Page 142 of The Pillars of the Earth

“Really!” Tom looked displeased. It was the master builder who was supposed to recruit craftsmen, not the prior. “I shouldn’t have thought he could afford it.”

“I can’t,” Philip admitted. “But I don’t want these men hanging around with nothing to do, waiting for Percy to think of another way to get the quarry back.”

Tom looked thoughtful, then he nodded. “And it will do no harm to have a reserve of stone in case Percy succeeds.”

Philip was glad Tom saw the sense of what he had done.

Harold seemed to be reaching agreement with his men. He came back to Philip and said: “Will you pay the wages to me, and leave me to distribute the money as I think fit?”

Philip was dubious. That meant the master could take more than his share. But he said: “It’s up to the master builder.”

“It’s common enough,” Tom said. “If that’s what your team wants, I’m willing.”

“In that case, we accept,” Harold said.

Harold and Tom shook hands. Philip said: “So everyone gets what they want. Good!”

“There’s one who hasn’t got what they want,” Harold said.

“Who’s that?” said Philip.

“Earl Percy’s wife, Regan,” Harold said lugubriously. “When she finds out what’s happened here there’s going to be blood all over the floor.”

II

There was no hunting today, so the young men at Earlscastle played one of William Hamleigh’s favorite games, stoning the cat.

There were always plenty of cats in the castle, and one more or less made no difference. The men closed the doors and shuttered the windows of the hall of the keep, and pushed the furniture up against the wall so that the cat could not hide behind anything; then they made a pile of stones in the middle of the room. The cat, an aging mouser with gray in its fur, sensed the bloodlust in the air and sat near the door, hoping to get out.

Each man had to put a penny into the pot for each stone he threw, and the man who threw the fatal stone took the pot.

As they drew lots to determine the order of throwing, the cat became agitated, pacing up and down in front of the door.

Walter threw first. This was lucky, for although the cat was wary it did not know the nature of the game, and might be taken by surprise. With his back to the animal, Walter picked a stone from the pile and concealed it in his hand; then he turned around slowly and threw suddenly.

He missed. The stone thudded into the door and the cat jumped and ran. The others jeered.

It was unlucky to throw second, for the cat was fresh and light on its feet, whereas later it would be tired and possibly injured. A young squire was next. He watched the cat run around the room, looking for a way out, and waited until it slowed down; then he threw. It was a good shot but the cat saw it coming and dodged it. The men groaned.

It ran around the room again, faster now, getting panicky, jumping up onto the trestles and boards that were stacked against the wall, jumping back down to the floor. An older knight threw next. He feinted a throw, to see which way the cat would jump, then threw for real when it was running, aiming a little ahead of it. The others applauded his cunning, but the cat saw the stone coming and stopped suddenly, avoiding it.

In desperation the cat tried to squeeze behind an oak chest in a corner. The next thrower saw an opportunity and seized it: he threw quickly, while the cat was stationary, and struck its rump. A great cheer went up. The cat gave up trying to squeeze behind the chest and ran on around the room, but now it was limping and it moved more slowly.

It was William’s turn next.

He thought he could probably kill the cat if he was careful. In order to tire it a little more he yelled at it, making it run faster for a moment; then he feinted a throw, with the same effect. If one of the others had delayed like this he would have been booed, but William was the earl’s son, so they waited patiently. The cat slowed down, obviously in pain. It approached the door hopefully. William drew back his arm. Unexpectedly the cat stopped against the wall beside the door. William began to throw. Before the stone left his hand the door was flung open, and a priest in black stood there. William threw, but the cat sprang like an arrow from a bow, howling triumphantly. The priest in the doorway gave a frightened, high-pitched shriek, and clutched at the skirts of his robes. The young men burst out laughing. The cat cannoned into the priest’s legs, then landed on its feet and shot out through the door. The priest stood frozen in an attitude of fright, like an old woman scared by a mouse, and the young men roared with laughter.

William recognized the priest. It was Bishop Waleran.

He laughed all the more. The fact that the womanish priest who had been frightened by a cat was also a rival of the family made it even better.

The bishop recovered his composure very quickly. He flushed red, pointed an accusing finger at William, and said in a grating voice: “You’ll suffer eternal torment in the lowest depths of hell.”

William’s laughter turned to terror in a flash. His mother had given him nightmares, when he was small, by telling him what the devils did to people in hell, burning them in the flames and poking their eyes out and cutting off their private parts with sharp knives, and ever since then he hated to hear talk of it, “Shut up!” he screamed at the bishop. The room fell silent. William drew his knife and walked toward Waleran. “Don’t you come here preaching, you snake!” Waleran did not look frightened at all, just intrigued, as if he was interested to have discovered William’s weakness; and that made William angrier still. “I’ll swing for you, so help me—”

He was mad enough to knife the bishop, but he was stopped by a voice from the staircase behind him. “William! Enough!”

It was his father.