“I’m not trying to alter that,” Philip said. “I’m asking the masons to postpone all promotions until the famine is over.”

“I’ll put it to them,” Jack said noncommittally. He had a feeling there could be trouble over that.

Philip pressed on. “From now on there’ll be no work on saint’s days.”

There were too many saint’s days. In principle, they were holidays, but whether workers were paid for the holiday was a matter for negotiation. At Kingsbridge the rule was that when two or more saint’s days fell in the same week, the first was a paid holiday and the second was an unpaid optional day off. Most people chose to work the second. Now, however, they would not have that option. The second saint’s day would be an obligatory unpaid holiday.

Jack was feeling uncomfortable about the prospect of explaining these changes to the lodge. He said: “All this would go down a lot better if I could present it to them as a matter for discussion, rather than as something already settled.”

Philip shook his head. “Then they’d think it was open to negotiation, and some of the proposals might be softened. They’d suggest working half the saint’s days, and allowing a limited number of upgrades.”

He was right, of course. “But isn’t that reasonable?” Jack said.

“Of course it’s reasonable,” Philip said irritably. “It’s just that there’s no room for adjustment. I’m already worried that these measures won’t be sufficient-I can’t make any concessions.”

“All right,” Jack said. Philip was clearly in no mood to compromise right now. “Is there anything else?” he said warily.

“Yes. Stop buying supplies. Run down your stocks of stone, iron and timber.”

“We get the timber free!” Jack protested.

“But we have to pay for it to be carted here.”

“True. All right.” Jack went to the window and looked down at the stones and tree trunks stacked in the priory close. It was a reflex action: he already knew how much he had in stock. “That’s not a problem,” he said after a moment. “With the reduced work force, we’ve got enough materials to last us until next summer.”

Philip sighed wearily. “There’s no guarantee we’ll be taking on summer workers next year,” he said. “It depends on the price of wool. You’d better warn them.”

Jack nodded. “It’s as bad as that, is it?”

“It’s worse than I’ve ever known it,” Philip said. “What this country needs is three years of good weather. And a new king.”

“Amen to that,” said Jack.

Philip returned to his house. Jack spent the morning wondering how to handle the changes. There were two ways to build a nave: bay by bay, beginning at the crossing and working west; or course by course, laying the base of the entire nave first and then working up. The second way was faster but required more masons. It was the method Jack had intended to use. Now he reconsidered. Building bay by bay was more suited to a reduced work force. It had another advantage, too: any modifications he introduced into his design to take account of wind resistance could be tested in one or two bays before being used throughout the building.

He also brooded over the long-term effect of the financial crisis. Work might slow down more and more, over the years. Gloomily he saw himself growing old and gray and feeble without achieving his life’s ambition, and eventually being buried in the priory graveyard in the shadow of a still unfinished cathedral.

When the noon bell rang he went to the masons’ lodge. The men were sitting down to their ale and cheese, and he noticed for the first time that many of them had no bread. He asked the masons who normally went home to dinner if they would stay for a moment. “The priory is running short of money,” he said.

“I’ve never known a monastery that didn’t, sooner or later,” said one of the older men.

Jack looked at him. He was called Edward Twonose because he had a wart on his face almost as big as his nose. He was a good stone carver, with a sharp eye for exact curves, and Jack always used him for shafts and drums. Jack said: “You’d have to admit that this place manages its money better than most. But Prior Philip can’t avert storms and bad harvests, and now he needs to reduce his expenditure. I’ll tell you about it before you have your dinners. First of all, we’re not taking in any more supplies of stone or timber.”

The craftsmen from the other lodges were drifting in to listen. One of the old carpenters, Peter, said: “The wood we’ve got won’t last the winter.”

“Yes, it will,” Jack said. “We’ll be building more slowly, because we’ll have fewer craftsmen. The winter layoff starts today.”

He knew immediately that he had handled the announcement wrongly. There were protests from all sides, several men speaking at once. I should have broken it to them gently, he thought. But he had no experience of this kind of thing. He had been master for seven years, but in that time there had been no financial crises.

The voice that emerged from the hubbub was that of Pierre Paris, one of the masons who had come from Saint-Denis. After six years in Kingsbridge his English was still imperfect, and his anger made his accent thicker, but he was not discouraged. “You cannot dismiss men on a Tuesday,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Jack Blacksmith. “You have to give them until the end of the week, at least.”

Jack’s stepbrother Alfred chimed in. “I remember when my father was building a house for the earl of Shiring, and Will Hamleigh came and dismissed the whole crew. My father told him he had to give everyone a week’s wages, and held his horse’s head until he handed over the money.”

Thank you for nothing, Alfred, thought Jack. He said doggedly: “You might as well hear the rest. From now on, there’s no work on saint’s days, and no promotions.”

That made them angrier. “Unacceptable,” someone said, and several of the others repeated it: “Unacceptable, unacceptable.”

Jack found that infuriating. “What are you talking about? If the priory hasn’t got the money, you’re not going to get paid. What’s the point of chanting ‘Unacceptable, unacceptable,’ like a class of schoolboys learning Latin?”

Edward Twonose spoke up again. “We’re not a class of schoolboys, we’re a lodge of masons,” he said. “The lodge has the right of promotion, and nobody can take it away.”

“And if there’s no money for the extra pay?” Jack said hotly.

One of the younger masons said: “I don’t believe that.”

It was Dan Bristol, one of the summer workers. He was not a skillful cutter but he could lay stones very accurately and fast. Jack said to him: “How can you say you don’t believe it? What do you know about the priory’s finances?”

“I know what I see,” Dan said. “Are the monks starving? No. Are there candles in the church? Yes. Is there wine in the stores? Yes. Does the prior go barefoot? No. There’s money. He just doesn’t want to give it to us.”

Several people agreed loudly. In fact, he was wrong about at least one item, and that was the wine; but no one would believe Jack now-he had become the representative of the priory. That was not fair: he was not responsible for Philip’s decisions. He said: “Look, I’m only telling you what the prior said to me. I don’t guarantee that it’s true. But if he tells us there’s not enough money, and we don’t believe him, what can we do?”

“We can all stop work,” said Dan. “Immediately.”

“That’s right,” said another voice.

This was getting out of control, Jack realized with a sense of panic. “Wait a moment,” he said. Desperately he searched for something to say that would bring down the temperature. “Let’s go back to work now, and this afternoon I’ll try to persuade Prior Philip to moderate his plans.”

“I don’t think we should work,” Dan said.

Jack could not believe this was happening. He had anticipated many threats to the building of his dream church, but he had not foreseen that the craftsmen would sabotage it. “Why shouldn’t we work?” he said incredulously. “What’s the point?”