“Well, then, his deputy, to deal with local matters, is the sheriff of Storing.”

“What can he do?”

“He could bring a writ against the priory in the county court.”

William shook his head. “That’s the last thing I want. The court would impose a fine, the priory would pay it, and the market would continue. It’s almost like giving a license.”

“The trouble is, there are really no grounds for refusing to let Kingsbridge have a market.”

“Yes, there are!” said William indignantly. “It takes trade away from the market at Shiring.”

“Shiring is a full day’s journey from Kingsbridge.”

“People will walk a long way.”

Waleran shrugged again. William realized he shrugged when he disagreed. Waleran said: “Tradition says a man will spend a third of a day walking to the market, a third of a day at the market, and a third of a day walking home. Therefore, a market serves the people within a third of a day’s journey, which is reckoned to be seven miles. If two markets are more than fourteen miles apart, their catchment areas do not overlap. Shiring is twenty miles from Kingsbridge. According to the rule, Kingsbridge is entitled to a market, and the king should grant it.”

“The king does what he likes,” William blustered, but he was bothered. He had not known about this rule. It put Prior Philip in a stronger position.

Waleran said: “Anyway, we won’t be dealing with the king, we’ll be dealing with the sheriff.” He frowned. “The sheriff could just order the priory to desist from holding an unlicensed market.”

“That’s a waste of time,” William said contemptuously. “Who takes any notice of an order that isn’t backed up by a threat?”

“Philip might.”

William did not believe that. “Why would he?”

A mocking smile played around Waleran’s bloodless lips. “I’m not sure I can explain it to you,” he said. “Philip believes that the law should be king.”

“Stupid idea,” said William impatiently. “The king is king.”

“I said you wouldn’t understand.”

Waleran’s knowing air infuriated William. He got up and went to the window. Looking out, he could see, at the top of the nearby hill, the earthworks where Waleran had started to build a castle four years ago. Waleran had hoped to pay for it out of the income from the Shiring earldom. Philip had frustrated his plans, and now the grass had grown back over the mounds of earth, and brambles filled the dry ditch. William recalled that Waleran had hoped to build with stone from the earl of Shiring’s quarry. Now Philip had the quarry. William mused: “If I had my quarry back, I could use it as a surety, and borrow money to raise an army.”

“Then why don’t you take it back?” said Waleran.

William shook his head. “I tried, once.”

“And Philip outmaneuvered you. But there are no monks there now. You could send a squad of men to evict the stonecutters.”

“And how would I stop Philip from moving back in, the way he did last time?”

“Build a high fence around the quarry and leave a permanent guard.”

It was possible, William thought eagerly. And it would solve his problem at a stroke. But what was Waleran’s motive in suggesting it? Mother had warned him to beware of the unscrupulous bishop. “The only thing you need to know about Waleran Bigod,” she had said, “is that everything he does is carefully calculated. Nothing spontaneous, nothing careless, nothing casual, nothing superfluous. Above all, nothing generous.” But Waleran hated Philip, and had sworn to prevent him from building his cathedral. That was motive enough.

William looked thoughtfully at Waleran. His career was in a stall. He had become bishop very young, but Kingsbridge was an insignificant and impoverished diocese and Waleran had surely intended it to be a stepping-stone to higher things. However, it was the prior, not the bishop, who was winning wealth and fame. Waleran was withering in Philip’s shadow much as William was. They both had reason to want to destroy him.

William decided, yet again, to overcome his loathing of Waleran for the sake of his own long-term interests.

“All right,” he said. “This could work. But suppose Philip then complains to the king?”

Waleran said: “You’ll say you did it as a reprisal for Philip’s unlicensed market.”

William nodded. “Any excuse will do, so long as I go back to the war with a big enough army.”

Waleran’s eyes glinted with malice. “I have a feeling Philip can’t build that cathedral if he has to buy stone at a market price. And if he stops building, Kingsbridge could go into decline. This could solve all your problems, William.”

William was not going to show gratitude. “You really hate Philip, don’t you?”

“He’s in my way,” Waleran said, but for a moment William had glimpsed the naked savagery beneath the bishop’s cool, calculating manner.

William returned to practical matters. “There must be thirty quarrymen there, some with their wives and children,” he said.

“So what?”

“There may be bloodshed.”

Waleran raised his black eyebrows. “Indeed?” he said. “Then I shall give you absolution.”

They set out while it was still dark, in order to arrive at dawn. They carried flaming torches, which made the horses jumpy. As well as Walter and the other four knights, William took six men-at-arms. Trailing behind them were a dozen peasants who would dig the ditch and put up the fence,

William believed firmly in careful military planning-which was why he and his men were so useful to King Stephen-but on this occasion he had no battle plan. It was such an easy operation that it would have been demeaning to make preparations as if it were a real fight. A few stonecutters and their families could not put up much opposition; and anyway, William remembered being told how the stonecutters’ leader-was his name Otto? Yes, Otto Blackface-had refused to fight, on the first day Tom Builder had taken his men to the quarry.

A chill December morning dawned, with rags and tatters of mist hanging on the trees like poor people’s washing. William disliked this time of year. It was cold in the morning and dark in the evening, and the castle was always damp. Too much salt meat and salt fish was served. His mother was bad-tempered and the servants were surly. His knights became quarrelsome. This little fight would be good for them. It would also be good for him: he had already arranged to borrow two hundred pounds from the Jews of London against the surety of the quarry. By the end of today his future would be secure.

When they were about a mile from the quarry William stopped, picked out two men, and sent them ahead, on foot. “There may be a sentry, or some dogs,” he warned. “Have a bow out ready with an arrow at the string.”

A little later the road curved to the left, then ended suddenly at the sheer side of a mutilated hill. This was the quarry. All was quiet. Beside the road, William’s men were holding a scared boy-presumably an apprentice who had been on sentry duty-and at his feet was a dog bleeding to death with an arrow through its neck.

The raiding party drew up, making no particular effort to be silent. William reined in and studied the scene. Much of the hill had disappeared since last he saw it. The scaffolding ran up the hillside to inaccessible areas and down into a deep pit which had been opened up at the foot of the hill. Stone blocks of different shapes and sizes were stacked near the road, and two massive wooden carts with huge wheels were loaded with stone ready to go. Everything was covered with gray dust, even the bushes and trees. A large area of woodland had been cleared-my woodland, William thought angrily-and there were ten or twelve wooden buildings, some with small vegetable gardens, one with a pigsty. It was a little village.

The sentry had probably been asleep-and his dog, too. William spoke to him. “How many men are here, lad?”