The visitor was his brother, Francis. Philip embraced him warmly. Francis looked careworn. “Have you been offered something to eat?” Philip said. “You seem weary.”
“They gave me some bread and meat, thanks. I’ve spent the autumn riding between Bristol, where King Stephen was imprisoned, and Rochester, where Earl Robert was held.”
“You saidwas.”
Francis nodded. “I’ve been negotiating a swap: Stephen for Robert. It was done on All Saints’ Day. King Stephen is now back in Winchester.”
Philip was surprised. “It seems to me that the Empress Maud got the worst of the bargain—she gave a king to get an earl.”
Francis shook his head. “She was helpless without Robert. Nobody likes her, nobody trusts her. Her support was collapsing. She had to have him back. Queen Matilda was clever. She wouldn’t take anything less than King Stephen in exchange. She held out for that and in the end she got it.”
Philip went to the window and looked out. It had started to rain, a cold slantwise rain blowing across the building site, darkening the high walls of the cathedral and dripping off the low thatched roofs of the craftsmen’s lodges. “What does it mean?” he said.
“It means that Maud is once again just an aspirant to the throne. After all, Stephen has actually been crowned, whereas Maud never was, not quite.”
“But it was Maud who licensed my market.”
“Yes. That could be a problem.”
“Is my license invalid?”
“No. It was properly granted by a legitimate ruler who had been approved by the Church. The fact that she wasn’t crowned doesn’t make any difference. But Stephen could withdraw it.”
“The market is paying for the stone,” Philip said anxiously. “I can’t build without it. This is bad news indeed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about my hundred pounds?”
Francis shrugged. “Stephen will tell you to get it back from Maud.”
Philip felt sick. “All that money,” he said. “It was God’s money, and I lost it.”
“You haven’t lost it yet,” Francis said. “Stephen may not revoke your license. He’s never shown much interest in markets one way or the other.”
“Earl William may pressure him.”
“William changed allegiance, remember? He threw his lot in with Maud. He won’t have much influence with Stephen anymore.”
“I hope you’re right,” Philip said fervently. “I hope to God you’re right.”
When it got too cold to sit in the glade, Aliena took to visiting Tom Builder’s house in the evenings. Alfred was normally at the alehouse, so the family group consisted of Tom, Ellen, Jack and Martha. Now that Tom was doing so well, they had comfortable seats, and a roaring fire, and plenty of candles. Ellen and Aliena would work at the weaving. Tom would draw plans and diagrams, scratching his drawings with a sharp stone onto polished pieces of slate. Jack would pretend to be making a belt, or sharpening knives, or weaving a basket, although he would spend most of the time furtively staring at Aliena’s face in the candlelight, watching her lips move as she talked or studying her white throat as she drank a glass of ale. They laughed a lot that winter. Jack loved to make Aliena laugh. She was so controlled and reserved, in general, that it was a joy to see her let herself go, almost like catching a glimpse of her naked. He was constantly thinking of things to say to amuse her. He would do impressions of the craftsmen on the building site, imitating the accent of a Parisian mason or the bowlegged walk of a blacksmith. Once he invented a comical account of life with the monks, giving each of them plausible sins—pride for Remigius, gluttony for Bernard Kitchener, drunkenness for the guest-master, and lust for Pierre Circuitor. Martha was often helpless with laughter and even the taciturn Tom cracked a smile.
It was on one such evening that Aliena said: “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to sell all this cloth.”
They were somewhat taken aback. Ellen said: “Then why are we weaving it?”
“I haven’t given up hope,” Aliena said. “I’ve just got a problem.”
Tom looked up from his slate. “I thought the priory was eager to buy it all.”
“That’s not the problem. I can’t find people to do the felting, and the priory doesn’t want loose-woven cloth—nor does anyone else.”
Ellen said: “Felting is backbreaking work. I’m not surprised no one will do it.”
“Can’t you get men to do it?” Tom suggested.
“Not in prosperous Kingsbridge. All the men have work enough. In the big towns there are professional fullers, but most of them work for weavers, and they’re prohibited from felting for their employer’s rivals. Anyway, it would cost too much to cart the cloth to Winchester and back.”
