Everything went black for a moment.

When he opened his eyes Alfred was standing over him-he must have clambered down the wall somehow-and beside him was one of the older monks. Jack recognized the monk: it was Remigius, the sub-prior. Remigius caught his eye and said: “Get up, lad.”

Jack was not sure he could. He could not move his left arm. The left side of his face was numb. He sat upright. He had thought he was going to die, and it surprised him to be able to move at all. Using his right arm to push himself up, he struggled painfully to his feet, putting most of his weight on his right leg. As the numbness went he began to hurt.

Remigius took him by the left arm. Jack cried out in pain. Remigius ignored him and grabbed Alfred’s ear. He would probably issue some dire punishment to both of them, Jack thought. Jack hurt too much to care.

Remigius spoke to Alfred. “Now, my lad, why are you trying to kill your brother?”

“He’s not my brother,” Alfred said.

Remigius’s expression changed. “Not your brother?” he said. “Don’t you have the same mother and father?”

“She’s not my mother,” Alfred said. “My mother’s dead.”

A crafty look came over Remigius’s face. “When did your mother die?”

“At Christmas.”

“Last Christmas?”

“Yes.”

Despite his pain, Jack could see that Remigius was intensely interested in this, for some reason. The monk’s voice quivered with suppressed excitement as he said: “So your father has only lately met this boy’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“And since they have been… together, have they been to see a priest, to have their union solemnized?”

“Uh… I don’t know.” Alfred did not understand the words being used, Jack could tell. For that matter neither did Jack.

Remigius said impatiently: “Well, have they had a wedding?”

“No.”

“I see.” Remigius looked pleased about this, although Jack would have thought he would be cross. There was a rather satisfied look on the monk’s face. He was silent and thoughtful for a moment, then he seemed to remember the two boys. “Well, if you want to stay in the priory and eat the monks’ bread, don’t fight, even if you aren’t brothers. We men of God must not see bloodshed-that is one of the reasons we live a life of withdrawal from the world.” With that little speech Remigius released them both and turned away, and at last Jack could run to his mother.

It had taken three weeks, not two, but Tom had got the crypt ready for use as a makeshift church, and today the bishop-elect was coming to hold the first service in it. The cloisters had been cleared of rubble, and Tom had repaired the damaged parts: cloisters were simple structures, just covered walkways, and the work had been easy. Most of the rest of the church was just heaps of ruins, and some of the walls that were still standing were in danger of falling, but Tom had cleared a passage from the cloisters, through what had been the south transept, to the crypt stairs.

Tom looked around him. The crypt was a good size, about fifty feet square, plenty big enough for the monks’ services. It was a rather dark room, with heavy pillars and a low vaulted ceiling, but it was stoutly constructed, which was why it had survived the fire. They had brought in a trestle table to be used as an altar, and the benches from the refectory would serve as stalls for the monks. When the sacrist brought in his embroidered altar cloths and jeweled candlesticks, it would look just fine.

With the resumption of services Tom’s work force would shrink. Most of the monks would return to their lives of worship, and many of those who did labor would resume their agricultural or administrative tasks. Tom would still have about half the priory servants as laborers, however. Prior Philip had taken a tough line with them, He felt there had been too many of them, and if any were unwilling to transfer from their duties as grooms or kitchen hands he was quite ready to dismiss them. A few had gone, but most remained.

The priory already owed Tom three weeks’ wages. At the full master builder’s rate of fourpence a day, that came to seventy-two pence. As each day went by the debt mounted, and it would become more and more difficult for Prior Philip to pay Tom off. After about half a year Tom would ask the prior to start paying him. By then he would be owed two and a half pounds of silver, which Philip would have to find before he could dismiss Tom. The debt made Tom feel secure.

There was even a chance-he hardly dared to think it-that this job would last him the rest of his life. It was, after all, a cathedral church; and if the powers-that-be were to decide to commission a prestigious new building, and if they could find the money to pay for it, it could be the largest construction project in the kingdom, employing dozens of masons for several decades.

This was too much to hope for, really. Talking to the monks and the villagers, Tom had learned that Kingsbridge had never been an important cathedral. Tucked away in a quiet village, it had had a series of unambitious bishops and was clearly undergoing a slow decline. The priory was undistinguished and penniless. Some monasteries attracted the attention of kings and archbishops by their lavish hospitality, their excellent schools, their great libraries, the researches of their philosopher-monks or the erudition of their priors and abbots; but Kingsbridge had none of those marks. The likelihood was that Prior Philip would build a small church, constructed simply and fitted out modestly; and that might take no more than ten years.

However, that suited Tom perfectly.

He had realized, even before the fire-blackened ruins were cold, that this was his chance to build his own cathedral.

Prior Philip was already convinced that God had sent Tom to Kingsbridge. Tom knew he had won Philip’s trust by the efficient way he had begun the process of clearing up and made the priory viable again. When the moment was right he would begin talking to Philip about designs for the new building. If he handled the situation carefully, there was every chance that Philip would ask him to draw the designs. The fact that the new church was likely to be fairly modest made it more probable that the planning might be entrusted to Tom, rather than to a master with more experience of cathedral building. Tom’s hopes were high.

The bell rang for chapter. This was also the sign that the lay workers should go in for breakfast. Tom left the crypt and headed for the refectory. On his way he was confronted by Ellen.

She stood aggressively in front of him, as if to bar his way, and there was an odd look in her eye. Martha and Jack were with her. Jack looked terrible: one eye was closed, the left side of his face was bruised and swollen, and he leaned on his right leg, as if his left could not take any weight. Tom felt sorry for the little chap. “What happened to you?” he said.

Ellen said: “Alfred did this.”

Tom groaned inwardly. For a moment he felt ashamed of Alfred, who was so much bigger than Jack. But Jack was no angel. Perhaps Alfred had been provoked. Tom looked around for his son, and caught sight of him walking toward the refectory, covered with dust. “Alfred!” he bellowed. “Come here.”

Alfred turned around, saw the family group, and approached slowly, looking guilty.

Tom said to him: “Did you do this?”

“He fell off a wall,” Alfred said sullenly.

“Did you push him?”

“I was chasing him.”

“Who started it?”

“Jack called me a name.”

Jack, speaking through swollen lips, said: “I called him a pig because he took our bread.”

“Bread?” said Tom. “Where did you get bread before breakfast?”

“Bernard Baker gave it to us. We fetched firewood for him.”