Bishop Roger was sketching a two-story building with large windows in three sides. He was a good draftsman, making straight lines and true right angles. He drew a plan and a side view of the building. Tom could see that it would never be built.
The bishop finished it and said: “There.”
John turned to Tom and said: “What is it?”
Tom pretended to think he was being asked for his opinion of the drawing. He said: “You can’t have windows that big in an undercroft.”
The bishop looked at him with irritation. “It’s a writing room, not an undercroft.”
“It will fall down just the same.”
John said: “He’s right.”
“But they must have light to write by.”
John shrugged and turned to Tom. “Who are you?”
“My name is Tom and I’m a mason.”
“I guessed that. What brings you here?”
“I’m looking for work.” Tom held his breath.
John shook his head immediately. “I can’t hire you.”
Tom’s heart sank. He felt like turning on his heel, but he waited politely to hear the reasons.
“We’ve been building for ten years here,” John went on. “Most of the masons have houses in the town. We’re coming to the end, and now I have more masons on the site than I really need.”
Tom knew it was hopeless, but he said: “And the palace?”
“Same thing,” said John. “This is where I’m using my surplus men. If it weren’t for this, and Bishop Roger’s other castles, I’d be laying masons off already.”
Tom nodded. In a neutral voice, trying not to sound desperate, he said: “Do you hear of work anywhere?”
“They were building at the monastery in Shaftesbury earlier in the year. Perhaps they still are. It’s a day’s journey away.”
“Thanks.” Tom turned to go.
“I’m sorry,” John called after him. “You seem like a good man.”
Tom went out without replying. He felt let down. He had allowed his hopes to rise too early: there was nothing unusual about being turned down. But he had been excited at the prospect of working on a cathedral again. Now he might have to work on a monotonous town wall or an ugly house for a silversmith.
He squared his shoulders as he walked back across the castle courtyard to where Agnes waited with Martha. He never showed his disappointment to her. He always tried to give the impression that all was well, he was in control of the situation, and it was of no great consequence if there was no work here because there was sure to be something in the next town, or the one after that. He knew that if he showed any sign of distress Agnes would urge him to find a place to settle down, and he did not want to do that, not unless he could settle in a town where there was a cathedral to be built.
“There’s nothing for me here,” he said to Agnes. “Let’s move on.”
She looked crestfallen. “You’d think, with a cathedralanda palace under construction, there would be room for one more mason.”
“Both buildings are almost finished,” Tom explained. “They’ve got more men than they want.”
The family crossed the drawbridge and plunged back into the crowded streets of the town. They had entered Salisbury by the east gate, and they would leave by the west, for that way led to Shaftesbury. Tom turned right, leading them through the part of the town they had not so far seen.
He stopped outside a stone house that looked in dire need of repair. The mortar used in building it had been too weak, and was now crumbling and falling out. Frost had got into the holes, cracking some of the stones. If it were left for another winter the damage would be worse. Tom decided to point this out to the owner.
The ground-floor entrance was a wide arch. The wooden door was open, and in the doorway a craftsman sat with a hammer in his right hand and a bradawl, a small metal tool with a sharp point, in his left. He was carving a complex design on a wooden saddle which sat on the bench before him. In the background Tom could see stores of wood and leather, and a boy with a broom sweeping shavings.
Tom said: “Good day, Master Saddler.”
