William could tell that Waleran felt much the same about him. Waleran could never quite conceal the distaste he felt when William walked in. He sat upright and folded his arms, his lip curled a little, and he frowned faintly, altogether as if he was suffering from a twinge of indigestion.

They talked of the war for a while. It was a stiff, awkward conversation, and William was relieved when it was broken by a messenger with a letter written on a roll of parchment and sealed with wax. Waleran sent the messenger off to the kitchen to get something to eat. He did not open the letter.

William took the opportunity to change the subject. “I didn’t come here to exchange news of battles. I came to tell you that I’ve run out of patience.”

Waleran raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Silence was his response to unpleasant topics.

William plowed on: “It’s almost three years since my father died, but King Stephen still hasn’t confirmed me as earl. This is outrageous.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Waleran said languidly. He toyed with his letter, examining the seal and playing with the ribbon.

“That’s good,” William said, “because you’re going to have to do something about it.”

“My dear William, I can’t make you earl.”

William had known that Waleran would take this attitude, and he was determined not to accept it. “You have the ear of the king’s brother.”

“But what am I to say to him? That William Hamleigh has served the king well? If it is true, the king knows it, and if not, he knows that also.”

William was no match for Waleran in logic so he simply ignored the arguments. “You owe it to me, Waleran Bigod.”

Waleran looked faintly angered. He pointed at William with the letter. “I owe you nothing. You have always served your own ends even when you did what I wanted. There are no debts of gratitude between us.”

“I tell you, I won’t wait any longer.”

“What will you do?” Waleran said with the hint of a sneer.

“Well, first I’ll see Bishop Henry myself.”

“And?”

“I’ll tell him that you have been deaf to my pleas, and in consequence I’m changing my allegiance to the Empress Maud.” William was gratified to see Waleran’s expression change: he went a shade paler and looked just a little bit surprised.

“Change again?” Waleran said skeptically.

“Just one more time than you,” William responded stoutly.

Waleran’s supercilious indifference was shaken, but not much. Waleran’s career had benefited greatly from his ability to deliver William and his knights to whichever side Bishop Henry favored at the moment: it would be a blow to him if William suddenly turned independent-but not a fatal blow. William studied Waleran’s face as he mulled over this threat. William could read the other man’s mind: he was thinking that he wanted to keep William loyal, but wondering how much he should put into the effort.

To gain time Waleran broke the seal on his letter and unrolled it. As he read, a faint flush of anger appeared on his fish-white cheeks. “Damn the man,” he hissed.

“What is it?” William asked.

Waleran held it out.

William took it from him and peered at the letters. “To-the-most-holy-gracious-bishop)-”

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 stepmother. 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. In a few weeks’ time the baby would be born, and the truth would come out. She still had no idea what she was going to do then.

The bell rang to summon the townspeople to mass. Alfred pulled on his boots and looked expectantly at Aliena.

“I don’t think I can go,” she said. “I feel terrible.”

He shrugged indifferently and turned to her brother. “You should come, Richard. Everyone will be there today-it’s the first service in the new church.”

Richard was surprised. “You’ve got the ceiling up already? I thought that was going to take the rest of the year.”