Sarum (102 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
A minute passed. The sound came again, but this time it was distinct – a creaking, grinding sound, followed by a faint crack from somewhere far above. And now several heads turned.
Then he saw. It was almost imperceptible, but there was no mistaking it. The central pillars of the cathedral, the four slender marble legs on which the huge tower rested, were bending.
He gazed in horror. It was as though some enormous force was trying to bend them like bows, and the fibre of the stone was trying with all its strength to resist. There was another faint, grinding crack. He opened his mouth to cry out.
But now there was another shout, from just outside the building, and before he could do anything the chant of the choir drowned out all other noise as King Edward and his retinue, their jewelled cloaks flashing in the sun, swept in at the west door.
All eyes turned upon him, except those of Osmund, who remained staring up in terror as the huge fabric of the cathedral, undetected by the folk below, quivered.
“Mother of God,” he whispered. “Do not let it come down now.”
The movement that Osmund had detected was part of a complex problem whose origins lay deep in the structure of the great cathedral.
Even without the tower, the outward pressure from the vaulting of the great roof had placed enormous stresses on the supporting pillars of the thin, Gothic structure. Already some of the arches in the eastern choir had settled askew, pushed towards the altar like a huge stone concertina, and at the great central intersection, the tops of the central pillars had been pressed inwards – an effect that was barely visible, but implied a massive strain on the stone fabric. Such problems were not unknown in other cathedrals, and if the settling of the structure seemed to be becoming dangerous, fresh supports – buttresses or bracing arches – were often needed. Indeed, some small, though not very effective buttresses had already been added to the main building. But no one had properly worked out the extra stress when thousands of tons of masonry were added as the great pile of the new tower rose over the central intersection. “The Purbeck marble will hold it,” the masons confidently assumed.
If they were right, then they were about to see the marble stretched to its utmost limit as the tall columns, already pressed inward, began to bend at the centre as well with the tremendous new load.
If they were wrong – Osmund held his breath as the king strode up the aisle.
The service was over, and while the group of priests and local notables stood in a respectful circle at the east end of the nave, several masons were summoned forward to receive a gracious nod from the king. The last of these was Osmund. A small bag of coins was placed in his hand, and he heard Edward himself announce: “Your carvings in the chapter house – very fine, Osmund Mason.” He bowed low. But when he heard the king remark: “Soon there’ll be no finer cathedral in England,” he shook his old head so violently that the whole circle turned to stare at him.
It was then that he pointed at the tall pillars and cried: “The tower: it’s too heavy. See the shafts, how they’re bending.” And as all eyes turned up to where he was pointing he added: “It nearly came down today.”
There was silence as the group stared at the now unmistakable curve in the shafts. Then he heard the voice of one of the canons. It was polite but contemptuous.
“The mason is old, sir, and not allowed to work in the church any more. The marble will support the tower.”
Moments later he was dismissed and so he could not hear all that was said after that; but there was some laughter.
He was surprised therefore when shortly afterwards, as he was making his way out of the cathedral, one of the king’s courtiers came up to him.
“You’re to go to Clarendon,” the man ordered, “first thing tomorrow morning. The king wants wooden carvings for his apartments there.”
And as he opened his mouth to make his customary refusal the courtier cut him short.
“The king’s orders. Be there at first light, before he goes hunting.” And then the man smiled. “The king values your carving, Mason, even if you have annoyed the cathedral canons.”
There was nothing he could do except obey.
On the morning after the service, two other people made their way on foot the two miles along the road from the eastern gate of the city to the royal palace of Clarendon. No one had summoned them.
John, called Will’s son, did not much resemble his father William atte Brigge in his outward appearance, for although, taken individually, he had inherited all William’s features, he had contrived collectively to make something different out of them. Where William had stooped, he stood straight; he walked with a calculated sedateness that completely masked the loping gait of his ancestors. His narrow face seemed brisk and lively instead of cruel, and his eyes intelligent where William’s had only been cunning. His thin lips never drew back over his teeth in a snarl, but were trained to form a winning smile. He had continued his family’s modest cloth business in Wilton and even before old William died, he had somehow gained a name for honesty. Despite these differences, it was still as William’s son that he was known – for men usually referred to him as John Will’s son, or Wilson.
John Wilson had no enemies: there were even several men in the town who, for reasons of business, called him their friend.
But his greatest asset was his wife.
Cristina at thirty-seven was astonishing. It was as if, at twenty-five, time had ceased to move, and even women in Sarum who had claims to good looks would admit that Cristina Wilson was in a class of her own. She had given her husband five children, but she was slim as a girl. The normal lines of age had confined themselves to pleasant lines of satisfaction about the eyes. Her hair was as fair as it had been when she was a child, and she moved with a frank but modest admission of her beauty. She had done wonders for her husband’s business.
It was not that she spoke much. It was not that she flirted with the merchants who dealt with him – for in a small community that could be dangerous – but her presence, her smile of encouragement to them if the prices they offered were acceptable, made them positively anxious to please. Indeed, John Wilson had often been tempted to strike outrageous bargains when a client fell under the temporary spell of her beauty, but she had always shrewdly discouraged him.
“They’ll be angry with us afterwards and hate me,” she warned him. “We need friends, John: we’re only small people.”
Sarum had long ago forgotten how she had made a fool of the mason; her mischievous mind and her rich sexuality were known only to her husband, who was careful to keep this knowledge to himself.
Today, John Wilson’s face was both anxious and eager: it would be the most important day of his life.
The sun was still barely over the trees when they reached the palace of Clarendon. It was a hunting lodge really – a sprawling, spacious collection of two-storey buildings that had grown over the reigns of several kings and with no very defined plan, extra chambers for guests or kennels for hounds being added as the need arose. Most of the buildings were constructed of wood; the principal sections were tiled, the rest had wooden shingle roofs, which required constant repair.
When they arrived at the entrance to the palace enclosure and asked for the king’s apartments, the guard looked at them doubtfully; but then, supposing that they were either workmen, like the little mason he had admitted earlier, or that they belonged to one of the companies of minstrels who flocked whenever the royal party was in residence, he gestured them curtly towards a group of buildings near the centre, and a few moments later, they found themselves standing in front of the little courtyard around which the royal apartments were set.
The royal apartments were similar to the others, except that their walls were hung with dozens of antlers from previous hunting expeditions which gleamed white in the morning sunlight. There were a dozen huntsmen waiting there and several couple of splendid hounds, whose eager, panting breath rose like steam. The huntsmen were laughing amongst themselves, obviously anticipating the king’s good humour, and they took no notice of the new arrivals.
The door of the royal apartment was open and through it Wilson could see a brightly decorated room. On the floor were the coloured tiles that the local monks of Wiltshire had made their speciality. On the opposite wall he could see cheerful paintings of previous kings, set in a green border that ran round the room. And in the centre of the room, he could also see the edge of a fine carpet – a new piece of decoration that Edward’s adored queen had brought to his court from her native Spain. He had never seen such luxury before, and suddenly aware of the imminent presence of the king he looked at his wife nervously for support. She smiled calmly.
“You are ready?”
He nodded, but his hand was trembling.
“Everything is at stake, John,” she reminded him.
And before he had time to consider any further the monstrous thing that he was about to do, the white-haired figure of King Edward appeared, followed by a group of courtiers.
He was in an excellent temper that morning; otherwise he would not have paused when a courtier pointed the Wilton merchant and his handsome wife out to him, and told him they had a petition.
Since Edward had started the great inquiry into his administration, the court had been swamped by complaints and petitions which his efficient secretariat promptly sent to the investigating justices or the shire courts. But like that other lawmaker, his great-grandfather Henry II, it was his practice often to hear cases himself; so now, while the huntsmen waited, he gave Wilson a curt nod and standing squarely with his long legs apart and his arms folded, he prepared to listen.
“Be brief,” Edward told him.
John Wilson had a pleasing manner, an air of simple straightforwardness that years of practice had perfected. He stated his case shortly and with such obvious sincerity that Edward, though he was an excellent judge of men, was inclined to believe him.
“It’s my farm,” he explained. Fifteen years ago, he went on smoothly, before the recent laws had forbidden the Jews to make such transactions, Aaron of Wilton had once again lent the Shockleys money on the security of the Shockley farm. “They didn’t pay, and the Jew took the farm, but he couldn’t hold it,” he continued; for Jews were not usually allowed to hold land and so had to sell such pledges on immediately. “The land was sold to me,” Wilson stated, “and Aaron took the money. But then he let Shockley stay on it and I’ve never been able to get possession. So I’m out of the money and no farm.” He shrugged, as if such chicanery was something an honest man had to expect. “What’s more,” he continued, “since all these transactions with the Jews have been forbidden in recent years, I can’t get anyone to take an interest. But that money was all I had, and I earned it honestly.” It was a plausible story, and not one word of it was true.
The king nodded. He disliked the Jews, and a decade before he had not only forbidden most of their activities but he had closed the chirograph chests in which their records were kept. In the confusion surrounding the liquidation of the Jews’ affairs, he knew that an administrative slip-up of this kind could well have occurred, depriving the honest man and his striking blonde wife of a tenancy they had bought in good faith.
“But this matter should have been brought to the justices of the Jewish exchequers or the shire court,” he said, and Wilson noted that the king, as he had always heard, spoke with a lisp.
“Can’t get justice there,” he replied firmly.
Edward looked at him sharply.
“Why not?” These abuses of justice were exactly what he was determined to stamp out.
And now John Wilson, who all his life had known that the Shockleys had cheated his family out of the farm, and that Shockleys and Godefrois were his natural enemies, began his next great lie.
“Godefroi,” he said simply. “He hates me and he’s in business with Shockley and the Jew. He’s got power in the courts so he’ll see I never get justice.”
For the first time Edward looked at him in disbelief. He knew old Godefroi; as coroner, he would often have to decide matters relating to dead men’s estates; as an escheator, it was his duty to look after the king’s interests when his tenants died. Both positions gave him influence in the local courts and scope for malpractice, but of all those who might be accused of corruption in the current investigations, the knight of Avonsford was the last the king would have expected. He stared at Wilson coldly.
“Jocelin de Godefroi is our loyal servant,” he rasped.
But Wilson did not flinch.
“He and Shockley run the fulling mill together,” he stated flatly, “and Godefroi is keeping the Jew in Avonsford manor now – he’s been there a month.”
Edward’s face darkened. If the harbouring of a Jew was not a legal offence, it was certainly against the spirit of the law, which was to isolate Jews from Christians in every way possible. He turned to the group about him.
“Is this true?”
One of the courtiers nodded. “I have heard it said, sire. The Jew is very old.”
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