Epic Historial Collection (50 page)

Despite the industry, the town was quieter and less crowded than any other Philip had seen. A place such as Salisbury, or Hereford, seemed constricted by its walls, like a fat man in a tight tunic: the houses were too close together, the backyards too small, the marketplace too crowded, the streets too narrow; and as people and animals jostled for space, there was a feeling that fights could break out at any moment. But Winchester was so big that there seemed to be room for everyone. As he walked around, Philip gradually realized that part of the reason for the spacious feel was that the streets were laid out on a square grid pattern. They were mostly straight and intersected at right angles. He had never seen that before. The town must have been built according to a plan.

There were dozens of churches. They were all shapes and sizes, some of wood and others of stone, each serving its own small neighborhood. The city had to be very rich to support so many priests.

Walking along Fleshmonger Street made him feel faintly ill. He had never seen so much raw meat all in one place. Blood flowed out of the butchers' shops into the street, and fat rats dodged between the feet of the people who came to buy.

The south end of Fleshmonger Street opened out on to the middle of the High Street, opposite the old royal palace. The palace had not been used by kings since the new keep had been built in the castle, Philip had been told, but the royal moneyers still minted silver pennies in the undercroft of the building, protected by thick walls and iron-barred gates. Philip stood at the bars for a while, watching the sparks fly as the hammers pounded the dies, awestruck by the sheer wealth in front of his eyes.

There was a handful of other people watching the same sight. No doubt it was something all visitors to Winchester looked at. A young woman standing nearby smiled at Philip, and he smiled back. She said: “You can do anything you like for a penny.”

He wondered what she meant, and smiled vaguely again. Then she opened her cloak, and he saw to his horror that underneath it she was completely naked. “Anything you like, for a silver penny,” she said.

He felt a faint stirring of desire, like the ghost of a memory long submerged; then he realized that she was a whore. He felt his face go bright red with embarrassment. He turned quickly and hurried away. “Don't be afraid,” she called. “I like a nice round head.” Her mocking laughter followed him.

Feeling hot and bothered, he turned down an alley off the High Street and found himself in the marketplace. He could see the towers of the cathedral rising above the market stalls. He hurried through the crowds, oblivious to the blandishments of the vendors, and found his way back into the close.

He felt the ordered calm of the church precincts like a cool breeze. He paused in the graveyard to collect his thoughts. He felt ashamed and outraged. How dare she tempt a man in monk's robes? She had obviously identified him as a visitor…. Was it possible that monks who were away from their home monastery could be customers of hers? Of course it was, he realized. Monks committed all the same sins that ordinary people did. He had just been shocked by the woman's shamelessness. The sight of her nakedness remained with him, the way the hot heart of a candle flame, stared at for a few moments, would burn on behind closed eyelids.

He sighed. It had been a morning of vivid images: the man-made streams, the rats in the butchers' shops, the stacks of new-minted silver pennies, and then the woman's private parts. For a while, he knew, those pictures would come back to him to unsettle his meditations.

He went into the cathedral. He felt too grubby to kneel and pray, but just walking down the nave and out through the south door purified him somewhat. He passed through the priory and went to the bishop's palace.

The ground floor was a chapel. Philip went up the stairs to the hall and stepped inside. There was a small group of servants and young clergymen near the door, standing around or sitting on the bench up against the wall. At the far end of the room Waleran and Bishop Henry were sitting at a table. Philip was stopped by a steward who said: “The bishops are at breakfast,” as if that meant Philip could not see them.

“I'll join them at table,” Philip said.

“You'd better wait,” the steward said.

Philip decided that the steward had taken him for an ordinary monk. “I'm the prior of Kingsbridge,” he said.

The steward shrugged and stood aside.

Philip approached the table. Bishop Henry was at the head, with Waleran on his right. Henry was a short, broad-shouldered man with a pugnacious face. He was about the same age as Waleran, a year or two older than Philip; no more than thirty. However, by contrast with Waleran's dead-white skin and Philip's own bony frame, Henry had the florid complexion and rounded limbs of a hearty eater. His eyes were alert and intelligent, and his face seemed set in a determined expression. As the youngest of four brothers, he had probably had to fight for everything all his life. Philip was surprised to see that Henry's head was shaved, a sign that he had at one time taken monastic vows and still considered himself a monk. However, he was not wearing homespun; in fact, he was dressed in the most gorgeous tunic made of purple silk. Waleran was wearing a spotless white linen shirt under his usual black tunic, and Philip realized that both men were dressed up for their audience with the king. They were eating cold beef and drinking red wine. Philip was hungry after his walk, and his mouth watered.

Waleran looked up and saw him, and a look of faint irritation crossed his face.

“Good morning,” Philip said.

Waleran said to Henry: “This is my prior.”

Philip did not much like being described as Waleran's prior. He said: “Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge, my lord bishop.”

He anticipated kissing the bishop's beringed hand, but Henry merely said, “Splendid,” and ate another mouthful of beef. Philip stood there rather awkwardly. Were they not going to ask him to sit down?

Waleran said: “We'll join you shortly, Philip.”

Philip realized he was being dismissed. He turned away, feeling humiliated. He returned to the group around the door. The steward who had tried to turn him back now smirked at him with a look that said
I told you so
. Philip stood apart from the others. He suddenly felt ashamed of the stained brown robe he had been wearing day and night for half a year. Benedictine monks often dyed their habits black, but Kingsbridge had given that up, years ago, to save money. Philip had always believed that dressing up in fine clothes was sheer vanity, entirely inappropriate for any man of God, no matter how high his rank; but now he saw the point of it. He might not have been treated so dismissively if he had come dressed in silk and furs.

Ah, well, he thought, a monk should be humble, so this must be good for my soul.

The two bishops rose from the table and came to the door. An attendant produced a scarlet robe edged with fine embroidery and silk fringes for Henry. As he was putting it on, Henry said: “You won't have to say much today, Philip.”

Waleran added: “Leave the talking to us.”

Henry said: “Leave the talking to me,” with the faintest emphasis on the
me
. “If the king asks you a question or two, answer plainly, and don't try to dress up the facts too much. He'll understand your need for a new church without any weeping and wailing on your part.”

Philip did not need to be told that. Henry was being unpleasantly condescending. However, Philip nodded assent and concealed his resentment.

“We'd better go,” Henry said. “My brother is an early riser, and he's liable to conclude the day's business rapidly, then go hunting in the New Forest.”

They went out. A man-at-arms, wearing a sword and carrying a staff, went in front of Henry as they walked to the High Street and then up the hill toward the West Gate. People stood aside for the two bishops, but not for Philip, so he ended up walking behind. Now and again someone would call out for a blessing, and Henry would make the sign of the cross in the air without pausing in his stride. Just before the gatehouse they turned aside and walked over a wooden bridge that spanned the castle moat. Despite being assured that he would not have to say much, Philip had a fluttery fear in his belly: he was about to see the king.

The castle occupied the southwest corner of the city. Its western and southern walls were part of the city wall. But the walls that separated the back of the castle from the city were no less high and strong than its outer defenses, as if the king needed protection against the citizens just as much as against the outside world.

They entered by a low gateway in the wall and immediately came upon the massive keep which dominated this end of the compound. It was a formidable square tower. Counting the arrow-slit windows, Philip reckoned it must have four floors. As usual, the ground floor consisted of storerooms, and an outside staircase led to an upstairs entrance. A pair of sentries at the foot of the stairs bowed as Henry passed.

They went into the hall. There were rushes on the floor, a few seats recessed into the stone walls, some wooden benches and a fireplace. In a corner two men-at-arms guarded a staircase, set into the wall, leading up. One of the men met Bishop Henry's eye immediately. He nodded and went up the stairs, presumably to tell the king that his brother was waiting.

Philip felt nauseated with anxiety. In the next few minutes his whole future might be decided. He wished he felt better about his allies. He wished he had spent the early morning hours praying for success instead of wandering around Winchester. He wished he had worn a clean robe.

There were twenty or thirty other people in the room, nearly all of them men. They seemed to be a mixture of knights, priests and prosperous townspeople. Suddenly Philip started, surprised: over by the fire, talking to a woman and a young man, was Percy Hamleigh. What was he doing here? The two people with him were his ugly wife and his brutish son. They had been Waleran's collaborators, as it were, in the downfall of Bartholomew: it could hardly be a coincidence that they were here today. Philip wondered whether Waleran had expected them.

Philip said to Waleran: “Do you see—”

“I see them,” Waleran snapped, visibly displeased.

Philip felt their presence here was ominous, though he could not have said just why. He studied them. The father and son were alike: big, beefy men with yellow hair and sullen faces. The wife looked like the kind of demon that tortured sinners in paintings of hell. She touched the sores on her face constantly, her skeletal hands moving restlessly. She wore a yellow gown that made her look even uglier. She shifted from one foot to another, darting glances around the room all the time. She met Philip's eyes, and he looked away quickly.

Bishop Henry was moving around, greeting the people he knew and blessing those he did not, but he must have been keeping an eye on the stairs, for as soon as the sentry came down again, Henry looked across at him, saw the man nod, and abandoned his conversation in midsentence.

Waleran followed Henry up the stairs and Philip brought up the rear with his heart in his mouth.

The upstairs room was the same size and shape as the entrance hall, but it felt completely different. There were tapestries on the walls and sheepskin rugs on the scrubbed floorboards. The fire blazed strongly and the room was brightly lit by dozens of candles. Near the door was an oak table with pens, ink and a stack of vellum sheets for letters, and a cleric sat waiting to take the king's dictation. Near the fireplace, in a big wooden chair covered with fur, sat the king.

The first thing Philip noticed was that he was not wearing a crown. He had on a purple tunic over leather leggings, as if he were about to go out on horseback. Two big hunting dogs lay at his feet like favored courtiers. He resembled his brother Bishop Henry, but Stephen's features were a little finer, making him more handsome, and he had a lot of tawny hair. However, there was the same look of intelligence about the eyes. He sat back in his big chair—Philip supposed it was a throne—looking relaxed, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his elbows on the arms of the seat, but despite his posture there was an air of tension in the room. The king was the only one at ease.

As the bishops and Philip entered, a big man in expensive clothes was leaving. He nodded in a familiar way to Bishop Henry and ignored Waleran. He was probably a powerful baron, Philip thought.

Bishop Henry approached the king, bowed, and said: “Good morning, Stephen.”

“I still haven't seen that bastard Ranulf,” said King Stephen. “If he doesn't show up soon I'm going to cut his fingers off.”

Henry said: “He'll be here any day, I promise you, but perhaps you should cut his fingers off anyway.”

Philip had no idea who Ranulf was or why the king wanted to see him, but he got the impression that although Stephen was displeased, he was not serious about mutilating the man.

Before Philip could give it any further thought, Waleran stepped forward and bowed, and Henry said: “You remember Waleran Bigod, the new bishop of Kingsbridge.”

“Yes,” Stephen said, “but who's this?” He looked at Philip.

Waleran said: “This is my prior.”

Waleran did not say his name, so Philip supplied it. “Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge.” His voice sounded louder than he had intended. He bowed.