by Ken Follett
By midday half the prisoners had gone. They were the local people, Philip assumed. Those remaining must be from distant towns, and were probably all knights who had been taken during the battle. This impression was confirmed when the constable of the castle came around the cages and asked the names of everyone remaining: most of them were knights from the south. Philip noticed that in one of the cages there was only one man, and he was confined in stocks, as if someone wanted to be doubly sure he could not escape. After staring at the special prisoner for a few minutes Philip realized who it was.
"Look!" he said to the three men in his own cage. "That man on his own. Is it who I think it is?"
The others looked. "By Christ, it's the king," said one, and the others agreed.
Philip stared at the muddy, tawny-haired man with his hands and feet confined uncomfortably in the wooden vise of the stocks. He looked just like all the rest of them. Yesterday he had been king of England. Yesterday he had refused Kingsbridge a market license. Today he could not stand up without someone else's leave. The king had got his just deserts, but all the same Philip felt sorry for him.
Early in the afternoon the prisoners were given food. It was lukewarm leftovers from the dinner provided for the fighting men, but they fell on it ravenously. Philip hung back and let the others have most of it, for he regarded hunger as a base weakness that ought to be resisted from time to time, and considered any enforced fast to be an opportunity to mortify the flesh.
While they were scraping the bowl there was a flurry of activity over at the keep, and a group of earls came out. As they walked down the steps of the keep and across the castle compound, Philip observed that two of them went a little in front of the others, and were treated with deference. They had to be Ranulf of Chester and Robert of Gloucester, but Philip did not know which was which. They approached Stephen's cage.
"Good day, Cousin Robert," Stephen said, heavily emphasizing the word cousin.
The taller of the two men replied. "I didn't intend for you to spend the night in the stocks. I ordered that you be moved, but the order wasn't obeyed. However, you seem to have survived."
A man in priest's clothing detached himself from the group and came toward Philip's cage. At first Philip paid him no attention, for Stephen was asking what was to be done with him, and Philip wanted to hear the answer; but the priest said: "Which one of you is the prior of Kingsbridge?"
"I am," Philip said.
The priest spoke to one of the men-at-arms who had brought Philip here. "Release that man."
Philip was mystified. He had never seen the priest in his life. Clearly his name had been picked out of the list compiled earlier by the castle constable. But why? He would be glad to get out of the cage, but he was not ready to rejoice--he did not know what was in store for him.
The man-at-arms protested: "He's my prisoner!"
"Not anymore," said the priest. "Let him go."
"Why should I release him without a ransom?" the man said belligerently.
The priest replied equally forcefully. "First, because he's neither a fighting man in the king's army nor a citizen of this town, so you have committed a crime by imprisoning him. Second, because he's a monk, and you are guilty of sacrilege by laying hands on a man of God. Third, because Queen Maud's secretary says you have to release him, and if you refuse you'll end up inside that cage yourself, faster than you can blink, so jump to it."
"All right," the man grumbled.
Philip was dismayed. He had been nursing a faint hope that Maud would never get to know of his imprisonment here. If Maud's secretary had asked to see him, that hope was now dashed. Feeling as if he had hit rock bottom, he stepped out of the cage.
"Come with me," said the priest.
Philip followed him. "Am I to be set free?" he said.
"I imagine so." The priest looked surprised by the question. "Don't you know whom you're going to see?"
"I haven't an inkling."
The priest smiled. "I'll let him surprise you."
They crossed the compound to the keep and climbed the long flight of steps that led up the mound to the gate. Philip racked his brains but could not guess why a secretary of Maud's should have an interest in him.
He followed the priest through the gate. The circular stone keep was lined with two-story houses built against the wall. In the middle was a tiny courtyard with a well. The priest led Philip into one of the houses.
Inside the house was another priest, standing in front of the fire with his back to the door. He had the same build as Philip, short and slight, and the same black hair, but his head was not shaved and his hair was not graying. It was a very familiar back. Philip could hardly believe his luck. A broad grin spread across his face.
The priest turned. He had bright blue eyes just like Philip's and he, too, was grinning. He held out his arms. "Philip," he said.
"Well, God be praised!" Philip said in astonishment. "Francis!"
The two brothers embraced, and Philip's eyes filled with tears.
III
The royal reception hall at Winchester Castle looked very different. The dogs had gone, and so had King Stephen's plain wooden throne, the benches, and the animal skins from the walls. Instead there were embroidered hangings, richly colored carpets, bowls of sweetmeats, and painted chairs. The room smelled of flowers.
Philip was never at ease at the royal court, and a feminine royal court was enough to put him in a state of quivering anxiety. The Empress Maud was his only hope of getting the quarry back and reopening the market, but he had no confidence that this haughty, willful woman would make a just decision.
The Empress sat on a delicately carved gilded throne, wearing a dress the color of bluebells. She was tall and thin, with proud dark eyes and straight, glossy black hair. Over her gown she wore a pelisse, a knee-length silk coat with a tight waist and flared skirt; a style that had not been seen in England until she arrived, but was now much imitated. She had been married to her first husband for eleven years and her second for fourteen, but she still looked less than forty years old. People raved about her beauty. To Philip she looked rather angular and unfriendly; but he was a poor judge of feminine attraction, being more or less immune to it.
Philip, Francis, William Hamleigh and Bishop Waleran bowed to her and stood waiting. She ignored them for a while and continued talking to a lady-in-waiting. The conversation seemed to be rather trifling, for they both laughed prettily; but Maud did not interrupt it to greet her visitors.
Francis worked closely with her, and saw her almost every day, but they were not great friends. Her brother Robert, Francis's former employer, had given him to her when she arrived in England, because she needed a first-class secretary. However, this was not the only motive. Francis acted as link man between brother and sister, and kept an eye on the impetuous Maud. It was nothing for brothers and sisters to betray one another, in the treacherous life of the royal court, and Francis's real role was to make it difficult for Maud to do anything underhand. Maud knew this and accepted it, but her relationship with Francis was nevertheless an uneasy one.
It was two months since the battle of Lincoln, and in that time all had gone well for Maud. Bishop Henry had welcomed her to Winchester (thereby betraying his brother King Stephen) and had convened a great council of bishops and abbots which had elected her queen; and she was now negotiating with the commune of London to arranged her coronation at Westminster. King David of Scotland, who happened to be her uncle, was on his way to pay her a formal royal visit, one sovereign to another.
Bishop Henry was strongly supported by Bishop Waleran of Kingsbridge; and, according to Francis, Waleran had persuaded William Hamleigh to switch sides, and pledge allegiance to Maud. Now William had come for his reward.
The four men stood waiting: William with his backer, Bishop Waleran, and Prior Philip with his sponsor, Francis. This was the first time Philip had set eyes on Maud. Her appearance did not reassure him: despite her regal air he thought she
looked flighty.
When Maud finished chatting she turned to them with a triumphant look, as if to say: See how unimportant you are, even my lady-in-waiting had priority over you. She looked at Philip steadily for a few moments, until he became embarrassed, then she said: "Well, Francis. Have you brought me your twin?"
Francis said: "My brother, Philip, lady, the prior of Kingsbridge."
Philip bowed again and said: "Somewhat too old and gray to be a twin, lady." It was the kind of trivial, self-deprecating remark that courtiers seemed to find amusing, but she gave him a frozen look and ignored it. He decided to abandon any attempt to be charming.
She turned to William. "And Sir William Hamleigh, who fought bravely against my army at the battle of Lincoln, but has now seen the error of his ways."
William bowed and wisely kept his mouth shut.
She turned back to Philip. "You ask me to grant you a license to hold a market."
"Yes, my lady."
Francis said: "The income from the market will all be spent on building the cathedral, lady."
"On what day of the week do you want to hold your market?" she asked.
"Sunday."
She raised her plucked eyebrows. "You holy men are generally opposed to Sunday markets. Don't they keep people from church?"
"Not in our case," Philip said. "People come to labor on the building and attend a service, and they do their buying and selling as well."
"So you're already holding this market?" she said sharply. Philip realized he had blundered. He felt like kicking himself.
Francis rescued him. "No, lady, they are not holding the market at present," he said. "It began informally, but Prior Philip ordered it to cease until he was granted a license."
That was the truth, but not the whole truth. However, Maud seemed to accept it. Philip silently prayed for forgiveness for Francis.
Maud said: "Is there no other market in the area?"
William spoke up. "Yes, there is, at Shiring; and the Kingsbridge market has been taking business away."
Philip said: "But Shiring is twenty miles from Kingsbridge!" Francis said: "My lady, the rule is that markets must be at least fourteen miles apart. By that criterion Kingsbridge and Shiring do not compete."
She nodded, apparently willing to accept Francis's ruling on a point of law. So far, thought Philip, it's going our way.
Maud said: "You also ask for the right to take stone from the earl of Shiring's quarry."
"We have had that right for many years, but William lately threw out our quarrymen, killing five--"
"Who gave you the right to take stone?" she interrupted.
"King Stephen--"
"The usurper!"
Francis hastily said: "My lady, Prior Philip naturally accepts that all edicts of the pretender Stephen are invalid unless ratified by you."
Philip accepted no such thing but he saw that it would be unwise to say so.
William blurted out: "I closed the quarry in retaliation for his illegal market!"
It was amazing, Philip thought, how a clear case of injustice could come to seem evenly balanced when argued at the court.
Maud said: "This entire squabble came about because Stephen's original ruling was foolish."
Bishop Waleran spoke for the first time. "There, lady, I heartily agree with you," he said oilily.
"It was asking for trouble, to give the quarry to one person but let another mine it," she said. "The quarry must belong to one or the other."
That was true, Philip thought. And if she were to follow the spirit of Stephen's original ruling, it would belong to Kingsbridge.
She went on: "My decision is that it shall belong to my noble ally, Sir William."
Philip's heart sank. The cathedral building could not have come on so well without free access to that quarry. It would have to slow right down while Philip tried to find the money to buy stone. And all because of the whim of this capricious woman! It made him fume.
William said: "Thank you, lady."
Maud said: "However, Kingsbridge shall have market rights as at Shiring."
Philip's spirits rose again. The market would not quite pay for the stone but it was a big help. It meant he would be scraping around for money again, just as he had at the beginning, but he could carry on.
Maud had given each one a part of what he wanted. Perhaps she was not so empty-headed after all.
Francis said: "Market rights as at Shiring, lady?"
"That's what I said."
Philip was not sure why Francis had repeated it. It was common for licenses to refer to the rights enjoyed by another town: it was evenhanded and saved writing. Philip would have to check exactly what Shiring's charter said. There might be restrictions, or extra privileges.
Maud said: "So you have both got something. William gets the quarry and Prior Philip gets the market. And in return, each of you will pay me one hundred pounds. That is all." She turned away.
Philip was flabbergasted. A hundred pounds! The priory did not have a hundred pennies at the moment. How was he to raise this money? The market would take years to earn a hundred pounds. It was a devastating blow that would set the building program back permanently. He stood staring at Maud, but she was apparently deep in conversation with her lady-in-waiting again. Francis nudged him. Philip opened his mouth to speak. Francis held a finger to his lips. Philip said: "But ..." Francis shook his head urgently.
Philip knew Francis was right. He let his shoulders slump in defeat. Helplessly, he turned away and walked out of the royal presence.
Francis was impressed when Philip showed him around Kingsbridge Priory. "I was here ten years ago, and it was a dump," he said irreverently. "You've really brought it to life."
He was very taken with the writing room, which Tom had finished while Philip was in Lincoln. A small building next to the chapter house, it had large windows, a fireplace with a chimney, a row of writing desks, and a big oak cupboard for the books. Four of the brothers were at work there already, standing at the high desks, writing on parchment sheets with quill pens. Three were copying: one the Psalms of David, one Saint Matthew's Gospel, and one the Rule of Saint Benedict. In addition, Brother Timothy was writing a history of England, although as he had begun with the creation of the world Philip was afraid the old boy might never finish it. The writing room was small--Philip had not wanted to divert much stone from the cathedral--but it was a warm, dry, well-lit place, just what was needed. "The priory has disgracefully few books, and as they're iniquitously expensive to buy, this is the only way to build our collection," Philip explained.
In the undercroft was a workshop where an old monk was teaching two youngsters how to stretch the skin of a sheep for parchment, how to make ink, and how to bind the sheets into a book. Francis said: "You'll be able to sell books, too."
"Oh, yes--the writing room will pay for itself many times over."
They left the building and walked through the cloisters. It was the study hour. Most of the monks were reading. A few were meditating, an activity that was suspiciously similar to dozing, as Francis remarked skeptically. In the northwest corner were twenty schoolboys reciting Latin verbs. Philip stopped and pointed. "See the little boy at the end of the bench?"
Francis said: "Writing on a slate, with his tongue sticking out?"
"That's the baby you found in the forest."
"But he's so big!"
"Five and a half years old, and precocious.'
Francis shook his head in wonderment. "Time goes by so fast. How is he?"
"He's spoiled by the monks, but he'll survive. You and I did."
"Who are the other pupils?"
"Either novice monks, or the sons of merchants and local gentry learning to write and figure."
They left the cloisters and passed on to the building site. The eastern limb of the new cathedral was now more than half built. The great double row of mighty columns was forty feet high, and all the arches in between had been completed. Above the arc
ade, the tribune gallery was taking shape. Either side of the arcade, the lower walls of the aisle had been built, with their out-jutting buttresses. As they walked around, Philip saw that the masons were constructing the half-arches that would connect the tops of those buttresses with the top of the tribune gallery, allowing the buttresses to take the weight of the roof.
Francis was almost awestruck. "You've done all this, Philip," he said. "The writing room, the school, the new church, even all these new houses in the town--it's all come about because you made it happen."
Philip was touched. No one had ever said that to him. If asked, he would say that God had blessed his efforts. But in his heart of hearts he knew that what Francis said was true: this thriving, busy town was his creation. Recognition gave him a warm glow, especially coming as it did from his sophisticated, cynical younger brother.
Tom Builder saw them and came over. "You've made marvelous progress," Philip said to him.
"Yes, but look at that." Tom pointed to the northeast corner of the priory close, where stone from the quarry was stockpiled. There were normally hundreds of stones stacked in rows, but now there were only about twenty-five scattered on the ground. "Unfortunately, our marvelous progress means we've used up our stock of stone."
Philip's elation evaporated. Everything he had achieved here was at risk, because of Maud's harsh ruling.
They walked along the north side of the site, where the most skilled masons were working at their benches, carving the stones into shape with hammers and chisels. Philip stopped behind one craftsman and studied his work. It was a capital, the large, jutting-out stone that always stood on top of a column. Using a light hammer and a small chisel, the mason was carving a pattern of leaves on the capital. The leaves were deeply undercut and the work was delicate. To Philip's surprise, he saw that the craftsman was young Jack, Tom's stepson. "I thought Jack was still a learner," he said.
"He is." Tom moved on, and when they were out of earshot he said: "The boy is remarkable. There are men here who have been carving stone since before he was born, and none of them can match his work." He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. "And he isn't even my own son!"