Epic Historial Collection (23 page)

Philip retrieved the escaped eel and dropped it into the barrel of brine. “The hand of God is on us all,” he said noncommittally. He was somewhat stunned by Cuthbert's suggestion. He wanted an energetic new prior for Kingsbridge but he had not thought of himself for the job. “It's true that I'd make a better prior than Remigius,” he said thoughtfully.

Cuthbert looked satisfied. “If you have a fault, Philip, it's your innocence.”

Philip did not think of himself as innocent. “What do you mean?”

“You don't look for base motives in people. Most of us do. For example, the whole monastery already assumes that you're a candidate and that you've come here to solicit their votes.”

Philip was indignant. “On what grounds do they say that?”

“Try to look at your own behavior the way a low suspicious mind would see it. You've arrived within days of the death of Prior James, as if you had someone here primed to send you a secret message.”

“But how do they imagine I organized that?”

“They don't know—but they believe you're cleverer than they are.” Cuthbert resumed disemboweling eels. “And look how you've behaved today. You walked in and ordered the stables mucked out. Then you dealt with that horseplay during high mass. You talked of transferring young William Beauvis to another house, when everyone knows that transferring monks from one place to another is a prior's privilege. You implicitly criticized Remigius by taking a hot stone out to Brother Paul on the bridge. And finally you brought a delicious cheese to the kitchen, and we all had a morsel after dinner—and although nobody
said
where it came from, not one of us could mistake the flavor of a cheese from St-John-in-the-Forest.”

Philip was embarrassed to think that his actions had been so misinterpreted. “Anybody might have done those things.”

“Any senior monk might have done
one
of them. Nobody else would have done them all. You walked in and took charge! You've already started reforming the place. And, of course, Remigius's cronies are already fighting back. That's why Andrew Sacrist berated you in the cloisters.”

“So that's the explanation! I wondered what had got into him.” Philip rinsed an eel thoughtfully. “And I suppose that when the circuitor made me forgo my dinner, that was for the same reason.”

“Exactly. A way to humiliate you in front of the monks. I suspect that both moves backfired, by the way: neither reproof was justified, yet you accepted both gracefully. In fact you managed to look quite saintly.”

“I didn't do it for effect.”

“Nor did the saints. There goes the bell for nones. You'd better leave the rest of the eels to me. After the service it's study hour, and discussion is permitted in the cloisters. A lot of brothers will want to talk to you.”

“Not so fast!” Philip said anxiously. “Just because people assume I want to be prior doesn't mean I'm going to stand for election.” He was daunted by the prospect of an electoral contest and not at all sure that he wanted to abandon his well-organized forest cell and take on the formidable problems of Kingsbridge Priory. “I need time to think,” he pleaded.

“I know.” Cuthbert drew himself upright and looked Philip in the eye. “When you're thinking, please remember this: excessive pride is a familiar sin, but a man may just as easily frustrate the will of God through excessive humility.”

Philip nodded. “I'll remember. Thank you.”

He left the storeroom and hurried to the cloisters. His mind was in a turmoil as he joined the other monks and filed into the church. He was violently excited at the prospect of becoming prior of Kings-bridge, he realized. He had been angry for years about the disgraceful way the priory was run, and now he had a chance to set all those things right himself. Suddenly he was not sure he could. It was not just a question of seeing what ought to be done and ordering that it should be so. People had to be persuaded, property had to be managed, money had to be found. It was a job for a wise head. The responsibility would be heavy.

The church calmed him, as it always did. After this morning's misbehavior the monks were quiet and solemn. As he listened to the familiar phrases of the service, and murmured the responses as he had for so many years, he felt able to think clearly once again.

Do I want to be prior of Kingsbridge? he asked himself, and the answer came back immediately: Yes! To take charge of this crumbling church, to repair it and repaint it and fill it with the song of a hundred monks and the voices of a thousand worshipers saying the Our Father—for that alone he wanted the job. Then there was the monastery's property, to be reorganized and revitalized and made healthy and productive again. He wanted to see a crowd of small boys learning to read and write in a corner of the cloisters. He wanted the guesthouse full of light and warmth, so that barons and bishops would come to visit, and endow the priory with precious gifts before leaving. He wanted to have a special room set aside as a library, and fill it with books of wisdom and beauty. Yes, he wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge.

Are there any other reasons? he asked. When I picture myself as prior, making these improvements for the glory of God, is there any pride in my heart?

Oh, yes.

He could not deceive himself in the cold and holy atmosphere of the church. His aim was the glory of God, but the glory of Philip pleased him too. He liked the idea of giving orders which no one could countermand. He saw himself making decisions, dispensing justice, giving out advice and encouragement, issuing penances and pardons, just as he saw fit. He imagined people saying: “Philip of Gwynedd reformed that place. It was a disgrace until he took over, and just look at it now!”

But I
would
be good, he thought. God gave me the brains to manage property and the ability to lead groups of men. I've proved that, as cellarer in Gwynedd and as prior of St-John-in-the-Forest. And when I run a place the monks are happy. In my priory the old men don't get chilblains and the young men don't get frustrated for lack of work. I take care of people.

On the other hand, both Gwynedd and St-John-in-the-Forest were easy by comparison with Kingsbridge Priory. The Gwynedd place was always well run. The forest cell had been in trouble when he took it over, but it was tiny, and easy to control. The reform of Kingsbridge was the challege of a lifetime. It could take weeks just to find out what its resources were—how much land, and where, and what was on the land, whether forests or pastures or wheat fields. To take control of the scattered properties, to find out what was wrong and put it right, and to knit the parts into a thriving whole would be the work of years. All Philip had done at the forest cell was to make a dozen or so young men work hard in the fields and pray solemnly in church.

All right, he admitted, my motives are tainted and my ability is in doubt. Perhaps I should refuse to stand. At least I could be sure to avoid the sin of pride. But what was it that Cuthbert had said? “A man may just as easily frustrate the will of God through excessive humility.”

What does God want? he asked himself finally. Does he want Remigius? Remigius's abilities are less than mine and his motives are probably no more pure. Is there another candidate? Not at present. Until God reveals a third possibility we must assume that the choice is between me and Remigius. It's clear that Remigius would run the monastery the way he ran it while Prior James was ill, which is to say that he would be idle and negligent and he would permit its decline to continue. And me? I'm full of pride and my talents are unproved—but I will
try
to reform the monastery, and if God gives me strength I shall succeed.

All right, then, he said to God as the service came to an end; all right. I'm going to accept nomination, and I'm going to fight with all the strength I have to win the election; and if you don't want me, for some reason that you've chosen not to reveal to me, well, then, you'll just have to stop me any way you can.

 

Although Philip had spent twenty-two years in monasteries, he had served under long-lived priors, so he had never known an election. It was a unique event in monastic life, for in casting their votes the brothers were not obliged to be obedient—suddenly they were all equal.

Once upon a time, if the legends were true, the monks had been equal in everything. A group of men would decide to turn their backs on the world of fleshly lust and build a sanctuary in the wilderness where they could live lives of worship and self-denial; and they would take over a patch of barren land, clearing the forest and draining the swamp, and they would till the soil and build their church together. In those days they really had been like brothers. The prior was, as his title implied, only the first among equals, and they swore obedience to the Rule of Saint Benedict, not to monastic officials. But all that was now left of that primitive democracy was the election of the prior and the abbot.

Some of the monks were uncomfortable with their power. They wanted to be told how to vote, or they suggested that the decision be referred to a committee of senior monks. Others abused the privilege and became insolent, or demanded favors in return for their support. Most were simply anxious to make the right decision.

In the cloisters that afternoon, Philip spoke to most of them, singly or in little groups, and told them all candidly that he wanted the job and he felt he could do it better than Remigius despite his youth. He answered their questions, most of which were about rations of food and drink. He ended each conversation by saying: “If each of us makes the decision thoughtfully and prayerfully, God will surely bless the outcome.” It was the prudent thing to say and he also believed it.

“We're winning,” said Milius the kitchener next morning, as Philip and he took their breakfast of horsebread and small beer while the kitchen hands were stoking the fires.

Philip bit off a hunk of the coarse dark bread and took a mouthful of beer to soften it. Milius was a sharp-witted, ebullient young man, a protégé of Cuthbert's and an admirer of Philip. He had dark straight hair and a small face with neat, regular features. Like Cuthbert, he was happy to serve God in practical ways and miss most of the services. Philip was suspicious of his optimism. “How do you come to that conclusion?” he asked skeptically.

“All of Cuthbert's side of the monstery support you—the chamberlain, the infirmarer, the novice-master, myself—because we know you're a good provider, and provisions are the big problem under the present regime. Many of the ordinary monks will vote for you for a similar reason: they think you will manage the priory's wealth better, and that will result in more comfort and better food.”

Philip frowned. “I wouldn't like to mislead anyone. My first priority would be to repair the church and smarten up the services. That comes before food.”

“Quite so, and they know that,” Milius said a little hastily. “That's why the guest-master and one or two others will still vote for Remigius—they prefer a slack regime and a quiet life. The others who support him are all cronies of his who anticipate special privileges when he's in charge—the sacrist, the circuitor, the treasurer and so on. The cantor is a friend of the sacrist, but I think he could be won over to our side, especially if you promise to appoint a librarian.”

Philip nodded. The cantor was in charge of the music, and felt he should not have to take care of the books on top of his other duties. “It's a good idea anyway,” Philip said. “We need a librarian to build up our collection of books.”

Milius got off his stool and began to sharpen a kitchen knife. He had too much energy and had to be doing something with his hands, Philip decided. “There are forty-four monks entitled to vote,” Milius said. There had been forty-five, of course, but one was dead. “My best estimate is that eighteen are with us and ten are with Remigius, leaving sixteen undecided. We need twenty-three for a majority. That means you have to win over five waverers.”

“When you put it that way, it seems easy,” Philip said. “How long have we got?”

“Can't tell. The brothers call the election, but if we do it too early the bishop may refuse to confirm our choice. And if we delay too long he can order us to call it. He also has the right to nominate a candidate. Right now he probably hasn't even heard that the old prior is dead.”

“It could be a long time, then.”

“Yes. And as soon as we're confident of a majority, you must go back to your cell, and stay away from here until it's all over.”

Philip was puzzled by this proposal. “Why?”

“Familiarity breeds contempt.” Milius waved the sharpened knife enthusiastically. “Forgive me if I sound disrespectful, but you did ask. At the moment you've got an aura. You're a remote, sanctified figure, especially to us younger monks. You worked a miracle at that little cell, reforming it and making it self-sufficient. You're a tough disciplinarian but you feed your monks well. You're a born leader but you can bow your head and accept rebuke like the youngest novice. You know the Scriptures and you make the best cheese in the country.”

“And
you
exaggerate.”

“Not much.”

“I can't believe people think of me like that—it's not natural.”