He had the names of the offenders scratched on a slate, and he read them out, one by one, beginning with the wealthiest. “Richard Longacre, you had a large grindstone turned by two men, Brother Franciscus says.” Franciscus was the priory’s miller.

A prosperous-looking yeoman stepped forward. “Yes, my lord prior, but I’ve broken it now.”

“Pay sixty pence. Enid Brewster, you had a handmill in your brewery. Eric Enidson was seen using it, and he is charged too.”

“Yes, lord,” said Enid, a red-faced woman with powerful shoulders.

“And where is the handmill now?” Philip asked her.

“I threw it in the river, Lord.”

Philip did not believe her, but there was not much he could do about it. “Fined twenty-four pence, and twelve for your son. Walter Tanner?”

Philip went on down the list, fining people according to the scale of their illegitimate operations, until he came to the last and poorest. “Widow Goda?”

A pinch-faced old woman in faded black clothes stepped forward.

“Brother Franciscus saw you grinding grain with a stone.”

“I didn’t have a penny for the mill, lord,” she said resentfully.

“You had a penny to buy grain, though,” Philip said. “You shall be punished like everyone else.”

“Would you have me starve?” she said defiantly.

Philip sighed. He wished Brother Franciscus had pretended not to notice Goda breaking the law. “When was the last time someone starved to death in Kingsbridge?” he said. He looked around at the assembled citizens. “Anybody remember the last time someone starved to death in our town?” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for a reply, then said: “I think you’ll find it was before my time.”

Goda said: “Dick Shorthouse died last winter.”

Philip remembered the man, a beggar who slept in pigsties and stables. “Dick fell down drunk in the street at midnight and froze to death when it snowed,” he said. “He didn’t starve, and if he’d been sober enough to walk to the priory, he wouldn’t have been cold either. If you’re hungry, don’t try to cheat me-come to me for charity. And if you’re too proud to do that, and you would rather break the law instead, you must take your punishment like everyone else. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Lord,” the old woman said sulkily.

“Fined a farthing,” Philip said. “Court is over.”

He stood up and went out, climbing the stairs that led up to ground level from the crypt.

Work on the new cathedral had slowed dramatically, as it always did a month or so before Christmas. The exposed edges and tops of the unfinished stonework were covered with straw and dung-the litter from the priory stables-to keep the frost off the new masonry. The masons could not build in the winter, because of the frost, they said. Philip had asked why they could not uncover the walls every morning and cover them again at night: it was not often frosty in the daytime. Tom said that walls built in winter fell down. Philip believed that, but he did not think it was because of the frost. He thought the real reason might be that the mortar took several months to set properly. The winter break allowed it to get really hard before the new year’s masonry was built on top. That would also explain the masons’ superstition that it was bad luck to build more than twenty feet high in a single year: more than that, and the lower courses might become deformed by the weight on them before the mortar could harden.

Philip was surprised to see all the masons out in the open, in what would be the chancel of the church. He went to see what they were doing.

They had made a semicircular wooden arch and stood it upright, propped up with poles on both sides. Philip knew that the wooden arch was a piece of what they called falsework: its purpose was to support the stone arch while it was being built. Now, however, the masons were assembling the stone arch at ground level, without mortar, to make sure the stones fit together perfectly. Apprentices and laborers were lifting the stones onto the falsework while the masons looked on critically.

Philip caught Tom’s eye and said: “What’s this for?”

“It’s an arch for the tribune gallery.”

Philip looked up reflexively. The arcade had been finished last year and the gallery above it would be completed next year. Then only the top level, the clerestory, would remain to be built before the roof went on. Now that the walls had been covered up for the winter, the masons were cutting the stones ready for next year’s work. If this arch was right, the stones for all the others would be cut to the same patterns.

The apprentices, among whom was Tom’s stepson, Jack, built the arch up from either side, with the wedge-shaped stones called voussoirs. Although the arch would eventually be built high up in the church, it would have elaborate decorative moldings; so each stone bore, on the surface that would be visible, a line of large dogtooth carving, another line of small medallions, and a bottom line of simple roll molding. When the stones were put together, the carvings lined up exactly, forming three continuous arcs, one of dogtooth, one of medallions and one of roll molding. This gave the impression that the arch was constructed of several semicircular hoops of stone one on top of another, whereas, in fact, it was made of wedges placed side by side. However, the stones had to fit together precisely, otherwise the carvings would not line up and the illusion would be spoiled.

Philip watched while Jack lowered the central keystone into place. Now the arch was complete. Four masons picked up sledgehammers and knocked out the wedges that supported the wooden falsework a few inches above the ground. Dramatically, the wooden support fell. Although there was no mortar between the stones, the arch remained standing. Tom Builder gave a grunt of satisfaction.

Someone pulled at Philip’s sleeve. He turned to see a young monk. “You’ve got a visitor, Father. He’s waiting in your house.”

“Thank you, my son.” Philip left the builders. If the monks had put the visitor in the prior’s house to wait, that meant it was someone important. He crossed the close and went into his house.

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 said was.”

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.”