Aliena was the only one who had been brave. When she came into the keep and found that instead of being a place of safety it was a trap, she had taken charge of the servants and children, telling them to sit down and keep quiet and stay out of the way of the fighting men, screaming at the Hamleighs’ knights when they were rough with their prisoners or raised their swords against unarmed men and women, acting as if she were completely invulnerable.

His mother ruffled his hair. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was wondering what will happen to the princess.”

She knew what he meant. “The Lady Aliena.”

“She’s like a princess in a poem, living in a castle. But knights aren’t as virtuous as the poems say.”

“That’s true,” Mother said grimly.

“What will become of her?”

She shook her head. “I really don’t know.”

“Her mother’s dead.”

“Then she’ll have a hard time.”

“I thought so.” Jack paused. “She laughed at me because I didn’t know about fathers. But I liked her all the same.”

Mother put her arm around him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about fathers.”

He touched her hand, accepting her apology. They walked on in silence. From time to time a family would leave the road and head across the fields, making for the home of relatives or friends where they might beg some breakfast and think about what to do next. Most of the crowd stayed together as far as the crossroads, then they split up, some going north or south, some continuing straight on toward the market town of Shiring. Mother detached herself from Jack and put a hand on Tom’s arm, making him stop. “Where shall we go?” she said.

He looked faintly surprised to be asked, as if he expected them all to follow wherever he led without asking questions. Jack had noticed that Mother often brought that surprised look to Tom’s face. Perhaps his previous wife had been a different sort of person.

“We’re going to Kingsbridge Priory,” Tom said.

“Kingsbridge!” Mother seemed shaken. Jack wondered why.

Tom did not notice. “Last night I heard there’s a new prior,” he went on. “Usually a new man wants to make some repairs or alterations to the church.”

“The old prior is dead?”

“Yes.”

For some reason Mother was soothed by that news. She must have known the old prior, Jack thought, and disliked him.

Tom heard the troubled note in her voice at last. “Is there something wrong with Kingsbridge?” he asked her.

“I’ve been there. It’s more than a day’s journey.”

Jack knew that it was not the length of the journey that bothered Mother, but Tom did not. “A little more,” he said. “We can get there by midday tomorrow.”

“All right,”

They walked on.

A little later Jack began to feel a pain in his belly. For a while he wondered what it was. He had not been hurt at the castle and Alfred had not punched him for two days. But eventually he realized what it was.

He was hungry again.

Chapter 4

I

KINGSBRIDGE CATHEDRAL was not a welcoming sight. It was a low, squat, massive structure with thick walls and tiny windows. It had been built long before Tom’s time, in the days when builders had not realized the importance of proportion. Tom’s generation knew that a straight, true wall was stronger than a thick one, and that walls could be pierced with large windows so long as the arch of the window was a perfect half-circle. From a distance the church looked lopsided, and when Tom got closer he saw why: one of the twin towers at the west end had fallen down. He was delighted. The new prior was likely to want it rebuilt. Hope quickened his pace. To have been hired, as he had been at Earlscastle, and then to see his new employer defeated in battle and captured was heartbreaking. He felt he could not take another disappointment like that.

He glanced at Ellen. He was afraid that any day now she would decide that he was not going to find work before they all starved to death, and then she would leave him. She smiled at him, then she frowned again as she looked at the looming hulk of the cathedral. She was always uncomfortable with priests and monks, he had observed. He wondered if she felt guilty because the two of them were not actually married in the eyes of the Church.

The priory close was full of bustle and industry. Tom had seen sleepy monasteries and busy ones, but Kingsbridge was exceptional. It looked as if it were being spring-cleaned three months early. Outside the stable, two monks were grooming horses and a third was cleaning harness while novices mucked out the stalls. More monks were sweeping and scrubbing the guesthouse, which was next to the stable, and a cartload of straw stood outside ready to be strewn on the clean floor.

However, no one was working on the fallen tower. Tom studied the pile of stones that was all that remained of it. The collapse had to have occurred some years ago, for the broken edges of the stones had been blunted by frost and rain, the crushed mortar had been washed away, and the pile of masonry had sunk an inch or two into the soft earth. It was remarkable that the repair had been left undone for so long, for cathedral churches were supposed to be prestigious. The old prior must have been idle or incompetent, or both. Tom had probably arrived just when the monks were planning the rebuilding. He was overdue for some luck.

“No one recognizes me,” Ellen said.

“When were you here?” Tom asked her.

“Thirteen years ago.”

“No wonder they’ve forgotten you.”

As they passed the west front of the church Tom opened one of the big wooden doors and looked inside. The nave was dark and gloomy, with thick columns and an ancient wooden ceiling. However, several monks were whitewashing the walls with longhandled brushes, and others were sweeping the beaten-earth floor. The new prior was evidently getting the whole place smartened up. That was a hopeful sign. Tom closed the door.

Beyond the church, in the kitchen courtyard, a team of novices stood around a trough of filthy water, scraping the accumulated soot and grease off cooking pots and kitchen utensils with sharp stones. Their knuckles were raw and red from constant immersion in the icy water. When they saw Ellen they giggled and looked away.

Tom asked a blushing novice where the cellarer was to be found. Strictly speaking, it was the sacrist he should have asked for, because the fabric of the church was the sacrist’s responsibility; but cellarers as a class were more approachable. In the end the prior would make the decision, anyway. The novice directed him to the undercroft of one of the buildings around the courtyard. Tom went in through an open doorway, and Ellen and the children followed. They all paused inside the door to peer into the gloom.

This building was newer and more soundly constructed than the church, Tom could tell at once. The air was dry and there was no smell of rot. Indeed, the mixed aromas of the stored food gave him painful stomach pangs, for he had not eaten in two days. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the undercroft had a good flagstone floor, short thick pillars, and a tunnel-vaulted ceiling. A moment later he noticed a tall, bald man spooning salt from a barrel into a pot. “Are you the cellarer?” said Tom, but the man held up a hand for silence, and Tom saw that he was counting. They all waited in silence for him to finish. At last he said: “Two score and nineteen, three score,” and put the spoon down.

Tom said: “I’m Tom, master builder, and I’d like to rebuild your northwest tower.”

“I’m Cuthbert, called Whitehead, the cellarer, and I’d like to see it done,” the man replied. “But we’ll have to ask Prior Philip. You’ll have heard that we have a new prior?”

“Yes.” Cuthbert was the friendly sort of monk, Tom decided; worldly and easygoing. He would be happy to chat. “And the new man seems intent on improving the appearance of the monastery.”