by Ken Follett
They put on their cloaks and went out. It was hard to walk in a straight line because of the wind, and they held hands for stability. They fought their way across the graveyard. The rain had turned to hail, and big pebbles of ice bounced off the tombstones. In a corner of the cemetery Aliena saw an apple tree as bare as in wintertime: its leaves and fruit had been ripped off the branches by the gale. There won't be many apples in the county this autumn, she thought.
A moment later they reached the church and went inside. The sudden hush was like going deaf. The wind still howled and the rain drummed on the roof, and thunder crashed every few moments, but it was all at one remove. Some of the villagers were here already, their cloaks sodden. They had brought their valuables with them, their chickens in sacks, their pigs trussed, their cows on leads. It was dark in the church, but the scene was illuminated fitfully by lightning. After a few moments the carter drove Aliena's wagon inside, and Ranulf followed with the horses.
Aliena said to the priest: "Let's get the beasts to the west end and the people to the east, before the church starts to look like a stable." Everyone now seemed to have accepted that Aliena was in charge, and he concurred with a nod. The two of them moved off, the priest talking to the men and Aliena to the women. Gradually the people separated from the animals. The women took the children to the little chancel and the men tied the animals to the columns of the nave. The horses were frightened, rolling their eyes and prancing. The cows all lay down. The villagers got into family groups and began to pass food and drink around. They had come prepared for a long stay.
The storm was so violent that Aliena thought it must pass soon, but instead it got worse. She went to a window. The windows were not made of glass, of course, but of fine translucent linen, which now hung in shreds from the window frames. Aliena pulled herself up to the windowsill to look out, but all she could see was rain.
The wind grew stronger, shrieking around the walls of the church, and she began to wonder whether even this was safe. She made a discreet tour of the building. She had spent enough time with Jack to know the difference between good masonry and bad, and she was relieved to see that the stonework here was neat and careful. There were no cracks. The building was made of cut stone blocks, not rubble, and it seemed as solid as a mountain.
The priest's housekeeper lit a candle, and that was when Aliena realized night was falling outside. The day had been so dark that the difference was small. The children tired of running up and down the aisles, and curled up in their cloaks to go to sleep. The chickens put their heads under their wings. Elizabeth and Aliena sat side by side on the floor with their backs to the wall.
Aliena was consumed with curiosity about this poor girl who had taken on the role of William's wife, the role Aliena herself had refused seventeen years ago. Unable to restrain herself, she said: "I used to know William when I was a girl. What's he like now?"
"I loathe him," Elizabeth said with passion.
Aliena felt deeply sorry for her.
Elizabeth said: "How did you know him?"
Aliena realized she had let herself in for this. "To tell you the truth, when I was more or less your age, I was supposed to marry him."
"No! And how come you didn't?"
"I refused, and my father backed me. But there was a dreadful fuss.... I caused a lot of bloodshed. However, it's all in the past."
"You refused him!" Elizabeth was thrilled. "You're so courageous. I wish I was like you." Suddenly she looked downcast again. "But I can't even stand up to the servants."
"You could, you know," Aliena said.
"But how? They just don't take any notice of me, because I'm only fourteen."
Aliena considered the question carefully, then answered comprehensively. "To begin with, you must become the carrier of your husband's wishes. In the morning, ask him what he would like to eat today, whom he wants to see, which horse he would like to ride, anything you can think of. Then go to the kitchener, the steward of the hall, and the stableman, and give them the earl's orders. Your husband will be grateful to you, and angry with anyone who ignores you. So people will get used to doing what you say. Then take note of who helps you eagerly and who reluctantly. Make sure that helpful people are favored--give them the jobs they like to do, and make sure the unhelpful ones get all the dirty work. Then people will start to realize that it pays to oblige the countess. They will also love you much more than William, who isn't very lovable anyway. Eventually you will become a power in your own right. Most countesses are."
"You make it sound easy," Elizabeth said wistfully.
"No, it's not easy, but if you're patient, and don't get discouraged too easily, you can do it."
"I think I can," she said determinedly. "I really think I can."
Eventually they began to doze. Every now and again the wind would howl and wake Aliena. Looking around in the fitful candlelight she saw that most of the adults were doing the same, sitting upright, nodding off for a while, then waking up suddenly.
It must have been around midnight that she woke with a start and realized that she had slept for an hour or more this time. Almost everyone around her was fast asleep. She shifted her position, lying flat on the floor, and wrapped her cloak tightly around her. The storm was not letting up, but people's need for sleep had overcome their anxiety. The sound of the rain blowing against the walls of the church was like waves crashing on a beach, and instead of keeping her awake it now lulled her to sleep.
Once again she woke with a start. She wondered what had disturbed her. She listened: silence. The storm had ended. A faint gray light seeped in through the windows. All the villagers were fast asleep.
Aliena got up. Her movement disturbed Elizabeth, who came awake instantly.
They both had the same thought. They went to the church door, opened it, and stepped outside.
The rain had stopped and the wind was no more than a breeze. The sun had not yet risen, but the dawn sky was pearl-gray. Aliena and Elizabeth looked around them in the clear, watery light.
The village was gone.
Other than the church there was not a single building left standing. The entire area had been flattened. A few heavy timbers had come to rest up against the side of the church, but otherwise only the hearthstones dotted around in the sea of mud showed where there had been houses. At the edges of what had been the village, there were five or six mature trees, oaks and chestnuts, still standing, although each of them appeared to have lost several boughs. There were no young trees left at all.
Stunned by the completeness of the devastation, Aliena and Elizabeth walked along what had been the street. The ground was littered with splintered wood and dead birds. They came to the first of the wheat fields. It looked as if a large herd of cattle had been penned there for the night. The ripening stalks of wheat had been flattened, broken, uprooted and washed away. The earth was churned up and waterlogged.
Aliena was horrified. "Oh, God," she muttered. "What will the people eat?"
They struck out across the field. The damage was the same everywhere. They climbed a low hill and surveyed the surrounding countryside from the top. Every way they looked, they saw ruined crops, dead sheep, blasted trees, flooded meadows and flattened houses. The destruction was appalling, and it filled Aliena with a dreadful sense of tragedy. It looked, she thought, as if the hand of God had come down over England and struck the earth, destroying everything men had made except churches.
The devastation had shocked Elizabeth too. "It's terrible," she said. "I can't believe it. There's nothing left."
Aliena nodded grimly. "Nothing," she echoed. "There'll be no harvest this year."
"What will the people do?"
"I don't know." Feeling a mixture of compassion and fear, Aliena said: "It's going to be a bloody winter."
II
One morning four weeks after the great storm, Martha asked Jack for more money. Jack was surprised. He already gave her sixpence a week for housekeeping, and he knew that Aliena gave her the same.
On that she had to feed four adults and two children, and supply two houses with firewood and rushes; but there were plenty of big families in Kingsbridge who only had sixpence a week for everything, food and clothing and rent too. He asked her why she needed more.
She looked embarrassed. "All the prices have gone up. The baker wants a penny for a four-pound loaf, and--"
"A penny! For a four-pounder?" Jack was outraged. "We should make an oven and bake our own."
"Well, sometimes I do pan bread."
"That's right." Jack realized they had had pan-baked bread two or three times during the last week or so.
Martha said: "But the price of flour has gone up too, so we don't save much."
"We should buy wheat and grind it ourselves."
"It's not allowed. We're supposed to use the priory mill. Anyway, wheat is expensive also."
"Of course." Jack realized he was being silly. Bread was dear because flour was dear, and flour was dear because wheat was dear, and wheat was dear because the storm had wiped out the harvest, and there was no getting away from it. He saw that Martha looked troubled. She always got very upset if she thought he was displeased. He smiled to show her it was all right, and patted her shoulder. "It's not your fault," he said.
"You sound so cross."
"Not with you." He felt guilty. Martha would rather cut off her hand than cheat him, he knew. He did not really understand why she was so devoted to him. If it was love, he thought, surely she would have got fed up by now, for she and the whole world knew that Aliena was the love of his life. He had once contemplated sending her away, to force her out of her rut: that way perhaps she would fall for a suitable man. But he knew in his heart that it would not work and would only make her desperately unhappy. So he let it be.
He reached inside his tunic for his purse, and took out three silver pennies. "You'd better have twelvepence a week, and see if you can manage on that," he said. It seemed a lot. His pay was only twenty-four pennies a week, although he got perquisites as well, candles and robes and boots.
He swallowed the rest of a mug of beer and went out. It was unusually cold for early autumn. The weather was still strange. He walked briskly along the street and entered the priory close. It was still a little before sunrise and only a handful of craftsmen were here. He walked up the nave, looking at the foundations. They were almost complete, which was fortunate, as the mortar work would probably have to stop early this year because of the cold weather.
He looked up at the new transepts. His pleasure in his own creation was blighted by the cracks. They had reappeared on the day after the great storm. He was terribly disappointed. It had been a phenomenal tempest, of course, but his church was designed to survive a hundred such storms. He shook his head in perplexity, and climbed the turret stairs to the gallery. He wished he could talk to someone who had built a similar church, but nobody in England had, and even in France they had not yet gone this high.
On impulse, he did not go to his tracing floor, but continued up the staircase to the roof. The lead had all been laid, and he saw that the pinnacle that had been blocking the flow of rainwater now had a generous gutter running through its base. It was windy up on the roof, and he tried to keep hold of something whenever he was near the edge: he would not be the first builder to be blown off a roof to his death by a gust of wind. The wind always seemed stronger up here than it did on the ground. In fact, the wind seemed to increase disproportionately as you climbed....
He stood still, staring into space. That was the answer to his puzzle. It was not the weight of his vault that was causing the cracks--it was the height. He had built the church strong enough to bear the weight, he was sure; but he had not thought about the wind. These towering walls were constantly buffeted, and because they were so high, the wind was enough to crack them. Standing on the roof, feeling its force, he could just imagine the effect it was having on the tautly balanced structure below him. He knew the building so well that he could almost feel the strain, as if the walls were part of his body. The wind pushed sideways against the church, just as it was pushing against him; and because the church could not bend, it cracked.
He was quite sure he had found the explanation; but what was he going to do about it? He needed to strengthen the clerestory so that it could withstand the wind. But how? To build massive buttresses up against the walls would destroy the stunning effect of lightness and grace that he had achieved so successfully.
But if that was what it took to make the building stand up, he would have to do it.
He went down the stairs again. He felt no more cheerful, even though he had finally understood the problem; for it looked as if the solution would destroy his dream. Perhaps I was arrogant, he thought. I was so sure I could build the most beautiful cathedral in the world. Why did I imagine I could do better than anyone else? What made me think I was special? I should have copied another master's design exactly, and been content.
Philip was waiting for him at the tracing floor. There was a worried frown on the prior's brow, and the fringe of graying hair around his shaved head was untidy. He looked as if he had been up all night.
"We've got to reduce our expenditure," he said without preamble. "We just haven't got the money to carry on building at our present rate."
Jack had been afraid of this. The hurricane had destroyed the harvest throughout most of southern England: it was sure to have an effect on the priory's finances. Talk of cutbacks always made him anxious. In his heart he was afraid that if building slowed down too much he might not live to see his cathedral completed. But he did not let his fear show. "Winter's coming," he said casually. "Work always slows down then anyway. And winter will be early this year."
"Not early enough," Philip said grimly. "I want to cut our outgoings in half, immediately."
"In half!" It sounded impossible.
"The winter layoff begins today."
This was worse than Jack had anticipated. The summer workers normally left around the beginning of December. They spent the winter months building wooden houses or making plows and carts, either for their families or to earn money. This year their families would not be pleased to see them. Jack said: "Do you know you're sending them to homes where people are already starving?"
Philip just stared back at him angrily.
"Of course you know it," Jack said. "Sorry I asked." Philip said forcefully: "If I don't do this now, then one Saturday in midwinter the entire work force will stand in line for their pay and I will show them an empty chest."
Jack shrugged helplessly. "There's no arguing with that."
"It's not all," Philip warned. "From now on there's to be no hiring, even to replace people who leave."
"We haven't been hiring for months."
"You hired Alfred."
"That was different." Jack was embarrassed. "Anyway, no hiring."
"And no upgrading."
Jack nodded. Every now and again an apprentice or a laborer asked to be upgraded to mason or stonecutter. If the other craftsmen judged that his skills were adequate, the request would be granted, and the priory would have to pay him higher wages. Jack said: "Upgrading is the prerogative of the masons' lodge."
"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.
