Epic Historial Collection (153 page)

Waleran was not quite ready to concede defeat, however. He pointed an accusing finger at Ellen. “You say Tom Builder told you that the baby brought to the cell was his.”

“Yes,” Ellen said warily.

“But the other two people who might have been able to confirm this—the children Alfred and Martha—did not accompany you to the monastery.”

“No.”

“And Tom is dead. So we only have your word for it that Tom said this to you. Your story cannot be verified.”

“How much verification do you want?” she said spiritedly. “Jack saw the abandoned baby. Francis picked it up. Jack and I met Tom and Alfred and Martha. Francis took the baby to the priory. Tom and I spied on the priory. How many witnesses would satisfy you?”

“I don't believe you,” Waleran said.

“You don't believe me?” Ellen said, and suddenly Philip could see she was angry, deeply and passionately angry. “
You
don't believe me? You, Waleran Bigod, whom I know to be a perjurer?”

What on earth was coming now? Philip had a premonition of cataclysm. Waleran had blanched. There's something more here, Philip thought; something Waleran is afraid of. He felt an excited fluttering in his belly. Waleran had a vulnerable look all of a sudden.

Philip said to Ellen: “How do you know the bishop to be a perjurer?”

“Forty-seven years ago, in this very priory, there was a prisoner called Jack Shareburg,” Ellen said.

Waleran interrupted her. “This court isn't interested in events that took place so long ago.”

Philip said: “Yes it is. The accusation against me refers to an alleged act of fornication thirty-five years ago, my lord bishop. You have demanded that I prove my innocence. The court will now expect no less of you.” He turned to Ellen. “Continue.”

“No one knew why he was a prisoner, least of all himself; but the time came when he was set free, and given a jeweled cup, perhaps as recompense for the years he had been unjustly confined. He didn't want a jeweled cup, of course: he had no use for it, and it was too precious to be sold at a market. He left it behind, in the old cathedral here at Kingsbridge. Soon afterward he was arrested—by Waleran Bigod, who was then a plain country priest, humble but ambitious—and the cup mysteriously reappeared in Jack's bag. Jack Shareburg was falsely accused of stealing the cup. He was convicted on the oaths of three people: Waleran Bigod, Percy Hamleigh, and Prior James of Kingsbridge. And he was hanged.”

There was a moment's stunned silence, then Philip said: “How do you know all this?”

“I was Jack Shareburg's only friend, and he was the father of my son, Jack Jackson, the master builder of this cathedral.”

There was uproar. Waleran and Peter were both trying to speak at the same time but neither could be heard over the astonished hubbub of the assembled clergymen. They came to see a showdown, Philip thought, but they never expected this.

Eventually Peter made himself heard. “Why would three law-abiding citizens conspire to falsely accuse an innocent stranger?” he said skeptically.

“For gain,” Ellen said. “Waleran Bigod was made an archdeacon. Percy was given the manor of Hamleigh and several other villages, and became a man of property. I don't know what reward was received by Prior James.”

“I can answer that,” said a new voice.

Philip looked around, startled: the speaker was Remigius. He was well past his seventieth year, white-haired and inclined to ramble when he talked; but now, as he stood up with the help of a walking stick, his eyes were bright and his expression alert. It was rare to hear him speak publicly: since his downfall and return to the monastery he had lived a quiet and humble life. Philip wondered what was coming. Whose side was Remigius going to take? Would he seize a last opportunity to stab his old enemy Philip in the back?

“I can tell you what reward Prior James received,” Remigius said. “The priory was given the villages of Northwold, Southwold and Hundredacre, plus the forest of Oldean.”

Philip was aghast. Could it be true that the old prior had given false testimony, under oath, for the sake of a few villages?

“Prior James was never a good manager,” Remigius went on. “The priory was in difficulty, and he thought the extra income would help us out.” Remigius paused, then said incisively: “It did little good and much harm. The income was useful for a while, but Prior James never recovered his self-respect.”

Listening to Remigius, Philip recalled the stooped, defeated air of the old prior, and at last understood it.

Remigius said: “James had not actually perjured himself, for he swore only that the cup belonged to the priory; but he knew Jack Shareburg was innocent, yet he remained silent. He regretted that silence for the rest of his life.”

He would, Philip thought; it was such a venal sin for a monk. Remigius's testimony confirmed Ellen's story—and condemned Waleran.

Remigius was still speaking. “A few of the older ones here today will remember what the priory was like forty years ago: rundown, penniless, decrepit, demoralized. That was because of the weight of guilt hanging over the prior. When he was dying, he finally confessed his sin to me. I wanted—” Remigius broke off. The church was silent, waiting. The old man sighed and resumed. “I wanted to take over his position and repair the damage. But God chose another man for that task.” He paused again, and his old face worked painfully as he struggled to finish. “I should say: God chose a better man.” He sat down abruptly.

Philip was shocked, bemused and grateful. Two old enemies, Ellen and Remigius, had rescued him. The revelation of these ancient secrets made him feel as if he had been living with one eye closed. Bishop Waleran was livid with rage. He must have felt sure he was safe after all these years. He was leaning over Peter, speaking into the archdeacon's ear, while a buzz of comment rose from the audience.

Peter stood up and shouted: “Silence!” The church went quiet. “This court is closed!” he said.

“Wait a minute!” It was Jack Jackson. “That's not good enough!” he said passionately. “I want to know
why
.”

Ignoring Jack, Peter walked toward the door that led into the cloisters, and Waleran followed him.

Jack went after them. “Why did you do it?” he shouted at Waleran. “You lied on oath, and a man died—are you going to walk out of here without another word?”

Waleran looked straight ahead, white-faced, tight-lipped, his expression a mask of suppressed rage. As he went through the door Jack yelled: “Answer me, you lying corrupt worthless coward! Why did you kill my father?”

Waleran walked out of the church and the door slammed behind him.

T
HE LETTER FROM KING HENRY
arrived while the monks were in chapter.

Jack had built a big new chapter house to accommodate the one hundred and fifty monks—the largest number in a single monastery in all England. The round building had a stone vaulted ceiling and tiers of steps for the monks to sit on. Monastic officers sat on stone benches around the walls, a little above the level of the rest; and Philip and Jonathan had carved stone thrones against the wall opposite the door.

A young monk was reading the seventh chapter of the Rule of Saint Benedict. “The sixth step of humility is reached when a monk is content with all that is mean and vile….” Philip realized he did not know the name of the monk who was reading. Was that because he was getting old, or because the monastery was so big? “The seventh step of humility is reached when a man not only confesses with his tongue that he is most lowly and inferior to others, but in his inmost heart believes so.” Philip knew he had not yet reached that stage of humility. He had achieved a great deal in his sixty-two years, and he had achieved it through courage and determination and the use of his brain; and he needed to remind himself constantly that the real reason for his success was that he had enjoyed the help of God, without which all his efforts would have come to nothing.

Beside him, Jonathan shifted restlessly. Jonathan had even more trouble with the virtue of humility than Philip did. Arrogance was the vice of good leaders. Jonathan was ready to take over the priory now, and he was impatient. He had been talking to Aliena, and he was eager to try out her farming techniques, such as plowing with horses, and planting spring crops of peas and oats on part of the fallow land. I was just the same about raising sheep for wool, thirty-five years ago, Philip thought.

He knew he should step down and let Jonathan take over as prior. He himself should spend his declining years in prayer and meditation. It was a course he had often prescribed for others. But now that he was old enough to retire, the prospect appalled him. His constitution was as sound as a bell and his mind was as lively as ever. A life of prayer and meditation would drive him mad.

However, Jonathan would not wait forever. God had given him the skills to run a major monastery, and he was not planning to waste his talents. He had visited numerous abbeys over the years, and made a good impression wherever he went. One of these days, when an abbot died, the monks would ask Jonathan to stand for election, and it would be hard for Philip to refuse permission.

The young monk whose name Philip could not remember was just finishing the chapter when there was a knock on the door and the gatekeeper came in. Brother Steven, the circuitor, frowned at him: he was not supposed to disturb the monks in chapter. The circuitor was responsible for discipline, and like all such men Steven was a stickler for the rules.

The gatekeeper said in a loud whisper: “There's a messenger from the king!”

Philip said to Jonathan: “See to it, would you?” The messenger would insist on handing his letter to a senior monastic officer. Jonathan went out. The monks were all whispering to one another. Philip said firmly: “We will continue with the necrology.”

As the prayers for the dead began, he wondered what the second King Henry had to say to Kingsbridge Priory. It was not likely to be good news. Henry had been at loggerheads with the Church for six long years. The quarrel had started over the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical courts, but the willfulness of the king and the zeal of the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, had prevented compromise, and a dispute had grown into a crisis. Becket had been forced into exile.

Sadly, the English Church was not unanimous in supporting him. Bishops such as Waleran Bigod took the king's side in order to gain royal favor. However, the pope was putting pressure on Henry to make peace with Becket. Perhaps the worst consequence of the whole dispute was that Henry's need for support within the English Church gave power-hungry bishops such as Waleran greater influence at court. That was why a letter from the king was even more ominous than usual to Philip.

Jonathan returned and handed Philip a roll of vellum fastened with wax, the wax impressed with the mark of an enormous royal seal. All the monks were looking. Philip decided it was too much to ask them to concentrate on praying for dead people when he had such a letter in his hand. “All right,” he said. “We'll continue the prayers later.” He broke the seal and opened the letter. He glanced at the salutation, then handed the letter to Jonathan, whose young eyes were better. “Read it to us, please.”

After the usual greetings, the king wrote: “As the new Bishop of Lincoln, I have nominated Waleran Bigod, currently Bishop of Kingsbridge…” Jonathan's voice was drowned by the buzz of comment. Philip shook his head disgustedly. Waleran had lost all credibility locally since the revelations at the trial of Philip: there was no way he could continue as bishop. So he had persuaded the king to nominate him bishop of Lincoln—one of the richest bishoprics in the world. Lincoln was the third most important diocese in the kingdom, after Canterbury and York. From there it was only a short step to an archbishopric. Henry might even be grooming Waleran to take over from Thomas Becket. The thought of Waleran as archbishop of Canterbury, leader of the English Church, was so appalling that Philip felt sick with fear.

When the monks calmed down Jonathan resumed: “…and I have recommended the Dean and Chapter of Lincoln to elect him.” Well, that was easier said than done, Philip thought. A royal recommendation was almost an order, but not quite: if the chapter at Lincoln took against Waleran, or if they had a candidate of their own, they would give the king trouble. The king would probably get his way in the end but it was not a foregone conclusion.

Jonathan went on: “I order you, the Chapter of the Priory of Kingsbridge, to hold an election for the new Bishop of Kingsbridge; and I recommend you to elect as Bishop my servant Peter of Wareham, Archdeacon of Canterbury.”

A collective shout of protest went up from the assembled monks. Philip went cold with horror. The arrogant, resentful, self-righteous Archdeacon Peter was the king's choice as the new bishop of Kingsbridge! Peter was exactly the same type as Waleran. Both men were genuinely pious and God-fearing, but had no sense of their own fallibility, so they saw their own wishes as God's will, and pursued their aims with utter ruthlessness in consequence. With Peter as bishop, Jonathan would spend his life as prior battling for justice and decency in a county ruled with an iron fist by a man with no heart. And if Waleran became archbishop there would be no prospect of relief.

Philip saw a long dark age ahead, like the worst period of the civil war, when earls of William's type did as they pleased while arrogant priests neglected their people and the priory shrank once again to an impoverished and enfeebled shadow of its former self. The thought angered him.

He was not the only angry one. Steven Circuitor stood up, redfaced, and shouted, “It shall not be!,” at the top of his voice, despite Philip's rule that in chapter everyone must speak calmly and quietly.

The monks cheered, but Jonathan proved his wisdom by asking the crucial question: “What can we do?”

Bernard Kitchener, fat as ever, said: “We must refuse the king's request!”

Several monks voiced their agreement.

Steven said: “We should write to the king saying we will elect whom we please!” After a moment he added sheepishly: “With God's guidance, of course.”

Jonathan said: “I don't agree that we should refuse point-blank. The quicker we are to defy the king, the sooner we will bring his wrath down on our heads.”

Philip said: “Jonathan is right. A man who loses a battle with his king may be forgiven, but a man who wins such a battle is doomed.”

Steven burst out: “But you're just giving in!”

Philip was as worried and fearful as all the others, but he had to appear calm. “Steven, be temperate, please,” he said. “We must fight against this awful appointment, of course. But we will do it carefully and cleverly, always avoiding open confrontation.”

Steven said: “But what are you going to
do
?”

“I'm not sure,” Philip said. He had been despondent at first, but now he was beginning to feel aggressive. He had fought this battle over and over again, all his life. He had fought it here in the priory, when he defeated Remigius and became prior; he had fought it in the county, against William Hamleigh and Waleran Bigod; and now he was going to fight it nationally. He was going to take on the king.

“I think I'll have to go to France,” he said. “To see Archbishop Thomas Becket.”

 

In every other crisis, throughout his life, Philip had been able to come up with a plan. Whenever he or his priory or his town had been threatened by the forces of lawlessness and savagery, he had thought of some form of defense or counterattack. He had not always been sure of success but he had never been at a loss to know what to do—until now.

He was still baffled when he arrived at the city of Sens, southeast of Paris in the Kingdom of France.

The cathedral at Sens was the widest building he had ever seen. The nave had to be fifty feet across. By comparison with Kingsbridge Cathedral, Sens gave an impression of space rather than light.

Traveling through France, for the first time in his life he had realized there were more varieties of church in the world than he had previously imagined, and he understood the revolutionary effect travel had had on Jack Jackson's thinking. Philip made sure to visit the abbey church of Saint-Denis when he passed through Paris, and he had seen where Jack got some of his ideas. He had also seen two churches with flying buttresses like those at Kingsbridge: obviously other master masons had been confronted with the problem Jack had faced, and had come up with the same solution.

Philip went to pay his respects to the archbishop of Sens, William Whitehands, a brilliant young clergyman who was the nephew of the late King Stephen. Archbishop William invited Philip to dinner. Philip was flattered, but he declined the invitation: he had come a long way to see Thomas Becket and now that he was so close he was impatient. After attending mass in the cathedral he followed the River Yonne northward out of the town.

He was traveling light, for the prior of one of the wealthiest monasteries in England: he had with him only two men-at-arms for protection, a young monk called Michael of Bristol as his aide, and a packhorse loaded with holy books, copied and beautifully illustrated in the scriptorium at Kingsbridge, to use as gifts for the abbots and bishops he called on during the journey. The costly books made impressive presents and contrasted sharply with the modesty of Philip's entourage. This was deliberate: he wanted people to respect the priory, not the prior.

Just outside the north gate of Sens, in a sunny meadow by the river, he found the venerable abbey of Sainte-Colombe, where Archbishop Thomas had been living for the past three years. One of Thomas's priests greeted him warmly, called servants to take care of his horses and baggage, and ushered him into the guesthouse where the archbishop was staying. It occurred to Philip that the exiles must be glad to receive visitors from home, not just for sentimental reasons, but because it was a sign of support.

Philip and his aide were given food and wine and introduced to Thomas's household. His men were all priests, mostly young and—Philip thought—rather clever. Within a short while Michael was arguing with one of them about transubstantiation. Philip sipped a cup of wine and listened without taking part. Eventually one of the priests said to him: “What's your view, Father Philip? You haven't said anything yet.”

Philip smiled. “Knotty theological questions are the least worrying of problems, to me.”

“Why?”

“Because they will all be resolved in the hereafter, and meanwhile they can safely be shelved.”

“Well spoken!” said a new voice, and Philip looked up to see Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury.

He was immediately aware of being in the presence of a remarkable man. Thomas was tall, slender and exceptionally handsome, with a wide forehead, bright eyes, fair skin and dark hair. He was about ten years younger than Philip, around fifty or fifty-one. Despite his misfortunes he had a lively, cheerful expression. He was, Philip saw instantly, a very
attractive
man; and this partly explained his remarkable rise from humble beginnings.

Philip knelt and kissed his hand.

Thomas said: “I'm so glad to make your acquaintance! I've always wanted to visit Kingsbridge—I've heard so much about your priory and the marvelous new cathedral.”

Philip was charmed and flattered. He said: “I've come to see you because everything we've achieved has been put in peril by the king.”

“I want to hear all about it, right away,” Thomas said. “Come into my chamber.” He turned around and swept out.

Philip followed, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive.

Thomas led him into a smaller room. There was a costly leather-and-wood bed covered with fine linen sheets and an embroidered quilt, but Philip also saw a thin mattress rolled up in a corner, and he recalled stories that Thomas never used the luxurious furniture provided by his hosts. Remembering his own comfortable bed in Kingsbridge, Philip suffered a pang of guilt to think that he snored in comfort while the primate of all England slept on the floor.