Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [331]
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