Suddenly everyone had disappeared, the riders and the crowds. Jack released his hold on Aliena and stood up. His right hand felt numb. He remembered that he had taken the blow aimed at Aliena’s head. He was glad his hand hurt. He hoped it would hurt for a long time, to remind him.

The storehouse was an inferno, and smaller fires burned all around. The ground was littered with bodies, some moving, some bleeding, some limp and still. Apart from the crackle of the flames it was quiet. The mob had got out, one way or another, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Jack felt dazed. He had never seen a battlefield but he imagined it must look like this.

Aliena started to cry. Jack put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She pushed it off. He had saved her life, but she did not care for that: she cared only for her damned wool, which was now irretrievably lost in smoke. He looked at her for a moment, feeling sad. Most of her hair had burned away, and she no longer looked beautiful, but he loved her all the same. It hurt him to see her so distraught, and not to be able to comfort her.

He felt sure she would not try to go into the storehouse now. He was worried about the rest of his family, so he left Aliena and went looking for them.

His face hurt. He put a hand to his cheek, and his own touch stung him. He must have got burned too. He looked at the bodies on the ground. He wanted to do something for the wounded, but he did not know where to begin. He searched for familiar faces among the strangers, hoping not to see any. Mother and Martha had gone to the cloisters-they had been well ahead of the mob, he thought. Had Tom found Alfred? He turned toward the cloisters. Then he saw Tom.

His stepfather’s tall body was stretched out full length on the muddy ground. It was perfectly still. His face was recognizable, even peaceful-looking, up to the eyebrows; but his forehead was open and his skull was completely smashed. Jack was appalled. He could not take it in. Tom could not be dead. But this thing could not be alive. He looked away, then looked back. It was Tom, and he was dead.

Jack knelt beside the body. He felt the urge to do something, or say something, and for the first time he understood why people liked to pray for the dead. “Mother is going to miss you terribly,” he said. He remembered the angry speech he had made to Tom on the day of his fight with Alfred. “Most of that wasn’t true,” he said, and the tears started to flow. “You didn’t fail me. You fed me and took care of me, and you made my mother happy, truly happy.” But there was something more important than all that, he thought. What Tom had given him was nothing so commonplace as food and shelter. Tom had given him something unique, something no other man had to give, something even his own father could not have given him; something that was a passion, a skill, an art, and a way of life. “You gave me the cathedral,” Jack whispered to the dead man. “Thank you.”

PART FOUR

Chapter 11

I

WILLIAM’S TRIUMPH WAS RUINED by Philip’s prophecy: instead of feeling satisfied and jubilant, he was terrified that he would go to hell for what he had done.

He had answered Philip bravely enough, jeering “This is hell, monk!” but that had been in the excitement of the attack. When it was over, and he had led his men away from the blazing town; when their horses and their heartbeats had slowed down; when he had time to look back over the raid, and think of how many people he had wounded and burned and killed; then he recalled Philip’s angry face, and his finger pointing straight down into the bowels of the earth, and the doom-laden words: “You’ll go to hell for this!”

By the time darkness fell he was completely depressed. His men-at-arms wanted to talk over the operation, reliving the high spots and relishing the slaughter, but they soon caught his mood and relapsed into gloomy silence. They spent that night at the manor house of one of William’s larger tenants. At supper the men grimly drank themselves senseless. The tenant, knowing how men normally felt after a battle, had brought in some whores from Shiring; but they did poor business. William lay awake all night, terrified that he might die in his sleep and go straight to hell.

The following morning, instead of returning to Earlscastle, he went to see Bishop Waleran. He was not at his palace when they arrived, but Dean Baldwin told William that he was expected that afternoon. William waited in the chapel, staring at the cross on the altar and shivering despite the summer heat.

When Waleran arrived at last, William felt like kissing his feet.

The bishop swept into the chapel in his black robes and said coldly: “What are you doing here?”

William got to his feet, trying to hide his abject terror behind a facade of self-possession. “I’ve just burned the town of Kingsbridge-”

“I know,” Waleran interrupted. “I’ve been hearing about nothing else all day. What possessed you? Are you mad?”

This reaction took William completely by surprise. He had not discussed the raid with Waleran in advance because he had been so sure Waleran would approve: Waleran hated everything to do with Kingsbridge, especially Prior Philip. William had expected him to be pleased, if not gleeful. William said: “I’ve just ruined your greatest enemy. Now I need to confess my sins.”

“I’m not surprised,” Waleran said. “They say more than a hundred people burned to death.” He shuddered. “A horrible way to die.”

“I’m ready to confess,” William said.

Waleran shook his head. “I don’t know that I can give you absolution.”

A cry of fear escaped William’s lips. “Why not?”

“You know that Bishop Henry of Winchester and I have taken the side of King Stephen again. I don’t think the king would approve of my giving absolution to a supporter of Queen Maud.”

“Damn you, Waleran, it was you who persuaded me to change sides!”

Waleran shrugged. “Change back.”

William realized that this was Waleran’s objective. He wanted William to switch his allegiance to Stephen. Waleran’s horror at the burning of Kingsbridge had been faked: he had simply been establishing a bargaining position. This realization brought enormous relief to William, for it meant that Waleran was not implacably opposed to giving him absolution. But did he want to switch again? For a moment he said nothing as he tried to think about it calmly.

“Stephen has been winning victories all summer,” Waleran went on. “Maud is begging her husband to come over from Normandy to help her, but he won’t. The tide is flowing our way.”

An awful prospect opened up before William: the Church refused to absolve him from his crimes; the sheriff accused him of murder; a victorious King Stephen backed the sheriff and the Church; and William himself was tried and hanged…

“Be like me, and follow Bishop Henry-he knows which way the wind blows,” Waleran urged. “If everything works out right, Winchester will be made an archdiocese, and Henry will be the archbishop of Winchester-on a par with the archbishop of Canterbury. And when Henry dies, who knows? I could be the next archbishop. After that… well, there are English cardinals already-one day there may be an English pope…”

William stared at Waleran, mesmerized, despite his own fear, by the naked ambition revealed on the bishop’s normally stony face. Waleran as pope? Anything was possible. But the immediate consequences of Waleran’s aspirations were more important. William could see that he was a pawn in Waleran’s game. Waleran had gained in prestige, with Bishop Henry, by his ability to deliver William and the knights of Shiring to one side or the other in the civil war. That was the price William had to pay for having the Church turn a blind eye to his crimes. “Do you mean…” His voice was hoarse. He coughed and tried again. “Do you mean that you will hear my confession if I swear allegiance to Stephen and come over to his side again?”