by Ken Follett
But Remigius's humiliation was not yet complete.
Cuthbert spoke again. "There was another disturbance that we ought to discuss. It took place in the cloisters just after high mass." Philip wondered what on earth was coming next. "Brother Andrew confronted Brother Philip and accused him of misconduct." Of course he did, Philip was thinking; everyone knows that. Cuthbert went on: "Now, we all know that the time and place for such accusations is here and now, in chapter. And there are good reasons why our forebears ordained it so. Tempers cool overnight, and grievances can be discussed the next morning in an atmosphere of calm and moderation; and the whole community can bring its collective wisdom to bear on the problem. But, I regret to say, Andrew flouted this sensible rule, and made a scene in the cloisters, disturbing everyone and speaking intemperately. To let such misbehavior pass would be unfair on the younger brothers who have been punished for what they have done."
It was merciless, and it was brilliant, Philip thought happily. The question of whether Philip had been right to take William out of the quire during the service had never actually been discussed. Every attempt to raise it had been turned into an inquiry into the behavior of the accuser. And that was as it should be, for Andrew's complaint against Philip had been insincere. Between them Cuthbert and Milius had now discredited Remigius and his two main allies, Andrew and Pierre.
Andrew's normally red face was purple with fury, and Remigius looked almost frightened. Philip was pleased--they deserved it--but now he worried that their humiliation was in danger of going too far. "It's unseemly for junior brothers to discuss the punishment of their seniors," he said. "Let the sub-prior deal with this matter privately." Looking around, he saw that the monks approved of his magnanimity, and he realized that unintentionally he had scored yet another point.
It seemed to be all over. The mood of the meeting was with Philip, and he felt sure he had won over most of the waverers. Then Remigius said: "There is another matter I have to raise."
Philip studied the sub-prior's face. He looked desperate. Philip glanced at Andrew Sacrist and Pierre Circuitor and saw that they both looked surprised. This was something unplanned, then. Was Remigius going to plead for the job, perhaps?
"Most of you know that the bishop has a right to nominate candidates for our consideration," Remigius began. "He may also refuse to confirm our choice. This division of powers can lead to quarreling between bishop and monastery, as some older brothers know from experience. In the end, the bishop cannot force us to accept his candidate, nor can we insist on ours; and where there is conflict, it has to be resolved by negotiation. In that case, the outcome depends a good deal on the determination and unity of the brothers--especially their unity."
Philip had a bad feeling about this. Remigius had suppressed his rage and was once again calm and haughty. Philip still did not know what was coming, but his triumphant feeling evaporated.
"The reason I mention all this today is that two important items of information have come to my notice," Remigius went on. "The first is that there may be more than one candidate nominated from among us here in this room." That didn't surprise anyone, Philip thought. "The second is that the bishop will also nominate a candidate."
There was a pregnant pause. This was bad news for both parties. Someone said: "Do you know whom the bishop wants?"
"Yes," Remigius said, and in that instant Philip felt sure the man was lying. "The bishop's choice is Brother Osbert of Newbury."
One or two of the monks gasped. They were all horrified. They knew Osbert, for he had been circuitor at Kingsbridge for a while. He was the bishop's illegitimate son, and he regarded the Church purely as a means whereby he could live a life of idleness and plenty. He had never made any serious attempt to abide by his vows, but kept up a semitransparent sham and relied upon his paternity to keep him out of trouble. The prospect of having him as prior was appalling, even to Remigius's friends. Only the guest-master and one or two of his irredeemably depraved cronies might favor Osbert in anticipation of a regime of slack discipline and slovenly indulgence.
Remigius plowed on. "If we nominate two candidates, brothers, the bishop may say that we are divided and cannot make up our collective mind, so therefore he must decide for us, and we should accept his choice. If we want to resist Osbert, we would do well to put forward one candidate only; and, perhaps I should add, we should make sure that our candidate cannot easily be faulted, for example on grounds of youth or inexperience."
There was a murmur of assent. Philip was devastated. A moment ago he had been sure of victory, but it had been snatched from his grasp. Now all the monks were with Remigius, seeing him as the safe candidate, the unity candidate, the man to beat Osbert. Philip felt sure Remigius was lying about Osbert, but it would make no difference. The monks were scared now, and they would back Remigius; and that meant more years of decline for Kingsbridge Priory.
Before anyone could comment, Remigius said: "Let us now dismiss, and think and pray about this problem as we do God's work today." He stood up and went out, followed by Andrew, Pierre and John Small, these three looking dazed but triumphant.
As soon as they had gone, a buzz of conversation broke out among the others. Milius said to Philip: "I never thought Remigius had it in him to pull a trick like that."
"He's lying," Philip said bitterly. "I'm sure of it." Cuthbert joined them and heard Philip's remark. "It doesn't really matter if he's lying, does it?" he said. "The threat is enough."
"The truth will come out eventually," Philip said.
"Not necessarily," Milius replied. "Suppose the bishop doesn't nominate Osbert. Remigius will just say the bishop yielded before the prospect of a battle with a united priory."
"I'm not ready to give in," Philip said stubbornly.
Milius said: "What else will we do?"
"We must find out the truth," Philip said.
"We can't," said Milius.
Philip racked his brains. The frustration was agony. "Why can't we just ask?" he said.
"Ask? What do you mean?"
"Ask the bishop what his intentions are."
"How?"
"We could send a message to the bishop's palace, couldn't we?" Philip said, thinking aloud. He looked at Cuthbert.
Cuthbert was thoughtful. "Yes. I send messengers out all the time. I can send one to the palace."
Milius said skeptically: "And ask the bishop what his intentions are?"
Philip frowned. That was the problem.
Cuthbert agreed with Milius. "The bishop won't tell us," he said.
Philip was struck by an inspiration. His brow cleared, and he punched his palm excitedly as he saw the solution. "No," he said. "The bishop won't tell us. But his archdeacon will."
That night Philip dreamed about Jonathan, the abandoned baby. In his dream the child was in the porch of the chapel at St-John-in-the-Forest and Philip was inside, reading the service of prime, when a wolf came slinking out of the woods and crossed the field, smooth as a snake, heading for the baby. Philip was afraid to move for fear of causing a disturbance during the service and being reprimanded by Remigius and Andrew, both of whom were there (although in reality neither of them had ever been to the cell). He decided to shout, but although he tried, no sound would come, as often happened in dreams. At last he made such an effort to call out that he woke himself up, and lay in the dark trembling while he listened to the breathing of the sleeping monks all around him and slowly convinced himself that the wolf was not real.
He had hardly thought of the baby since arriving at Kingsbridge. He wondered what he would do with the child if he were to become prior. Everything would be different then. A baby in a little monastery hidden in the forest was of no consequence, however unusual. The same baby at Kingsbridge Priory would cause a stir. On the other hand, what was wrong with that? It was not a sin to give people something to talk about. He would be prior, so he could do as he pleased. He could bring Johnny Eightpence to Kingsbridge to take care of the baby. The
idea pleased him inordinately. That's just what I'll do, he thought. Then he remembered that in all probability he would not become prior.
He lay awake until dawn, in a fever of impatience. There was nothing he could do now to press his case. It was useless to talk to the monks, for their thinking was dominated by the threat of Osbert. A few of them had even approached Philip and told him they were sorry he had lost, as if the election had already been held. He had resisted the temptation to call them faithless cowards. He just smiled and told them they might yet be surprised. But his own faith was not strong. Archdeacon Waleran might not be at the bishop's palace; or he might be there but have some reason for not wanting to tell Philip the bishop's plans; or--most likely of all, given the archdeacon's character--he might have plans of his own.
Philip got up at dawn with the other monks and went into the church for prime, the first service of the day. Afterward he headed for the refectory, intending to take his breakfast with the others, but Milius intercepted him and beckoned him, with a furtive gesture, to the kitchen. Philip followed him, his nerves wound taut. The messenger must be back: that was quick. He must have got his reply immediately and started back yesterday afternoon. Even so he had been fast. Philip did not know a horse in the priory stable that was capable of doing the journey so rapidly. But what would the answer be?
It was not the messenger who was waiting in the kitchen--it was the archdeacon himself, Waleran Bigod.
Philip stared at him in surprise. The thin, black-draped form of the archdeacon was perched on a stool like a crow on a tree stump. The end of his beaky nose was red with cold. He was warming his bony white hands around a cup of hot spiced wine.
"It's good of you to come!" Philip blurted out.
"I'm glad you wrote to me," Waleran said coolly.
"Is it true?" Philip asked impatiently. "Will the bishop nominate Osbert?"
Waleran held up a hand to stop him. "I'll get to that. Cuthbert here is just telling me of yesterday's events."
Philip concealed his disappointment. This was not a straightforward answer. He studied Waleran's face, trying to read his mind. Waleran did indeed have plans of his own, but Philip could not guess what they were.
Cuthbert--whom Philip had not at first noticed, sitting by the fire dipping his horsebread into his beer to soften it for his elderly teeth--resumed an account of yesterday's chapter. Philip fidgeted restlessly, trying to guess what Waleran might be up to. He tried a morsel of bread but found he was too tense to swallow. He drank some of the watery beer, just to have something to do with his hands.
"And so," Cuthbert said at last, "it seemed that our only chance was to try to verify the bishop's intentions; and fortunately Philip felt able to presume upon his acquaintanceship with yourself; so we sent you the message."
Philip said impatiently: "And now will you tell us what we want to know?"
"Yes, I'll tell you." Waleran put down his wine untasted. "The bishop would like his son to be prior of Kingsbridge."
Philip's heart sank. "So Remigius told the truth."
Waleran went on: "However, the bishop is not willing to risk a quarrel with the monks."
Philip frowned. This was more or less what Remigius had forecast--but something was not quite right. Philip said to Waleran: "You didn't come all this way just to tell us that."
Waleran shot a look of respect at Philip, and Philip knew he had guessed right. "No," Waleran said. "The bishop has asked me to test the mood of the monastery. And he has empowered me to make a nomination on his behalf. Indeed, I have with me the bishop's seal, so that I can write a letter of nomination, to make the matter formal and binding. I have his full authority, you see."
Philip took a moment to digest that. Waleran was empowered to make a nomination and seal it with the bishop's seal. That meant the bishop had put the whole matter in Waleran's hands. He now spoke with the bishop's authority.
Philip took a deep breath and said: "Do you accept what Cuthbert has told you--that if Osbert were to be nominated, it would cause the quarrel the bishop wants to avoid?"
"Yes, I understand that," said Waleran.
"Then you won't nominate Osbert."
"No."
Philip felt wound up tight enough to snap. The monks would be so glad to escape the threat of Osbert that they would gratefully vote for whoever Waleran might nominate.
Waleran now had the power to choose the new prior. Philip said: "Then whom will you nominate?"
Waleran said: "You ... or Remigius."
"Remigius's ability to run the priory--"
"I know his abilities, and yours," Waleran interrupted, once again holding up a thin white hand to stop Philip. "I know which of you would make the best prior." He paused. "But there is another matter."
What now? wondered Philip. What else was there to consider, other than who would make the best prior? He looked at the others. Milius was also mystified, but old Cuthbert had a slight smile, as if he knew what was coming.
Waleran said: "Like you, I'm anxious that important posts in the Church should go to energetic and capable men, regardless of age, rather than being handed out as rewards for long service to senior men whose holiness may be greater than their administrative ability."
"Of course," Philip said impatiently. He did not see the relevance of this lecture.
"We should work together to this end--you three, and me."
Milius said: "I don't know what you're getting at."
"I do," said Cuthbert.
Waleran gave Cuthbert a thin smile, then returned his attention to Philip. "Let me be plain," he said. "The bishop himself is old. One day he will die, and then we will need a new bishop, just as today we need a new prior. The monks of Kingsbridge have the right to elect the new bishop, for the bishop of Kingsbridge is also the abbot of the priory."
Philip frowned. All this was irrelevant. They were electing a prior, not a bishop.
But Waleran went on. "Of course, the monks will not be completely free to choose whom they like to be bishop, for the archbishop and the king will have their views; but in the end it is the monks who legitimize the appointment. And when that time comes, you three will have a powerful influence on the decision."
Cuthbert was nodding as if his guess had turned out to be right, and now Philip, too, had an inkling of what was coming.
Waleran finished: "You want me to make you prior of Kingsbridge. I want you to make me bishop."
So that was it!
Philip stared in silence at Waleran. It was very simple. The archdeacon wanted to make a deal.
Philip was shocked. It was not quite the same as buying and selling a clerical office, which was known as the sin of simony; but it had an unpleasantly commercial feeling about it.
He tried to think objectively about the proposal. It would mean that Philip would become prior. His heart beat faster at the thought. He was reluctant to quibble with anything that would give him the priory.
It would mean that Waleran would probably become bishop at some point. Would he be a good bishop? He would certainly be competent. He appeared to have no serious vices. He had a rather worldly, practical approach to the service of God, but then so did Philip. Philip sensed that Waleran had a ruthless edge that he himself lacked, but he also sensed that it was based on a genuine determination to protect and nurture the interests of the Church.
Who else might be a candidate, when the bishop eventually died? Probably Osbert. It was not unknown for religious offices to be passed from father to son, despite the official requirement of clerical celibacy. Osbert, of course, would be even more of a liability to the Church as bishop than he would be as prior. It would be worth supporting a much worse candidate than Waleran just to keep Osbert out.
Would anyone else be in the running? It was impossible to guess. It might be years yet before the bishop died.
Cuthbert said to Waleran: "We couldn't guarantee to get you elected."
"I know," said Waleran. "I'm asking only for your nominatio
n. Appropriately, that's exactly what I have to offer you in return--a nomination."
Cuthbert nodded. "I'll agree to that," he said solemnly.
"So will I," said Milius.
The archdeacon and the two monks looked at Philip. He hesitated, torn. This was not the way to choose a bishop, he knew; but the priory was within his grasp. It could not be right to barter one holy office for another, like horse traders--but if he refused, the result might be that Remigius became prior and Osbert became bishop!
However, the rational arguments now seemed academic. The desire to be prior was like an irresistible force within him, and he could not refuse, regardless of the pros and cons. He recalled the prayer he had sent up yesterday, telling God that he intended to fight for the job. He raised his eyes now, and sent up another: If you don't want this to happen, then still my tongue, and paralyze my mouth, and stop my breath in my throat, and prevent me from speaking.
Then he looked at Waleran and said: "I accept."
The prior's bed was huge, three times the width of any bed Philip had ever slept in. The wooden base stood half the height of a man, and there was a feather mattress on top of that. It had curtains all around to keep out drafts, and on the curtains biblical scenes had been embroidered by the patient hands of a pious woman. Philip examined it with some misgivings. It seemed to him enough of an extravagance that the prior should have a bedroom all to himself--Philip had never in his life had his own bedroom, and tonight would be the first time he had ever slept alone. The bed was too much. He considered having a straw mattress brought over from the dormitory, and moving the bed into the infirmary, where it would ease an ailing monk's old bones. But of course the bed was not just for Philip. When the priory had an especially distinguished guest, a bishop or a great lord or even a king, then the guest would have this bedroom and the prior would shift as best he could somewhere else. So Philip could not really get rid of it.
"You'll sleep soundly tonight," said Waleran Bigod, not without a hint of envy.
