Philip was tempted to make another sharp retort, but he bit it back. There was something very odd about this boy. Philip had the feeling that William could fly into an uncontrollable rage at any moment, and that when enraged he would be lethally violent. Philip was not afraid of him. He had no fear of violent men, perhaps because as a child he had seen the worst they could do and survived it. But there was nothing to be gained by infuriating William with reprimands, so he said gently: "Heaven and hell is what I deal in. Virtue and sin, forgiveness and punishment, good and evil. I'm afraid I can't shut up about them."
"Then talk to yourself," William said, and he spurred his horse into a trot and pulled ahead.
When he was forty or fifty yards in front he slowed down again. Philip wondered whether the boy would relent and return to ride side by side, but he did not, and for the rest of the morning they traveled apart.
Philip felt anxious and somewhat depressed. He had lost control of his destiny. He had let Waleran Bigod take charge in Winchester, and now he was letting William Hamleigh take him on a mystery journey. They're all trying to manipulate me, he thought; why am I letting them? It's time I started to take the initiative. But there was nothing he could do, right away, except turn around and go back to Winchester, and that seemed like a futile gesture, so he continued to follow William, staring gloomily at William's horse's rear end as they jogged along.
A little before noon they reached the valley where the bishop's palace was. Philip recalled coming here at the beginning of the year, full of trepidation, bringing with him a deadly secret. An awful lot had changed since then.
To his surprise, William rode past the palace and on up the hill. The road narrowed to a simple path between fields: it led nowhere important, Philip knew. As they approached the top of the hill, Philip saw that some kind of building work was going on. A little below the summit they were stopped by a bank of earth that looked as if it had been dug up recently. Philip was struck by an awful suspicion.
They turned aside and rode alongside the bank until they found a gap. They went through. Inside the bank was a dry moat, filled in at this point to allow people to cross.
Philip said: "Is this what we came to see?"
William just nodded.
Philip's suspicion was confirmed. Waleran was building a castle. He was devastated.
He kicked his horse forward and crossed the ditch, with William following. The ditch and the bank encircled the top of the hill. On the inside rim of the ditch a thick stone wall had been built to a height of two or three feet. The wall was clearly unfinished, and judging by its thickness it was intended to be very high.
Waleran was building a castle, but there were no workmen on the site, no tools to be seen, and no stacks of stone or timber. A great deal had been done in a short time; then work had stopped suddenly. Obviously Waleran had run out of money.
Philip said to William: "I suppose there's no doubt that it is the bishop who is building this castle."
William said: "Would Waleran Bigod allow anyone else to build a castle next to his palace?"
Philip felt hurt and humiliated. The picture was crystal clear: Bishop Waleran wanted the Shiring earldom, with its quarry and its timber, to build his own castle, not the cathedral. Philip was merely a tool, the burning of Kingsbridge Cathedral just a convenient excuse. Their role was to enliven the king's piety so that he would grant Waleran the earldom.
Philip saw himself as Waleran and Henry must see him: naive, compliant, smiling and nodding as he was led to the slaughter. They had judged him so well! He had trusted them and deferred to them, he had even borne their slights with a brave smile, because he thought they were helping him, when all the time they were double-crossing him.
He was shocked by Waleran's unscrupulousness. He recalled the look of sadness in Waleran's eyes as he looked at the ruined cathedral. Philip had glimpsed the deep-rooted piety in Waleran at that moment. Waleran must think that pious ends justified dishonest means in the service of the Church. Philip had never believed that. I would never do to Waleran what Waleran is trying to do to me, he thought.
He had never before thought of himself as gullible. He wondered where he had gone wrong. It occurred to him that he had let himself be overawed--by Bishop Henry and his silk robes, by the magnificence of Winchester and its cathedral, by the piles of silver in the mint and the heaps of meat in the butchers' shops, and by the thought of seeing the king. He had forgotten that God saw through the silk robes to the sinful heart, that the only wealth worth having was treasure in heaven, and that even the king had to kneel down in church. Feeling that everyone else was so much more powerful and sophisticated than he was, he had lost sight of his true values, suspended his critical faculties, and placed his trust in his superiors. His reward had been treachery.
He took one more look around the rainswept building site, then turned his horse and rode away, feeling wounded. William followed. "What about that, then, monk?" William jeered. Philip did not reply.
He recalled that he had helped Waleran become bishop. Waleran had said: "You want me to make you prior of Kingsbridge. I want you to make me bishop." Of course, Waleran had not revealed that the bishop was already dead, so the promise had seemed somewhat insubstantial. And it had seemed that Philip was obliged to give the promise in order to secure his election as prior. But these were just excuses. The truth was that he should have left the choice of prior and bishop in the hands of God.
He had not made that pious decision, and his punishment was that he had to contend with Bishop Waleran.
When he thought about how he had been slighted, condescended to, manipulated and deceived, he became angry. Obedience was a monastic virtue, but outside the cloisters it had its drawbacks, he thought bitterly. The world of power and property required that a man be suspicious, demanding, and insistent.
"Those lying bishops made a fool of you, didn't they?" William said.
Philip reined in his horse. Shaking with rage, he pointed a finger at William. "Shut your mouth, boy. You're speaking of God's holy priests. If you say another word you'll burn for it, I promise you."
William went white with fear.
Philip kicked his horse on. William's sneer reminded him that the Hamleighs had an ulterior motive in taking him to see Waleran's castle. They wanted to cause a quarrel between Philip and Waleran to ensure that the disputed earldom would go to neither the prior nor the bishop, but to Percy. Well, Philip was not going to be manipulated by them, either. He had finished being manipulated. From now on he would do the manipulating.
That was all very well, but what could be done? If Philip quarreled with Waleran, Percy would get the lands; and if Philip did nothing, Waleran would get them.
What did the king want? He wanted to help build the new cathedral: that kind of thing was appropriately kingly, and would benefit his soul in the afterlife. But he needed to reward Percy's loyalty, too. Oddly enough, there was no particular pressure on him to please the more powerful men, the two bishops. It occurred to Philip that there might be a solution to the dilemma that would solve the king's problem by satisfying both himself and Percy Hamleigh.
Now there was a thought.
The idea pleased him. An alliance between himself and the Hamleighs was the last thing anyone expected--and for that reason it just might work. The bishops would be completely unprepared for it. They would be caught wrong-footed.
That would be a delightful reversal.
But could he negotiate a deal with the grasping Hamleighs? Percy wanted the rich farmland of Shiring, the title of earl, and the power and prestige of a force of knights under his command. Philip, too, wanted the rich farmland, but he did not want the title or the knights: he was more interested in the quarry and the forest.
The form of a compromise began to take shape in Philip's mind. He began to think that all was not yet lost.
How sweet it would be to win now, after all that had happened.
With mounting excitement, he conside
red his approach to the Hamleighs. He was determined he would not play the role of supplicant. He would have to make his proposal seem irresistible.
By the time they reached Winchester, Philip's cloak was soaked through, and his horse was bad-tempered, but he thought he had the answer.
As they passed under the arch of the West Gate he said to William: "Let's go and see your mother."
William was surprised. "I thought you would want to see Bishop Waleran right away."
No doubt that was what Regan had told William to expect. "Don't bother to tell me what you thought, lad," Philip snapped. "Just take me to your mother." He felt very ready for a confrontation with Lady Regan. He had been passive too long.
William turned south and led Philip to a house in Gold Street, between the castle and the cathedral. It was a large dwelling with stone walls to waist level and a timber frame above. Inside was an entrance hall with several apartments off it. The Hamleighs were probably lodging here: many Winchester citizens rented rooms to people who were attending the royal court. If Percy became earl he would have his own town house.
William showed Philip into a front room with a big bed in it and a fireplace. Regan was sitting by the fire and Percy was standing near her. Regan looked up at Philip with an expression of surprise, but she recovered quickly enough, and said: "Well, monk--was I right?"
"You were as wrong as you could be, you foolish woman," Philip said harshly.
She was shocked into silence by his angry tone.
He was gratified by the effect of giving her a taste of her own medicine. He went on in the same tone. "You thought you could cause a quarrel between me and Waleran. Did you imagine I wouldn't see what you were up to? You're a sly vixen but you're not the only person in the world who can think."
He could see by her face that she realized her plan had not worked, and she was thinking furiously what to do next. He pressed on while she was disconcerted.
"You've failed, Regan. You've got two options now. One is to sit tight and hope for the best. Wait for the king's decision. Take your chances on his mood tomorrow morning." He paused.
She spoke reluctantly. "And the alternative?"
"The alternative is that we make a deal, you and I. We divide the earldom between us, leaving nothing for Waleran. We go to the king privately and tell him we've reached a compromise, and get his blessing for it before the bishops can object." Philip sat down on a bench and pretended a casual air. "It's your best chance. You've got no real choice." He looked into the fire, not wanting her to see how tense he was. The idea had to appeal to them, he thought. It was the certainty of getting something weighed against the possibility of getting nothing. But they were greedy--they might prefer an all-or-nothing gamble.
It was Percy who spoke first. "Divide the earldom? How?"
They were interested, at least, Philip thought with relief. "I'm going to propose a division so generous that you would be mad to turn it down," Philip said to him. He turned back to Regan. "I'm offering you the best half."
They looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he said no more. Regan said: "What do you mean, the best half?"
"What is more valuable--arable land or forest?"
"Arable land, certainly."
"Then you shall have the arable and I'll have the forest."
Regan narrowed her eyes. "That will give you timber for your cathedral."
"Correct."
"What about pasture?"
"Which do you want--the cattle pastures or the sheep grazing?"
"The pasture."
"Then I'll have the hill farms with their sheep. Would you like the income from markets, or the quarry?"
Percy said: "The market inc--"
Regan interrupted him. "Suppose we said the quarry?"
Philip knew she had understood what was on his mind. He wanted the stone from the quarry for his cathedral. He knew she did not want the quarry. The markets made more money for less effort. He said confidently: "You won't, though, will you?"
She shook her head. "No. We'll take the markets."
Percy tried to look as if he were being fleeced. "I need the forest to hunt," he said. "An earl must have some hunting."
"You can hunt there," Philip said quickly. "I just want the timber."
"That's agreeable," Regan said. Her agreement came a little too quickly for Philip's comfort. He felt a pang of anxiey. Had he given something important away without knowing it? Or was she simply impatient to dispose of a trifling detail? Before he could give it much thought she went on: "Suppose we go through the deeds and charters in Earl Bartholomew's old treasury and find there are some lands that we think should be ours and you think should be yours?"
The fact that she was getting down to such details encouraged Philip to think she was going to accept his proposal. He concealed his excitement and spoke coolly. "We'll have to agree on an arbitrator. How about Bishop Henry?"
"A priest?" she said with a touch of her habitual scorn. "Would he be objective? No. How about the sheriff of Shiring?"
He would be no more objective than the bishop, Philip thought; but he could not think of anyone who would satisfy both sides, so he said: "Agreed--on condition that if we dispute his decision we have the right to appeal to the king." That ought to be a sufficient safeguard.
"Agreed," Regan said; then she glanced at Percy and added: "If my husband pleases."
Percy said: "Yes, yes."
Philip knew he was close to success. He took a deep breath and said: "If the overall proposal is agreed, then--"
"Wait a moment." Regan stopped him. "It's not agreed."
"But I've given you everything you want."
"We might yet get the whole earldom, no division."
"And you might get nothing at all."
Regan hesitated. "How do you propose to handle this, if we do agree?"
Philip had thought of that. He looked at Percy. "Could you get to see the king tonight?"
Percy looked anxious, but he said: "If I had a good reason--yes."
"Go to him and tell him we've reached an agreement. Ask him to announce it as his decision tomorrow morning. Assure him that you and I will declare ourselves satisfied with it."
"What if he asks whether the bishops have agreed to it?"
"Say there hasn't been time to put it to them. Remind him that it is the prior, not the bishop, who has to build the cathedral. Imply that if I am satisfied the bishops must be too."
"But what if the bishops complain when the deal is announced?"
"How can they?" Philip said. "They're pretending to ask for the earldom solely in order to finance the cathedral. Waleran can hardly protest on the grounds that he will now be unable to divert funds to other purposes."
Regan gave a short cackle. Philip's cunning appealed to her. "It's a good plan," she said.
"There's an important condition," Philip said, and he looked her in the eye. "The king must announce that my share goes to the priory. If he doesn't make that clear, I'll ask him to. If he says anything else--the diocese, the sacrist, the archbishop, anything--I'll repudiate the whole deal. I don't want you to be in any doubt about that."
"I understand," said Regan, a little tetchily.
Her irritation made Philip suspect that she had been toying with the idea of presenting to the king a slightly different version of the agreement. He was glad he had made the point firmly.
He got up to leave, but he wanted to set the seal on their pact somehow. "We are agreed, then," he said, with just the hint of a question in his voice. "We have a solemn pact." He looked at them both.
Regan gave a slight nod, and Percy said: "We have a pact."
Philip's heart beat faster. "Good," he said tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at the castle." He kept his face expressionless as he left the room, but when he reached the dark street he relaxed his control and permitted himself a broad, triumphant grin.
Philip fell into a troubled, anxious sleep after supper. He got up at midnigh
t for matins, then lay awake on his straw mattress, wondering what would happen tomorrow.
He felt King Stephen ought to consent to the proposal. It solved the king's problem: it gave him an earl and a cathedral. He was not so sure that Waleran would take it lying down, despite what he had said to Lady Regan. Waleran might find an excuse to object to the arrangement. He might, if he thought fast enough, protest that the deal did not provide the money to build the impressive, prestigious, richly decorated cathedral he wanted. The king might be persuaded to think again.
A different hazard occurred to Philip shortly before dawn: Regan might double-cross him. She could do a deal with Waleran. Suppose she offered the bishop the same compromise? Waleran would have the stone and timber he needed for his castle. This possibility agitated Philip and he turned restlessly in his bed. He wished he could have gone to the king himself, but the king probably would not have received him--and anyway, Waleran might have learned of it and become suspicious. No, there was no action he could have taken to guard against the risk of a double-cross. All he could do now was pray.
He did that until dawn.
He took breakfast with the monks. He found that their white bread did not keep the stomach full as long as horsebread; but even so he could not eat much of it today. He went early to the castle, although he knew the king would not be receiving people at that hour. He entered the hall and sat on one of the stone wall-seats to wait.
The room slowly filled up with petitioners and courtiers. Some of them were very brightly dressed, with yellow and blue and pink tunics and lush fur trimmings on their cloaks. The famous Domesday Book was kept somewhere in this castle, Philip recalled. It was probably in the hall above, where the king had received Philip and the two bishops: Philip had not noticed it, but he had been too tense to notice much. The royal treasury was here, too, but that was presumably on the top floor, in a vault off the king's bedroom. Once again Philip found himself somewhat awestruck by his surroundings, but he had resolved not to be intimidated any longer. These people in their fine robes, knights and lords and merchants and bishops, were just men. Most of them could not write much more than their own names. Furthermore, they were all here to get something for themselves, but he, Philip, was here on behalf of God. His mission, and his dirty brown robe, put him above the other petitioners, not below them.