The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [369]
Waleran snatched it back, impatient of William’s slow reading. “It’s from Prior Philip,” he said. “He informs me that the chancel of the new cathedral will be finished by Whitsunday, and he has the nerve to beg me to officiate at the service.”
William was surprised. “How has he managed it? I thought he had sacked half his builders!”
Waleran shook his head. “No matter what happens he seems to bounce back.” He gave William a speculative look. “He hates you, of course. Thinks you’re the devil incarnate.”
William wondered what was going on now in Waleran’s devious mind. “So what?” he said.
“It would be quite a blow to Philip if you were confirmed as earl on Whitsunday.”
“You wouldn’t do it for me, but you’d do it to spite Philip,” William said grouchily, but in reality he was feeling hopeful.
“I can’t do it at all,” Waleran said. “But I will speak to Bishop Henry.” He looked up at William expectantly.
William hesitated. At last, reluctantly, he muttered: “Thank you.”
Spring was cold and dismal that year, and on the morning of Whitsunday it was raining. Aliena had woken up in the night with a backache, and it was still troubling her with a stabbing pain every now and again. She sat in the cold kitchen, plaiting Martha’s hair before going to church, while Alfred ate a large breakfast of white bread, soft cheese and strong beer. A particularly sharp twinge in her back made her stop and stand upright for a moment, wincing. Martha noticed and said: “What’s the matter?”
“Backache,” Aliena said shortly. She did not want to discuss it, for the cause was surely sleeping on the floor in the drafty back room, and nobody knew about that, not even Martha.
Martha stood up and took a hot stone from the fire. Aliena sat down. Martha wrapped the stone in an old scorched piece of leather, and held it against Aliena’s back. It gave her immediate relief. Martha started to plait Aliena’s hair, which had grown again after being burned away and was once again an undisciplined mass of dark curls. Aliena felt soothed.
She and Martha had become quite close since Ellen left. Poor Martha: she had lost her mother and then her step-mother. Aliena felt herself to be a poor substitute for a mother. Besides, she was only ten years older than Martha. She played the role of older sister, really. Oddly enough, the person Martha missed most was her stepbrother, Jack.
But then, everyone missed Jack.
Aliena wondered where he was. He might be quite close, working on a cathedral in Gloucester or Salisbury. More likely he had gone to Normandy. But he could be much farther afield: Paris, Rome, Jerusalem, or Egypt. Recalling the stories that pilgrims told about such faraway places, she visualized Jack in a sandy desert, carving stones for a Saracen fortress in the blinding sunlight. Was he thinking of her now?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise of hooves outside, and a moment later her brother, Richard, walked in, leading his horse. He and the horse were soaking wet and covered with mud. Aliena took some hot water from the fire for him to wash his hands and face, and Martha led the horse out to the backyard. Aliena put bread and cold beef on the kitchen table and poured him a cup of beer.
Alfred said: “What’s the news of the war?”
Richard dried his face on a rag and sat down to his breakfast. “We were defeated at Wilton,” he said.
“Was Stephen taken?”
“No, he escaped, just as Maud escaped from Oxford. Now Stephen is at Winchester and Maud is at Bristol, and they’re both licking their wounds and consolidating their hold on the areas they control.”
The news always seemed to be the same, Aliena thought. One side or both had won some small victory or suffered some small loss, but there was never any prospect of the end of the war.
Richard looked at her and said: “You’re getting fat.”
She nodded and said nothing. She was eight months pregnant, but nobody knew. It was lucky that the weather had been cold, so that she had been able to continue to wear layers of loose winter clothing which concealed her shape.