Page 161 of The Pillars of the Earth

She was so beautiful that she made William’s head swim with desire.

She was wearing a scarlet robe, richly embroidered, and her expressive hands glinted with rings. There was an older woman with her, standing a little to one side, like a servant. Plenty of money, Mother had said; that was how Richard had been able to become a squire and join King Stephen’s army equipped with fine weapons. Damn her. She had been destitute, a penniless, powerless girl—how had she done it?

She was at a stall that carried bone needles, silk thread, wooden thimbles and other sewing necessities, discussing the goods animatedly with the short, dark-haired Jew who was selling them. Her stance was assertive, and she was relaxed and self-confident. She had recovered the poise she had possessed as daughter of the earl.

She looked much older. Shewasolder, of course: William was twenty-four, so she must be twenty-one now. But she looked more than that. There was nothing of the child in her now. She was mature.

She looked up and met his eye.

Last time he had locked glances with her, she had blushed for shame, and run away. This time she stood her ground and stared back at him.

He tried a knowing smile.

An expression of scathing contempt came over her face.

William felt himself flush red. She was as haughty as ever, and she scorned him now as she had five years ago. He had humiliated and ravished her, but she was no longer terrified of him. He wanted to speak to her, and tell her that he could do again what he had done to her before; but he was not willing to shout it over the heads of the crowd. Her unflinching gaze made him feel small. He tried to sneer at her, but he could not, and he knew he was making a foolish grimace. In an agony of embarrassment he turned away and kicked his horse on; but even then the crowd slowed him down, and her withering look burned into the back of his neck as he moved away from her by painful inches.

When at last he emerged from the marketplace he was confronted by Prior Philip.

The short Welshman stood with his hands on his hips and his chin thrust aggressively forward. He was not quite as thin as he used to be, and what little hair he had was turning prematurely from black to gray, William saw. He no longer looked too young for his job. Now his blue eyes were bright with anger. “Lord William!” he called in a challenging tone.

William tore his mind away from the thought of Aliena and remembered that he had a charge to make against Philip. “I’m glad to come across you, Prior.”

“And I you,” Philip said angrily, but the shadow of a doubtful frown crossed his brow.

“You’re holding a market here,” William said accusingly.

“So what?”

“I don’t believe King Stephen ever licensed a market in Kingsbridge. Nor did any other king, to my knowledge.”

“How dare you?” said Philip.

“I or anybody—”

“You!” Philip shouted, overriding him. “How dare you come in here and talk about a license—you, who in the past month have gone through this county committing arson, theft, rape, and at least one murder!”

“That’s nothing to do—”

“How dare you come into a monastery and talk about a license!” Philip yelled. He stepped forward, wagging his finger at William, and William’s horse sidestepped nervously. Somehow Philip’s voice was more penetrating than William’s and William could not get a word in. A crowd of monks, volunteer workers and market customers was gathering around, watching the row. Philip was unstoppable. “After what you’ve done, there is onlyonething you should say: ‘Father, I have sinned!’ You should get down on yourkneesin this priory! You should beg for forgiveness, if you want to escape the fires of hell.”

William blanched. Talk of hell filled him with uncontrollable terror. He tried desperately to interrupt Philip’s flow, saying: “What about your market? What about your market?”

Philip hardly heard. He was in a fury of indignation. “Beg forgiveness for the awful things you have done!” he shouted. “On your knees! On your knees, or you’ll burn in hell!”

William was almost frightened enough to believe that he would suffer hellfire unless he knelt and prayed in front of Philip right now. He knew he was overdue for confession, for he had killed many men in the war, on top of the sins he had committed during his tour of the earldom. What if he were to die before he confessed? He began to feel shaky at the thought of the eternal flames and the devils with their sharp knives.

Philip advanced on him, pointing his finger and shouting: “On your knees!”

William backed his horse. He looked around desperately. The crowd hemmed him in. His knights were behind him, looking bemused: they could not decide how to cope with a spiritual threat from an unarmed monk. William could not take any more humiliation. After Aliena, this was too much. He pulled on the reins, making his massive war-horse rear dangerously. The crowd parted in front of its mighty hooves. When its forefeet hit the ground again he kicked it hard, and it lunged forward. The onlookers scattered. He kicked it again, and it broke into a canter. Burning with shame, he fled out through the priory gate, with his knights following, like a pack of snarling dogs chased off by an old woman with a broom.

William confessed his sins, in fear and trembling, on the cold stone floor of the little chapel at the bishop’s palace. Bishop Waleran listened in silence, his face a mask of distaste, as William catalogued the killings, the beatings and the rapes he was guilty of. Even while he confessed, William was filled with loathing for the supercilious bishop, with his clean white hands folded over his heart, and his translucent white nostrils slightly flared, as if there were a bad smell in the dusty air. It tormented William to beg Waleran for absolution, but his sins were so heavy that no ordinary priest could forgive them. So he knelt, possessed by fear, while Waleran commanded him to light a candle in perpetuity in the chapel at Earlscastle, and then told him his sins were absolved.

The fear lifted slowly, like a fog.

They came out of the chapel into the smoky atmosphere of the great hall and sat by the fire. Autumn was turning to winter and it was cold in the big stone house. A kitchen hand brought hot spiced bread made with honey and ginger. William began to feel all right at last.

Then he remembered his other problems. Bartholomew’s son Richard was making a bid for the earldom, and William was too poor to raise an army big enough to impress the king. He had raked in considerable cash in the past month, but it was still not sufficient. He sighed, and said: “That damned monk is drinking the blood of the Shiring earldom.”