Free Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson Page B

He spread his hands. “I’ll need mathematical plans, master masons used to working with these foreign forms. It’ll be costly. Very costly.” He sucked his teeth.
    Bishop Reginald patted him on the shoulder. “We will get you masons and mathematical plans, good Adam. One way or another.”
    The old man squinted at the Moor. “And what’s to say this Saracen here don’t mean to undermine your entire scheme, on purpose, like?”
    “I am not a Saracen,” the Moor said.
    By the time we were ready to set off it was almost summer, though you’d never have guessed it. As we crossed the River Parrett, a freezing wind blew horizontal rain in across the Somerset Levels, soaking us to the skin. The Bridgwater docks were busy, but the workers showed little interest in the show, and the grim weather kept most folk indoors, so there were blessed few to witness the shambles of our first public performance.
    Having missed his cue, then forgotten his single line, Quickfinger stumbled off the edge of the stage, blinded by his helmet, and with unerring aim fell on top of a well-built woman, who went down under him like a capsized ship. Her husband beat Quickfinger off her, a fight broke out, and Savaric’s steward was robbed of his purse in the ensuing melee. No one could be induced to take the cross, and the few who had let curiosity overcome the rain suddenly drifted away as soon as the collection pots came out.
    I looked at the Moor. “Christ’s breath in a bottle, we’re all going to hang!”
    The players were searched, but of the steward’s missing purse there was no sign.
    The next day, after travelling to the wool town of Taunton, the sun came out and we put on a better display. We came away havingsigned fifteen young men with the cross, much to the distress of their wives and mothers.
    We were rewarded by a stay at the local Benedictine priory, during which time the Moor and I went carefully through the troupe’s possessions until the purse turned up in Ned’s boot. Miraculously, the second morning, after mass at the high altar, the steward found his purse again, caught in the deep hem of his cloak. Savaric apologized to us all, though it was clear he was suspicious. Later we took Ned outside and delivered a painful reminder of the rules of the contract. That evening, his bruised ribs well strapped, Ned was surly but biddable, like a chastened donkey, but in the days that followed I sometimes caught him watching me through narrowed eyes.
    Under the shadow of Rougemont Castle at Exeter, we managed a roistering performance, after which the bishop led the faithful in prayer and launched into an exhortation to action. Savaric then took over the stage, telling in ringing tones how that chief devil of the enemy, Saladin, had broken down the holy walls of the city and massacred the good Christians within. How babies were murdered one by one.
    Out charged Ned, in blackface, with several ragdoll babies threaded onto his lance. “Ten thousand heads were severed! Blood ran through the streets in a torrent. Those who did not flee or were put to the sword were barricaded into churches and burned alive, their souls carried to Heaven in a pillar of smoke!” He squatted by a make-believe fire formed by blowing red and orange silk scraps with a bellows and pretended to roast and eat the babies, and a woman in the crowd fainted. The Moor had been persuaded against his conscience to put his knowledge of chemistry to good use and now burned minerals in a brazier out of the sight of the crowd so that a great cloud of green smoke swirled up. People gasped, never having seen anything like it before.
    In the end they were queuing up to take the cross—young menand old, singly and in roistering groups. One mother came rushing out of the crowd at the sight of her son being signed on the forehead by the bishop and dragged him away by his belt. “What will I do on my own, with your father gone?”
    “It is his duty, goodwife,” Savaric