The Pillars of the Earth (44 page)

Even when Ellen was at her most infuriating he never quite wished that she would go away, but all the same he often thought of Agnes with regret. Agnes had been with him for most of his adult life, and now he had a constant sense of there being something missing. While she was alive he had never thought that he was particularly fortunate to have her, nor had he felt thankful for her; but now that she was dead he missed her, and he felt ashamed that he had taken her for granted.

At quiet moments in the day, when all his laborers had their instructions and were busy about the site, and Tom was able to get down to a skilled task, rebuilding a bit of wall in the cloisters or repairing a pillar in the crypt, he sometimes held imaginary conversations with Agnes. Mostly he told her about Jonathan, their baby son. Tom saw the child most days, being fed in the kitchen or walked in the cloisters or put to bed in the monks’ dormitory. He seemed perfectly healthy and happy, and no one but Ellen knew or even suspected that Tom had a special interest in him. Tom also talked to Agnes about Alfred and Prior Philip and even Ellen, explaining his feelings about them, just as he would have done (except in the case of Ellen) if Agnes had been alive. He told her of his practical plans for the future, too: his hope that he would be employed here for years to come, and his dream of designing and building the new cathedral himself. In his head he heard her replies and questions. She was at different times pleased, encouraging, fascinated, suspicious, or disapproving. Sometimes he felt she was right, sometimes wrong. If he had told anyone of these conversations, they would have said he was communing with a ghost, and there would have been a flurry of priests and holy water and exorcism; but he knew there was nothing supernatural about what was happening. It was just that he knew her so well that he could imagine how she would feel and what she would say in just about any situation.

She came into his mind unbidden at odd times. When he peeled a pear with his eating knife for little Martha, he remembered how Agnes had always laughed at him because he would take pains to remove the peel in one continuous strip. Whenever he had to write something he would think of her, for she had taught him everything she had learned from her father, the priest; and he would remember her teaching him how to trim a quill or how to spell
caementarius
,
the Latin word for “mason.” As he washed his face on Sundays he would rub soap into his beard and recall how, when they were young, she had taught him that washing his beard would keep his face free from lice and boils. Never a day went by without some such little incident bringing her vividly to mind.

He knew he was lucky to have Ellen. There was no danger of his taking
her
for granted. She was unique: there was something abnormal about her, and it was that abnormal something that made her magnetic. He was grateful to her for consoling him in his grief, the morning after Agnes died; but sometimes he wished he had met her a few days—instead of a few hours—after he had buried his wife, just so that he would have had time to be heartbroken alone. He would not have observed a period of mourning—that was for lords and monks, not ordinary folk—but he would have had time to become accustomed to the absence of Agnes before he started to get used to living with Ellen. Such thoughts had not occurred to him during the early days, when the threat of starvation had combined with the sexual excitement of Ellen to produce a kind of hysterical end-of-the-world elation. But since he had found work and security, he had begun to feel pangs of regret. And sometimes it seemed that when he thought like this about Agnes, he was not only missing her, but mourning the passing of his own youth. Never again would he be as naive, as aggressive, as hungry or as strong as he had been when he had first fallen in love with Agnes.

He finished his bread and left the refectory ahead of the others. He went into the cloisters. He was pleased with his work here: it was now hard to imagine that the quadrangle had been buried under a mass of rubble three weeks earlier. The only remaining signs of the catastrophe were some cracked paving stones for which he had been unable to find replacements.

There was a lot of dust about, though. He would have the cloisters swept again and then sprinkled with water. He walked through the ruined church. In the north transept he saw a blackened beam with words written in the soot. Tom read it slowly. It said: “Alfred is a pig.” So that was what had infuriated Alfred. Quite a lot of the wood from the roof had not burned to ashes, and there were blackened beams like this lying all around. Tom decided he would detail a group of workers to collect all the timber and take it to the firewood store. “Make the site look tidy,” Agnes would say when someone important was coming to visit. “You want them to feel glad that Tom’s in charge.” Yes, dear, Tom thought, and he smiled to himself as he went about his work.

Waleran Bigod’s party was sighted a mile or so away across the fields. There were three of them, riding quite hard. Waleran himself was in the lead, on a black horse, his black cloak flying behind. Philip and the senior monastic officials waited by the stable to welcome them.

Philip was not sure how to treat Waleran. Waleran had deceived him, indisputably, by not telling him that the bishop was dead; but when the truth came out Waleran had not appeared in the least ashamed; and Philip had not known what to say to him. He still did not know, but he suspected that there was nothing to be gained by complaining. Anyway, that whole episode had been overshadowed by the catastrophe of the fire. Philip would just be extremely wary of Waleran in future.

Waleran’s horse was a stallion, skittish and excitable despite having been ridden several miles. He held its head down hard as he walked it to the stable. Philip disapproved: there was no need for a clergyman to cut a dash on horseback, and most men of God chose quieter mounts.

Waleran swung off the horse with a fluid motion and gave the reins to a stable hand. Philip greeted him formally. Waleran turned and surveyed the ruins. A bleak look came into his eyes, and he said: “This was an expensive fire, Philip.” He seemed genuinely distressed, somewhat to Philip’s surprise.

Before Philip could reply, Remigius spoke up. “The devil’s work, my lord bishop,” he said.

“Was it, now?” said Waleran. “In my experience, the devil is usually assisted in such work by monks who light fires in church to take the chill off matins, or carelessly leave burning candles in the bell tower.”

Philip was amused to see Remigius crushed, but he could not let Waleran’s insinuations pass. “I’ve held an investigation into possible causes of the conflagration,” he said. “No one lit a fire in the church that night—I can be sure because I was present at matins myself. And no one had been up in the roof for months beforehand.”

“So what is your explanation—lightning?” Waleran said skeptically.

Philip shook his head. “There was no storm. The fire seems to have started in the vicinity of the crossing. We did leave a candle burning on the altar after the service, as usual. It’s possible that the altar cloth caught fire, and a spark was taken by an updraft to the wooden ceiling, which was very old and dry.” Philip shrugged. “It’s not a very satisfactory explanation, but it’s the best we have.”

Waleran nodded. “Let’s have a closer look at the damage.”

They moved off toward the church. Waleran’s two companions were a man-at-arms and a young priest. The man-at-arms stayed behind to see to the horse. The priest accompanied Waleran, and was introduced to Philip as Dean Baldwin. As they all crossed the green to the church, Remigius put a hand on Waleran’s arm, stopping him, and said: “The guesthouse is undamaged, as you can see.”

Everyone stopped and turned around. Philip wondered irritably what Remigius was thinking of. If the guesthouse was undamaged, why make everyone stop and look at it? The builder’s wife was walking up from the kitchens, and they all watched her enter the house. Philip glanced at Waleran. He was looking slightly shocked. Philip remembered the moment, back at the bishop’s palace, when Waleran had seen the builder’s wife, and had looked almost frightened. What was it about that woman?

Waleran gave Remigius a swift look and an almost imperceptible nod, then he turned to Philip and said: “Who is living there?”

Philip was quite sure Waleran had recognized her, but he said: “A master builder and his family.”

Waleran nodded and they all moved on. Philip knew now why Remigius had called attention to the guesthouse: he had wanted to make sure Waleran saw the woman. Philip made up his mind to question her at the earliest opportunity.

They went into the ruins. A group of seven or eight men, made up of monks and priory servants in about equal numbers, was lifting a half-burned roof beam under the supervision of Tom. The whole site looked busy but tidy. Philip felt that the air of bustling efficiency did him credit, although Tom was responsible.

Tom came to meet them. He towered over everyone else. Philip said to Waleran: “This is our master builder, Tom. He’s managed to make the cloisters and the crypt usable again already. We’re very grateful to him.”

“I remember you,” Waleran said to Tom. “You came to me just after Christmas. I didn’t have any work for you.”

“That’s right,” Tom said in his deep, dusty voice. “Perhaps God was saving me to help Prior Philip in his time of trouble.”

“A theological builder,” Waleran mocked.

Tom reddened faintly under his dusty skin. Philip thought that Waleran must have a strong nerve, to make fun of such a big man, even though Waleran was a bishop and Tom only a mason.

“What is your next step here?” Waleran asked.

“We must make the place safe by knocking down the remaining walls, before they fall on someone,” Tom replied, meekly enough. “Then we should clear the site ready for the building of the new church. As soon as possible we should find tall trees for the timbers of the new roof—the longer the wood is seasoned, the better the roof will be.”

Philip said hastily: “Before we start felling trees we must find the money to pay for them.”

“We’ll speak about that later,” Waleran said enigmatically.

That remark intrigued Philip. He hoped Waleran had a scheme for raising the money to build the new church. If the priory had to rely on its own resources it would not be able to begin for many years. Philip had been agonizing over this for the past three weeks, and he still had not come up with a solution.

He led the group along the path that had been cleared through the rubble to the cloisters. One glance was sufficient for Waleran to see that this area had been set to rights. They moved on from there and crossed the green to the prior’s house in the southeast corner of the close.

Once inside, Waleran took off his cloak and sat down, holding his pale hands out to the fire. Brother Milius, the kitchener, served hot spiced wine in small wooden bowls. Waleran sipped his and said to Philip:. “Has it occurred to you that Tom Builder might have started the fire to provide himself with work?”

“Yes, it has,” Philip said. “But I don’t think he did. He would have had to get inside the church, which was securely locked up.”

“He might have gone in during the day and hidden himself away.”

“Then he would have been unable to get out after he started the fire.” He shook his head. This was not the real reason he was sure Tom was innocent. “Anyway, I don’t believe him capable of such a thing. He’s an intelligent man—much more so than you might think at first—but he’s not sly. If he were guilty, I think I would have seen it in his face, when I looked him in the eye and asked him how he thought the fire might have started.”

Somewhat to Philip’s surprise, Waleran agreed immediately. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “I can’t see him setting fire to a church, somehow. He’s just not the type.”

“We may never know for sure how the fire started,” Philip said. “But we must face the problem of raising the money to build a new church. I don’t know—”

“Yes,” Waleran interrupted, and held up a hand to stop Philip. He turned to the others in the room. “I must speak to Prior Philip alone,” he said. “The rest of you may leave us.”

Philip was intrigued. He could not imagine why Waleran had to speak to him alone about this.

Remigius said: “Before we go, lord bishop, there is something the brothers have asked me to say to you.”

Philip thought: What now?

Waleran raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And why should they ask
you
,
rather than your prior, to raise a matter with me?”

“Because Prior Philip is deaf to their complaint.”

Philip was angry and mystified. There had been no complaint. Remigius was just trying to embarrass Philip by creating a scene in front of the bishop-elect. Philip caught an inquiring glance from Waleran. He shrugged and tried to look unconcerned. “I can’t wait to hear what the complaint is,” he said. “Please go ahead, Brother Remigius—if you’re
quite
sure the matter is important enough to require the attention of the bishop.”

Remigius said: “There is a woman living in the priory.”

“Not that again,” Philip said with exasperation. “She’s the builder’s wife, and she lives in the guesthouse.”

“She’s a witch,” said Remigius.

Philip wondered why Remigius was doing this. Remigius had mounted this particular horse once already, and it would not run. The point was moot, but the prior was the authority, and Waleran was bound to support Philip, unless he wanted to be called in every time Remigius disagreed with his superior. Wearily, Philip said: “She’s not a witch.”

“Have you interrogated the woman?” Remigius demanded.

Philip recalled that he had promised to question her. He had never done so: he had seen the husband, and told him to tell her to be circumspect, but he had not actually spoken to the woman himself. That was a pity, for it permitted Remigius to score a point; but it was not much of a point, and Philip felt sure it would not cause Waleran to take Remigius’s side. “I haven’t interrogated her,” Philip admitted. “But there is no evidence of witchcraft, and the whole family is perfectly honest and Christian.”