Epic Historial Collection (89 page)

Jack came up to congratulate his mother on winning. They were very fond of one another, Aliena could tell. They looked completely different: Ellen was a tanned brunette, with deep-set golden-brown eyes, and Jack was a redhead with blue eyes. He must be like his father, Aliena thought. Nothing was ever said about Jack's father, Ellen's first husband. Perhaps they were ashamed of him.

As she looked at the two of them together, it occurred to Aliena that Jack must remind Ellen of the husband she had lost. That might be why she was so fond of him. Perhaps the son was, as it were, all she had left of a man she had adored. A physical resemblance could be inordinately powerful in that way. Aliena's brother, Richard, sometimes reminded her of their father, with a look or a gesture, and that was when she felt a surge of affection; although it did not prevent her from wishing that Richard was more like his father in character.

She knew she ought not to be dissatisfied with Richard. He went to war and fought bravely, and that was all that was required of him. But she was dissatisfied a lot these days. She had wealth and security, a home and servants, fine clothes, pretty jewels, and a position of respect in the town. If anyone had asked her she would have said she was happy. But beneath the surface there was an undercurrent of restlessness. She never lost her enthusiasm for her work, but some mornings she wondered if it mattered what gown she put on and whether she wore jewelry. Nobody cared how she looked, so why should she? Paradoxically, she had become more conscious of her body. As she walked around, she could feel her breasts move. When she went down to the women's beach at the riverside to bathe, she felt embarrassed about how hairy she was. Sitting on her horse she was aware of the parts of her body that were touching the saddle. It was quite peculiar. It was as if there were a snooper peeking at her all the time, trying to look through her clothes and see her naked, and the snooper was herself. She was invading her own privacy.

She lay down on the grass, puffed out. Perspiration ran between her breasts and down the insides of her thighs. Impatiently she turned her mind to a more immediate problem. She had not sold all her wool this year. It was not her fault: most of the merchants had been left with unsold fleece, and so had Prior Philip. Philip was very calm about the whole thing but Aliena was anxious. What was she to do with all this wool? She could keep it until next year, of course. But what if she failed to sell it again? She did not know how long it took raw wool to deteriorate. She had a feeling it might dry out, becoming brittle and difficult to work.

If things went badly wrong she would be unable to support Richard. Being a knight was a very expensive business. The war-horse, which had cost twenty pounds, had lost its nerve after the battle of Lincoln and was now next to useless; soon he would want another one. Aliena could afford it, but it made a big dent in her resources. He was embarrassed about being dependent upon her—it was not the usual situation for a knight—and he had hoped to make enough in plunder to support himself, but lately he had been on the losing side. If he was to regain the earldom, Aliena had to continue to prosper.

In her worst nightmare she lost all her money, and the two of them were destitute again, prey to dishonest priests, lecherous noblemen and bloodthirsty outlaws; and they ended up in the stinking dungeon where she had last seen her father, chained to the wall and dying.

To contrast with her nightmare, she had a dream of happiness. In it, she and Richard lived together in the castle, their old home. Richard ruled as wisely as their father had, and Aliena helped him as she had helped Father, welcoming important guests and dispensing hospitality and sitting on his left at the high table for dinner. But lately even that dream had left her discontented.

She shook her head, to dispel this melancholy mood, and thought about wool again. The simplest way to handle the problem was to do nothing. She could store the surplus wool until next year, and then, if she was unable to sell it, she would take the loss. She could bear it. However, that left the remote danger that the same thing would happen again next year, and this might be the beginning of a downward trend; so she cast about for some other solution. She had already tried to sell the wool to a weaver in Kingsbridge, but he had all he needed.

It occurred to her now, looking at the women of Kingsbridge as they recovered from their race, that most of them knew how to make cloth from raw wool. It was a tedious business, but simple: peasants had been doing it since Adam and Eve. The fleece had to be washed, then combed to take out the tangles, then spun into yarn. The yarn was woven into cloth; then the loosely woven fabric was felted, or fulled, to shrink and thicken it into something that could be used to make clothes. The townswomen would probably be willing to do that for a penny a day. But how long would it take? And what price would the finished cloth fetch?

She would have to try the scheme out with a small quantity. Then, if it worked, she could get several people doing the job during the long winter evenings.

She sat up, quite excited by her new idea. Ellen was lying right next to her. Jack was sitting on the other side of Ellen. He caught Aliena's eye, smiled faintly, and looked away, as if he was a little embarrassed at having been caught looking at her. He was a funny boy, with a head full of ideas. Aliena could remember him as a small, peculiar-looking child who did not know how babies were conceived. But she had hardly noticed him when he came to live in Kingsbridge. And now he seemed so different, so completely a new person, that it was as if he had sprung up from nowhere, a flower that appears one morning where the previous day there was nothing but bare earth. For a start he was no longer peculiar-looking. In fact, she thought, regarding him with a faint smile of amusement, the girls probably thought he was terribly handsome. He certainly had a nice smile. She herself paid no attention to his looks, but she was a little intrigued by his astonishing imagination. She had discovered that not only did he know several verse narratives in full—some of them thousands and thousands of lines long—but he could also make them up as he went along, so that she was never sure whether he was remembering or extemporizing. And the stories were not the only surprising thing about him. He was curious about everything and puzzled by things that everyone else took for granted. One day he had asked where all the water in the river came from. “Every hour, thousands and thousands of gallons of water flow past Kingsbridge, night and day, all the year round. It's been going on since before we were born, since before our parents were born, since before
their
parents were born. Where does it all come from? Is there a huge lake somewhere that feeds it? That lake must be as big as all England! What if one day it dries up?” He was always saying things like that, some of them less fanciful, and it made Aliena realize that she was starved of intelligent conversation. Most people in Kingsbridge could talk only about agriculture and adultery, neither of which interested her. Prior Philip was different, of course, but he did not often allow himself to indulge in idle talk: he was always busy, dealing with the building site, the monks, or the town. Aliena suspected that Tom Builder was also highly intelligent, but he was a thinker rather than a talker. Jack was the first real friend she had made. He was a marvelous discovery, despite his youth. Indeed, when she was away from Kingsbridge she had found herself looking forward to returning so that she could talk to him.

She wondered where he got his ideas from. That thought had made her notice Ellen. What a strange woman
she
must be, to raise a child in the forest! Aliena had talked to Ellen and found in her a kindred spirit, an independent and self-sufficient woman somewhat angry at the way life had treated her. Now, on impulse, Aliena said: “Ellen, where did
you
learn the stories?”

“From Jack's father,” Ellen said without thinking, and then a guarded look came over her face, and Aliena knew she should not ask any more questions.

Another thought occurred to her. “Do you know how to weave?”

“Of course,” Ellen said. “Doesn't everyone?”

“Would you like to do some weaving for money?”

“Perhaps. What have you got in mind?”

Aliena explained. Ellen was not short of money, of course, but it was Tom who earned it, and Aliena had a suspicion that Ellen might like to make some for herself.

The suspicion turned out to be right. “Yes, I'll give that a try,” Ellen said.

At that moment Ellen's stepson, Alfred, came along. Like his father, Alfred was something of a giant. Most of his face was concealed behind a bushy beard, but the eyes above it were narrow-set, giving him a cunning look. He could read and write and add up, but despite that he was rather stupid. Nevertheless he had prospered, and he had his own gang of masons, apprentices and laborers. Aliena had observed that big men often gained positions of power regardless of their intelligence. As a ganger Alfred had another advantage, of course: he could always be sure of getting work for his men because his father was the master builder of Kingsbridge Cathedral.

He sat on the grass beside her. He had enormous feet shod in heavy leather boots that were gray with stone dust. She rarely spoke to him. They should have had a lot in common, for they were the only young people among the wealthier class of Kingsbridge, the class that lived in the houses nearest to the priory wall; but Alfred always seemed so dull. After a moment he spoke. “There ought to be a stone church,” he said abruptly.

Clearly the rest of them were supposed to figure out the context of this remark for themselves. Aliena thought for a moment then said: “Are you talking about the parish church?”

“Yes,” he said as if it was obvious.

The parish church was now used a good deal, for the cathedral crypt, which the monks were using, was cramped and airless, and the population of Kingsbridge had grown. Yet the parish church was an old wooden building with a thatched roof and a dirt floor.

“You're right,” Aliena said. “We should have a stone church.”

Alfred was looking at her expectantly. She wondered what he wanted her to say.

Ellen, who was probably used to coaxing sense out of him, said: “What's on your mind, Alfred?”

“How do churches get started, anyway?” he asked. “I mean, if we want a stone church, what do we do?”

Ellen shrugged. “No idea.”

Aliena frowned. “You could form a parish guild,” she suggested. A parish guild was an association of people who held a banquet every now and again and collected money among themselves, usually to buy candles for their local church, or to help widows and orphans in the neighborhood. Small villages never had guilds, but Kingsbridge was no longer a village.

“How would that do it?” Alfred said.

“The members of the guild would pay for the new church,” Aliena said.

“Then we should start a guild,” Alfred said.

Aliena wondered if she had misjudged him. He had never struck her as the pious type, but here he was trying to raise money to build a new church. Perhaps he had hidden depths. Then she realized that Alfred was the only building contractor in Kingsbridge, so he was sure to get the job of building the church. He might not be intelligent, but he was shrewd enough.

Nevertheless she still liked his idea. Kingsbridge was becoming a town, and towns always had more than one church. With an alternative to the cathedral, the town would not be so completely dominated by the monastery. At the moment Philip was the undisputed lord and master here. He was a benevolent tyrant, but she could foresee a time when it might suit the merchants of the town to have an alternative church.

Alfred said: “Would you explain about the guild to some of the others?”

Aliena had recovered her breath after the race. She was reluctant to exchange the company of Ellen and Jack for that of Alfred, but she was quite enthusiastic about his idea, and anyway it would have been a little churlish to refuse. “I'd be glad to,” she said, and she got up and went with him.

 

The sun was going down. The monks had lit the bonfire and were serving the traditional ale spiced with ginger. Jack wanted to ask his mother a question, now that they were alone, but he was nervous. Then someone started to sing, and he knew she would join in at any moment, so he blurted it out. “Was my father a jongleur?”

She looked at him. She was surprised but not cross. “Who taught you that word?” she said. “You've never seen a jongleur.”

“Aliena. She used to go to France with her father.”

Mother gazed across the darkling meadow toward the bonfire. “Yes, he was a jongleur. He told me all those poems, just the way I told them to you. And are you now telling them to Aliena?”

“Yes.” Jack felt a little bashful.

“You really love her, don't you?”

“Is it so obvious?”

She smiled fondly. “Only to me, I think. She's a lot older than you.”

“Five years.”

“You'll get her, though. You're like your father. He could have any woman he wanted.”

Jack was embarrassed to talk about Aliena but thrilled to hear about his father, and he was eager for more; but to his intense annoyance Tom came up at that moment and sat down with them. He began to speak immediately. “I've been talking to Prior Philip about Jack,” he said. His tone was light, but Jack sensed tension underneath, and saw trouble coming. “Philip says the boy should be educated.”