John said: “He’s right.”

“But they must have light to write by.”

John shrugged and turned to Tom. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tom and I’m a mason.”

“I guessed that. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for work.” Tom held his breath.

John shook his head immediately. “I can’t hire you.”

Tom’s heart sank. He felt like turning on his heel, but he waited politely to hear the reasons.

“We’ve been building for ten years here,” John went on. “Most of the masons have houses in the town. We’re coming to the end, and now I have more masons on the site than I really need.”

Tom knew it was hopeless, but he said: “And the palace?”

“Same thing,” said John. “This is where I’m using my surplus men. If it weren’t for this, and Bishop Roger’s other castles, I’d be laying masons off already.”

Tom nodded. In a neutral voice, trying not to sound desperate, he said: “Do you hear of work anywhere?”

“They were building at the monastery in Shaftesbury earlier in the year. Perhaps they still are. It’s a day’s journey away.”

“Thanks.” Tom turned to go.

“I’m sorry,” John called after him. “You seem like a good man.”

Tom went out without replying. He felt let down. He had allowed his hopes to rise too early: there was nothing unusual about being turned down. But he had been excited at the prospect of working on a cathedral again. Now he might have to work on a monotonous town wall or an ugly house for a silversmith.

He squared his shoulders as he walked back across the castle courtyard to where Agnes waited with Martha. He never showed his disappointment to her. He always tried to give the impression that all was well, he was in control of the situation, and it was of no great consequence if there was no work here because there was sure to be something in the next town, or the one after that. He knew that if he showed any sign of distress Agnes would urge him to find a place to settle down, and he did not want to do that, not unless he could settle in a town where there was a cathedral to be built.

“There’s nothing for me here,” he said to Agnes. “Let’s move on.”

She looked crestfallen. “You’d think, with a cathedral and a palace under construction, there would be room for one more mason.”

“Both buildings are almost finished,” Tom explained. “They’ve got more men than they want.”

The family crossed the drawbridge and plunged back into the crowded streets of the town. They had entered Salisbury by the east gate, and they would leave by the west, for that way led to Shaftesbury. Tom turned right, leading them through the part of the town they had not so far seen.

He stopped outside a stone house that looked in dire need of repair. The mortar used in building it had been too weak, and was now crumbling and falling out. Frost had got into the holes, cracking some of the stones. If it were left for another winter the damage would be worse. Tom decided to point this out to the owner.

The ground-floor entrance was a wide arch. The wooden door was open, and in the doorway a craftsman sat with a hammer in his right hand and a bradawl, a small metal tool with a sharp point, in his left. He was carving a complex design on a wooden saddle which sat on the bench before him. In the background Tom could see stores of wood and leather, and a boy with a broom sweeping shavings.

Tom said: “Good day, Master Saddler.”

The saddler looked up, classified Tom as the kind of man who would make his own saddle if he needed one, and gave a curt nod.

“I’m a builder,” Tom went on. “I see you’re in need of my services.”

“Why?”

“Your mortar is crumbling, your stones are cracking and your house may not last another winter.”

The saddler shook his head. “This town is full of masons. Why would I employ a stranger?”

“Very well.” Tom turned away. “God be with you.”

“I hope so,” said the saddler.

“An ill-mannered fellow,” Agnes muttered to Tom as they walked away.

The street led them to a marketplace. Here in a half-acre sea of mud, peasants from the surrounding countryside exchanged what little surplus they might have of meat or grain, milk or eggs, for the things they needed and could not make themselves-pots, plowshares, ropes and salt. Markets were usually colorful and rather boisterous. There was a lot of good-natured haggling, mock rivalry between adjacent stall holders, cheap cakes for the children, sometimes a minstrel or a group of tumblers, lots of painted whores, and perhaps a crippled soldier with tales of eastern deserts and berserk Saracen hordes. Those who made a good bargain often succumbed to the temptation to celebrate, and spent their profit on strong ale, so that there was always a rowdy atmosphere by midday. Others would lose their pennies at dice, and that led to fighting. But now, on a wet day in the morning, with the year’s harvest sold or stored, the market was subdued. Rain-soaked peasants made taciturn bargains with shivering stall holders, and everyone looked forward to going home to a blazing fireplace.

Tom’s family pushed through the disconsolate crowd, ignoring the halfhearted blandishments of the sausage seller and the knife sharpener. They had almost reached the far side of the marketplace when Tom saw his pig.

He was so surprised that at first he could not believe his eyes. Then Agnes hissed: “Tom! Look!” and he knew she had seen it too.

There was no doubt about it: he knew that pig as well as he knew Alfred or Martha. It was being held, in an expert grip, by a man who had the florid complexion and broad girth of one who eats as much meat as he needs and then some more: a butcher, without doubt. Both Tom and Agnes stood and stared at him, and since they blocked his path he could not help but notice them.

“Well?” he said, puzzled by their stares and impatient to get by.

It was Martha who broke the silence. “That’s our pig!” she said excitedly.

“So it is,” said Tom, looking levelly at the butcher.

For an instant a furtive look crossed the man’s face, and Tom realized he knew the pig was stolen. But he said: “I’ve just paid fifty pence for it, and that makes it my pig.”

“Whoever you gave your money to, the pig was not his to sell. No doubt that was why you got it so cheaply. Who did you buy it from?”

“A peasant.”

“One you know?”

“No. Listen, I’m butcher to the garrison. I can’t ask every farmer who sells me a pig or a cow to produce twelve men to swear the animal is his to sell.”

The man turned aside as if to go away, but Tom caught him by the arm and stopped him. For a moment the man looked angry, but then he realized that if he got into a scuffle he would have to drop the pig, and that if one of Tom’s family managed to pick it up, the balance of power would change and it would be the butcher who had to prove ownership. So he restrained himself and said: “If you want to make an accusation, go to the sheriff.”

Tom considered that briefly and dismissed it. He had no proof. Instead he said: “What did he look like-the man who sold you my pig?”

The butcher looked shifty and said: “Like anyone else.”

“Did he keep his mouth covered?”

“Now that I think of it, he did.”

“He was an outlaw, concealing a mutilation,” Tom said bitterly. “I suppose you didn’t think of that.”

“It’s pissing with rain!” the butcher protested. “Everyone’s muffled up.”

“Just tell me how long ago he left you.”

“Just now.”

“And where was he headed?”

“To an alehouse, I’d guess.”

“To spend my money,” Tom said disgustedly. “Go on, clear off. You may be robbed yourself, one day, and then you’ll wish there were not so many people eager to buy a bargain without asking questions.”

The butcher looked angry, and hesitated as if he wanted to make some rejoinder; then he thought better of it and disappeared.