ion," Jonathan said.
"Yes."
"I wonder why he never took me back?"
"My mother left him quite soon after we came here," Jack said. He smiled ruefully. "She was hard to please, like Sally. Anyway, that meant Tom would have had to hire a nursemaid to look after you. So I suppose he thought: Why not leave the baby at the monastery? You were well cared for there."
Jonathan nodded. "By dear old Johnny Eightpence, God rest his soul."
"Tom probably spent more time with you that way. You were running around the priory close all day and every day, and he was working there. If he'd taken you away from the priory and left you at home with a nursemaid, he'd actually have seen less of you. And I imagine as the years went by, and you grew up as the priory orphan, and seemed happy that way, it felt more and more natural to leave you there. People often give a child to God, anyway."
"All these years I've wondered about my parents," Jonathan said. Jack's heart ached for him. "I've tried to imagine what they were like, asked God to let me meet them, wondered whether they loved me, questioned why they left me. Now I know that my mother died giving birth to me and my father was close to me all the rest of his life." He smiled through his tears. "I can't tell you how happy I am."
Jack felt close to tears himself. To cover his embarrassment he said: "You look like Tom."
"Do I?" Jonathan was pleased.
"Don't you remember how tall he was?"
"All adults were tall then."
"He had good features, like you. Well-carved. If ever you'd grown a beard, people would have guessed."
"I remember the day he died," Jonathan said. "He took me around the fair. We watched the bearbaiting. Then I climbed the wall of the chancel. I was too frightened to come down, so he had to come up and carry me down. Then he saw William's men coming. He put me in the cloisters. That was the last time I saw him alive."
"I remember that," Jack said. "I watched him climb down with you in his arms."
"He made sure I was safe," Jonathan said wonderingly.
"Then he took care of the others," Jack said.
"He really loved me."
Jack was struck by a thought. "This will make a difference to Philip's trial, won't it?"
"I'd forgotten that," Jonathan said. "Yes, it will. My goodness."
"Have we got irrefutable proof?" Jack wondered. "I saw the baby, and the priest, but I never actually saw the baby delivered to the little priory."
"Francis did. But Francis is Philip's brother, so his evidence is tainted."
"My mother and Tom went off together that morning," Jack said, straining his memory. "They said they were going to look for the priest. I bet they went to the priory to make sure the baby was all right."
"If she would say so in court, that would really sew it up," Jonathan said eagerly.
"Philip thinks she's a witch," Jack pointed out. "Would he let her testify?"
"We could spring it on him. But she hates him, too. Will she testify?"
"I don't know," said Jack. "Let's ask her."
"Fornication and nepotism?" Jack's mother cried. "Philip?" She started to laugh. "It's too absurd!"
"Mother, this is serious," Jack said.
"Philip couldn't fornicate if you put him in a barrel with three whores," she said. "He wouldn't know what to do!"
Jonathan was looking embarrassed. "Prior Philip is in real trouble, even if the charge is absurd," he said.
"And why would I help Philip?" she said. "He's caused me nothing but heartache."
Jack had been afraid of this. His mother had never forgiven Philip for splitting her and Tom. "Philip did the same to me as he did to you--if I can forgive him, you can."
"I'm not the forgiving type," she said.
"Don't do it for Philip, then--do it for me. I want to continue building at Kingsbridge."
"Why? The church is finished."
"I'd like to pull down Tom's chancel and rebuild it in the new style."
"Oh, for God's sake--"
"Mother. Philip is a good prior, and when he goes Jonathan will take over--if you come to Kingsbridge and tell the truth at the trial."
"I hate courts," she said. "No good ever comes out of them."
It was maddening. She held the key to Philip's trial: she could ensure that he was cleared. But she was a stubborn old woman. Jack was seriously afraid he would not be able to talk her into it.
He decided to try stinging her into consenting. "I suppose it's a long way to travel, for someone of your age," he said slyly. "How old are you now--sixty--eight?"
"Sixty-two, and don't try to provoke me," she snapped. "I'm fitter than you, my boy."
It could be true, Jack thought. Her hair was white as snow, and her face was deeply lined, but her startling golden eyes saw just as much as ever they had: as soon as she looked at Jonathan she had known who he was, and she had said: "Well, I've no need to ask why you're here. You've found out where you come from, have you? By God, you're as tall as your father and nearly as broad." She was also as independent and self-willed as ever.
"Sally is like you," Jack said.
She was pleased. "Is she?" She smiled. "In what way?"
"In her mulish obstinacy."
"Huh." Mother looked cross. "She'll be all right then."
Jack decided he might as well beg. "Mother, please--come to Kingsbridge with us and tell the truth."
"I don't know," she said.
Jonathan said: "I have something else to ask you."
Jack wondered what was coming. He was afraid Jonathan might say something to antagonize his mother: it was easily done, especially by clergymen. He held his breath.
Jonathan said: "Could you show me where my mother is buried?"
Jack let his breath out silently. There was nothing wrong with that. Indeed, Jonathan could hardly have thought of anything more likely to soften her.
She dropped her scornful manner immediately. "Of course I'll show you," she said. "I'm pretty sure I could find it."
Jack was reluctant to spend the time. The trial would start in the morning and they had a long way to go. But he sensed that he should let fate take its course.
Mother said to Jonathan: "Do you want to go there now?"
"Yes, please, if it's possible."
"All right." She stood up. She picked up a short cape of rabbit fur and slung it across her shoulders. Jack was about to tell her she would be too warm in that, but he held back: old people always felt colder.
They left the cave, with its smell of stored apples and wood smoke, and pushed through the concealing vegetation around its mouth to emerge into the spring sunshine. Mother set off without hesitation. Jack and Jonathan untied their horses and followed. They had to lead their mounts, for the terrain was too overgrown for riding. Jack noticed that his mother walked more slowly than she used to. She was not as fit as she pretended.
Jack could not have found the site on his own. There had been a time when he could find his way around this forest as easily as he could now move around Kingsbridge. But one clearing looked very much like another to him these days, just as the houses of Kingsbridge would all look the same to a stranger. Mother followed a chain of animal trails through the dense woodland. Now and again Jack would recognize a landmark associated with some childhood memory: an enormous old oak where he had once taken refuge from a wild boar; a rabbit warren that had provided many a dinner; a trout stream where, it seemed in retrospect, he had been able to catch fat fish in no time. For a while he would know where he was, then he would be lost again. It was amazing to think he had once felt totally at home in what was now an alien place, its brooks and thickets as meaningless to him as his voussoirs and templates were to peasants. If he had ever wondered, in those days, how his life would turn out, his best guess would have been nowhere near the truth.
They walked several miles. It was a warm spring day, and Jack found himself sweating, but Mother kept the rabbit fur on. Toward midafternoon she came to a halt in a shady clearing. Jack noticed she was breathing hard and looking a little gray. It was definitely time she left the forest, and came to live with him and Aliena. He resolved that he would make a big effort to persuade her.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"Of course I'm all right," she snapped. "We're there."
Jack looked around. He did not recognize it.
Jonathan said: "Is this it?"
"Yes," Mother said.
Jack said: "Where's the road?"
"Over there."
When Jack had oriented himself with the road, the clearing began to look familiar, and he was flooded with a powerful sense of the past. There was the big horse-chestnut tree: it had been bare of leaves, then, and there had been conkers all over the forest floor, but now the tree was in blossom, with big white flowers like candles all over it. The blossom had started to fall already, and every few moments a cloud of petals drifted down.
"Martha told me what had happened," Jack said. "They stopped here because your mother could go no farther. Tom made a fire and boiled some turnips for supper: there was no meat. Your mother gave birth to you right here, on the ground. You were perfectly healthy, but something went wrong, and she died." There was a slight rise in the ground a few feet from the base of the tree. "Look," Jack said. "See the mound?"
Jonathan nodded, his face taut with suppressed emotion.
"That's the grave." As Jack spoke, a drift of blossom fell from the tree and settled over the mound like a carpet of petals.
Jonathan knelt beside the grave and began to pray.
Jack stood silent. He remembered when he had discovered his relatives in Cherbourg: it had been a devastating experience. What Jonathan was going through must be even more intense.
Eventually Jonathan stood up. "When I'm prior," he said solemnly, "I'm going to build a little monastery just here, with a chapel and a hostel, so that in future no traveler on this stretch of road will ever have to spend a cold winter's night sleeping in the open air. I'll dedicate the hostel to the memory of my mother." He looked at Jack. "I don't suppose you ever knew her name, did you?"
"It was Agnes," Ellen said softly. "Your mother's name was Agnes."
Bishop Waleran made a persuasive case.
He began by telling the court about Philip's precocious development: cellarer of his monastery when he was only twenty-one, prior of the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest at twenty-three; prior of Kingsbridge at the remarkably young age of twenty-eight. He constantly emphasized Philip's youth and managed to suggest there was something arrogant about anyone who accepted responsibility early. Then he described St-John-in-the-Forest, its remoteness and isolation, and spoke of the freedom and independence of whoever was its prior. "Who can be surprised," he said, "that after five years as virtually his own master, with only the lightest and most distant kind of supervision, this inexperienced, warm-blooded young man had a child?" It sounded almost inevitable. Waleran was infuriatingly credible. Philip wanted to strangle him.
Waleran went on to say how Philip had brought Jonathan and Johnny Eightpence with him when he came to Kingsbridge. The monks had been startled, Waleran said, when their new prior arrived with a baby and a nurse. That was true. For a moment Philip forgot his tension, and had to suppress a nostalgic smile.
Philip had played with Jonathan as a youngster, taught him lessons, and later made the lad his personal assistant, Waleran went on, just as any man would do with his own son, except that monks were not supposed to have sons. "Jonathan was precocious, just like Philip," Waleran said. "When Cuthbert Whitehead died, Philip made Jonathan cellarer, even though Jonathan was only twenty-one. Was there really no one else who could be cellarer, in this monastery of more than a hundred monks; no one but a boy of twenty-one? Or was Philip giving preference to his own flesh and blood? When Milius went off to be prior at Glastonbury, Philip made Jonathan treasurer. He is thirty-four years old. Is he the wisest and most devout of all the monks here? Or is he simply Philip's favorite?"
Philip looked around at the court. It was being held in the south transept of Kingsbridge Cathedral. Archdeacon Peter sat on a large, ornately carved chair like a throne. All of Waleran's staff were present, as were most of the monks of Kingsbridge. There would be little work done in the monastery while the prior was on trial. Every important church-man in the county was here, even some of the humble parish priests. There were also representatives from neighboring dioceses. The entire ecclesiastical community of southern England was waiting for the verdict of this court. They were not very interested in Philip's virtue, or lack of it, of course: they were following the final trial of strength between Prior Philip and Bishop Waleran.
When Waleran sat down Philip took the oath, then began to tell the story of that winter morning so long ago. He started with the upset caused by Peter of Wareham: he wanted everyone to know that Peter was prejudiced against him. Then he called Francis to tell how the baby was found.
Jonathan had gone off, leaving a message to say that he was on the track of new information about his parentage. Jack had disappeared too, from which Philip had concluded that the trip had something to do with Jack's mother, the witch Ellen, and that Jonathan had been afraid that if he stayed to explain, Philip would have forbidden the journey. They had been due back this morning, but had not yet arrived. Philip did not think Ellen would have anything to add to the story Francis was telling.
When Francis had done, Philip began to speak. "That baby was not mine," he said simply. "I swear it was not mine, in peril of my immortal soul I swear it. I have never had carnal knowledge of a woman, and I remain to this day in that state of chastity commended to us by the Apostle Paul. So why, the lord bishop asks, did I treat the babe as if it were my own?"
He looked around at the listeners. He had decided that his only chance was to tell the truth and hope that God would speak loud enough to overcome Peter's spiritual deafness. "When I was six years old, my father and mother died. They were killed by soldiers of the old King Henry, in Wales. My brother and I were saved by the abbot of a nearby monastery, and from that day onward we were cared for by monks. I was a monastery orphan. I know what it's like. I understand how the orphan yearns for a mother's touch, even though he loves the brothers who care for him. I knew that Jonathan would feel abnormal, peculiar, illegitimate. I have felt that feeling of isolation, the sense that I am different from everyone else because they all have a father and a mother and I do not. Like him, I have felt ashamed of myself for being a burden on the charity of others; have wondered what was wrong with me, that I should have been deprived of what others took for granted. I knew that he would dream, in the night, of the warm, fragrant bosom and soft voice of a mother he never knew, someone who loved him utterly and completely."
Archdeacon Peter's face was like stone. He was the worst kind of Christian, Philip realized: he embraced all of the negatives, enforced every proscription, insisted on all forms of denial, and demanded strict punishment for every offense; yet he ignored all the compassion of Christianity, denied its mercy, flagrantly disobeyed its ethic of love, and openly flouted the gentle laws of Jesus. That's what the Pharisees were like, Philip thought; no wonder the Lord preferred to eat with publicans and sinners.
He went on, although he understood, with a sinking heart, that nothing he could say would penetrate the armor of Peter's righteousness. "Nobody could care for that boy as I could, unless it were his own parents; and those we never could find. What clearer indication of God's will...." He tailed off. Jonathan had just come into the church, with Jack; and between them was the witch, Jack's mother.
She had aged: her hair was snow-white, and her face was deeply lined. But she walked in like a queen, her head held high, her strange golden eyes blazing with defiance. Philip was too surprised to protest.
The court was silent as she entered the transept and stood facing Archdeacon Peter. She spoke in a voice that rang like a trumpet, and echoed from the clerestory of her son's church. "I swear by all that is holy that Jonathan is the son of Tom Builder, my dead husband, and his first wife."
There was an astonished clamor from the crowd of clergy. For a while nobody could be heard. Philip was completely bowled over. He stared openmouthed at Ellen. Tom Builder? Jonathan was the son of Tom Builder? When he looked at Jonathan he knew immediately that it was true: they were alike, not just in their height, but facially. If Jonathan had had a beard it would have been obvious.
His first reaction was a sense of loss. Until now, he had been the nearest Jonathan had to a father. But Tom was Jonathan's real father, and although Tom was dead, the discovery changed everything. Philip could no longer secretly think of himself as a father; Jonathan would no longer feel like his son. Jonathan was Tom's son now. Philip had lost him.
Philip sat down heavily. When the crowd began to quiet down, Ellen told the story of Jack hearing a cry and finding a newborn baby. Philip listened, dazed, as she told how she and Tom had hidden in the bushes, watching, as Philip and the monks came back from their morning's work to find Francis waiting for them with a newborn baby, and Johnny Eightpence trying to feed it with a rag dipped into a bucket of goat's milk.
Philip remembered very clearly how interested the young Tom had been, a day or so later, when they had met by accident and Philip had told him about the abandoned baby. Philip had assumed his interest was that of any compassionate man in a touching story, but in fact Tom had been learning the fate of his own child.
Then Philip recalled how fond Tom had been of Jonathan in later years, as the baby turned into a toddler and then a mischievous boy. Nobody had remarked on it: the whole monastery had treated Jonathan as a pet in those days and Tom spent all his time in the priory close, so his behavior was completely unremarkable; but now, in retrospect, Philip could see that the attention Tom paid to Jonathan was special.
As Ellen sat down, Philip realized that he had been proved innocent. Ellen's revelations had been so devastating that he had almost forgotten he was on trial. Her story of childbirth and death, desperation and hope, ancient secrets and enduring love, made the question of Philip's chastity seem trivial. It was not trivial, of course; the future of the priory hung on it; and Ellen had now answered the question so dramatically that it seemed impossible the trial