and going out or hurrying through the rain from one building to another: men-at-arms, priests, tradesmen, construction workers and palace servants.
Tom could see several doorways in the palace, all open despite the rain. He was not quite sure what to do next. If the master builder was with the bishop, perhaps he ought not to interrupt. On the other hand, a bishop was not a king; and Tom was a free man and a mason on legitimate business, not some groveling serf with a complaint. He decided to be bold. Leaving Agnes and Martha, he walked with Alfred across the muddy courtyard to the palace and went through the nearest door.
They found themselves in a small chapel with a vaulted ceiling and a window in the far end over the altar. Near the doorway a priest sat at a high desk, writing rapidly on vellum. He looked up.
Tom said briskly: “Where’s Master John?”
“In the vestry,” said the priest, jerking his head toward a door in the side wall.
Tom did not ask to see the master. He found that if he acted as if he were expected he was less likely to waste time waiting around. He crossed the little chapel in a couple of strides and entered the vestry.
It was a small, square chamber lit by many candles. Most of the floor space was taken up by a shallow sandpit. The fine sand had been smoothed perfectly level with a rule. There were two men in the room. Both glanced briefly at Tom, then returned their attention to the sand. The bishop, a wrinkled old man with flashing black eyes, was drawing in the sand with a pointed stick. The master builder, wearing a leather apron, watched him with a patient air and a skeptical expression.
Tom waited in anxious silence. He must make a good impression: be courteous but not groveling and show his knowledge without being cocky. A master craftsman wanted his subordinates to be obedient as well as skillful, Tom knew from his own experience of being the hirer.
Bishop Roger was sketching a two-story building with large windows in three sides. He was a good draftsman, making straight lines and true right angles. He drew a plan and a side view of the building. Tom could see that it would never be built.
The bishop finished it and said: “There.”
John turned to Tom and said: “What is it?”
Tom pretended to think he was being asked for his opinion of the drawing. He said: “You can’t have windows that big in an undercroft.”
The bishop looked at him with irritation. “It’s a writing room, not an undercroft.”
“It will fall down just the same.”
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
Tom could see several doorways in the palace, all open despite the rain. He was not quite sure what to do next. If the master builder was with the bishop, perhaps he ought not to interrupt. On the other hand, a bishop was not a king; and Tom was a free man and a mason on legitimate business, not some groveling serf with a complaint. He decided to be bold. Leaving Agnes and Martha, he walked with Alfred across the muddy courtyard to the palace and went through the nearest door.
They found themselves in a small chapel with a vaulted ceiling and a window in the far end over the altar. Near the doorway a priest sat at a high desk, writing rapidly on vellum. He looked up.
Tom said briskly: “Where’s Master John?”
“In the vestry,” said the priest, jerking his head toward a door in the side wall.
Tom did not ask to see the master. He found that if he acted as if he were expected he was less likely to waste time waiting around. He crossed the little chapel in a couple of strides and entered the vestry.
It was a small, square chamber lit by many candles. Most of the floor space was taken up by a shallow sandpit. The fine sand had been smoothed perfectly level with a rule. There were two men in the room. Both glanced briefly at Tom, then returned their attention to the sand. The bishop, a wrinkled old man with flashing black eyes, was drawing in the sand with a pointed stick. The master builder, wearing a leather apron, watched him with a patient air and a skeptical expression.
Tom waited in anxious silence. He must make a good impression: be courteous but not groveling and show his knowledge without being cocky. A master craftsman wanted his subordinates to be obedient as well as skillful, Tom knew from his own experience of being the hirer.
Bishop Roger was sketching a two-story building with large windows in three sides. He was a good draftsman, making straight lines and true right angles. He drew a plan and a side view of the building. Tom could see that it would never be built.
The bishop finished it and said: “There.”
John turned to Tom and said: “What is it?”
Tom pretended to think he was being asked for his opinion of the drawing. He said: “You can’t have windows that big in an undercroft.”
The bishop looked at him with irritation. “It’s a writing room, not an undercroft.”
“It will fall down just the same.”
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
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