Tom remembered how Martha had cried from hunger. He knew he could not make her go through that again. And there was his baby son, Jonathan, living here with the monks. I don’t want to leave him again, Tom thought; I did it once, and hated myself for it.

But he could not bear the thought of losing Ellen.

“Don’t tear yourself apart,” she said. “I won’t tramp the roads with you again. That’s no solution-we’d be worse off than we are now, in every way. I’m going back to the forest, and you’re not coming with me.”

He stared at her. He wanted to believe that she did not mean it, but the look on her face told him she did. He could not think of anything more to say to stop her. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He felt helpless. She was breathing hard, her bosom rising and falling with emotion. He wanted to touch her, but he felt she did not want him to. I may never embrace her again, he thought. It was hard to believe. For weeks he had lain with her every night, and touched her as familiarly as he would touch himself; and now suddenly it was forbidden, and she was like a stranger.

“Don’t look so sad,” she said. Her eyes were full of tears.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I am sad.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you so unhappy.”

“Don’t be sorry for that. Be sorry that you made me so happy. That’s what hurts, woman. That you made me so happy.”

A sob escaped from her lips. She turned away and left without another word.

Jack and Martha went out after her. Alfred hesitated, looking awkward, then followed them.

Tom stood staring at the chair she had left. No, he thought, it can’t be true, she isn’t leaving me.

He sat down in the chair. It was still warm from her body, the body he loved so much. He stiffened his face to stop the tears.

He knew she would not change her mind now. She never vacillated: she was a person who made a decision and then carried it through.

She might regret it eventually, though.

He seized on that shred of hope. He knew she loved him. That had not changed. Only last night she had made love frantically, like someone slaking a terrible thirst; and after he was satisfied she had rolled on top of him and carried on, kissing him hungrily, gasping into his beard as she came time and time again, until she was too exhausted with pleasure to go on. And it was not just the fucking that she liked. They enjoyed being together all the time. They talked constantly, much more than he and Agnes had talked even in the early days. She’s going to miss me as much as I’ll miss her, he thought. After a while, when her anger has died down, and she has settled into a new routine, she’ll hanker for someone to talk to, a hard body to touch, a bearded face to kiss. Then she’ll think of me.

But she was proud. She might be too proud to come back even if she wanted to.

He sprang out of his chair. He had to tell her what was on his mind. He left the house. She was at the priory gate, saying goodbye to Martha. Tom ran past the stable and caught up with her.

She gave him a sad smile. “Goodbye, Tom.”

He took her hands. “Will you come back, one day? Just to see us? If I know you’re not going away forever, that I will see you again sometime, if only for a little while-if I know that I can bear it.”

She hesitated.

“Please?”

“All right,” she said.

“Swear it.”

“I don’t believe in oaths.”

“But I do.”

“All right. I swear it.”

“Thank you.” He pulled her gently to him. She did not resist him. He hugged her, and his control broke. Tears poured down his face. At last she drew away. Reluctantly he let her go. She turned toward the gate.

At that moment there was a noise from the stable, the sound of a spirited horse being disobedient, stamping and snorting. Automatically, they all looked round. The horse was Waleran Bigod’s black stallion, and the bishop was about to mount. His eyes met Ellen’s, and he froze.

At that moment she started to sing.

Tom did hot know the song, although he had heard her sing often. The melody was terribly sad. The words were French, but he could understand them well enough.

A lark, caught in a hunter’s net

Sang sweeter then than ever,

As if the falling melody

Might wing and net dissever.

Tom looked from her to the bishop. Waleran was terrified: his mouth was open, his eyes wide, his face as white as death. Tom was astonished: why did a simple song have the power to scare such a man?

At dusk the hunter took his prey,

The lark his freedom never.

All birds and men are sure to die

But songs may live forever.

Ellen called out: “Goodbye, Waleran Bigod. I’m leaving Kingsbridge, but I’m not leaving you. I’ll be with you in your dreams.”

And mine, Tom thought.

For a moment no one moved.

Ellen turned away, holding Jack’s hand; and they all watched in silence as she marched out through the priory gates and disappeared into the gathering dusk.

PART TWO

Chapter 5

I

AFTER ELLEN HAD GONE, Sundays were very quiet at the guesthouse. Alfred played football with the village boys in the meadow on the other side of the river. Martha, who missed Jack, played pretend games, gathering vegetables and making pottage and dressing a doll. Tom worked on his cathedral design.

He had hinted to Philip, once or twice, that he should think about what kind of church he wanted to build, but Philip had not noticed, or had chosen to ignore the implication. He had a lot on his mind. But Tom thought about little else, especially on Sundays.

He liked to sit just inside the door of the guesthouse and look across the green at the cathedral ruins. He made sketches on a piece of slate sometimes, but most of the work was in his head. He knew that it was hard for most people to visualize solid objects and complex spaces, but he had always found it easy.

He had won Philip’s trust and gratitude for the way he had dealt with the ruins; but Philip still saw him as a jobbing mason. He had to convince Philip that he was capable of designing and building a cathedral.

One Sunday about two months after Ellen left, he felt ready to begin drawing.

He made a mat of woven reeds and pliable twigs, about three feet by two. He made neat wooden sides to the mat so that it had raised edges, like a tray. Then he burned some chalk for lime, mixed up a small quantity of strong plaster, and filled the tray with the mixture. As the mortar began to harden, he drew lines in it with a needle. He used his iron foot rule for straight lines, his set square for right angles and his compasses for curves.

He would do three drawings: a section, to explain how the church was constructed; an elevation, to illustrate its beautiful proportions; and a floor plan to show the accommodation. He began with the section.

He imagined that the cathedral was like a long loaf of bread, then he cut off the crust at the west end, to see inside, and he began to draw.

It was very simple. He drew a tall flat-topped archway. That was the nave, seen from the end. It would have a flat wooden ceiling, like the old church. Tom would have greatly preferred to build a curved stone vault, but he knew Philip could not afford it.

On top of the nave he drew a triangular roof. The width of the building was determined by the width of the roof, and that in turn was limited by the timber available. It was difficult to get hold of beams longer than about thirty-five feet-and they were fiercely expensive. (Good timber was so valuable that a fine tree was liable to be chopped down and sold by its owner long before it was that high.) The nave of Tom’s cathedral would probably be thirty-two feet wide, or twice the length of Tom’s iron pole.