was cut shorter, and seemed to be a lighter shade of brown, as if it had faded a little. She had attractive crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She was a little wider than she used to be, but she was no less desirable. She wore a blue cloak with a red silk lining, and red leather shoes. There was a deferential crowd around her. Although she was not even a countess, merely the sister of an earl, her brother had settled in the Holy Land, and everyone treated her as the earl. She carried herself like a queen.

The sight of her brewed hatred like bile in William's belly. He had ruined her father, raped her, taken her castle, burned her wool and exiled her brother, but every time he thought he had crushed her she came back again, rising from defeat to new heights of power and wealth. Now William was aging and gouty and fat and he realized that he had spent his life in the power of a terrible enchantment.

Beside her was a tall red-haired man whom William at first took for Jack. However, on closer examination the man was obviously too young, and William realized it must be the son of Jack. The boy was dressed as a knight, and carried a sword. Jack himself stood next to his son, an inch or two shorter, his red hair receding at the temples. He was younger than Aliena, of course, by about five years, if William's memory was right, but he, too, had lines around his eyes. He was talking animatedly to a young woman who was surely his daughter. She resembled Aliena, and was just as pretty, but her abundant hair was pulled severely back and plaited, and she was quite plainly dressed. If there was a voluptuous body under that earth-brown tunic she did not want anyone to know it.

Resentment burned in his stomach as he regarded Aliena's prosperous, dignified, happy family. Everything they had should have been his. But he had not given up the hope of revenge.

The voices of several hundred monks were raised in song, drowning the conversations and the cries of the hawkers, and Prior Philip entered the church at the head of a procession. There never used to be this many monks, William thought. The priory had grown along with the town. Philip, now over sixty years old, was almost completely bald, and rather stout, so that his formerly thin face had become quite round. Not surprisingly, he looked pleased with himself: the dedication of this cathedral was the aim he had conceived when he first came to Kingsbridge, thirty-four years ago.

There was a murmur of comment when Bishop Waleran came in, clad in his most gorgeous robes. His pale, angular face was frozen in a stiffly neutral expression, but William knew he was seething inside. This cathedral was the triumphant symbol of Philip's victory over Waleran. William hated Philip too, but all the same he secretly enjoyed seeing the supercilious Bishop Waleran humbled for a change.

Waleran was rarely seen here. A new church had finally been built in Shiring—with a special chapel dedicated to the memory of William's mother—and although it was nowhere near as large or impressive as this cathedral, nevertheless Waleran had made the Shiring church his headquarters.

However, Kingsbridge was still the cathedral church, despite all Waleran's efforts. In a war that had raged over three decades, Waleran had done everything he could to destroy Philip, but in the end Philip had triumphed. They were a bit like William and Aliena. In both cases, weakness and scruples had defeated strength and ruthlessness. William felt he would never understand it.

The bishop had been obliged to come here today, for the dedication ceremony: it would have looked very peculiar if he had not been here to welcome all the celebrity guests. Several bishops from neighboring dioceses were here, as well as a number of distinguished abbots and priors.

The archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, would not be here. He was in the throes of a quarrel with his old friend, King Henry; a quarrel so bitter and fierce that the archbishop had been forced to flee the country, and had taken refuge in France. They were in conflict over a whole list of legal issues, but the heart of the dispute was simple: Could the king do as he pleased, or was he constrained? It was the dispute William himself had had with Prior Philip. William took the view that the earl could do anything—that was what it meant to be earl. Henry felt the same about kingship. Prior Philip and Thomas Becket were both bent on restricting the power of rulers.

Bishop Waleran was a clergyman who sided with the rulers. For him, power was meant to be used. The defeats of three decades had not shaken his belief that he was the instrument of God's will, nor his ruthless determination to do his holy duty. William felt sure that even while he conducted the consecration service for Kingsbridge Cathedral, he was casting about for some way to spoil Philip's moment of glory.

William moved about throughout the service. Standing was worse for his legs than walking. When he went to Shiring church, Walter carried a chair for him. Then he could doze off for a while. Here, though, there were people to talk to, and much of the congregation used the time to conduct business. William went around ingratiating himself with the powerful, intimidating the weak, and gathering information on all and sundry. He no longer struck terror into the hearts of the population, as he had in the good old days, but as sheriff he was still feared and deferred to.

The service went on interminably. There was a long interval during which the monks went around the outside of the church sprinkling the walls with holy water. Near the end, Prior Philip announced the appointment of a new sub-prior: it was to be Brother Jonathan, the priory orphan. Jonathan, now in his middle thirties and unusually tall, reminded William of old Tom Builder: he too had been something of a giant.

When the service finally ended, the distinguished guests lingered in the south transept, and the minor gentry of the county crowded around to meet them. William limped over to join them. Once upon a time he had treated bishops as his equals, but now he had to bow and scrape with the knights and small landowners. Bishop Waleran drew William aside and said: “Who is that new sub-prior?”

“The priory orphan,” William replied. “He's always been a favorite of Philip's.”

“He seems young to be made sub-prior.”

“He's older than Philip was when Philip became prior.”

Waleran looked thoughtful. “The priory orphan. Remind me of the details.”

“When Philip came here he brought a baby with him.”

Waleran's face cleared as he remembered. “By the cross, yes! I'd forgotten Philip's baby. How could I have let something like that slip my mind?”

“It is thirty years. And who cares?”

Waleran gave William the scornful look that William hated so much, the look that said
You dumb ox, can't you figure out something that simple?
Pain stabbed his foot, and he shifted his weight in a vain attempt to ease it. Waleran said: “Well, where did the baby come from?”

William swallowed his resentment. “It was found abandoned near his old cell in the forest, if I remember rightly.”

“Better and better,” Waleran said eagerly.

William still did not see what he was getting at. “So what?” he said sullenly.

“Would you say that Philip has brought the child up as if it was his own son?”

“Yes.”

“And now he's made him sub-prior.”

“He was elected by the monks, presumably. I believe he's very popular.”

“Anyone who is sub-prior at thirty-five must be in line for the post of prior eventually.”

William was not going to say
So what?
again so he just waited, feeling like a stupid schoolboy, for Waleran to explain.

At last Waleran said: “Jonathan is obviously Philip's own child.”

William burst out laughing. He had been expecting a profound thought, and Waleran had come up with a notion that was totally ludicrous. To William's satisfaction, his scorn brought a slight flush to Waleran's waxy complexion. William said: “No one who knows Philip would believe such a thing. He was born a dried-up old stick. The idea!” He laughed again. Waleran might think he was ever so clever, but this time he had lost his sense of reality.

Waleran's hauteur was icy. “I say Philip used to have a mistress, when he ran that little priory out in the forest. Then he became prior of Kingsbridge and had to leave the woman behind. She didn't want the baby if she couldn't have the father, so she dumped the child on him. Philip, being a sentimental soul, felt obliged to take care of it, so he passed it off as a foundling.”

William shook his head. “Unbelievable. Anyone else, yes. Philip, no.”

Waleran persisted: “If the baby was abandoned, how can he prove where it came from?”

“He can't,” William acknowledged. He looked across the south transept to where Philip and Jonathan stood together, talking to the bishop of Hereford. “But they don't even look alike.”

“You don't look like your mother,” Waleran said. “Thank God.”

“What good is all this?” William said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Accuse him before an ecclesiastical court,” Waleran replied.

That made a difference. No one who knew Philip would credit Waleran's accusation for a moment, but a judge who was a stranger to Kingsbridge might find it more plausible. William saw reluctantly that Waleran's idea was not so stupid after all. As usual, Waleran was shrewder than William. Waleran was looking irritatingly smug, of course. But William was enthused by the prospect of bringing Philip down. “By God,” he said eagerly. “Do you think it could be done?”