Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [327]
“You’re a mason,” he reminded him.
And though Edward often practised his archery in his spare time at the butts outside the city, Osmund never came to watch him. When at last the time came to admit his son into the company of the master masons, he did so grudgingly.
He was fifty-nine; both he and his wife had kept their health; he had still all but three of his teeth. True, it annoyed him that sometimes, when he was carving, he could not see the detail of his work clearly from close up, but he had grown so used over the years to feeling his carving with his hand that this small disability did not trouble him, and he found that his eyes picked out objects at a distance better than ever.
But lately a change had come over him.
At first he blamed his wife. Although her thin body was growing old, he had still been used to paying her mechanical attentions for which she was, at least sometimes, grateful. But recently he had found that his body did not respond as it had before. At first he had told himself that it was because his wife no longer attracted him, but as the months passed, he had to admit that this explanation was not enough. He began to stare at young girls, sometimes with lust, but at other times, challenging his own body to respond. And his body, he realised, was slowly failing him. He began to grow testy. He would snap at his wife for no particular reason, or he would deliberately stare at young women when he was with her, to suggest that they might arouse him if she did not.
At work, he had now taken to wandering unasked amongst the other masons, inspecting their work, and gruffly correcting them. And though every mason admitted that no one was a finer carver than old Osmund, these criticisms were soon resented. Often he would pick on his own son, rebuking him publicly for some piece of imagined sloppiness or poor finish, and Edward bore this patiently. But frequently he would berate others too, even his fellow master masons, telling them curtly: “The line is weak,” or silently shaking his head as he gazed at their efforts. Several times Edward had privately warned him that this behaviour was giving offence, but his father had taken no notice.
At last, when these inspections had become a habit, the masons’ guild acted. The work on the tower could only use a few workers and Osmund’s testy comments had become too much of a nuisance.
“There are younger men who can carve,” they told Edward. “It is time for your father to leave the work in the cathedral to others.” It was a harsh decision, but Edward knew that if the guild had decided, it was useless to argue.
“Let me tell him,” he requested.
Now Edward had delivered their message. He knew they were right. But as he watched his father’s thickset body first bristle with indignation and then suddenly sag, he wished he had protested against it.
There was a long pause before Osmund spoke again.
“What shall I do?” It was terrible, after so many years, to hear the note of despair in his father’s voice.
“There is plenty of work in the close.”
It was true: houses for the clergy were still being built; there were still constant alterations being made to the bishop’s palace even though Bishop de la Corner, a royal official, was seldom at Sarum. But none of this mattered to Osmund. Only the day before he had completed a series of carvings of little dogs’ heads which were to be installed half way up the tower. He had been pleased with them. He shook his head in confusion. There were so many other carvings he had wished to do.
“But I have always worked in the cathedral,” he protested. It was his home, his life.
There was another awkward pause before Edward replied.
“The guild has decided. I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say. And after a little time, during which neither of them spoke, he turned away and started to walk towards the cathedral.
Osmund watched him go.
Was it really possible that he, the master