The Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

  Philip was already feeling bilious as he crossed the river by an old wooden bridge. Kingsbridge Priory brought shame on God's church and the monastic movement, but there was nothing Philip could do about it; and anger and impotence together turned sour in his stomach.

  The priory owned the bridge and charged a toll, and as the woodwork creaked with the weight of Philip and his horse, an elderly monk emerged from a shelter on the opposite bank and came forward to move the willow branch that served as a barrier. He recognized Philip and waved. Philip noticed that he was limping, and said: "What's wrong with your foot, Brother Paul?"

  "Just a chilblain. It will ease when the spring comes."

  He had nothing on his feet but sandals, Philip saw. Paul was a tough old bird but he was too far gone in years to be spending the whole day out-of-doors in this weather. "You should have a fire," Philip said.

  "It would be a mercy," said Paul. "But Brother Remigius says the fire would cost more money than the toll brings."

  "How much do we charge?"

  "A penny for a horse, and a farthing for a man."

  "Do many people use the bridge?"

  "Oh, yes, plenty."

  "Then how is it that we can't afford a fire?"

  "Well, the monks don't pay, of course, nor do the priory servants, nor the villagers. So it's just a traveling knight or a tinker every day or two. Then on holy days, when people come from all over the country to hear the services in the cathedral, we gather farthings galore."

  "It seems to me we might man the bridge on holy days only, and give you a fire out of the proceeds," said Philip.

  Paul looked anxious. "Don't say anything to Remigius, will you? If he thinks I've been complaining he'll be displeased."

  "Don't worry," said Philip. He kicked his horse on so that Paul should not see the expression on his face. This kind of foolishness infuriated him. Paul had given his life to the service of God and the monastery, and now in his declining years he was made to suffer pain and cold for the sake of a farthing or two a day. It was not just cruel, it was wasteful, for a patient old man such as Paul could be set to work at some productive task--raising chickens, perhaps--and the priory would benefit by much more than a few farthings. But the prior of Kingsbridge was too old and lethargic to see that, and it seemed that the same must be true of Remigius, the sub-prior. It was a grave sin, Philip thought bitterly, to waste so carelessly the human and material assets that had been given to God in loving piety.

  He was in an unforgiving mood as he guided his pony through the spaces between the hovels to the priory gate. The priory was a rectangular enclosure with the church in the middle. The buildings were laid out so that everything to the north and west of the church was public, worldly, secular and practical, whereas what was to the south and east was private, spiritual and holy.

  The entrance to the close was therefore at the northwest corner of the rectangle. The gate stood open, and the young monk in the gatehouse waved as Philip trotted through. Just inside the gate, up against the west wall of the enclosure, was the stable, a stout wooden structure rather better built than some of the dwellings for people on the other side of the wall. Two stable hands sat inside on bales of straw. They were not monks, but employees of the priory. They got reluctantly to their feet as if they resented a visitor coming to cause them extra work. The acrid air stung Philip's nostrils, and he could see that the stalls had not been mucked out for three or four weeks. He was not disposed to overlook the negligence of stable lads today. As he handed over the reins he said: "Before you stable my pony you can clean out one of the stalls and put down fresh straw. Then do the same for the other horses. If their litter becomes permanently wet, they get hoof rot. You don't have so much to do that you can't keep this stable clean." They both looked sullen, so he added: "Do as I say, or I'll make sure you both lose a day's pay for idleness." He was about to leave when he remembered something. "There's a cheese in my saddlebag. Take it to the kitchen and give it to Brother Milius."

  He went out without waiting for a reply. The priory had sixty employees to look after its forty-five monks, a shameful excess of servants in Philip's opinion. People who did not have enough to do could easily become so lazy that they skimped what little work they did have, as had clearly happened to the two stable hands. It was just another example of Prior James's slackness.

  Philip walked along the west wall of the priory close, past the guesthouse, curious to see whether the priory had any visitors. But the big one-room building was cold and disused, with a windblown drift of last year's dead leaves covering its threshold. He turned left and started across the broad expanse of sparse grass that separated the guesthouse--which sometimes lodged ungodly people and even women--from the church. He approached the west end of the church, the public entrance. The broken stones of the collapsed tower lay where they had fallen, in a big heap twice the height of a man.

  Like most churches, Kingsbridge Cathedral was built in the shape of a cross. The west end opened into the nave, which formed the long stem of the cross. The crosspiece consisted of the two transepts which stuck out to the north and south either side of the altar. Beyond the crossing, the east end of the church was called the chancel, and was mainly reserved for the monks. At the farthest extremity of the east end was the tomb of Saint Adolphus, which still attracted occasional pilgrims.

  Philip stepped into the nave and looked down the avenue of round arches and mighty columns. The sight further depressed his mood. It was a dank, gloomy building, and it had deteriorated since he last saw it. The windows in the low aisles either side of the nave were like narrow tunnels in the immensely thick walls. Up in the roof, the larger windows of the clerestory illuminated the painted timber ceiling only to show how badly it was fading, the apostles and saints and prophets growing dim and blending inexorably with their background. Despite the cold air blowing in--for there was no glass in the windows--a faint smell of rotting vestments tainted the atmosphere. From the other end of the church came the sound of the service of high mass, the Latin phrases spoken in a singsong voice, and the chanted responses. Philip walked down the nave. The floor had never been paved, so moss grew on the bare earth in the corners where peasant clogs and monkish sandals rarely trod. The carved spirals and flutes of the massive columns, and the incised chevrons that decorated the arches between them, had once been painted and gilded; but now all that remained were a few flakes of papery gold leaf and a patchwork of stains where the paint had been. The mortar between the stones was crumbling and falling out, and gathering in little heaps by the walls. Philip felt the familiar anger rise in him again. When people came here they were supposed to be awestruck by the majesty of Almighty God. But peasants were simple people who judged by appearances, and coming here they would think that God was a careless, indifferent deity unlikely to appreciate their worship or take note of their sins. In the end the peasants paid for the church with the sweat of their brows, and it was outrageous that they were rewarded with this crumbling mausoleum.

  Philip knelt before the altar and stayed there a moment, conscious that righteous indignation was not the appropriate state of mind for a worshiper. When he had cooled down a little he rose and passed on.

  The eastern arm of the church, the chancel, was divided into two. Nearest the crossing was the quire, with wooden stalls where the monks sat and stood during the services. Beyond the quire was the sanctuary that housed the tomb of the saint. Philip moved behind the altar, intending to take a place in the quire; then he was brought up short by a coffin.

  He stopped, surprised. Nobody had told him that a monk was dead. But, of course, he had spoken to only three people: Paul, who was old and a little absentminded; and the two stable hands, to whom he had given no chance to make conversation. He approached the coffin to see who it was. He looked inside, and his heart missed a beat.

  It was Prior James.

  Philip stared openmouthed. Now everything was changed. There would be a new prior, new hope--

/>   This jubilation was not the right response to the death of a venerable brother, no matter what his faults had been. Philip composed his face and his mind in an attitude of mourning. He studied the dead man. The prior had been white-haired and thin-faced, and he had had a stoop. Now his perpetually weary expression had gone, and instead of looking troubled and disconsolate, he seemed at peace. As Philip knelt beside the bier and murmured a prayer, he wondered if some great trouble had weighed on the old man's heart in the latter years of his life: a sin unconfessed, a woman regretted, or a wrong done to an innocent man. Whatever it was, he would not speak of it now until the Day of Judgment.

  Despite his resolution Philip could not prevent his mind from turning to the future. Prior James, indecisive, anxious and spineless, had touched the monastery with a dead hand. Now there would be someone new, someone who would discipline the lazy servants, repair the tumbledown church, and harness the great wealth of property, making the priory a powerful force for good. Philip was too excited to stay still. He got up from the coffin and walked, with a new lightness in his step, to the quire and took an empty place at the back of the stalls.

  The service was being conducted by the sacrist, Andrew of York, an irascible, red-faced man who seemed permanently on the verge of apoplexy. He was one of the obedientaries, the senior officers of the monastery. His area of responsibility was everything holy: the services, the books, the sacred relics, the vestments and the ornaments, and most of all the fabric of the church building. Working under his orders were a cantor to supervise the music and a treasurer to take care of the jeweled gold and silver candlesticks, chalices and other sacred vessels. There was no one in authority over the sacrist except the prior and the sub-prior, Remigius, who was a great crony of Andrew's.

  Andrew was reading the service in his usual tone of barely controlled ire. Philip's mind was in a turmoil, and it was some time before he noticed that the service was not proceeding in a seemly way. A group of younger monks were making a noise, talking and laughing. Philip saw that they were making fun of the old novice-master, who had fallen asleep in his place. The young monks--most of whom had been novices under the old master until quite recently, and probably still smarted from the sting of his switch--were flicking pellets of dirt at him. Each time one hit his face he would jerk and move, but would not wake up. Andrew seemed oblivious to what was going on. Philip looked around for the circuitor, the monk responsible for discipline. He was on the far side of the quire, deep in conversation with another monk, taking no notice of the service or the behavior of the youngsters.

  Philip watched a moment longer. He had no patience for this kind of thing at the best of times. One of the monks seemed to be a ringleader, a good-looking lad of about twenty-one years with an impish grin. Philip saw him dip the end of his eating knife into the top of a burning candle and flick melted grease at the novice-master's bald pate. As the hot fat landed on his scalp the old monk woke up with a yelp, and the youngsters dissolved in laughter.

  With a sigh, Philip left his place. He approached the lad from behind, took him by the ear and ungently hauled him out of the quire and into the south transept. Andrew looked up from the service book and frowned at Philip as they went: he had not seen any of the commotion.

  When they were out of earshot of the other monks, Philip stopped, released the lad's ear, and said: "Name?"

  "William Beauvis."

  "And what devil possessed you during high mass?"

  William looked sulky. "I was weary of the service," he said.

  Monks who complained of their lot never got any sympathy from Philip. "Weary?" he said, raising his voice a little. "What have you done today?"

  William said defiantly: "Matins and lauds in the middle of the night, prime before breakfast, then terce, chapter mass, study, and now high mass."

  "And have you eaten?"

  "I had breakfast."

  "And you expect to have dinner."

  "Yes."

  "Most people your age do backbreaking work in the fields from sunrise to sunset in order to get their breakfast and their dinner--and still they give some of their bread to you! Do you know why they do this?"

  "Yes," said William, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground.

  "Go on."

  "They do it because they want the monks to sing the services for them."

  "Correct. Hardworking peasants give you bread and meat and a stone-built dormitory with a fire in winter--and you are so weary that you will not sit still through high mass for them!"

  "I'm sorry, Brother."

  Philip looked at William a moment longer. There was no great harm in him. The real fault lay with his superiors, who were lax enough to permit horseplay in the church. Philip said gently: "If services weary you, why did you become a monk?"

  "I'm my father's fifth son."

  Philip nodded. "And no doubt he gave the priory some land on condition we took you?"

  "Yes--a farm."

  It was a common story: a man who had a superfluity of sons gave one to God, ensuring that God would not reject the gift by also giving a piece of property sufficient to support the son in monastic poverty. In that way many men who did not have a vocation became disobedient monks.

  Philip said: "If you were moved--to a grange, say, or to my little cell of St-John-in-the-Forest, where there is a good deal of work to be done out-of-doors, and rather less time is spent at worship--do you think that might help you to take part in the services in a proper pious manner?"

  William's face lit up. "Yes, Brother, I think it would!"

  "I thought so. I'll see what can be done. But don't become too excited--you may have to wait until we have a new prior, and ask him to transfer you."

  "Thank you, anyhow!"

  The service ended, and the monks began to leave the church in procession. Philip put a finger to his lips to end the conversation. As the monks filed through the south transept, Philip and William joined the line, and went out into the cloisters, the arcaded quadrangle adjacent to the south side of the nave. There the procession broke up. Philip turned toward the kitchen, but his way was barred by the sacrist, who struck an aggressive pose in front of him, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. "Brother Philip," he said.

  "Brother Andrew," Philip said, thinking: What's got into him?

  "What do you mean by disrupting the service of high mass?"

  Philip was flabbergasted. "Disrupting the service?" he said incredulously. "The lad was misbehaving. He--"

  "I am quite capable of dealing with misbehavior in my own services!" said Andrew in a raised voice. The movement of dispersal among the monks was arrested, and they all stayed near to hear what was said.

  Philip could not understand the fuss. Young monks and novices occasionally had to be disciplined by their more senior brothers during the services, and there was no rule to say that only the sacrist could do this. Philip said: "But you didn't see what was happening--"

  "Or perhaps I did see, but decided to deal with it later." Philip was quite sure he had not seen anything. "What did you see, then?" he challenged.

  "Don't you presume to question me!" Andrew shouted. His red face became purplish. "You may be prior of a little cell in the forest, but I have been sacrist here for twelve years, and I will conduct the cathedral services as I think fit--without assistance from outsiders half my age!"

  Philip began to think that perhaps he really had done wrong--otherwise why was Andrew so furious? But more important, a quarrel in the cloisters was not an edifying spectacle for the other monks, and it must be brought to an end. Philip swallowed his pride, gritted his teeth, and bowed his head submissively. "I stand corrected, brother, and I humbly beg your pardon," he said.

  Andrew was wound up for a shouting match, and this early withdrawal by his opponent was not satisfying. "Don't let it happen again, then," he said ungraciously.

  Philip made no reply. Andrew would have to have the last word, so any further remark by Philip would only d
raw another rejoinder. He stood looking at the floor and biting his tongue, while Andrew glared at him for several moments. At last the sacrist turned on his heel and walked away with his head held high.

  The other monks were staring at Philip. It irked him to be humiliated by Andrew, but he had to take it, for a proud monk was a bad monk. Without speaking to anyone else he left the cloisters.

  The monks' domestic quarters were to the south of the cloister square, the dormitory on the southeast corner and the refectory on the southwest. Philip went out to the west, passing through the refectory and emerging once more at the public end of the priory close, within view of the guesthouse and the stables. Here in the southwest corner of the close was the kitchen courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the refectory, the kitchen itself, and the bakehouse and brewery. A cart piled high with turnips stood in the yard waiting to be unloaded. Philip climbed the steps to the kitchen door and went in.

  The atmosphere struck him like a blow. The air was hot and heavy with the smell of cooking fish, and there was a raucous din of clattering pans and shouted orders. Three cooks, all red with heat and hurry, were preparing the dinner with the aid of six or seven young kitchen hands. There were two vast fireplaces, one at either end of the room, both blazing fiercely, and at each fireplace twenty or more fish were cooking on a spit turned by a perspiring boy. The smell of the fish made Philip's mouth water. Whole carrots were being boiled in great iron pots of water which hung over the flames. Two young men stood at a chopping block, cutting yard-long loaves of white bread into thick slices to be used as trenchers--edible plates. Overseeing the apparent chaos was one monk: Brother Milius, the kitchener, a man of about Philip's age. He sat on a high stool, watching the frenetic activity all about him with an unperturbed smile, as if everything were orderly and perfectly organized--which it probably was to his experienced eye. He smiled at Philip and said: "Thank you for the cheese."

  "Ah, yes." Philip had forgotten about that, so much had happened since he arrived. "It's made of milk from the morning milking only--you'll find it tastes subtly different."