The Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

  The worst of it was, she had never made love with Alfred.

  After that awful first night, he had tried again three times: once the following night, then a week later, and again a month after that when he had come home particularly drunk. But he was always completely incapable. At first Aliena had encouraged him, out of a sense of duty; but each failure made him angrier than the last, and she became fightened. It seemed safer to stay out of his way, and wear unappealing clothes, and make sure he never saw her undressing, and let him forget about it. Now she wondered if she should have tried more. But in truth she knew it would have made no difference. It was hopeless. She was not sure why--perhaps it was Ellen's curse, perhaps Alfred was just impotent, or perhaps it was because of the memory of Jack--but she felt certain Alfred never would make love to her now.

  So he was bound to know that the baby was not his.

  She stared miserably at the old, cold ashes in Richard's fireplace, wondering why she always had such bad luck. Here she was trying to make the best of a bad marriage and she had the misfortune to be pregnant by another man, after one single act of intercourse.

  There was no point in self-pity. She had to decide what to do.

  She rested her hand on her stomach. Now she knew why she had been putting on weight, why she kept feeling nauseated, why she was always so tired. There was a little person in there. She smiled to herself. How nice it would be to have a baby.

  She shook her head. It would not be nice at all. Alfred would be as mad as a bull. There was no knowing what he would do--kill her, throw her out, kill the baby.... She had a sudden, terrible foreboding that he would try to do harm to the unborn baby by kicking her in the stomach. She wiped her brow: she had broken out in a cold sweat.

  I won't tell him, she thought.

  Could she keep her pregnancy secret? Perhaps. She had already taken to wearing shapeless, baggy clothes. She might not get very big--some women didn't. Alfred was the least observant of men. No doubt the wiser women in the town would guess, but she could probably rely on them to keep it to themselves, or at any rate not to talk to the menfolk about it. Yes, she decided, it might just be possible to keep it from him until after the baby was born.

  Then what? Well, at least the little mite would have been brought safely into the world. Alfred would not be able to kill it by kicking Aliena. But he would still know that it was not his. He was sure to hate the poor thing: it would be a permanent slur on his manhood. There would be hell to pay.

  Aliena could not think that far ahead. She had decided on the safest course for the next six months. She would try in the meantime to figure out what to do after the baby was born.

  I wonder whether it's a boy or a girl, she thought.

  She stood up with her box of clean rags for Martha's first monthly period. I pity you, Martha, she thought wearily; you've got all this in front of you.

  Philip spent that winter brooding over his troubles.

  He had been horrified by Ellen's heathen curse, uttered in the porch of a church during a service. There was no doubt in his mind now that she was a witch. He only regretted his foolishness in ever forgiving her for her insult to the Rule of Saint Benedict, all those years ago. He should have known that a woman who could do that would never really repent. However, one happy consequence of the whole horrifying business was that Ellen had once again left Kingsbridge and had not been seen since. Philip hoped fervently that she would never return.

  Aliena was visibly unhappy as Alfred's wife, although Philip did not believe that the curse was the cause of that. Philip knew almost nothing about married life but he could guess that a bright, knowledgeable, lively person such as Aliena would be unhappy living with someone as slow-thinking and narrow-minded as Alfred, whether they were man and wife or anything else.

  Aliena should have married Jack, of course. Philip could see that now, and he felt guilty that he had been so committed to his own plans for Jack that he had failed to realize what the boy really needed. Jack was never meant for the cloistered life and Philip had done wrong in pressuring him into it. Now Jack's brilliance and energy had been lost to Kingsbridge.

  It seemed that everything had gone wrong since the disaster of the fleece fair. The priory was more in debt than ever. Philip had dismissed half the building work force because he no longer had the money to pay them. In consequence, the population of the town had shrunk, which meant that the Sunday market became smaller and Philip's income from rents fell. Kingsbridge was in a downward spiral.

  The heart of the problem was the townspeople's morale. Although they had rebuilt their houses and restarted their small businesses, they had no confidence in the future. Whatever they planned, whatever they might build, could be wiped out in a day by William Hamleigh, if he should choose to attack again. This undercurrent of insecurity ran in everyone's thinking and paralyzed all enterprise.

  Eventually Philip realized he had to do something to stop the slide. He needed to make a dramatic gesture to tell the world in general, and the townspeople in particular, that Kingsbridge was fighting back. He spent many hours of prayer and meditation trying to decide just what that gesture should be.

  What he really needed was a miracle. If the bones of Saint Adolphus would cure a princess of the plague, or cause a brackish well to give sweet water, people would flood into Kingsbridge on pilgrimage. But the saint had performed no miracles for years. Philip sometimes wondered whether his steady, practical methods of ruling the priory displeased the saint, for miracles seemed to happen more frequently in places where the rule was less sensible and the atmosphere was charged with religious fervor, if not out-and-out hysteria. But Philip had been taught in a more down-to-earth school. Father Peter, the abbot of his first monastery, used to say: "Pray for miracles, but plant cabbages."

  The symbol of Kingsbridge's life and vigor was the cathedral. If only it could be finished by a miracle! One time he prayed for such a miracle all night, but in the morning the chancel was still unroofed and open to the weather, and its high walls were ragged-ended where they would meet the transept walls.

  Philip had not yet hired a new master builder. He had been shocked to learn how much they demanded in wages: he had never realized how cheap Tom was. Anyway, Alfred was running the reduced work force without much difficulty. Alfred had become rather morose since his marriage, like a man who defeats many rivals to become king and then finds that kingship is a wearisome burden. However, he was authoritative and decisive, and the other men respected him.

  But Tom had left a gap that could not be filled. Philip missed him personally, not just as master builder. Tom had been interested in why churches had to be built one way rather than another, and Philip had enjoyed sharing speculations with him about what made some buildings stand up while others fell down. Tom had not been an exceptionally devout man, but he had occasionally asked Philip questions about theology which showed that he applied as much intelligence to his religion as he did to his building. Tom's brain had more or less matched Philip's own. Philip had been able to converse with him without talking down. There were too few such people in Philip's life. Jack had been one, despite his youth; Aliena another, but she had disappeared into her sorry marriage. Cuthbert Whitehead was getting old, now, and Milius Bursar was almost always away from the priory, touring the sheep farms, counting acres and ewes and wool-sacks. In time, a lively and busy priory in a prosperous cathedral city would draw scholars the way a conquering army attracted fighting men. Philip looked forward to that time. But it would never come unless he could find a way to re-energize Kingsbridge.

  "It's been a mild winter," Alfred said one morning soon after Christmas. "We can begin earlier than usual."

  That started Philip thinking. The vault would be built that summer. When it was finished, the chancel would be usable, and Kingsbridge would no longer be a cathedral town without a cathedral. The chancel was the most important part of a church: the high altar and the holy relics were kept at the far east end, called the p
resbytery, and most-of the services took place in the quire, where the monks sat. Only on Sundays and holy days was the rest of a church used. Once the chancel had been dedicated, what had been a building site would become a church, albeit an incomplete one.

  It was a pity they would have to wait almost a year before that happened. Alfred had promised to finish the vault by the end of this year's building season, and the season generally finished in November, depending on the weather. But when Alfred said he would be able to start early, Philip began to wonder whether he might finish early too. Every-summer. It was the kind of gesture he had been searching for: something that would surprise the whole county, and give out the message that Kingsbridge could not be put down for long.

  "Can you finish by Whitsun?" Philip said impulsively.

  Alfred sucked his breath in through his teeth and looked doubtful. "Vaulting is the most skilled work of all," he said. "It mustn't be hurried, and you can't let apprentices do it."

  His father would have answered yes or no, Philip thought irritably. He said: "Suppose I could give you extra laborers--monks. How much would that help?"

  "A little. It's more masons we need, really."

  "I might be able to give you one or two more," Philip said rashly. A mild winter meant early shearing, so he could hope to begin selling wool sooner than usual.

  "I don't know." Alfred was still looking pessimistic.

  "Suppose I offered the masons a bonus?" Philip said. "An extra week's wages if the vault is ready for Whitsunday."

  "I've never heard of that before," Alfred said. He looked as if an improper suggestion had been made.

  "Well, there's a first time for everything," Philip said testily. Alfred's caution was getting on his nerves. "What do you say?"

  "I can't say yes or no to that," Alfred said stolidly. "I'll put it to the men."

  "Today?" Philip said impatiently.

  "Today."

  Philip had to be satisfied with that.

  William Hamleigh and his knights arrived at Bishop Waleran's palace just behind an ox cart loaded high with sacks of wool. The new season's shearing had begun. Like William, Waleran was buying wool from farmers at last year's prices and expecting to sell it again for considerably more. Neither of them had had much trouble forcing their tenants to sell to them: a few peasants who defied the rule were evicted and their farmhouses were burned, and after that there were no more rebels.

  As William went through the gate he glanced up the hill. The stunted ramparts of the castle the bishop had never built had stood on that hill for seven years, a permanent reminder of how Waleran had been outwitted by Prior Philip. As soon as Waleran began to reap the rewards of the wool business, he would probably recommence building. In the days of old King Henry, a bishop had not needed any more defenses than the flimsy fence of wooden stakes behind a little ditch that surrounded this palace. Now, after five years of civil war, men who were not even earls or bishops were building formidable castles.

  Things were going well for Waleran, William thought sourly as he dismounted at the stable. Waleran had remained loyal to Bishop Henry of Winchester through all Henry's switches of allegiance, and as a result had become one of Henry's closest allies. Over the years Waleran had been enriched by a steady stream of properties and privileges, and had visited Rome twice.

  William had not been so lucky--hence his sourness. Despite having gone along with each of Waleran's changes of allegiance, and despite having supplied large armies to both sides in the civil war, he still had not been confirmed as earl of Shiring. He had been brooding on this during a lull in the fighting, and had become so angry about it that he had made up his mind to have a confrontation with Waleran.

  He went up the steps to the hall entrance, with Walter and the other knights following. The steward on guard inside the door was armed, another sign of the times. Bishop Waleran sat in a big chair in the middle of the room, as always, with his bony arms and legs at all angles as if he had been untidily dropped there. Baldwin, now an archdeacon, was standing beside him, his stance suggesting he might be waiting for instructions. Waleran was staring into the fire, deep in thought, but he looked up sharply when William approached.

  William felt the familiar loathing as he greeted Waleran and sat down. Waleran's soft thin hands, his lank black hair, his dead-white skin and his pale malignant eyes made William's skin crawl. He was everything William hated: devious, physically weak, arrogant and clever.

  William could tell that Waleran felt much the same about him. Waleran could never quite conceal the distaste he felt when William walked in. He sat upright and folded his arms, his lip curled a little, and he frowned faintly, altogether as if he was suffering from a twinge of indigestion.

  They talked of the war for a while. It was a stiff, awkward conversation, and William was relieved when it was broken by a messenger with a letter written on a roll of parchment and sealed with wax. Waleran sent the messenger off to the kitchen to get something to eat. He did not open the letter.

  William took the opportunity to change the subject. "I didn't come here to exchange news of battles. I came to tell you that I've run out of patience."

  Waleran raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Silence was his response to unpleasant topics.

  William plowed on: "It's almost three years since my father died, but King Stephen still hasn't confirmed me as earl. This is outrageous."

  "I couldn't agree more," Waleran said languidly. He toyed with his letter, examining the seal and playing with the ribbon.

  "That's good," William said, "because you're going to have to do something about it."

  "My dear William, I can't make you earl."

  William had known that Waleran would take this attitude, and he was determined not to accept it. "You have the ear of the king's brother."

  "But what am I to say to him? That William Hamleigh has served the king well? If it is true, the king knows it, and if not, he knows that also."

  William was no match for Waleran in logic so he simply ignored the arguments. "You owe it to me, Waleran Bigod."

  Waleran looked faintly angered. He pointed at William with the letter. "I owe you nothing. You have always served your own ends even when you did what I wanted. There are no debts of gratitude between us."

  "I tell you, I won't wait any longer."

  "What will you do?" Waleran said with the hint of a sneer.

  "Well, first I'll see Bishop Henry myself."

  "And?"

  "I'll tell him that you have been deaf to my pleas, and in consequence I'm changing my allegiance to the Empress Maud." William was gratified to see Waleran's expression change: he went a shade paler and looked just a little bit surprised.

  "Change again?" Waleran said skeptically.

  "Just one more time than you," William responded stoutly.

  Waleran's supercilious indifference was shaken, but not much. Waleran's career had benefited greatly from his ability to deliver William and his knights to whichever side Bishop Henry favored at the moment: it would be a blow to him if William suddenly turned independent--but not a fatal blow. William studied Waleran's face as he mulled over this threat. William could read the other man's mind: he was thinking that he wanted to keep William loyal, but wondering how much he should put into the effort.

  To gain time Waleran broke the seal on his letter and unrolled it. As he read, a faint flush of anger appeared on his fish-white cheeks. "Damn the man," he hissed.

  "What is it?" William asked.

  Waleran held it out.

  William took it from him and peered at the letters. "To--the--most--holy--gracious--bishop--"

  Waleran snatched it back, impatient of William's slow reading. "It's from Prior Philip," he said. "He informs me that the chancel of the new cathedral will be finished by Whitsunday, and he has the nerve to beg me to officiate at the service."

  William was surprised. "How has he managed it? I thought he had sacked half his builders!"

  Waleran shook
his head. "No matter what happens he seems to bounce back." He gave William a speculative look. "He hates you, of course. Thinks you're the devil incarnate."

  William wondered what was going on now in Waleran's devious mind. "So what?" he said.

  "It would be quite a blow to Philip if you were confirmed as earl on Whitsunday."

  "You wouldn't do it for me, but you'd do it to spite Philip," William said grouchily, but in reality he was feeling hopeful.

  "I can't do it at all," Waleran said. "But I will speak to Bishop Henry." He looked up at William expectantly.

  William hesitated. At last, reluctantly, he muttered: "Thank you."

  Spring was cold and dismal that year, and on the morning of Whitsunday it was raining. Aliena had woken up in the night with a backache, and it was still troubling her with a stabbing pain every now and again. She sat in the cold kitchen, plaiting Martha's hair before going to church, while Alfred ate a large breakfast of white bread, soft cheese and strong beer. A particularly sharp twinge in her back made her stop and stand upright for a moment, wincing. Martha noticed and said: "What's the matter?"

  "Backache," Aliena said shortly. She did not want to discuss it, for the cause was surely sleeping on the floor in the drafty back room, and nobody knew about that, not even Martha.

  Martha stood up and took a hot stone from the fire. Aliena sat down. Martha wrapped the stone in an old scorched piece of leather, and held it against Aliena's back. It gave her immediate relief. Martha started to plait Aliena's hair, which had grown again after being burned away and was once again an undisciplined mass of dark curls. Aliena felt soothed.

  She and Martha had become quite close since Ellen left. Poor Martha: she had lost her mother and then her step-mother. Aliena felt herself to be a poor substitute for a mother. Besides, she was only ten years older than Martha. She played the role of older sister, really. Oddly enough, the person Martha missed most was her stepbrother, Jack.

  But then, everyone missed Jack.

  Aliena wondered where he was. He might be quite close, working on a cathedral in Gloucester or Salisbury. More likely he had gone to Normandy. But he could be much farther afield: Paris, Rome, Jerusalem, or Egypt. Recalling the stories that pilgrims told about such faraway places, she visualized Jack in a sandy desert, carving stones for a Saracen fortress in the blinding sunlight. Was he thinking of her now?