The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [259]
She was so beautiful that she made William’s head swim with desire.
She was wearing a scarlet robe, richly embroidered, and her expressive hands glinted with rings. There was an older woman with her, standing a little to one side, like a servant. Plenty of money, Mother had said; that was how Richard had been able to become a squire and join King Stephen’s army equipped with fine weapons. Damn her. She had been destitute, a penniless, powerless girl—how had she done it?
She was at a stall that carried bone needles, silk thread, wooden thimbles and other sewing necessities, discussing the goods animatedly with the short, dark-haired Jew who was selling them. Her stance was assertive, and she was relaxed and self-confident. She had recovered the poise she had possessed as daughter of the earl.
She looked much older. She was older, of course: William was twenty-four, so she must be twenty-one now. But she looked more than that. There was nothing of the child in her now. She was mature.
She looked up and met his eye.
Last time he had locked glances with her, she had blushed for shame, and run away. This time she stood her ground and stared back at him.
He tried a knowing smile.
An expression of scathing contempt came over her face.
William felt himself flush red. She was as haughty as ever, and she scorned him now as she had five years ago. He had humiliated and ravished her, but she was no longer terrified of him. He wanted to speak to her, and tell her that he could do again what he had done to her before; but he was not willing to shout it over the heads of the crowd. Her unflinching gaze made him feel small. He tried to sneer at her, but he could not, and he knew he was making a foolish grimace. In an agony of embarrassment he turned away and kicked his horse on; but even then the crowd slowed him down, and her withering look burned into the back of his neck as he moved away from her by painful inches.
When at last he emerged from the marketplace he was confronted by Prior Philip.
The short Welshman stood with his hands on his hips and his chin thrust aggressively forward. He was not quite as thin as he used to be, and what little hair he had was turning prematurely from black to gray, William saw. He no longer looked too young for his job. Now his blue eyes were bright with anger. “Lord William!” he called in a challenging tone.
William tore his mind away from the thought of Aliena and remembered that he had a charge to make against Philip. “I’m glad to come across you, Prior.”
“And I you,” Philip said angrily, but the shadow of a doubtful frown crossed his brow.
“You’re holding a market here,” William said accusingly.
“So what?”
“I don’t believe King Stephen ever licensed a market in Kingsbridge. Nor did any other king, to my knowledge.”
“How dare you?” said Philip.
“I or anybody—”
“You!” Philip shouted, overriding him. “How dare you come in here and talk about a license—you, who in the past month have gone through this county committing arson, theft, rape, and at least one murder!”
“That’s nothing to do—”
“How dare you come into a monastery and talk about a license!” Philip yelled. He stepped forward, wagging his finger at William, and William’s horse sidestepped nervously. Somehow Philip’s voice was more penetrating than William’s and William could not get a word in. A crowd of monks, volunteer workers and market customers was gathering around, watching the row. Philip was unstoppable. “After what you’ve done, there is only one thing you should say: ‘Father, I have sinned!’ You should get down on your knees in this priory! You should beg for forgiveness, if you want to escape the fires of hell.”
William blanched. Talk of hell filled him with uncontrollable terror. He tried desperately to interrupt Philip’s flow, saying: “What about your market? What about your market?”
Philip hardly heard. He was in a fury of indignation. “Beg forgiveness for the awful things you have done!” he shouted. “On your knees! On your knees, or you’ll burn in hell!”
William was almost