the ground floor consisted of store-rooms, and an outside staircase led to an upstairs entrance. A pair of sentries at the foot of the stairs bowed as Henry passed.
They went into the hall. There were rushes on the floor, a few seats recessed into the stone walls, some wooden benches and a fireplace. In a corner two men-at-arms guarded a staircase, set into the wall, leading up. One of the men met Bishop Henry's eye immediately. He nodded and went up the stairs, presumably to tell the king that his brother was waiting.
Philip felt nauseated with anxiety. In the next few minutes his whole future might be decided. He wished he felt better about his allies. He wished he had spent the early morning hours praying for success instead of wandering around Winchester. He wished he had worn a clean robe.
There were twenty or thirty other people in the room, nearly all of them men. They seemed to be a mixture of knights, priests and prosperous townspeople. Suddenly Philip started, surprised: over by the fire, talking to a woman and a young man, was Percy Hamleigh. What was he doing here? The two people with him were his ugly wife and his brutish son. They had been Waleran's collaborators, as it were, in the downfall of Bartholomew: it could hardly be a coincidence that they were here today. Philip wondered whether Waleran had expected them.
Philip said to Waleran: "Do you see--"
"I see them," Waleran snapped, visibly displeased.
Philip felt their presence here was ominous, though he could not have said just why. He studied them. The father and son were alike: big, beefy men with yellow hair and sullen faces. The wife looked like the kind of demon that tortured sinners in paintings of hell. She touched the sores on her face constantly, her skeletal hands moving restlessly. She wore a yellow gown that made her look even uglier. She shifted from one foot to another, darting glances around the room all the time. She met Philip's eyes, and he looked away quickly.
Bishop Henry was moving around, greeting the people he knew and blessing those he did not, but he must have been keeping an eye on the stairs, for as soon as the sentry came down again, Henry looked across at him, saw the man nod, and abandoned his conversation in midsentence.
Waleran followed Henry up the stairs and Philip brought up the rear with his heart in his mouth.
The upstairs room was the same size and shape as the entrance hall, but it felt completely different. There were tapestries on the walls and sheepskin rugs on the scrubbed floorboards. The fire blazed strongly and the room was brightly lit by dozens of candles. Near the door was an oak table with pens, ink and a stack of vellum sheets for letters, and a cleric sat waiting to take the king's dictation. Near the fireplace, in a big wooden chair covered with fur, sat the king.
The first thing Philip noticed was that he was not wearing a crown. He had on a purple tunic over leather leggings, as if he were about to go out on horseback. Two big hunting dogs lay at his feet like favored courtiers. He resembled his brother Bishop Henry, but Stephen's features were a little finer, making him more handsome, and he had a lot of tawny hair. However, there was the same look of intelligence about the eyes. He sat back in his big chair--Philip supposed it was a throne--looking relaxed, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his elbows on the arms of the seat, but despite his posture there was an air of tension in the room. The king was the only one at ease.
As the bishops and Philip entered, a big man in expensive clothes was leaving. He nodded in a familiar way to Bishop Henry and ignored Waleran. He was probably a powerful baron, Philip thought.
Bishop Henry approached the king, bowed, and said: "Good morning, Stephen."
"I still haven't seen that bastard Ranulf," said King Stephen. "If he doesn't show up soon I'm going to cut his fingers off."
Henry said: "He'll be here any day, I promise you, but perhaps you should cut his fingers off anyway."
Philip had no idea who Ranulf was or why the king wanted to see him, but he got the impression that although Stephen was displeased, he was not serious about mutilating the man.
Before Philip could give it any further thought, Waleran stepped forward and bowed, and Henry said: "You remember Waleran Bigod, the new bishop of Kingsbridge."
"Yes," Stephen said, "but who's this?" He looked at Philip.
Waleran said: "This is my prior."
Waleran did not say his name, so Philip supplied it. "Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge." His voice sounded louder than he had intended. He bowed.
"Come forward, father prior," Stephen said. "You seem afraid. What are you worried about?"
Philip could not think how to answer that. He was worried about so many things. In desperation he said: "I'm worried because I don't have a clean robe to wear."
Stephen laughed, but not unkindly. "Then stop worrying," he said. With a glance at his well-dressed brother he added: "I like a monk to look like a monk, not like a king."
Philip felt a little better.
Stephen said: "I heard about the fire. How are you managing?"
Philip said: "On the day of the fire, God sent us a builder. He repaired the cloisters very quickly, and we use the crypt for services. With his help, we're clearing the ruins ready for rebuilding; and he has drawn plans for a new church."
Waleran raised his eyebrows at that: he did not know about the plans. Philip would have told him, if he had asked; but he had not. The king said: "Commendably prompt. When will you begin to build?"
"As soon as I can find the money."
Bishop Henry cut in: "That's why I've brought Prior Philip and Bishop Waleran to see you. Neither the priory nor the diocese has the resources to finance a project this big."
"Nor does the Crown, my dear brother," said Stephen.
Philip was discouraged: that was not a promising beginning.
Henry said: "I know. That's why I've looked for a way in which you could make it possible for them to rebuild Kingsbridge, but at no cost to yourself."
Stephen looked skeptical. "And did you succeed in devising such an ingenious, not to say magical, scheme?"
"Yes. My suggestion is that you should give the earl of Shiring's lands to the diocese to finance the building program."
Philip held his breath.
The king looked thoughtful.
Waleran opened his mouth to speak, but Henry silenced him with a gesture.
The king said: "It's a clever idea. I'd like to do it."
Philip's heart leaped.
The king said: "Unfortunately, I've just virtually promised the earldom to Percy Hamleigh."
A groan escaped Philip's lips. He had thought the king was going to say yes. The disappointment was like a knife wound.
Henry and Waleran were dumbstruck. No one had anticipated this.
Henry was the first to speak. He said: "Virtually?"
The king shrugged. "I might wriggle out of it, although not without considerable embarrassment. But after all, it was Percy who brought the traitor Bartholomew to justice."
Waleran burst out: "Not without help, my lord!"
"I knew you had played some part in it...."
"It was I who told Percy Hamleigh of the plot against you."
"Yes. By the way, how did you learn of it?"
Philip shuffled his feet. They were on dangerous ground. No one must know that the information had come originally from his brother, Francis, for Francis was still working for Robert of Gloucester, who had been forgiven for his part in the plot.
Waleran said: "The information came from a deathbed confession."
Philip was relieved. Waleran was repeating the lie Philip had told him, but speaking as if the "confession" had been made to him rather than to Philip. Philip was more than content to have attention drawn away from his own role in this.
The king said: "Still, it was Percy, not you, who attacked Bartholomew's castle, risking life and limb, and arrested the traitor. "
"You could reward Percy some other way," Henry put in.
"Shiring is what Percy wants," the king said. "He knows the area. And he'll rule effectively there. I could give him Cambridgeshire, but would the fenmen follow him?"
Henry said: "You ought to give thanks to God first, men second. It was God who made you king."
"But it was Percy who arrested Bartholomew."
Henry bridled at this irreverence. "God controls all things--"
"Don't press me on this," Stephen said, holding up his right hand.
"Of course," Henry said submissively.
It was a vivid demonstration of royal power. For a moment there they had been arguing almost like equals, but Stephen had been able to regain the upper hand with a word.
Philip was bitterly disappointed. At the start he had thought this an impossible demand, but he had gradually come to hope it would be granted, even to fantasize about how he would use the wealth. Now he had been brought back to reality with a hard bump.
Waleran said: "My lord king, I thank you for being willing to reconsider the future of the Shiring earldom, and I will await your decision anxiously and prayerfully."
That was neat, Philip thought. It sounded as if Waleran was giving in gracefully. In fact he was summing up by saying that the question was still open. The king had not said that. If anything, his response had been negative. But there was nothing offensive about insisting that the king could still decide one way or the other. I must remember that, Philip thought: when you're about to be turned down, go for a postponement.
Stephen hesitated a moment, as if entertaining a faint suspicion that he was being manipulated; then he seemed to dismiss any doubts. "Thank you all for coming to see me," he said.
Philip and Waleran turned to leave, but Henry stood his ground and said: "When shall we hear your decision?"
Stephen once again looked somewhat cornered. "The day after tomorrow," he said.
Henry bowed, and the three of them went out.
The uncertainty was almost as bad as a negative decision. Philip found the waiting unbearable. He spent the afternoon with the Winchester priory's marvelous collection of books, but they could not distract him from wondering what was going on in the king's mind. Could the king renege on his promise to Percy Hamleigh? How important was Percy? He was a member of the gentry who aspired to an earldom--surely Stephen had no reason to fear offending him. But how badly did Stephen want to help Kingsbridge? Notoriously, kings became pious as they aged. Stephen was young.
Philip was turning the possibilities over and over in his mind, and looking at but not reading Boethius's The Consolation of Philosophy, when a novice came tiptoeing along the cloister walk and approached him shyly. "There's someone asking for you in the outer court, Father," the lad whispered.
If the visitor had been made to wait outside, that meant he was not a monk. "Who is it?" Philip said.
"It's a woman."
Philip's first, horrified thought was that it was the whore who had accosted him outside the mint; but something in the novice's expression told him otherwise. There was another woman whose eyes had met his today. "What does she look like?"
The boy made a disgusted face.
Philip nodded, understanding. "Regan Hamleigh." What mischief was she up to now? "I'll come at once."
He walked slowly and thoughtfully around the cloisters and out to the courtyard. He would need his wits about him to deal with this woman.
She was standing outside the cellarer's parlor, wrapped in a heavy cloak, hiding her face in a hood. She gave Philip a look of such naked malevolence that he had half a mind to turn around and go back in immediately; but he was ashamed to run from a woman, so he stood his ground and said: "What do you want with me?"
"You foolish monk," she spat. "How can you be so stupid?"
He felt his face redden. "I'm the prior of Kingsbridge, and you'd better call me Father," he said; but to his chagrin he sounded petulant rather than authoritative.
"All right, Father--how can you just let yourself be used by those two greedy bishops?"
Philip took a deep breath. "Speak plainly," he said angrily.
"It's hard to find words plain enough for someone as witless as you, but I'll try. Waleran is using the burned-down church as a pretext for getting the lands of the Shiring earldom for himself. Is that plain speaking? Have you grasped that concept?"
Her contemptuous tone continued to rile Philip, but he could not resist the temptation to defend himself. "There's nothing underhand about it," he said. "The income from the lands is to be used to rebuild the cathedral."
"What makes you think so?"
"That's the whole idea!" Philip protested; but at the back of his mind he already felt the first stirrings of doubt.
Regan's scornful tone changed and she became sly. "Will the new lands belong to the priory?" she said. "Or to the diocese?"
Philip stared at her for a moment, then turned away: her face was too revolting to look at. He had been working on the assumption that the lands would belong to the priory, and be under his control, rather than to the diocese, where they would be under Waleran's control. But he now recalled that when they had been with the king, Bishop Henry had specifically asked for the lands to be given to the diocese. Philip had assumed that was a slip of the tongue. But it had not been corrected, then or later.
He eyed Regan suspiciously. She could not possibly have known what Henry was going to say to the king. She might be right about this. On the other hand, she could simply be trying to make trouble. She had everything to gain from a quarrel between Philip and Waleran at this point. Philip said: "Waleran is the bishop--he has to have a cathedral."
"He has to have a lot of things," she rejoined. She became less malevolent and more human as she began to reason, but Philip still could not bear to look at her for long. "For some bishops, a fine cathedral would be the first priority. For Waleran there are other necessities. Anyway, as long as he controls the purse strings, he will be able to dole out as much or as little as he likes to you and your builders."
Philip realized she was right about that, at least. If Waleran was collecting the rents, he would naturally retain a portion for his expenses. He alone would be able to say what that portion should be. There would be nothing to stop him from diverting the funds to purposes having nothing to do with the cathedral, if he so chose. And Philip would never know, from one month to the next, whether he was going to be able to pay the builders.
There was no doubt it would be better if the priory owned the land. But Philip was sure Waleran would resist that idea, and Bishop Henry would back Waleran. Then Philip's only hope would be to appeal to the king. And King Stephen, seeing the churchmen divided, might solve the problem by giving the earldom to Percy Hamleigh.
Which was what Regan wanted, of course.
Philip shook his head. "If Waleran is trying to deceive me, why did he bring me here at all? He could have come on his own, and made the same plea."
She nodded. "He could have. But the king might have asked himself how sincere Waleran was, saying that he only wanted the earldom in order to build a cathedral. You've lulled any suspicions Stephen might have had, by appearing here in support of Waleran's claim." Her tone became contemptuous again. "And you look so pathetic, in your dirty robe, that the king pities you. No, Waleran was clever to bring you."
Philip had a horrible feeling she might be right, but he was not willing to admit it. "You just want the earldom for your husband," he said.
"If I could show you proof, would you ride half a day to see it?"
The last thing Philip wanted was to be sucked into Regan Hamleigh's scheming. But he had to find out whether her allegation was true. Reluctantly, he said: "Yes, I'll ride half a day."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Be ready at dawn."
It was William Hamleigh, the son of Percy and Regan, who was waiting for Philip in the outer courtyard the following morning as the monks began to sing prime. Philip and William left Winchester by the West Gate, then immediately turned north on Athelynge Street. Bishop Waleran's palace was in this direction, Philip realized; and it was about half a day's ride. So that was where they were going. But why? He was deeply suspicious. He decided to be alert for trickery. The Hamleighs might well be trying to use him. He speculated about how. There might be a document in Waleran's possession that the Hamleighs wanted to see or even steal--some kind of deed or charter. Young Lord William could tell the bishop's staff that the two of them had been sent to fetch the document: they might believe him because Philip was with him. William could easily have some such little scheme up his sleeve. Philip would have to be on his guard.
It was a gloomy, gray morning with drizzling rain. William set a brisk pace for the first few miles, then slowed to a walk to rest the horses. After a while he said: "So, monk, you want to take the earldom away from me."
Philip was taken aback by his hostile tone: he had done nothing to deserve it, and he resented it. Consequently his reply was sharp. "From you?" he said. "You aren't going to get it, boy. I might get it, or your father might, or Bishop Waleran might. But nobody has asked the king to give it to you. The very idea is a joke."
"I shall inherit it."
"We'll see." Philip decided there was no point in quarreling with William. "I don't mean you any harm," he said in a conciliatory tone. "I just want to build a new cathedral."
"Then take someone else's earldom," William said. "Why do people always pick on us?"
There was a lot of bitterness in the boy's voice, Philip noted. He said: "Do people always pick on you?"
"You'd think they'd learn a lesson from what happened to Bartholomew. He insulted our family, and look where he is now."
"I thought it was his daughter who was responsible for the insult."
"The bitch is as proud and arrogant as her father. But she'll suffer, too. They'll all kneel to us in the end, you'll see."
These were not the usual emotions of a twenty-year-old, Philip thought. William sounded more like an envious and venomous middle-aged woman. Philip was not enjoying the conversation. Most people would dress up their naked hatred in reasonable clothes, but William was too naive to do that. Philip said: "Revenge is best left until the Day of Judgment."
"Why don't you wait until the Day of Judgment to build your church?"
"Because by then it will be too late to save the souls of sinners from the torments of hell."
"Don't start on