by Ken Follett
There were several good horses in the stable, including a couple of chargers, and a handful of men-at-arms were scattered around, killing time. Perhaps the bishop had visitors.
Philip left his horse with a stableboy and climbed the steps with a sense of foreboding. The whole place had a distressingly military feel. Where were the queues of petitioners with grievances, the mothers with babies to be blessed? He was entering an unfamiliar world, and he was in possession of a dangerous secret. It might be a long time before I leave here, he thought fearfully. I wish Francis had not come to me.
He reached the top of the stairs. Such unworthy thoughts, he told himself. Here I have a chance to serve God and the Church, and I react by worrying about my own safety. Some men face danger every day, in battle, at sea, and on hazardous pilgrimages or crusades. Even a monk must suffer a little fear and trembling sometimes.
He took a deep breath and went in.
The hall was dim and smoky. Philip closed the door quickly to keep out the cold air, then peered into the gloom. A big fire blazed on the opposite side of the room. That and the small windows provided the only light. Around the fireplace was a group of men, some in clerical clothes and others in the expensive but well-worn garments of minor gentry. They were involved in a serious discussion, their voices low and businesslike. Their seats were scattered randomly, but they all looked at and spoke to a priest who sat in the middle of the group like a spider at the center of a web. He was a thin man, and the way his long legs were splayed apart and his long arms draped over the arms of the chair made him look as if he were about to spring. He had lank, jet-black hair and a pale face with a sharp nose, and his black clothes made him at once handsome and menacing.
He was not the bishop.
A steward got up from a seat beside the door and said to Philip: "Good day, Father. Who do you want to see?" At the same time a hound lying by the fire raised its head and growled. The man in black looked up quickly, saw Philip, and stopped the conversation instantly with a raised hand. "What is it?" he said brusquely.
"Good day," Philip said politely. "I've come to see the bishop."
"He's not here," the priest said dismissively.
Philip's heart sank. He had been dreading the interview and its dangers, but now he felt let down. What was he going to do with his awful secret? He said to the priest: "When do you expect him back?"
"We don't know. What's your business with him?"
The priest's tone was a little abrupt, and Philip was stung. "God's business," he said sharply. "Who are you?"
The priest raised his eyebrows, as if surprised to be challenged, and the other men became suddenly quiet, like people expecting an explosion; but after a pause he replied mildly enough. "I'm his archdeacon. My name is Waleran Bigod."
A good name for a priest, Philip thought. He said: "My name is Philip. I'm the prior of the monastery of St-John-in-the-Forest. It's a cell of Kingsbridge Priory."
"I've heard of you," said Waleran. "You're Philip of Gwynedd."
Philip was surprised. He could not imagine why an actual archdeacon should know the name of someone as lowly as himself. But his rank, modest though it was, was enough to change Waleran's attitude. The irritated look went from the archdeacon's face. "Come to the fire," he said. "You'll take a draft of hot wine to warm your blood?" He gestured to someone sitting on a bench against the wall, and a ragged figure sprang up to do his bidding.
Philip approached the fire. Waleran said something in a low voice and the other men got to their feet and began to take their leave. Philip sat down and warmed his hands while Waleran went to the door with his guests. Philip wondered what they had been discussing, and why the archdeacon had not closed the meeting with a prayer.
The ragged servant handed him a wooden cup. He sipped hot, spiced wine and considered his next move. If the bishop was not available, whom could Philip turn to? He thought of going to Earl Bartholomew and simply begging him to reconsider his rebellion. The idea was ludicrous: the earl would put him in a dungeon and throw away the key. That left the sheriff, who was in theory the king's representative in the county. But there was no telling which side the sheriff might take while there was still some doubt about who was going to be king. Still, Philip thought, I might just have to take that risk, in the end. He longed to return to the simple life of the monastery, where his most dangerous enemy was Peter of Wareham.
Waleran's guests departed, and the door closed on the noise of horses in the yard. Waleran returned to the fireside and pulled up a big chair.
Philip was preoccupied with his problem and did not really want to talk to the archdeacon, but he felt obliged to be civil. "I hope I didn't break up your meeting," he said.
Waleran made a deprecatory gesture. "It was due to end," he said. "These things always go on longer than they need to. We were discussing the renewal of leases of diocesan land--the kind of thing that could be settled in a few moments if only people would be decisive." He fluttered a bony hand as if to dismiss all diocesan leases and their holders. "Now, I hear you've done good work at that little cell in the forest."
"I'm surprised you know about it," Philip replied.
"The bishop is ex officio abbot of Kingsbridge, so he's bound to take an interest."
Or he has a well-informed archdeacon, Philip thought. He said: "Well, God has blessed us."
"Indeed."
They were speaking Norman French, the language Waleran and his guests had been using, the language of government; but something about Waleran's accent was a little strange, and after a few moments Philip realized that Waleran had the inflections of one who had been brought up to speak English. That meant he was not a Norman aristocrat, but a native who had risen by his own efforts--like Philip.
A moment later this was confirmed when Waleran switched to English to say: "I wish God would confer similar blessings on Kingsbridge Priory."
Philip was not the only one to be troubled by the state of affairs at Kingsbridge, then. Waleran probably knew more about events there than Philip did. Philip said: "How is Prior James?"
"Sick," Waleran replied succinctly.
Then he definitely would not be able to do anything about Earl Bartholomew's insurrection, Philip thought gloomily. He was going to have to go to Shiring and take his chance with the sheriff.
It occurred to him that Waleran was the kind of man who would know everyone of importance in the county. "What is the sheriff of Shiring like?" he asked.
Waleran shrugged. "Ungodly, arrogant, grasping and corrupt. So are all sheriffs. Why do you ask?"
"If I can't talk to the bishop I probably should go and see the sheriff."
"I am in the bishop's confidence, you know," said Waleran with a little smile. "If I can help ..." He made an open-handed gesture, like a man who is being generous but knows he may be refused.
Philip had relaxed a little, thinking that the moment of crisis had been postponed for a day or two, but now he was filled with trepidation again. Could he trust Archdeacon Waleran? Waleran's nonchalance was studied, he thought: the archdeacon appeared diffident, but in truth he was probably bursting to know what Philip had to say that was so important. However, that was no reason to mistrust him. He seemed a judicious fellow. Was he powerful enough to do anything about the rebellion? If he could not do it himself, he might be able to locate the bishop. It struck Philip that in fact there was a major advantage to the idea of confiding in Waleran; for whereas the bishop might insist on knowing the real source of Philip's information, the archdeacon did not have the authority to do that, and would have to be content with the story Philip told him, whether he believed it or not.
Waleran gave his little smile again. "If you think about it any longer, I shall begin to believe that you mistrust me!"
Philip felt he understood Waleran. Waleran was a man something like himself: young, well-educated, low-born, and intelligent. He was a little too worldly for Philip's taste, perhaps, but this was pardonable in a priest who was obliged
to spend so much of his time with lords and ladies, and did not have the benefit of a monk's protected life. Waleran was a devout man at heart, Philip thought. He would do the right thing for the Church.
Philip hesitated on the edge of decision. Until now only he and Francis had known the secret. Once he told a third person, anything could happen. He took a deep breath.
"Three days ago, an injured man came to my monastery in the forest," he began, silently praying forgiveness for lying. "He was an armed man on a fine, fast horse, and he had taken a fall a mile or two away. He must have been riding hard when he fell, for his arm was broken and his ribs were crushed. We set his arm, but there was nothing we could do about his ribs, and he was coughing blood, a sign of internal damage." As he spoke, Philip was watching Waleran's face. So far it showed nothing more than polite interest. "I advised him to confess his sins, for he was in danger of death. He told me a secret."
He hesitated, not sure how much Waleran might have heard of the political news. "I expect you know that Stephen of Blois has claimed the throne of England with the blessing of the Church."
Waleran knew more than Philip. "And he was crowned at Westminster three days before Christmas," he said.
"Already!" Francis had not known that.
"What was the secret?" Waleran said with a touch of impatience.
Philip took the plunge. "Before he died, the horseman told me that his master Bartholomew, earl of Shiring, had conspired with Robert of Gloucester to raise a rebellion against Stephen." He studied Waleran's face, holding his breath.
Waleran's pale cheeks went a shade whiter. He leaned forward in his chair. "Do you think he was telling the truth?" he said urgently.
"A dying man usually tells the truth to his confessor."
"Perhaps he was repeating a rumor that was current in the earl's household."
Philip had not expected Waleran to be skeptical. He improvised hastily. "Oh, no," he said. "He was a messenger sent by Earl Bartholomew to muster the earl's forces in Hampshire."
Waleran's intelligent eyes raked Philip's expression. "Did he have the message in writing?"
"No."
"Any seal, or token of the earl's authority?"
"Nothing." Philip began to perspire slightly. "I gathered he was well known, by the people he was going to see, as an authorized representative of the earl."
"What was his name?"
"Francis," Philip said stupidly, and wanted to bite his tongue.
"Just that?"
"He didn't tell me what else he was called." Philip had the feeling that his story was coming unraveled under Waleran's interrogation.
"His weapons and his armor may identify him."
"He had no armor," Philip said desperately. "We buried his weapons with him--monks have no use for swords. We could dig them up, but I can tell you that they were plain and undistinguished--I don't think you would find clues there...." He had to divert Waleran from this line of inquiry. "What do you think can be done?"
Waleran frowned. "It's hard to know what to do without proof. The conspirators can simply deny the charge, and then the accuser stands condemned." He did not say especially if the story turns out to be false, but Philip guessed that was what he was thinking. Waleran went on: "Have you told anyone else?"
Philip shook his head.
"Where are you going when you leave here?"
"Kingsbridge. I had to invent a reason for leaving the cell, so I said I would visit the priory; and now I must do so, to make the lie true."
"Don't speak of this to anyone there."
"I shan't." Philip had not intended to, but he wondered why Waleran was insisting on the point. Perhaps it was self-interest: if he was going to take the risk of exposing the conspiracy, he wanted to be sure to get the credit. He was ambitious. So much the better, for Philip's purpose.
"Leave this with me." Waleran was suddenly brusque again, and the contrast with his previous manner made Philip realize that his amiability could be put on and taken off like a coat. Waleran went on: "You'll go to Kingsbridge Priory now, and forget about the sheriff, won't you."
"Yes." Philip realized it was going to be all right, at least for a while, and a weight rolled off his back. He was not going to be thrown into a dungeon, interrogated by a torturer, or accused of sedition. He had also handed the responsibility to someone else--someone who appeared quite happy to take it on.
He got up and went to the nearest window. It was mid-afternoon, and there was plenty of daylight left. He had an urge to get away from here and leave the secret behind him. "If I go now I can cover eight or ten miles before nightfall," he said.
Waleran did not press him to stay. "That will take you to the village of Bassingbourn. You'll find a bed there. If you set out early in the morning you can be at Kingsbridge by midday."
"Yes." Philip turned from the window and looked at Waleran. The archdeacon was frowning into the fire, deep in thought. Philip watched him for a moment. Waleran did not share his thoughts. Philip wished he knew what was going on in that clever head. "I'll go right away," he said.
Waleran came out of his reverie and grew charming again. He smiled and stood up. "All right," he said. He walked with Philip to the door and then followed him down the stairs to the yard.
A stableboy brought Philip's horse and saddled it. Waleran might have said goodbye then and returned to his fire, but he waited. Philip guessed that he wanted to make sure Philip took the road to Kingsbridge, not the road to Shiring.
Philip mounted, feeling happier than he had when he had arrived. He was about to take his leave when he saw Tom Builder come through the gate with his family in tow. Philip said to Waleran: "This man is a builder I met on the road. He seems like an honest fellow fallen on hard times. If you need any repairs you'll be glad of him."
Waleran made no reply. He was staring at the family as they walked across the compound. All his poise and composure had deserted him. His mouth was open and his eyes were staring. He looked like a man suffering a shock.
"What is it?" Philip said anxiously.
"That woman!" Waleran's voice was just above a whisper.
Philip looked at her. "She's rather beautiful," he said, realizing it for the first time. "But we're taught that it is better for a priest to be chaste. Turn your eyes away, Archdeacon."
Waleran was not listening. "I thought she was dead," he muttered. He seemed to remember Philip suddenly. He tore his gaze from the woman and looked up at Philip, collecting his wits. "Give my regards to the prior of Kingsbridge," he said. Then he slapped Philip's horse's rump, and the animal sprang forward and trotted out through the gate; and by the time Philip had shortened his reins and got the horse under control he was too far away to say goodbye.
III
Philip came within sight of Kingsbridge at about noon on the following day, as Archdeacon Waleran had forecast. He emerged from a wooded hillside and looked out across a landscape of lifeless, frozen fields relieved only by the occasional bare skeleton of a tree. There were no people to be seen, for in the dead of winter there was no work to do on the land. A couple of miles away across the cold countryside, Kingsbridge Cathedral stood on a rise; a huge, squat building like a tomb on a burial mound.
Philip followed the road into a dip and Kingsbridge disappeared from view. His placid pony picked her way carefully along the frosted ruts. Philip was thinking about Archdeacon Waleran. Waleran was so poised and confident and capable that he made Philip feel young and naive, although there was not much difference in age between them. Waleran had effortlessly controlled the whole meeting: he had got rid of his guests graciously, listened attentively to Philip's tale, homed in immediately on the crucial problem of lack of evidence, swiftly realized that that line of inquiry was fruitless, and then promptly sent Philip on his way--without, Philip now realized, any guarantee that action would be taken.
Philip grinned ruefully as he saw how well he had been manipulated. Waleran had not even promised to tell the bishop what Philip h
ad reported. But Philip felt confident that the large vein of ambition he detected in Waleran would ensure that the information was used somehow. He even had a notion that Waleran might feel a little indebted to him.
Because he was impressed by Waleran, he was all the more intrigued by the archdeacon's single sign of weakness--his reaction to the wife of Tom Builder. To Philip she had seemed obscurely dangerous. Apparently Waleran found her desirable--which might amount to the same thing, of course. However, there was more to it than that. Waleran must have met her before, for he had said I thought she was dead. It sounded as if he had sinned with her in the distant past. He certainly had something to feel guilty about, judging by the way he had made sure Philip did not stay around to learn more.
Even this guilty secret did not much reduce Philip's opinion of Waleran. Waleran was a priest, not a monk. Chastity had always been an essential part of the monastic way of life, but it had never been enforced for priests. Bishops had mistresses and parish priests had housekeepers. Like the prohibition against evil thoughts, clerical celibacy was a law too harsh to be obeyed. If God could not forgive lascivious priests, there would be very few clergy in heaven.
Kingsbridge reappeared as Philip crested the next rise. The landscape was dominated by the massive church, with its roundheaded arches and small, deep windows, just as the village was dominated by the monastery. The west end of the church, which faced Philip, had stubby twin towers, one of which had fallen in a thunderstorm four years ago. It still had not been rebuilt, and the facade had a reproachful look. This view never failed to anger Philip, for the pile of rubble at the entrance of the church was a shameful reminder of the collapse of monastic rectitude at the priory. The monastery buildings, made of the same pale limestone, stood near the church in groups, like conspirators around a throne. Outside the low wall that enclosed the priory was a scatter of ordinary hovels made of timber and mud with thatched roofs, occupied by the peasants who tilled the fields round about and the servants who worked for the monks. A narrow, impatient river hurried across the southwest corner of the village, bringing fresh water to the monastery.