Page 313 of The Pillars of the Earth

That would probably solve the problem The trouble was, if he built a two-story aisle to hide the extended buttress and the secondary half-arch, he would lose light; and if he did not ...

If I don’t, he thought, so what?

He was possessed by a feeling that nothing mattered very much, since his life was falling apart; and in that mood he could not see anything wrong with the idea of naked buttressing. Standing up here on the roof, he could easily picture what it would look like. A line of sturdy stone columns would rise up from the side wall of the aisle. From the top of each column, a half-arch would spring across empty space to the clerestory. Perhaps he would put a decorative pinnacle on top of each column, above the springing of the arch. Yes, that would look better.

It was a revolutionary idea, to build big strengthening members in a position where they would be starkly visible. But it was part of the new style to show how the building was being held up.

Anyway, his instinct said this was right.

The more he thought about it, the better he liked it. He visualized the church from the west. The half-arches would look like the wings of a flight of birds, all in a line, just about to take off. They need not be massive. As long as they were well made they could be slender and elegant, light yet strong, just like a bird’s wing. Winged buttresses, he thought, for a church so light it could fly.

I wonder, he thought. I wonder if it would work.

A gust of wind suddenly unbalanced him. He teetered on the edge of the roof. For a moment he thought he was going to fall to his death. Then he regained his balance and stepped back from the edge, his heart pounding.

Slowly and carefully, he made his way back along the roof to the turret door, and went down.

II

Work had stopped completely on the church at Shiring. Prior Philip caught himself gloating a little over that. After all the times he had looked out disconsolately onto a deserted building site, he could not help feeling pleased that the same thing had now happened to his enemies. Alfred Builder had only had time to demolish the old church and lay the foundations for the new chancel before William had been deposed and the money had dried up. Philip told himself that it was sinful to be glad about the ruin of a church. However, it was obviously God’s will that the cathedral should be built in Kingsbridge, not Shiring—the bad fortune that had dogged Waleran’s project seemed a very clear sign of divine intentions.

Now that the town’s biggest church had been knocked down, the county court was held in the great hall at the castle. Philip rode up the hill with Jonathan by his side. He had made Jonathan his personal assistant, in the shake-up that had followed the defection of Remigius. Philip had been shocked by Remigius’s perfidy, but he had been glad to see the back of him. Ever since Philip had beaten Remigius in the election, Remigius had been a thorn in his flesh. The priory was a nicer place to live now that he had gone.

Milius was the new sub-prior. However, he continued to fulfill the role of treasurer, and had a staff of three under him in the treasury. Since Remigius had gone, nobody could figure out what he used to do all day.

Philip got deep satisfaction out of working with Jonathan. He enjoyed explaining to him how the monastery was run, educating him in the ways of the world, and showing him how best to deal with people. The lad was generally well liked, but he could sometimes be abrasive, and he could easily raise the hackles of unself-confident people. He had to learn that those who treated him in a hostile way did so out of weakness. He saw the hostility and reacted angrily, instead of seeing the weakness and giving reassurance.

Jonathan had a quick brain, and often surprised Philip by the rapidity with which he picked things up. Philip sometimes caught himself in the sin of pride, thinking how like himself Jonathan was.

He had brought Jonathan with him today to learn how the county court operated. Philip was going to ask the sheriff to order Richard to open the quarry to the priory. He was quite sure Richard was in the wrong legally. The new law about the restoration of property to those who had possessed it in the time of the old King Henry did not affect the priory’s rights. Its object was to allow Duke Henry to replace Stephen’s earls with his own, and thus reward people who had supported him. It was obviously not meant to apply to monasteries. Philip was confident of winning the case, but there was an unknown factor: the old sheriff had died and his replacement would be announced today. No one knew who it would be, but everyone assumed the job would go to one of the three or four leading citizens of Shiring: David Merchant the silk seller; Rees Welsh, a priest who had worked at the king’s court; Giles Lionheart, a knight with landholdings just outside the town; or Hugh the Bastard, the illegitimate son of the bishop of Salisbury. Philip hoped it would be Rees, not because the man was a countryman of his, but because he was likely to favor the church. But Philip was not overly worried: any of the four would rule in his favor, he thought.

They rode into the castle. It was not very heavily fortified. Because the earl of Shiring had a separate castle outside town, Shiring had escaped battle for several generations. The castle was more of an administrative center, with offices and quarters for the sheriff and his men, and dungeons for offenders. Philip and Jonathan stabled their horses and went into the largest building, the great hall.

The trestle tables that normally formed a T-shape had been rearranged. The top of the T remained, raised above the level of the rest of the hall by a dais; and the other tables were ranged down the sides of the hall, so that opposing plaintiffs could sit well apart and avoid the temptation to physical violence.

The hall was already full. Bishop Waleran was there, up on the dais, looking malevolent. To Philip’s surprise, William Hamleigh was sitting with him, talking to the bishop out of the corner of his mouth as they watched people coming in. What was William doing here? For nine months he had been lying low, hardly moving from his village, and Philip—together with many other people in the county—had entertained the hope that he might stay there forever. But here he was, sitting on the bench as if he were still the earl. Philip wondered what mean-minded, ruthless, greedy little scheme had brought him to the county court today.

Philip and Jonathan sat down at the side of the room and waited for the proceedings to begin. There was a busy, optimistic air to the court. Now that the war had come to an end, the elite of the country had turned their attention back to the business of creating wealth. It was a fertile land and it quickly repaid their efforts: a bumper harvest was expected this year. The price of wool was up. Philip had reemployed almost all the builders who had left at the height of the famine. Everywhere the people who had survived were the younger, stronger, healthier individuals, and now they were full of hope, and here in the great hall of Shiring Castle it showed in the tilt of their heads, the pitch of their voices, the men’s new boots and the women’s fancy headgear, and the fact that they were prosperous enough to own something worth arguing in court about.

They stood up as the sheriffs deputy walked in with Earl Richard. The two men mounted the dais and then, still standing, the deputy began to read the royal writ appointing the new sheriff. As he went through the initial verbiage, Philip looked around at the four presumed candidates. He hoped the winner had courage: he would need it, to stand up for the law in the presence of such powerful local barons as Bishop Waleran, Earl Richard and Lord William. The successful candidate presumably knew he had been appointed—there was no reason to keep it secret—but none of the four looked very animated. Normally the appointee would stand beside the deputy as the proclamation was read, but the only people up there with him were Richard, Waleran and William. The appalling thought crossed Philip’s mind that Waleran might have been made sheriff. Then he was even more horrified as he heard: “... appoint as sheriff of Shiring my servant William of Hamleigh, and I order all men to assist him ...”

Philip looked at Jonathan and said: “William!”

There were sounds of surprise and disapproval from the townspeople.

Jonathan said: “How did he do it?”

“He must have paid for it.”

“Where did he get the money?”

“Borrowed it, I suppose.”

William moved to the wooden throne in the middle of the top table, smiling. He had once been a handsome young man, Philip remembered. He was still under forty, just, but he looked older. His body was too heavy, and his complexion was flushed with wine; and the lively strength and optimism that makes young faces attractive had gone, to be replaced by a look of dissipation.

As William sat down, Philip stood up.

Jonathan got up too and whispered: “Are we leaving?”