by Ken Follett
William and his men rode back across the close to the market. He decided to take a closer look. He urged his horse into the crowd. It inched forward. The people did not scatter fearfully out of his path. When the horse nudged them, they looked up at William with irritation or annoyance rather than dread, and moved out of the way in their own good time, with a somewhat condescending air. Nobody here was frightened of him. It made him nervous. If people were not scared there was no telling what they might do.
He went down one row and back up the next, with his knights trailing behind him. He became frustrated with the slow movement of the crowd. It would have been quicker to walk; but then, he felt sure, these insubordinate Kingsbridge people would probably have been cocky enough to jostle him.
He was halfway along the return aisle when he saw Aliena.
He reined in abruptly and stared at her, transfixed.
She was no longer the thin, strained, frightened girl in clogs that he had seen here on Whitsunday three years ago. Her face, then drawn with tension, had filled out again, and she had a happy, healthy look. Her dark eyes flashed with humor and her curls tumbled about her face when she shook her head.
She was so beautiful that she made William's head swim with desire.
She was wearing a scarlet robe, richly embroidered, and her expressive hands glinted with rings. There was an older woman with her, standing a little to one side, like a servant. Plenty of money, Mother had said; that was how Richard had been able to become a squire and join King Stephen's army equipped with fine weapons. Damn her. She had been destitute, a penniless, powerless girl--how had she done it?
She was at a stall that carried bone needles, silk thread, wooden thimbles and other sewing necessities, discussing the goods animatedly with the short, dark-haired Jew who was selling them. Her stance was assertive, and she was relaxed and self-confident. She had recovered the poise she had possessed as daughter of the earl.
She looked much older. She was older, of course: William was twenty-four, so she must be twenty-one now. But she looked more than that. There was nothing of the child in her now. She was mature.
She looked up and met his eye.
Last time he had locked glances with her, she had blushed for shame, and run away. This time she stood her ground and stared back at him.
He tried a knowing smile.
An expression of scathing contempt came over her face.
William felt himself flush red. She was as haughty as ever, and she scorned him now as she had five years ago. He had humiliated and ravished her, but she was no longer terrified of him. He wanted to speak to her, and tell her that he could do again what he had done to her before; but he was not willing to shout it over the heads of the crowd. Her unflinching gaze made him feel small. He tried to sneer at her, but he could not, and he knew he was making a foolish grimace. In an agony of embarrassment he turned away and kicked his horse on; but even then the crowd slowed him down, and her withering look burned into the back of his neck as he moved away from her by painful inches.
When at last he emerged from the marketplace he was confronted by Prior Philip.
The short Welshman stood with his hands on his hips and his chin thrust aggressively forward. He was not quite as thin as he used to be, and what little hair he had was turning prematurely from black to gray, William saw. He no longer looked too young for his job. Now his blue eyes were bright with anger. "Lord William!" he called in a challenging tone.
William tore his mind away from the thought of Aliena and remembered that he had a charge to make against Philip. "I'm glad to come across you, Prior."
"And I you," Philip said angrily, but the shadow of a doubtful frown crossed his brow.
"You're holding a market here," William said accusingly.
"So what?"
"I don't believe King Stephen ever licensed a market in Kingsbridge. Nor did any other king, to my knowledge."
"How dare you?" said Philip.
"I or anybody--"
"You!" Philip shouted, overriding him. "How dare you come in here and talk about a license--you, who in the past month have gone through this county committing arson, theft, rape, and at least one murder!"
"That's nothing to do--"
"How dare you come into a monastery and talk about a license!" Philip yelled. He stepped forward, wagging his finger at William, and William's horse sidestepped nervously. Somehow Philip's voice was more penetrating than William's and William could not get a word in. A crowd of monks, volunteer workers and market customers was gathering around, watching the row. Philip was unstoppable. "After what you've done, there is only one thing you should say: 'Father, I have sinned!' You should get down on your knees in this priory! You should beg for forgiveness, if you want to escape the fires of hell."
William blanched. Talk of hell filled him with uncontrollable terror. He tried desperately to interrupt Philip's flow, saying: "What about your market? What about your market?"
Philip hardly heard. He was in a fury of indignation. "Beg forgiveness for the awful things you have done!" he shouted. "On your knees! On your knees, or you'll burn in hell!"
William was almost frightened enough to believe that he would suffer hellfire unless he knelt and prayed in front of Philip right now. He knew he was overdue for confession, for he had killed many men in the war, on top of the sins he had committed during his tour of the earldom. What if he were to die before he confessed? He began to feel shaky at the thought of the eternal flames and the devils with their sharp knives.
Philip advanced on him, pointing his finger and shouting: "On your knees!"
William backed his horse. He looked around desperately. The crowd hemmed him in. His knights were behind him, looking bemused: they could not decide how to cope with a spiritual threat from an unarmed monk. William could not take any more humiliation. After Aliena, this was too much. He pulled on the reins, making his massive war-horse rear dangerously. The crowd parted in front of its mighty hooves. When its forefeet hit the ground again he kicked it hard, and it lunged forward. The onlookers scattered. He kicked it again, and it broke into a canter. Burning with shame, he fled out through the priory gate, with his knights following, like a pack of snarling dogs chased off by an old woman with a broom.
William confessed his sins, in fear and trembling, on the cold stone floor of the little chapel at the bishop's palace. Bishop Waleran listened in silence, his face a mask of distaste, as William catalogued the killings, the beatings and the rapes he was guilty of. Even while he confessed, William was filled with loathing for the supercilious bishop, with his clean white hands folded over his heart, and his translucent white nostrils slightly flared, as if there were a bad smell in the dusty air. It tormented William to beg Waleran for absolution, but his sins were so heavy that no ordinary priest could forgive them. So he knelt, possessed by fear, while Waleran commanded him to light a candle in perpetuity in the chapel at Earlscastle, and then told him his sins were absolved.
The fear lifted slowly, like a fog.
They came out of the chapel into the smoky atmosphere of the great hall and sat by the fire. Autumn was turning to winter and it was cold in the big stone house. A kitchen hand brought hot spiced bread made with honey and ginger. William began to feel all right at last.
Then he remembered his other problems. Bartholomew's son Richard was making a bid for the earldom, and William was too poor to raise an army big enough to impress the king. He had raked in considerable cash in the past month, but it was still not sufficient. He sighed, and said: "That damned monk is drinking the blood of the Shiring earldom."
Waleran took some bread with a pale, long-fingered hand like a claw. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to reach that conclusion."
Of course, Waleran would have worked it all out long before William. He was so superior. William would rather not talk to him. But he wanted the bishop's opinion on a legal point. "The king has never licensed a market in Kingsbridge, has he?"
&
nbsp; "To my certain knowledge, no."
"Then Philip is breaking the law."
Waleran shrugged his bony, black-draped shoulders. "For what it's worth, yes."
Waleran seemed uninterested but William plowed on. "He ought to be stopped."
Waleran gave a fastidious smile. "You can't deal with him the way you deal with a serf who's married off his daughter without permission."
William reddened: Waleran was referring to one of the sins he had just confessed. "How can you deal with him, then?"
Waleran considered. "Markets are the king's prerogative. In more peaceful times he would probably handle this himself."
William gave a scornful laugh. For all his cleverness, Waleran did not know the king as well as William did. "Even in peacetime he wouldn't thank me for complaining to him about an unlicensed market."
"Well, then, his deputy, to deal with local matters, is the sheriff of Shiring."
"What can he do?"
"He could bring a writ against the priory in the county court."
William shook his head. "That's the last thing I want. The court would impose a fine, the priory would pay it, and the market would continue. It's almost like giving a license."
"The trouble is, there are really no grounds for refusing to let Kingsbridge have a market."
"Yes, there are!" said William indignantly. "It takes trade away from the market at Shiring."
"Shiring is a full day's journey from Kingsbridge."
"People will walk a long way."
Waleran shrugged again. William realized he shrugged when he disagreed. Waleran said: "Tradition says a man will spend a third of a day walking to the market, a third of a day at the market, and a third of a day walking home. Therefore, a market serves the people within a third of a day's journey, which is reckoned to be seven miles. If two markets are more than fourteen miles apart, their catchment areas do not overlap. Shiring is twenty miles from Kingsbridge. According to the rule, Kingsbridge is entitled to a market, and the king should grant it."
"The king does what he likes," William blustered, but he was bothered. He had not known about this rule. It put Prior Philip in a stronger position.
Waleran said: "Anyway, we won't be dealing with the king, we'll be dealing with the sheriff." He frowned. "The sheriff could just order the priory to desist from holding an unlicensed market."
"That's a waste of time," William said contemptuously.
"Who takes any notice of an order that isn't backed up by a threat?"
"Philip might."
William did not believe that. "Why would he?"
A mocking smile played around Waleran's bloodless lips. "I'm not sure I can explain it to you," he said. "Philip believes that the law should be king."
"Stupid idea," said William impatiently. "The king is king."
"I said you wouldn't understand."
Waleran's knowing air infuriated William. He got up and went to the window. Looking out, he could see, at the top of the nearby hill, the earthworks where Waleran had started to build a castle four years ago. Waleran had hoped to pay for it out of the income from the Shiring earldom. Philip had frustrated his plans, and now the grass had grown back over the mounds of earth, and brambles filled the dry ditch. William recalled that Waleran had hoped to build with stone from the earl of Shiring's quarry. Now Philip had the quarry. William mused: "If I had my quarry back, I could use it as a surety, and borrow money to raise an army."
"Then why don't you take it back?" said Waleran.
William shook his head. "I tried, once."
"And Philip outmaneuvered you. But there are no monks there now. You could send a squad of men to evict the stonecutters."
"And how would I stop Philip from moving back in, the way he did last time?"
"Build a high fence around the quarry and leave a permanent guard."
It was possible, William thought eagerly. And it would solve his problem at a stroke. But what was Waleran's motive in suggesting it? Mother had warned him to beware of the unscrupulous bishop. "The only thing you need to know about Waleran Bigod," she had said, "is that everything he does is carefully calculated. Nothing spontaneous, nothing careless, nothing casual, nothing superfluous. Above all, nothing generous." But Waleran hated Philip, and had sworn to prevent him from building his cathedral. That was motive enough.
William looked thoughtfully at Waleran. His career was in a stall. He had become bishop very young, but Kingsbridge was an insignificant and impoverished diocese and Waleran had surely intended it to be a stepping-stone to higher things. However, it was the prior, not the bishop, who was winning wealth and fame. Waleran was withering in Philip's shadow much as William was. They both had reason to want to destroy him.
William decided, yet again, to overcome his loathing of Waleran for the sake of his own long-term interests.
"All right," he said. "This could work. But suppose Philip then complains to the king?"
Waleran said: "You'll say you did it as a reprisal for Philip's unlicensed market."
William nodded. "Any excuse will do, so long as I go back to the war with a big enough army."
Waleran's eyes glinted with malice. "I have a feeling Philip can't build that cathedral if he has to buy stone at a market price. And if he stops building, Kingsbridge could go into decline. This could solve all your problems, William."
William was not going to show gratitude. "You really hate Philip, don't you?"
"He's in my way," Waleran said, but for a moment William had glimpsed the naked savagery beneath the bishop's cool, calculating manner.
William returned to practical matters. "There must be thirty quarrymen there, some with their wives and children," he said.
"So what?"
"There may be bloodshed."
Waleran raised his black eyebrows. "Indeed?" he said. "Then I shall give you absolution."
III
They set out while it was still dark, in order to arrive at dawn. They carried flaming torches, which made the horses jumpy. As well as Walter and the other four knights, William took six men-at-arms. Trailing behind them were a dozen peasants who would dig the ditch and put up the fence.
William believed firmly in careful military planning--which was why he and his men were so useful to King Stephen--but on this occasion he had no battle plan. It was such an easy operation that it would have been demeaning to make preparations as if it were a real fight. A few stonecutters and their families could not put up much opposition; and anyway, William remembered being told how the stonecutters' leader--was his name Otto? Yes, Otto Blackface--had refused to fight, on the first day Tom Builder had taken his men to the quarry.
A chill December morning dawned, with rags and tatters of mist hanging on the trees like poor people's washing. William disliked this time of year. It was cold in the morning and dark in the evening, and the castle was always damp. Too much salt meat and salt fish was served. His mother was bad-tempered and the servants were surly. His knights became quarrelsome. This little fight would be good for them. It would also be good for him: he had already arranged to borrow two hundred pounds from the Jews of London against the surety of the quarry. By the end of today his future would be secure.
When they were about a mile from the quarry William stopped, picked out two men, and sent them ahead, on foot. "There may be a sentry, or some dogs," he warned. "Have a bow out ready with an arrow at the string."
A little later the road curved to the left, then ended suddenly at the sheer side of a mutilated hill. This was the quarry. All was quiet. Beside the road, William's men were holding a scared boy--presumably an apprentice who had been on sentry duty--and at his feet was a dog bleeding to death with an arrow through its neck.
The raiding party drew up, making no particular effort to be silent. William reined in and studied the scene. Much of the hill had disappeared since last he saw it. The scaffolding ran up the hillside to inaccessible areas and down into a deep pit which had been opened up at the foot
of the hill. Stone blocks of different shapes and sizes were stacked near the road, and two massive wooden carts with huge wheels were loaded with stone ready to go. Everything was covered with gray dust, even the bushes and trees. A large area of woodland had been cleared--my woodland, William thought angrily--and there were ten or twelve wooden buildings, some with small vegetable gardens, one with a pigsty. It was a little village.
The sentry had probably been asleep--and his dog, too. William spoke to him. "How many men are here, lad?"
The boy looked scared but brave. "You're Lord William, aren't you?"
"Answer the question, boy, or I'll take off your head with this sword."
He went white with fear, but replied in a voice of quavering defiance. "Are you trying to steal this quarry away from Prior Philip?"
What's the matter with me, William thought? I can't even frighten a skinny child with no beard! Why do people think they can defy me? "This quarry is mine!" he hissed. "Forget about Prior Philip--he can't do anything for you now. How many men?"
Instead of replying the boy threw back his head and began to yell. "Help! Look out! Attack! Attack!"
William's hand went to his sword. He hesitated, looking across at the houses. A scared face peered out from a doorway. He decided to forget about the apprentice. He snatched a blazing torch from one of his men and kicked his horse.
He rode at the houses, carrying the torch high, and heard his men behind him. The door of the nearest hut opened and a bleary-eyed man in an undershirt looked out. William threw the burning torch over the man's head. It landed on the floor behind him in the straw, which caught fire immediately. William gave a whoop of triumph and rode past.
He went on through the little cluster of houses. Behind him, his men charged, yelling and throwing their torches at the thatched roofs. All the doors opened, and terrified men, women and children began to pour out, screaming and trying to dodge the hammering hooves. They milled about in a panic while the flames took hold. William reined in at the edge of the melee and watched for a moment. The domestic animals got loose, and a frantic pig charged around blindly while a cow stood still in the middle of it all, its stupid head weaving from side to side in bewilderment. Even the young men, normally the most belligerent group, were confused and scared. Dawn was definitely the best time for this sort of thing: there was something about being half naked that took away people's aggression.