Epic Historial Collection (53 page)

“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 anxiety. 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 midnight 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.

That thought gave him courage.

A ripple of tension ran through the room as a priest appeared on the stairs leading to the upper hall. Everyone hoped that meant the king was receiving. The priest exchanged a few murmured words with one of the armed guards, then disappeared back up the stairs. The guard picked out a knight from the crowd. The knight left his sword with the guards and went up the stairs.

Philip thought what an odd life the king's clergymen must lead. The king had to have clergy, of course, not just to say mass, but to do the vast amount of reading and writing involved in governing the kingdom. There was nobody else to do it, other than clergy: those few laymen who were literate could not read or write fast enough. But there was nothing very holy about the life of the king's clergy. Philip's own brother, Francis, had chosen that life, and worked for Robert of Gloucester. I must ask him what it's like, Philip thought, if I ever see him again.

Soon after the first petitioner went up the stairs, the Hamleighs came in.

Philip resisted the impulse to go to them straightaway: he did not want the world to know they were in collusion, not yet. He stared at them intently, studying their expressions, trying to read their thoughts. He decided that William looked hopeful, Percy seemed anxious, and Regan was as taut as a bowstring. After a few moments, Philip stood up and crossed the room, as casually as he could manage. He greeted them politely, then said to Percy: “Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He said he would think about it overnight.”

“But
why
?” Philip said. He was disappointed and cross. “What is there to think about?”

Percy shrugged. “Ask him.”

Philip was exasperated. “Well, how did he
seem
—pleased, or what?”

Regan answered. “My guess is that he liked the idea of being released from his dilemma but felt suspicious that it all sounded too easy.”

That made sense, but Philip was still annoyed that King Stephen had not seized the opportunity with both hands. “We'd better not talk any longer,” he said after a moment. “We don't want the bishops to guess that we're colluding against them—not before the king makes his announcement.” He nodded politely and moved away.

He returned to his stone seat. He tried to pass the time by thinking about what he would do if his plan worked. How soon could work start on the new cathedral? It depended on how quickly he could get some cash out of his new property. There would be quite a lot of sheep: he would have fleeces to sell in the summer. Some of the hill farms would be rented, and most rents fell due soon after harvesttime. By the autumn there might be enough money to hire a forester and a master quarryman and begin stockpiling timber and stone. At the same time, laborers could start to dig the foundations, under the supervision of Tom Builder. They might be ready to start stonework sometime next year.

It was a fine dream.

Courtiers went up and down the stairs with alarming rapidity: King Stephen was working fast today. Philip began to worry that the king might finish his day's work and go hunting before the bishops arrived.

At last they came. Philip got to his feet slowly as they walked in. Waleran looked tense, but Henry just looked bored. To Henry this was a minor matter: he owed support to his fellow bishop, but the outcome would make little difference to him. For Waleran, however, the outcome was crucial to his plan to build a castle—and a castle was only a step in Waleran's upward progress on the ladder of power.

Philip was not sure how to treat them. They had tried to trick him, and he wanted to rail at them, to tell them that he had discovered their treachery; but that would alert them that something was up, and he wanted them all unsuspecting, so that the compromise would be endorsed by the king before they could gather their wits. So he concealed his feelings and smiled politely. He need not have bothered: they ignored him completely.

It was not long before the guards called them. Henry and Waleran went up the stairs first, followed by Philip. The Hamleighs brought up the rear. Philip's heart was in his mouth.

King Stephen was standing in front of the fire. Today he seemed to have a more brisk and businesslike air. That was good: he would be impatient of any quibbling by the bishops. Bishop Henry went and stood beside his brother at the fire, and the others all stood in a line in the middle of the room. Philip felt a pain in his hands, and realized he was pressing his fingernails into his palms. He forced his fingers to relax.

The king spoke to Bishop Henry in a low voice that no one else could hear. Henry frowned and said something equally inaudible. They talked for a few moments, then Stephen held up a hand to silence his brother. He looked at Philip.

Philip reminded himself that the king had spoken kindly to him last time, joshing him about being nervous and saying he liked a monk to dress like a monk.

There were no pleasantries today, however. The king coughed and began. “My loyal subject, Percy Hamleigh, today becomes the earl of Shiring.”

From the corner of his eye, Philip saw Waleran start forward, as if to protest; but Bishop Henry stopped him with a quick, forbidding gesture.

The king went on: “Of the former earl's possessions, Percy shall have the castle, all the land that is tenanted to knights, plus all other arable land and low-lying pasture.”

Philip could hardly contain his excitement. It looked as if the king had accepted the deal! He stole another look at Waleran, whose face was a picture of frustration.

Percy knelt in front of the king and held his hands together in an attitude of prayer. The king placed his hands over Percy's. “I make you, Percy, earl of Shiring, to have and enjoy the lands and revenues aforesaid.”

Percy said: “I swear by all that is holy to be your liege man and to fight for you against any other.”