Epic Historial Collection (17 page)

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. Thai 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-ee-eave” 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 bird-snarers; 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 prodigal 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-Forêt, 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 archbishop 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.”

“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.