He finished his bread and left the refectory ahead of the others. He went into the cloisters. He was pleased with his work here: it was now hard to imagine that the quadrangle had been buried under a mass of rubble three weeks earlier. The only remaining signs of the catastrophe were some cracked paving stones for which he had been unable to find replacements.

There was a lot of dust about, though. He would have the cloisters swept again and then sprinkled with water. He walked through the ruined church. In the north transept he saw a blackened beam with words written in the soot. Tom read it slowly. It said: “Alfred is a pig.” So that was what had infuriated Alfred. Quite a lot of the wood from the roof had not burned to ashes, and there were blackened beams like this lying all around. Tom decided he would detail a group of workers to collect all the timber and take it to the firewood store. “Make the site look tidy,” Agnes would say when someone important was coming to visit. “You want them to feel glad that Tom’s in charge.” Yes, dear, Tom thought, and he smiled to himself as he went about his work.

Waleran Bigod’s party was sighted a mile or so away across the fields. There were three of them, riding quite hard. Waleran himself was in the lead, on a black horse, his black cloak flying behind. Philip and the senior monastic officials waited by the stable to welcome them.

Philip was not sure how to treat Waleran. Waleran had deceived him, indisputably, by not telling him that the bishop was dead; but when the truth came out Waleran had not appeared in the least ashamed; and Philip had not known what to say to him. He still did not know, but he suspected that there was nothing to be gained by complaining. Anyway, that whole episode had been overshadowed by the catastrophe of the fire. Philip would just be extremely wary of Waleran in future.

Waleran’s horse was a stallion, skittish and excitable despite having been ridden several miles. He held its head down hard as he walked it to the stable. Philip disapproved: there was no need for a clergyman to cut a dash on horseback, and most men of God chose quieter mounts.

Waleran swung off the horse with a fluid motion and gave the reins to a stable hand. Philip greeted him formally. Waleran turned and surveyed the ruins. A bleak look came into his eyes, and he said: “This was an expensive fire, Philip.” He seemed genuinely distressed, somewhat to Philip’s surprise.

Before Philip could reply, Remigius spoke up. “The devil’s work, my lord bishop,” he said.

“Was it, now?” said Waleran. “In my experience, the devil is usually assisted in such work by monks who light fires in church to take the chill off matins, or carelessly leave burning candles in the bell tower.”

Philip was amused to see Remigius crushed, but he could not let Waleran’s insinuations pass. “I’ve held an investigation into possible causes of the conflagration,” he said. “No one lit a fire in the church that night-I can be sure because I was present at matins myself. And no one had been up in the roof for months beforehand.”

“So what is your explanation-lightning?” Waleran said skeptically.

Philip shook his head. “There was no storm. The fire seems to have started in the vicinity of the crossing. We did leave a candle burning on the altar after the service, as usual. It’s possible that the altar cloth caught fire, and a spark was taken by an updraft to the wooden ceiling, which was very old and dry.” Philip shrugged. “It’s not a very satisfactory explanation, but it’s the best we have.”

Waleran nodded. “Let’s have a closer look at the damage.”

They moved off toward the church. Waleran’s two companions were a man-at-arms and a young priest. The man-at-arms stayed behind to see to the horse. The priest accompanied Waleran, and was introduced to Philip as Dean Baldwin. As they all crossed the green to the church, Remigius put a hand on Waleran’s arm, stopping him, and said: “The guesthouse is undamaged, as you can see.”

Everyone stopped and turned around. Philip wondered irritably what Remigius was thinking of. If the guesthouse was undamaged, why make everyone stop and look at it? The builder’s wife was walking up from the kitchens, and they all watched her enter the house. Philip glanced at Waleran. He was looking slightly shocked. Philip remembered the moment, back at the bishop’s palace, when Waleran had seen the builder’s wife, and had looked almost frightened. What was it about that woman?

Waleran gave Remigius a swift look and an almost imperceptible nod, then he turned to Philip and said: “Who is living there?”

Philip was quite sure Waleran had recognized her, but he said: “A master builder and his family.”

Waleran nodded and they all moved on. Philip knew now why Remigius had called attention to the guesthouse: he had wanted to make sure Waleran saw the woman. Philip made up his mind to question her at the earliest opportunity.

They went into the ruins. A group of seven or eight men, made up of monks and priory servants in about equal numbers, was lifting a half-burned roof beam under the supervision of Tom. The whole site looked busy but tidy. Philip felt that the air of bustling efficiency did him credit, although Tom was responsible.

Tom came to meet them. He towered over everyone else. Philip said to Waleran: “This is our master builder, Tom. He’s managed to make the cloisters and the crypt usable again already. We’re very grateful to him.”

“I remember you,” Waleran said to Tom. “You came to me just after Christmas. I didn’t have any work for you.”

“That’s right,” Tom said in his deep, dusty voice. “Perhaps God was saving me to help Prior Philip in his time of trouble.”

“A theological builder,” Waleran mocked.

Tom reddened faintly under his dusty skin. Philip thought that Waleran must have a strong nerve, to make fun of such a big man, even though Waleran was a bishop and Tom only a mason.

“What is your next step here?” Waleran asked.

“We must make the place safe by knocking down the remaining walls, before they fall on someone,” Tom replied, meekly enough. “Then we should clear the site ready for the building of the new church. As soon as possible we should find tall trees for the timbers of the new roof-the longer the wood is seasoned, the better the roof will be.”

Philip said hastily: “Before we start felling trees we must find the money to pay for them.”

“We’ll speak about that later,” Waleran said enigmatically.

That remark intrigued Philip. He hoped Waleran had a scheme for raising the money to build the new church. If the priory had to rely on its own resources it would not be able to begin for many years. Philip had been agonizing over this for the past three weeks, and he still had not come up with a solution.

He led the group along the path that had been cleared through the rubble to the cloisters. One glance was sufficient for Waleran to see that this area had been set to rights. They moved on from there and crossed the green to the prior’s house in the southeast corner of the close.

Once inside, Waleran took off his cloak and sat down, holding his pale hands out to the fire. Brother Milius, the kitchener, served hot spiced wine in small wooden bowls. Waleran sipped his and said to Philip:. “Has it occurred to you that Tom Builder might have started the fire to provide himself with work?”

“Yes, it has,” Philip said. “But I don’t think he did. He would have had to get inside the church, which was securely locked up.”

“He might have gone in during the day and hidden himself away.”

“Then he would have been unable to get out after he started the fire.” He shook his head. This was not the real reason he was sure Tom was innocent. “Anyway, I don’t believe him capable of such a thing. He’s an intelligent man-much more so than you might think at first-but he’s not sly. If he were guilty, I think I would have seen it in his face, when I looked him in the eye and asked him how he thought the fire might have started.”