The Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

  It did not work out that way.

  The light was fading on the second day when he reined in his pony on the edge of a clearing and inspected his new home. There was only one stone building, the chapel, in those days. (Philip had built the new stone dormitory the following year.) The other, wooden buildings looked ramshackle. Philip disapproved: everything made by monks was supposed to last, and that meant pigsties as well as cathedrals. As he looked around he noted further evidence of the kind of laxity that had shocked him at Kingsbridge: there were no fences, the hay was spilling out of the barn door, and there was a dunghill next to the fishpond. He felt his face go tense with suppressed reproof, and he said to himself: Softly, softly.

  At first he saw no one. This was as it should be, for it was time for vespers and most of the monks would be in the chapel. He touched the pony's flank with his whip and crossed the clearing to a hut that looked like a stable. A youth with straw in his hair and a vacant look on his face popped his head over the door and stared at Philip in surprise.

  "What's your name?" Philip said, and then, after a moment's shyness, he added: "My son."

  "They call me Johnny Eightpence," the youngster said.

  Philip dismounted and handed him the reins. "Well, Johnny Eightpence, you can unsaddle my horse."

  "Yes, Father." He looped the reins over a rail and moved away.

  "Where are you going?" Philip said sharply.

  "To tell the brothers that a stranger is here."

  "You must practice obedience, Johnny. Unsaddle my horse. I will tell the brothers that I'm here."

  "Yes, Father." Looking frightened, Johnny bent to his task.

  Philip looked around. In the middle of the clearing was a long building like a great hall. Near it was a small round building with smoke rising from a hole in its roof. That would be the kitchen. He decided to see what was for supper. In strict monasteries only one meal was served each day, dinner at noon; but this was evidently not a strict establishment, and there would be a light supper after vespers, some bread with cheese or salt fish, or perhaps a bowl of barley broth made with herbs. However, as he approached the kitchen he smelled the unmistakable, mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat. He stopped, frowning, then went in.

  Two monks and a boy were sitting around the central hearth. As Philip watched, one of the monks passed a jug to the other, who drank from it. The boy was turning a spit, and on the spit was a small pig.

  They looked up in surprise as Philip stepped into the light. Without speaking, he took the jug from the monk and sniffed it. Then he said: "Why are you drinking wine?"

  "Because it makes my heart glad, stranger," said the monk. "Have some--drink deep."

  Clearly they had not been warned to expect their new prior. Equally clearly they had no fear of the consequences if a passing monk should report their behavior to Kingsbridge. Philip had an urge to break the wine jug over the man's head, but he took a deep breath and spoke mildly. "Poor men's children go hungry to provide meat and drink for us," he said. "This is done for the glory of God, not to make our hearts glad. No more wine for you tonight." He turned away, carrying the jug.

  As he walked out he heard the monk say: "Who do you think you are?" He made no reply. They would find out soon enough.

  He left the jug on the ground outside the kitchen and walked across the clearing toward the chapel, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to control his anger. Don't be precipitate, he told himself. Be cautious. Take your time.

  He paused for a moment in the little porch of the chapel, calming himself, then softly pushed the big oak door and went silently in.

  A dozen or so monks and a few novices stood with their backs to him in ragged rows. Facing them was the sacrist, reading from an open book. He spoke the service rapidly and the monks muttered the responses perfunctorily. Three candles of uneven length sputtered on a dirty altarcloth.

  At the back, two young monks were holding a conversation, ignoring the service and discussing something in an animated fashion. As Philip drew level, one said something funny, and the other laughed aloud, drowning the gabbled words of the sacrist. This was the last straw for Philip, and all thought of treading softly disappeared from his mind. He opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his voice: "BE SILENT!"

  The laughter was cut off. The sacrist stopped reading. The chapel fell silent, and the monks turned around and stared at Philip.

  He reached out to the monk who had laughed and grabbed him by the ear. He was about Philip's age, and taller, but he was too surprised to resist as Philip pulled his head down. "On your knees!" Philip yelled. For a moment it looked as if the monk might try to struggle free; but he knew he was in the wrong, and, as Philip had anticipated, his resistance was sapped by his guilty conscience; and when Philip tugged harder on his ear the young man knelt.

  "All of you," Philip commanded. "On your knees!"

  They had all taken vows of obedience, and the scandalous indiscipline under which they had evidently been living recently was not enough to erase the habit of years. Half the monks and all the novices knelt.

  "You've all broken your vows," Philip said, letting his contempt show. "You're blasphemers, every one." He looked around, meeting their eyes. "Your repentance begins now," he said finally.

  Slowly they knelt, one by one, until only the sacrist was left standing. He was a fleshy, sleepy-eyed man about twenty years older than Philip. Philip approached him, stepping around the kneeling monks. "Give me the book," he said.

  The sacrist stared defiantly back and said nothing.

  Philip reached out and lightly grasped the big volume. The sacrist tightened his grip. Philip hesitated. He had spent two days deciding to be cautious and move slowly, yet here he was, with the dust of the road still on his feet, risking everything in a stand-up confrontation with a man he knew nothing about. "Give me the book, and get down on your knees," he repeated.

  There was the hint of a sneer on the sacrist's face. "Who are you?" he said.

  Philip hesitated again. It was obvious that he was a monk, from his robes and his haircut; and they all must have guessed, from his behavior, that he was in a position of authority; but it was not yet clear whether his rank placed him over the sacrist. All he had to say was I am your new prior, but he did not want to. Suddenly it seemed very important that he should prevail by sheer weight of moral authority.

  The sacrist sensed his uncertainty and took advantage of it. "Tell us all, please," he said with mock courtesy. "Who is it that commands us to kneel in his presence?"

  All hesitation left Philip in a rush, and he thought: God is with me, so what am I afraid of? He took a deep breath, and his words came out in a roar that echoed from the paved floor to the stone-vaulted ceiling. "It is God who commands you to kneel in his presence!" he thundered.

  The sacrist looked a fraction less confident. Philip seized his chance and snatched the book. The sacrist had lost all authority now, and at last, reluctantly, he knelt.

  Hiding his relief, Philip looked around at them all and said: "I am your new prior."

  He made them remain kneeling while he read the service. It took a long time, because he made them repeat the responses again and again until they could speak them in perfect unison. Then he led them in silence out of the chapel and across the clearing to the refectory. He sent the roast pork back to the kitchen and ordered bread and weak beer, and he nominated a monk to read aloud while they ate. As soon as they had finished he led them, still in silence, to the dormitory.

  He ordered the prior's bedding brought in from the separate prior's house: he would sleep in the same room as the monks. It was the simplest and most effective way to prevent sins of impurity.

  He did not sleep at all the first night, but sat up with a candle, praying silently, until it was midnight and time to wake the monks for matins. He went through that service quickly, to let them know he was not completely merciless. They went back to bed, but Philip did not sleep.

  He went
out at dawn, before they woke, and looked around, thinking about the day ahead. One of the fields had recently been reclaimed from the forest, and right in the middle of it was the huge stump of what must have been a massive oak tree. That gave him an idea.

  After the service of prime, and breakfast, he took them all out into the field with ropes and axes, and they spent the morning uprooting the enormous stump, half of them heaving on the ropes while the other half attacked the roots with axes, all saying "He-eeeave" together. When the stump finally came up, Philip gave them all beer, bread, and a slice of the pork he had denied them at supper.

  That was not the end of the problems, but it was the beginning of solutions. From the start he refused to ask the mother house for anything but grain for bread and candles for the chapel. The knowledge that they would get no meat other than what they raised or trapped themselves turned the monks into meticulous livestock husbandmen and birdsnarers; and whereas they had previously looked upon the services as a way of escaping work, they now were glad when Philip cut down the hours spent in chapel so that they could have more time in the fields.

  After two years they were self-sufficient, and after another two they were supplying Kingsbridge Priory with meat, game, and a cheese made from goat's milk which became a coveted delicacy. The cell prospered, the services were irreproachable, and the brothers were healthy and happy.

  Philip would have been content--but the mother house, Kingsbridge Priory, was going from bad to worse.

  It should have been one of the leading religious centers in the kingdom, bustling with activity, its library visited by foreign scholars, its prior consulted by barons, its shrines attracting pilgrims from all over the country, its hospitality renowned by the nobility, its charity famous among the poor. But the church was crumbling, half the monastic buildings were empty, and the priory was in debt to moneylenders. Philip went to Kingsbridge at least once a year, and each time he came back seething with anger at the way in which wealth, which had been given by devout worshipers and increased by dedicated monks, was being dissipated carelessly like the inheritance of the piodigal son.

  Part of the problem was the location of the priory. Kingsbridge was a small village on a back road that led nowhere. Since the time of the first King William--who had been called the Conqueror, or the Bastard, depending on who was speaking--most cathedrals had been transferred to large towns; but Kingsbridge had escaped this shake-up. However, that was not an insuperable problem, in Philip's view: a busy monastery with a cathedral church should be a town in itself.

  The real trouble was the lethargy of old Prior James. With a limp hand on the tiller, the ship was blown about at hazard and went nowhere.

  And, to Philip's bitter regret, Kingsbridge Priory would continue to decline while Prior James was still alive.

  They wrapped the baby in clean linen and laid him in a large breadbasket for a cradle. With his tiny belly full of goat's milk he fell asleep. Philip put Johnny Eightpence in charge of him, for despite being somewhat half-witted, Johnny had a gentle touch with creatures that were small and frail.

  Philip was agog to know what had brought Francis to the monastery. He dropped hints during dinner, but Francis did not respond, and Philip had to suppress his curiosity.

  After dinner it was study hour. They had no proper cloisters here, but the monks could sit in the porch of the chapel and read, or walk up and down the clearing. They were allowed to go into the kitchen from time to time to warm themselves by the fire, as was the custom. Philip and Francis walked around the edge of the clearing, side by side, as they had often walked in the cloisters at the monastery in Wales; and Francis began to speak.

  "King Henry has always treated the Church as if it were a subordinate part of his kingdom," he began. "He has issued orders to bishops, imposed taxes, and prevented the direct exercise of papal authority."

  "I know," Philip said. "So what?"

  "King Henry is dead."

  Philip stopped in his tracks. He had not expected that.

  Francis went on: "He died at his hunting lodge at Lyons-la-Foret, in Normandy, after a meal of lampreys, which he loved, although they always disagreed with him."

  "When?"

  "Today is the first day of the year, so it was a month ago exactly."

  Philip was quite shocked. Henry had been king since before Philip was born. He had never lived through the death of a king, but he knew it meant trouble, and possibly war. "What happens now?" he said anxiously.

  They resumed walking. Francis said: "The problem is that the king's heir was killed at sea, many years ago--you may remember it."

  "I do." Philip had been twelve years old. It was the first event of national importance to penetrate his boyish consciousness, and it had made him aware of the world outside the monastery. The king's son had died in the wreck of a vessel called the White Ship, just off Cherbourg. Abbot Peter, who told young Philip all this, had been worried that war and anarchy would follow the death of the heir; but in the event, King Henry kept control, and life went on undisturbed for Philip and Francis.

  "The king had many other children, of course," Francis went on. "At least twenty of them, including my own lord, Earl Robert of Gloucester; but as you know, they are all bastards. Despite his rampant fecundity he managed to father only one other legitimate child--and that was a girl, Maud. A bastard can't inherit the throne, but a woman is almost as bad."

  "Didn't King Henry nominate an heir?" Philip said.

  "Yes, he chose Maud. She has a son, also called Henry. It was the old king's dearest wish that his grandson should inherit the throne. But the boy is not yet three years old. So the king made the barons swear fealty to Maud."

  Philip was puzzled. "If the king made Maud his heir, and the barons have already sworn loyalty to her ... what's the problem?"

  "Court life is never that simple," Francis said. "Maud is married to Geoffrey of Anjou. Anjou and Normandy have been rivals for generations. Our Norman overlords hate the Angevins. Frankly, it was very optimistic of the old king to expect that a crowd of Anglo-Norman barons would hand over England and Normandy to an Angevin, oath or no oath."

  Philip was somewhat bemused by his younger brother's knowing and disrespectful attitude to the most important men in the land. "How do you know all this?"

  "The barons gathered at Le Neubourg to decide what to do. Needless to say, my own lord, Earl Robert, was there; and I went with him to write his letters."

  Philip looked quizzically at his brother, thinking how different Francis's life must be from his own. Then he remembered something. "Earl Robert is the eldest son of the old king, isn't he?"

  "Yes, and he is very ambitious; but he accepts the general view, that bastards have to conquer their kingdoms, not inherit them."

  "Who else is there?"

  "King Henry had three nephews, the sons of his sister. The eldest is Theobald of Blois; then there is Stephen, much loved by the dead king and endowed by him with vast estates here in England; and the baby of the family, Henry, whom you know as the bishop of Winchester. The barons favored the eldest, Theobald, according to a tradition which you probably think perfectly reasonable." Francis looked at Philip and grinned.

  "Perfectly reasonable," Philip said with a smile. "So Theobald is our new king?"

  Francis shook his head. "He thought he was, but we younger sons have a way of pushing ourselves to the fore." They reached the farthest corner of the clearing and turned. "While Theobald was graciously accepting the homage of the barons, Stephen crossed the Channel to England and dashed to Winchester, and with the help of baby brother Henry, the bishop, he seized the castle there and--most important of all--the royal treasury."

  Philip was about to say: So Stephen is our new ruler. But he bit his tongue: he had said that about Maud and Theobald and had been wrong both times.

  Francis went on: "Stephen needed only one more thing to make his victory secure: the support of the Church. For until he could be crowned at Westminster by the arc
hbishop he would not really be king."

  "But surely that was easy," Philip said. "His brother Henry is one of the most important priests in the land--bishop of Winchester, abbot of Glastonbury, as rich as Solomon and almost as powerful as the archbishop of Canterbury. And if Bishop Henry wasn't intending to support him, why had he helped him take Winchester?"

  Francis nodded. "I must say that Bishop Henry's operations throughout this crisis have been brilliant. You see, he wasn't helping Stephen out of brotherly love."

  "Then what was his motivation?"

  "A few minutes ago I reminded you of how the late King Henry had treated the Church as if it were just another part of his kingdom. Bishop Henry wants to ensure that our new king, whoever he may be, will treat the Church better. So before he would guarantee support, Henry made Stephen swear a solemn oath to preserve the rights and privileges of the Church."

  Philip was impressed. Stephen's relationship with the Church had been defined, right at the start of his reign, on the Church's terms. But perhaps even more important was the precedent. The Church had to crown kings but until now it had not had the right to lay down conditions. The time might come when no king could come to power without first striking a deal with the Church. "This could mean a lot to us," Philip said.

  "Stephen may break his promises, of course," Francis said. "But all the same you're right. He will never be able to be quite as ruthless with the Church as Henry was. But there's another danger. Two of the barons were bitterly aggrieved by what Stephen did. One was Bartholomew, the earl of Shiring."

  "I know of him. Shiring is only a day's journey from here. Bartholomew is said to be a devout man."

  "Perhaps he is. All I know is that he is a self-righteous and stiff-necked baron who will not renege on his loyalty oath to Maud, despite the promise of a pardon."