The Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

  "Promise?" she said with a grin.

  Jack followed Jonathan down the stairs and through the church to the door in the south transept that led into the cloisters. They went along the north walk, past the school-boys with their wax tablets, and stopped at the corner. With an inclination of his head Jonathan directed Jack's attention to a monk sitting alone on a stone ledge halfway down the west walk. The monk's hood was up, covering his face, but as they paused, the man turned, looked up, and then quickly averted his gaze.

  Jack took an involuntary step back.

  The monk was Waleran Bigod.

  Jack said angrily: "What's that devil doing here?"

  "Preparing to meet his Maker," Jonathan said.

  Jack frowned. "I don't understand."

  "He's a broken man," Jonathan said. "He's got no position, no power and no friends. He's realized that God doesn't want him to be a great and powerful bishop. He's seen the error of his ways. He came here, on foot, and begged to be admitted as a humble monk, to spend the rest of his days asking God's forgiveness for his sins."

  "I find that hard to believe," said Jack.

  "So did I, at first," said Jonathan. "But in the end I realized that he has always been a genuinely God-fearing man."

  Jack looked skeptical.

  "I really think he was devout. He just made one crucial mistake: he believed that the end justifies the means in the service of God. That permitted him to do anything."

  "Including conspiring to murder an archbishop!"

  Jonathan held up his hands in a defensive gesture. "God must punish him for that--not I."

  Jack shrugged. It was the kind of thing Philip would have said. Jack saw no reason to let Waleran live in the priory. However, that was the way of monks. "Why did you want me to see him?"

  "He wants to tell you why they hanged your father."

  Jack suddenly felt cold.

  Waleran was sitting as still as a stone, gazing into space. He was barefoot. The fragile white ankles of an old man were visible below the hem of his homespun habit. Jack realized that Waleran was no longer frightening. He was feeble, defeated and sad.

  Jack walked slowly forward and sat down on the bench a yard away from Waleran.

  "The old King Henry was too strong," Waleran said without preamble. "Some of the barons didn't like it--they were too restricted. They wanted a weaker king next time. But Henry had a son, William."

  All this was ancient history. "That was before I was born," Jack said.

  "Your father died before you were born," Waleran said, with just a hint of his old superciliousness.

  Jack nodded. "Go on, then."

  "A group of barons decided to kill Henry's son, William. Their thinking was that if the succession was in doubt, they would have more influence over the choice of the new king."

  Jack studied Waleran's pale, thin face, searching for evidence of guile. The old man just looked weary, beaten and remorseful. If he was up to something, Jack could see no sign of it. "But William died in the wreck of the White Ship," Jack said.

  "That shipwreck was no accident," Waleran said.

  Jack was jolted. Could this be true? The heir to the throne, murdered just because a group of barons wanted a weak monarchy? But it was no more shocking than the murder of an archbishop. "Go on," he said.

  "The barons' men scuttled the ship and escaped in a boat. Everybody else drowned, except for one man who clung to a spar and floated ashore."

  "That was my father," Jack said. He was beginning to see where this was leading.

  Waleran's face was white and his lips were bloodless. He spoke without emotion, and did not meet Jack's eyes. "He was beached near a castle that belonged to one of the conspirators, and they caught him. The man had no interest in exposing them. Indeed, he never realized that the ship had been scuttled. But he had seen things which would have revealed the truth to others, if he had been allowed to go free and talk about his experience. So they kidnapped him, brought him to England, and put him in the care of some people they could trust."

  Jack felt profoundly sad. All his father had ever wanted to do was entertain people, Mother said. But there was something strange about Waleran's story. "Why didn't they kill him right away?" Jack said.

  "They should have," Waleran said unemotionally. "But he was an innocent man, a jongleur, someone who gave everyone pleasure. They couldn't bring themselves to do it." He gave a mirthless smile. "Even the most ruthless people have some scruples, ultimately."

  "Then why did they change their minds?"

  "Because eventually he became dangerous, even here. At first he threatened no one--he couldn't even speak English. But he learned, of course, and he began to make friends. So they locked him in the prison cell below the dormitory. Then people began to ask why he was locked away. He became an embarrassment. They realized they would never rest easy while he was alive. So in the end they told us to kill him."

  So easy, thought Jack. "But why did you obey them?"

  "We were ambitious, all three of us," Waleran said, and for the first time his face showed emotion, as his mouth twisted in a grimace of remorse. "Percy Hamleigh, Prior James, and me. Your mother told the truth--we all were rewarded. I became an archdeacon, and my career in the church was off to a splendid start. Percy Hamleigh became a substantial landowner. Prior James got a useful addition to the priory property."

  "And the barons?"

  "After the shipwreck, Henry was attacked, in the following three years, by Fulk of Anjou, William Clito in Normandy, and the king of France. For a while he looked very vulnerable. But he defeated his enemies and ruled for another ten years. However, the anarchy the barons wanted did come in the end, when Henry died without a male heir, and Stephen came to the throne. While the civil war raged for the next two decades, the barons ruled like kings in their own territories, with no central authority to curb them."

  "And my father died for that."

  "Even that turned sour. Most of those barons died in the fighting, and some of their sons did too. And the little lies we had told in this part of the country, to get your father killed, eventually came back to haunt us. Your mother cursed us, after the hanging, and she cursed us well. Prior James was destroyed by the knowledge of what he had done, as Remigius said at the nepotism trial. Percy Hamleigh died before the truth came out, but his son was hanged. And look at me: my act of perjury was thrown back at me almost fifty years later, and it ended my career." Waleran was looking gray-faced and exhausted, as if his rigid self-control was a terrible strain. "We were all afraid of your mother, because we weren't sure what she knew. In the end it wasn't much at all, but it was enough."

  Jack felt as drained as Waleran appeared. At last he had learned the truth about his father, something he had wanted all his life. Now he could not feel angry or vengeful. He had never known his real father, but he had had Tom, who had given him the love of buildings which had been the second greatest passion of his life.

  Jack stood up. The events were all too far in the past to make him weep. So much had happened since then, and most of it had been good.

  He looked down at the old, sorry man sitting on the bench. Ironically, it was Waleran who was now suffering the bitterness of regret. Jack pitied him. How terrible, Jack thought, to be old and know that your life has been wasted. Waleran looked up, and their eyes met for the first time. Waleran flinched and turned away, as if his face had been slapped. For a moment Jack could read the other man's mind, and he realized that Waleran had seen the pity in his eyes.

  And for Waleran, the pity of his enemies was the worst humiliation of all.

  IV

  Philip stood at the West Gate of the ancient Christian city of Canterbury, wearing the full, gorgeously-colored regalia of an English bishop, and carrying a jeweled crozier worth a king's ransom. It was pouring with rain.

  He was sixty-six years of age, and the rain chilled his old bones. This was the last time he would venture so far from home. But he would not have missed th
is day for all the world. In a way, today's ceremony would crown his life's work.

  It was three and a half years after the historic murder of Archbishop Thomas. In that short span of time the mystical cult of Thomas Becket had swept the world. Philip had had no idea of what he was starting when he led that small candlelit procession through the streets of Canterbury. The pope had made Thomas a saint with almost indecent speed. There was even a new order of monk-knights in the Holy Land called the Knights of Saint Thomas of Acre. King Henry had not been able to fight such a powerful popular movement. It was far too strong for any one individual to withstand.

  For Philip, the importance of the whole phenomenon lay in what it demonstrated about the power of the State. The death of Thomas had shown that, in a conflict between the Church and the Crown, the monarch could always prevail by the use of brute force. But the cult of Saint Thomas proved that such a victory would always be a hollow one. The power of a king was not absolute, after all: it could be restrained by the will of the people. This change had taken place within Philip's lifetime. He had not merely witnessed it, he had helped to bring it about. And today's ceremony would commemorate that.

  A stocky man with a large head was walking toward the city out of the mist of rain. He wore no boots or hat. At some distance behind him followed a large group of people on horseback.

  The man was King Henry.

  The crowd was as quiet as a funeral while the rain-drenched king walked through the mud to the city gate.

  Philip stepped into the road, according to the prearranged plan, and walked in front of the barefoot king, leading the way to the cathedral. Henry followed with head bowed, his normally jaunty gait rigidly controlled, his posture a picture of penitence. Awestruck townspeople gazed on in silence as the king of England humbled himself before their eyes. The king's entourage followed at a distance.

  Philip led him slowly through the cathedral gate. The mighty doors of the splendid church were open wide. They went in, a solemn procession of two people that was the culmination of the political crisis of the century. The nave was packed. The crowd parted to let them through. People spoke in whispers, stunned by the sight of the proudest king in Christendom, soaking wet, walking into church like a beggar.

  They went slowly along the nave and down the steps into the crypt. There, beside the new tomb of the martyr, the monks of Canterbury were waiting, along with the greatest and most powerful bishops and abbots of the realm.

  The king knelt on the floor.

  His courtiers came into the crypt behind him. In front of everyone, Henry of England, second of that name, confessed his sins, and said he had been the unwitting cause of the murder of Saint Thomas.

  When he had confessed he took off his cloak. Beneath it he wore a green tunic and a hair shirt. He knelt down again, bending his back.

  The bishop of London flexed a cane.

  The king was to be whipped.

  He would get five strokes from each priest and three from each monk present. The strokes would be symbolic, of course: since there were eighty monks present a real beating from each of them would have killed him.

  The bishop of London touched the king's back five times lightly with the cane. Then he turned and handed the cane to Philip, bishop of Kingsbridge.

  Philip stepped forward to whip the king. He was glad he had lived to see this. After today, he thought, the world will never be quite the same.

  I owe special thanks to

  Jean Gimpel, Geoffrey Hindley,

  Warren Hollister and

  Margaret Wade Labarge

  for giving me the benefit

  of their encyclopedic knowledge

  of the Middle Ages.

  I also thank Ian and Marjory Chapman

  for patience, encouragement

  and inspiration.

  NOW AN ORIGINAL 8-PART MINISERIES starz.

  WALERAN BIGOD (Ian McShane)

  ARCHDEACON OF SHIRING, HE LATER BECOMES BISHOP.

  WALERAN BELIEVES THAT IT IS GOD'S WILL FOR HIM TO GAIN

  POWER WITHIN THE CHURCH AND THEREFORE FEELS JUSTIFIED

  IN USING EVERY POSSIBLE MEANS TO THAT END.

  ALIEN A (Hayley Atwell)

  ALIENA IS BARTHOLOMEW'S BEAUTIFUL AND INTELLIGENT DAUGHTER

  AND THE OBJECT OF WILLIAM'S OBSESSION. AFTER HER FAMILY'S FALL

  FROM GRACE, SHE USES HER RESOURCEFULNESS TO SURVIVE AND HELP

  HER BROTHER WIN BACK HIS RIGHTFUL PLACE AS EARL.

  BARTHOLOMEW (Donald Sutherland)

  EARL OF SHIRING AND SUPPORTER OF MAUD'S RIGHT TO THE THRONE.

  HIS CONSPIRACY AGAINST STEPHEN'S USURPATION OF THE

  THRONE IS THE CAUSE OF HIS DOWNFALL AND HIS CHILDREN'S

  (ALIENA AND RICHARD) DIRE SUFFERING.

  BATTLE AT LINCOLN FIELD

  THE BATTLE BETWEEN KING STEPHEN'S AND QUEEN MAUD'S ARMIES

  WAS SHOT ON LOCATION OUTSIDE BUDAPEST, HUNGARY, MARSHALING

  THE COMBINED EXPERTISE OF ACTORS, STUNTMEN, SPECIAL EFFECTS

  EXPERTS, FIGHT MASTERS, HORSE MASTERS AND MANY MORE.

  REGAN HAMLEIGH (Sarah Parish)

  POSSESSED WITH THE DESIRE TO MOVE HER FAMILY UP THE SOCIAL

  LADDER, REGAN WILL PARTNER WITH WALERAN TO ACHIEVE HER GOALS.

  WILLIAM HAMLEIGH (David Oakes)

  WILLIAM ASPIRES, PER HIS MOTHER'S WISH, TO BECOME THE EARL

  OF SHIRING. HE IS HIS MOTHER'S PAWN IN HER MASTER PLAN. HIS

  OBSESSION WITH ALIENA BECOMES THE DRIVING FORCE IN HIS LIFE.

  KING STEPHEN (Tony Curran)

  PROMISING TO FAVOR THE CHURCH IN ALL HIS DEALINGS, STEPHEN

  IS CROWNED BY THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY UPON KING HENRY'S DEATH.

  HE IS A MAN TORTURED BY THE DARK PAST AND THE POSSIBLE FUTURE.

  QUEEN MAUD (Alison Pill)

  KING HENRY I'S DAUGHTER AND ONLY SURVIVING LEGITIMATE CHILD.

  SHE MARRIES FRANCE'S GEOFFREY OF ANJOU AND BEARS A SON (HENRY II).

  SHE AND HER BROTHER GLOUCESTER ARE EVENTUALLY SUCCESSFUL IN TAKING

  BACK LINCOLN FROM STEPHEN, AND MAUD BECOMES QUEEN.

  PRIOR PHILIP (Matthew Macfadyen)

  NEWLY APPOINTED PRIOR OF KINGSBRIDGE, HE QUICKLY LEARNS

  THE GAME OF POLITICS WHEN WALERAN TRICKS HIM, AND

  AS A RESULT, WALERAN BECOMES BISHOP.

  KINGSBRIDGE CATHEDRAL

  THIS ENORMOUS INTERIOR SET WAS BUILT FROM THE GROUND UP

  INSIDE A STUDIO IN BUDAPEST, HUNGARY. THE SCALE IS TRUE TO THE

  HUGE EXTERIOR CATHEDRAL SET WHICH WAS BUILT IN

  A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT LOCATION.

  TOM BUILDER (RufusSewell)

  MASON AND FIRST BUILDER OF THE CATHEDRAL. HIS FAMILY FIRST

  MEETS ELLEN AND JACK IN THE FOREST WHEN THEY OFFER HELP FOR

  HIS DAUGHTER WOUNDED BY AN OUTLAW.

  JACK (Eddie Redmayne)

  SON OF ELLEN AND SHAREBURG, HE IS AN ARTIST,

  ARCHITECT, DREAMER, AND OUR STORY'S HERO.

  ELLEN (Natalia Worner)

  AS A NOVICE NUN, ELLEN FINDS SHAREBURG ON THE BEACH. SHE LEAVES

  THE CHURCH AND BEARS HIM A SON. A HEALER, SHE RELIES ON HER

  INSTINCTS AND EDUCATION TO HELP OTHERS AND HER SON, JACK.

  CONSTRUCTION OF WALERAN'S CASTLE

  SHOT ON LOCATION IN VIENNA, AUSTRIA, IN COLD AND SNOWY

  CONDITIONS. THIS LOCATION WAS CHOSEN FOR ITS RICH TEXTURE

  AND STYLE TO REPRESENT WALERAN'S NEVER-FINISHED CASTLE.

  JACK AND ALIENA (Eddie Redmayne & Hayley Atwell)

  ONE OF THE TWO GREAT LOVE STORIES

  IN The Pillars of the Earth.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Ken Follett's sweeping new novel

  FALL OF GIANTS

  Available in hardcover from Dutton

  June 22,1911

  ON THE DAY KING GEORGE V was crowned at Westminster Abbey in London, Billy Williams went down the pit in Aberowen, South Wales.

  The twenty-second of June 1911 wa
s Billy's thirteenth birthday. He was woken by his father. Da's technique for waking people was more effective than it was kind. He patted Billy's cheek, in a regular rhythm, firmly and insistently. Billy was in a deep sleep, and for a second he tried to ignore the patting, but it went on relentlessly. Momentarily he felt angry; but then he remembered that he had to get up, that he even wanted to get up, and he opened his eyes and sat upright with a jerk.

  "Four o'clock," Da said. Then he left the room, his boots banging on the wooden staircase as he went down.

  Today Billy would begin his working life by becoming an apprentice collier, as most of the men in town had done at his age. He wished he felt more like a miner. But he was determined not to make a fool of himself. David Crampton had cried on his first day down the pit, and they still called him Dai Crybaby, even though he was twenty-five and the star of the town's rugby team.

  It was the day after midsummer, and a bright early light came through the small window. Billy looked at his grandfather, lying beside him. Gramper's eyes were open. He was always awake whenever Billy got up; he said old people did not sleep much.

  Billy got out of bed. He was wearing only his underdrawers. In cold weather he wore his shirt to bed, but Britain was enjoying a hot summer, and the nights were mild. He pulled the pot from under the bed and took off the lid.

  There was no change in the size of his penis, which he called his peter. It was still the childish stub it had always been. He had hoped it might have started to grow on the night before his birthday, or perhaps that he might see just one black hair sprouting somewhere near it, but he was disappointed. His best friend, Tommy Griffiths, who had been born on the same day, was different: he had a cracked voice and a dark fuzz on his upper lip, and his peter was like a man's. It was humiliating.

  As Billy was using the pot, he looked out of the window. All he could see was the slag heap, a slate gray mountain of tailings, waste from the coal mine, mostly shale and sandstone. This was how the world appeared on the second day of Creation, Billy thought, before God said: "Let the earth bring forth grass." A gentle breeze wafted fine black dust off the slag onto the rows of houses.