"And the other discontented baron?"
"My own Robert of Gloucester. I told you he was ambitious. His soul is tormented by the thought that if only he were legitimate, he would be king. He wants to put his half sister on the throne, believing that she will rely so heavily on her brother for guidance and advice that he will be king in everything but name."
"Is he going to do anything about it?"
"I'm afraid so." Francis lowered his voice, although there was no one near. "Robert and Bartholomew, together with Maud and her husband, are going to foment a rebellion. They plan to unseat Stephen and put Maud on the throne."
Philip stopped walking. "Which would undo everything the bishop of Winchester has achieved!" He grasped his brother's arm. "But, Francis ..."
"I know what you're thinking." Suddenly all Francis's cockiness left him, and he looked anxious and frightened. "If Earl Robert knew I'd even told you, he would hang me. He trusts me completely. But my ultimate loyalty is to the Church--it has to be."
"But what can you do?"
"I thought of seeking an audience with the new king, and telling him everything. Of course, the two rebel earls would deny it all, and I would be hanged for treachery; but the rebellion would be frustrated and I would go to heaven."
Philip shook his head. "We're taught that it's vain to seek martyrdom."
"And I think God has more work for me to do here on earth. I'm in a position of trust in the household of a great baron, and if I stay there and advance myself by hard work, there's a lot I could do to promote the rights of the Church and the rule of law."
"Is there any other way ... ?"
Francis looked Philip in the eye. "That's why I'm here."
Philip felt a shiver of fear. Francis was going to ask him to get involved, of course; there was no other reason for him to reveal this dreadful secret.
Francis went on: "I can't betray the rebellion, but you can."
Philip said: "Jesus Christ and all the saints, preserve me."
"If the plot is uncovered here, in the south, no suspicion will fall on the Gloucester household. Nobody knows I'm here; nobody even knows you're my brother. You could think of some plausible explanation of how you came by the information: you might have seen men-at-arms assembling, or it might be that someone in Earl Bartholomew's household revealed the plot while confessing his sins to a priest you know."
Philip pulled his cloak closer around him, shivering. It seemed to have turned colder suddenly. This was dangerous, very dangerous. They were talking about meddling in royal politics, which regularly killed experienced practitioners. Outsiders such as Philip were foolish to get involved.
But there was so much at stake. Philip could not stand by and see a rebellion against a king chosen by the Church, not when he had a chance to prevent it. And dangerous though it would be for Philip, it would be suicidal for Francis to expose the plot.
Philip said: "What's the rebels' plan?"
"Earl Bartholomew is on his way back to Shiring right now. From there he will send out messages to his followers all over the south of England. Earl Robert will arrive in Gloucester a day or two later and muster his forces in the West Country. Finally Brian Fitzcount, who holds Wallingford Castle, will close its gates; and the whole of southwest England will belong to the rebels without a fight."
"Then it's almost too late!" Philip said.
"Not really. We've got about a week. But you'll have to act quickly."
Philip realized with a sinking feeling that he had more or less made up his mind to do it. "I don't know whom to tell," he said. "One would normally go to the earl, but in this case he's the culprit. The sheriff is probably on his side. We have to think of someone who is certain to be on our side."
"The prior of Kingsbridge?"
"My prior is old and tired. The likelihood is that he would do nothing."
"There must be someone."
"There's the bishop." Philip had never actually spoken to the bishop of Kingsbridge, but he would be sure to receive Philip and listen to him; he would automatically side with Stephen because Stephen was the Church's choice; and he was powerful enough to do something about it.
Francis said: "Where does the bishop live?"
"It's a day and a half from here."
"You'd better leave today."
"Yes," Philip said with a heavy heart.
Francis looked remorseful. "I wish it were someone else."
"So do I," Philip said feelingly. "So do I."
Philip called the monks into the little chapel and told them that the king had died. "We must pray for a peaceful succession and a new king who will love the Church more than the late Henry," he said. But he did not tell them that the key to a peaceful succession had somehow fallen into his own hands. Instead he said: "There is other news that obliges me to visit our mother house at Kingsbridge. I must leave right away."
The sub-prior would read the services and the cellarer would run the farm, but neither of them was a match for Peter of Wareham, and Philip was afraid that if he stayed away long Peter might make so much trouble that there would be no monastery left when he returned. He had not been able to think up a way of controlling Peter without bruising his self-esteem, and now there was no time left, so he had to do the best he could.
"Earlier today we talked about gluttony," he said after a pause. "Brother Peter deserves our thanks for reminding us that when God blesses our farm and gives us wealth, it is not so that we should become fat and comfortable, but for his greater glory. It is part of our holy duty to share our riches with the poor. Until now we have neglected this duty, mainly because here in the forest we don't have anybody to share with. Brother Peter has reminded us that it's our duty to go out and seek the poor, so that we may bring them relief."
The monks were surprised: they had imagined that the subject of gluttony had been closed. Peter himself was looking uncertain. He was pleased to be the center of attention again, but he was wary of what Philip might have up his sleeve--quite rightly.
"I have decided," Philip went on, "that each week we will give to the poor one penny for every monk in our community. If this means we all have to eat a little less, we will rejoice in the prospect of our heavenly reward. More important, we must make sure that our pennies are well spent. When you give a poor man a penny to buy bread for his family, he may go straight to the alehouse and get drunk, then go home and beat his wife, who would therefore have been better off without your charity. Better to give him the bread; better still to give the bread to his children. Giving alms is a holy task that must be done with as much diligence as healing the sick or educating the young. For this reason, many monastic houses appoint an almoner, to be responsible for almsgiving. We will do the same."
Philip looked around. They were all alert and interested. Peter wore a gratified look, evidently having decided that this was a victory for him. No one had guessed what was coming.
"The almoner's job is hard work. He will have to walk to the nearest towns and villages, frequently to Winchester. There he will go among the meanest, dirtiest, ugliest and most vicious classes of people, for such are the poor. He must pray for them when they blaspheme, visit them when they're sick, and forgive them when they try to cheat and rob him. He will need strength, humility and endless patience. He will miss the comfort of this community, for he will be away more than he is with us."
He looked around once again. Now they were all wary, for none of them wanted this job. He let his gaze rest on Peter of Wareham. Peter realized what was coming, and his face fell.
"It was Peter who drew our attention to our shortcomings in this area," Philip said slowly, "so I have decided that it shall be Peter who has the honor of being our almoner." He smiled. "You can begin today."
Peter's face was as black as thunder.
You'll be away too much to cause trouble, Philip thought; and close contact with the vile, verminous poor of Winchester's stinking alleyways will temper your scorn of soft living.
However, Peter evidently saw this as a punishment, pure and simple, and he looked at Philip with an expression of such hatred that for a moment Philip quailed.
He tore his gaze away and looked at the others. "After the death of a king there is always danger and uncertainty," he said. "Pray for me while I'm away."
II
At noon on the second day of his journey, Prior Philip was within a few miles of the bishop's palace. His bowels felt watery as he got nearer. He had thought of a story to explain how he came to know of the planned rebellion. But the bishop might not believe his story; or, believing it, he might demand proof. Worse still--and this possibility had not occurred to Philip until after he parted company with Francis--it was conceivable, albeit unlikely, that the bishop was one of the conspirators, and supported the rebellion. He might be a crony of the earl of Shiring. It was not unknown for bishops to put their own interests before those of the Church.
The bishop could torture Philip to make him reveal his source of information. Of course he had no right to, but then he had no right to plot against the king, either. Philip recalled the instruments of torture depicted in paintings of hell. Such paintings were inspired by what went on in the dungeons of barons and bishops. Philip did not feel he had the strength for a martyr's death.
When he saw a group of travelers on foot in the road ahead of him his first instinct was to rein in to avoid passing them, for he was alone, and there were plenty of footpads who would not scruple to rob a monk. Then he saw that two of the figures were children, and another was a woman. A family group was usually safe. He trotted to catch them.
As he drew nearer he could see them more clearly. They were a tall man, a small woman, a youth almost as big as the man, and two children. They were visibly poor: they carried no little bundles of precious possessions and they were dressed in rags. The man was big-boned, but emaciated, as if he were dying of a wasting disease--or just starving. He looked warily at Philip, and drew the children closer to him with a touch and a murmured word. Philip had at first guessed his age at fifty, but now he saw that the man was in his thirties, although his face was lined with care.
The woman said: "What ho, monk."
Philip looked sharply at her. It was unusual for a woman to speak before her husband did, and while monk was not exactly impolite, it would have been more respectful to say brother or father. The woman was younger than the man by about ten years, and she had deep-set eyes of an unusual pale gold color that gave her a rather arresting appearance. Philip felt she was dangerous.
"Good day, Father," the man said, as if to apologize for his wife's brusqueness.
"God bless you," said Philip, slowing his mare. "Who are you?"
"Tom, a master builder, seeking work."
"And not finding any, I'd guess."
"That's the truth."
Philip nodded. It was a common story. Building craftsmen normally wandered in search of work, and sometimes they did not find it, either through bad luck or because not many people were building. Such men often took advantage of the hospitality of monasteries. If they had recently been in work they gave generous donations when they left, although after they had been on the road a while they might have nothing to offer. Giving an equally warm welcome to both kinds was sometimes a trial of monastic charity.
This builder was definitely the penniless kind, although his wife looked well enough. Philip said: "Well, I have food in my saddlebag, and it is dinnertime, and charity is a holy duty; so if you and your family will eat with me, I shall get a reward in heaven, as well as some company while I dine."
"That's good of you," said Tom. He looked at the woman. She gave the slightest of shrugs, then a little nod. Almost without pause the man said: "We'll accept your charity, and thank you."
"Thank God, not me," Philip said automatically.
The woman said: "Thank the peasants whose tithes provided the food."
Here's a sharp one, Philip thought; but he said nothing.
They stopped at a small clearing where Philip's pony could graze the tired winter grass. Philip was secretly glad of the excuse to postpone his arrival at the palace and delay the dreaded interview with the bishop. The builder said that he too was heading for the bishop's palace, hoping that the bishop might want to make repairs or even build an extension. While they were talking, Philip surreptitiously studied the family. The woman seemed too young to be the mother of the older boy. He was like a calf, strong and awkward and stupid-looking. The other boy was small and odd, with carrot-colored hair, snow-white skin and protuberant bright-blue eyes; and he had a way of staring intently at things, with an absent expression that reminded Philip of poor Johnny Eightpence, except that unlike Johnny this boy would give you a very adult, knowing look when you caught his eye. In his way he was as disturbing as his mother, Philip found. The third child was a girl of about six years. She was crying intermittently, and her father watched her constantly with affectionate concern, and gave her a comforting pat from time to time, although he said nothing to her. He was evidently very fond of her. He also touched his wife, once, and Philip saw a look of lust flash between them when their eyes met.
The woman sent the children to find broad leaves to use as platters. Philip opened his saddlebags. Tom said: "Where is your monastery, Father?"
"In the forest, a day's journey from here, to the west." The woman looked up sharply, and Tom raised his eyebrows. "Do you know it?" Philip asked.
For some reason Tom looked awkward. "We must have passed near it on the way from Salisbury," he said.
"Oh, yes, you would have, but it's a long way off the main road, so you wouldn't have seen it, unless you knew where it was and went to find it."
"Ah, I see," said Tom, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
Philip was struck by a thought. "Tell me something--did you come across a woman on the road? Probably very young, alone, and, ah, with child?"
"No," said Tom. His tone was casual but Philip had the feeling he was intensely interested. "Why do you ask?"
Philip smiled. "I'll tell you. Early yesterday a baby was found in the forest and brought to my monastery. It's a boy, and I don't think he was even as much as a day old. He must have been born that night. So the mother must have been in the area at the same time as you."
"We didn't see anyone," Tom repeated. "What did you do with the baby?"
"Fed him goat's milk. He seems to be thriving on it."
They were both looking at Philip intently. It was, he thought, a story to touch anyone's heart. After a moment Tom said: "And you're searching for the mother?"
"Oh, no. My question was casual. If I came across her, of course, I would give the baby back to her; but it's clear she doesn't want it, and she'll make sure she can't be found."
"Then what will happen to the boy?"
"We'll raise him at the monastery. He'll be a child of God. That's how I myself was brought up, and my brother too. Our parents were taken from us when we were young, and after that the abbot was our father, and the monks were our family. We were fed, we were warm, and we learned our letters."
The woman said: "And you both became monks." She said it with a touch of irony, as if it proved that the monastery's charity was ultimately self-interested.
Philip was glad to be able to contradict her. "No, my brother left the order."
The children came back. They had not found any broad leaves--it was not easy in winter--so they would eat without platters. Philip gave them all bread and cheese. They tore into the food like starving animals. "We make this cheese at my monastery," he said. "Most people like it when it's new, like this, but it's even better if you leave it to ripen." They were too hungry to care. They finished the bread and cheese in no time. Philip had three pears. He fished them out of his bag and gave them to Tom. Tom gave one to each of the children.
Philip got to his feet. "I'll pray that you find work."
Tom said: "If you think of it, Father, mention me to the bishop. You know our need
, and you've found us honest."
"I will."
Tom held the horse while Philip mounted. "You're a good man, father," he said, and Philip saw to his surprise that there were tears in Tom's eyes.
"God be with you," Philip said.
Tom held the horse's head a moment longer. "The baby you told us about--the foundling." He spoke softly, as if he did not want the children to hear. "Did you ... have you named him yet?"
"Yes. We call him Jonathan, which means a gift from God."
"Jonathan. I like that." Tom released the horse.
Philip looked at him curiously for a moment, then kicked his horse and trotted away.
The bishop of Kingsbridge did not live at Kingsbridge. His palace stood on a south-facing hillside in a lush valley a full day's journey from the cold stone cathedral and its mournful monks. He preferred it this way, for too much churchgoing would get in the way of his other duties of collecting rents, dispensing justice and maneuvering at the royal court. It suited the monks, too, for the farther away the bishop was, the less he interfered with them.
It was cold enough for snow on the afternoon that Philip arrived there. A bitter wind whipped across the bishop's valley, and low gray clouds frowned on his hillside manor house. It was not a castle, but it was nonetheless well defended. The woodland had been cleared for a hundred yards all around. The house was enclosed by a stout wooden fence the height of a man, with a rainwater ditch outside it. The guard at the gate had a slovenly manner but his sword was heavy.
The palace was a fine stone house built in the shape of the letter E. The ground floor was an undercroft, its stout walls pierced by several heavy doors but no windows. One door was open, and through it Philip could see barrels and sacks in the gloom. The other doors were closed and chained. Philip wondered what was behind them: when the bishop had prisoners, that was where they would languish.
The short stroke of the E was an exterior staircase leading to the living quarters above the undercroft. The main room, the upright stroke of the E, would be the hall. The two rooms forming the head and foot of the E would be a chapel and a bedroom, Philip guessed. There were small shuttered windows like beady eyes looking suspiciously out at the world.
Within the compound were a kitchen and a bakehouse of stone as well as wooden stables and a barn. All the buildings were in good repair--which was unfortunate for Tom Builder, Philip thought.