Epic Historial Collection (69 page)

And it will be mine, William thought. When Father dies I will be the earl.

“All right,” said Father. “It will ruin Philip, it will bring power to you, Bishop, and it will make me rich. How could it be done?”

“The decision to move the location of the cathedral must be made by the archbishop of Canterbury, theoretically.”

Mother looked at him sharply. “Why ‘theoretically'?”

“Because there is no archbishop just now. William of Corbeil died at Christmas and King Stephen has not yet nominated his successor. However, we know who is likely to get the job: our old friend Henry of Winchester. He wants the job; the pope has already given him interim control; and his brother is the king.”

“How much of a friend is he?” said Father. “He didn't do much for you when you were trying to get this earldom.”

Waleran shrugged. “He'll help me if he can. We'll have to make a convincing case.”

Mother said: “He won't want to make powerful enemies, just now, if he's hoping to be made archbishop.”

“Correct. But Philip isn't powerful enough to matter. He's not likely to be consulted about the choice of archbishop.”

“So why shouldn't Henry just give us what we want?” William asked.

“Because he's
not
the archbishop, not yet; and he knows that people are watching him to see how he behaves during his caretakership. He wants to be seen making judicious decisions, not just handing out favors to his friends. Plenty of time for that
after
the election.”

Mother said reflectively: “So the best that can be said is that he will listen sympathetically to our case. What is our case?”

“That Philip can't build a cathedral, and we can.”

“And how shall we persuade him of that?”

“Have you been to Kingsbridge lately?”

“No.”

“I was there at Easter.” Waleran smiled. “They haven't started building yet. All they've got is a flat piece of ground with a few stakes banged into the soil and some ropes marking where they hope to build. They've started digging foundations, but they've only gone down a few feet. There's a mason working there with his apprentice, and the priory carpenter, and occasionally a monk or two doing some laboring. It's a very unimpressive sight, especially in the rain. I'd like Bishop Henry to see it.”

Mother nodded sagely. William could see that the plan was good, even though he hated the thought of collaborating with the loathsome Waleran Bigod.

Waleran went on: “We'll brief Henry beforehand on what a small and insignificant place Kingsbridge is, and how poor the monastery is; then we'll show him the site where it has taken them more than a year to dig a few shallow holes; then we'll take him to Shiring and impress him with how fast we could build a cathedral there, with the bishop and the earl and the townspeople all putting their maximum energies into the project.”

“Will Henry come?” Mother said anxiously.

“All we can do is ask,” Waleran replied. “I'll invite him to visit on Whitsunday in his archiepiscopal role. That will flatter him by implying that we already consider him to be the archbishop.”

Father said: “We must keep this secret from Prior Philip.”

“I don't think that will be possible,” Waleran said. “The bishop can't make a surprise visit to Kingsbridge—it would look very odd.”

“But if Philip knows in advance that Bishop Henry is coming, he might make a big effort to advance the building program.”

“What with? He hasn't any money, especially now that he's hired all your quarrymen. Quarrymen can't build walls.” Waleran shook his head from side to side with a satisfied smile. “In fact, there isn't a thing he can do except hope the sun shines on Whit-sunday.”

 

At first Philip was pleased that the bishop of Winchester was to come to Kingsbridge. It would mean an open-air service, of course, but that was all right. They would hold it where the old cathedral used to be. In case of rain, the priory carpenter would build a temporary shelter over the altar and the area immediately around it, to keep the bishop dry; and the congregation could just get wet. The visit seemed like an act of faith on Bishop Henry's part, as if he were saying that he still considered Kingsbridge to be a cathedral, and the lack of a real church was just a temporary problem.

However, it occurred to him to wonder what Henry's motive was. The usual reason for a bishop to visit a monastery was to get free food, drink and lodging for himself and his entourage; but Kingsbridge was famous—not to say notorious—for the plainness of its food and the austerity of its accommodation, and Philip's reforms had merely raised its standard from dreadful to barely adequate. Henry was also the richest clergyman in the kingdom, so he certainly was not coming to Kingsbridge for its food and drink. But he had struck Philip as a man who did nothing without a reason.

The more Philip thought about it, the more he suspected that Bishop Waleran had something to do with it. He had expected Waleran to arrive at Kingsbridge within a day or two of the letter, to discuss arrangements for the service and hospitality for Henry, and to make sure Henry would be pleased and impressed with Kingsbridge; and as the days went by and Waleran did not show up, Philip's misgivings deepened.

However, even in his most mistrustful moments he had not dreamed of the treachery that was revealed, ten days before Whitsun, by a letter from the prior of Canterbury Cathedral. Like Kingsbridge, Canterbury was a cathedral run by Benedictine monks, and monks always helped one another if they could. The prior of Canterbury, who naturally worked closely with the acting archbishop, had learned that Waleran had invited Henry to Kingsbridge for the express purpose of persuading him to move the diocese, and the new cathedral, to Shiring.

Philip was shocked. His heart beat faster and the hand holding the letter trembled. It was a fiendishly clever move by Waleran, and Philip had not anticipated it, had not imagined anything like it.

It was his own lack of foresight that shook him. He knew how treacherous Waleran was. The bishop had tried to double-cross him, a year ago, over the Shiring earldom. And he would never forget how angry Waleran had been when Philip had outwitted him. He could picture Waleran's face, suffused with rage, as he said
I swear by all that's holy, you'll never build your church
. But as time went by the menace of that oath had faded, and Philip's guard had slipped. Now here was a brutal reminder that Waleran had a long memory.

“Bishop Waleran says you have no money, and in fifteen months you have built nothing,” the prior of Canterbury wrote. “He says that Bishop Henry will see for himself that the cathedral will never get built if it is left to Kingsbridge Priory to build it. He argues that the time to make the move is now, before any real progress is made.”

Waleran was too cunning to get caught in an outright lie, so he was purveying a gross exaggeration. Philip had in fact achieved a great deal. He had cleared the ruins, approved the plans, laid out the new east end, made a start on the foundations, and begun felling trees and quarrying stone. But he did not have much to show a visitor. And he had overcome terrific obstacles to achieve this much—reforming the priory's finances, winning a major grant of lands from the king, and defeating Earl Percy over the quarry. It was not fair!

With the letter from Canterbury in his hand, he went to his window and looked out over the building site. Spring rains had turned it into a sea of mud. Two young monks with their hoods pulled over their heads were carrying timber up from the riverside. Tom Builder had made a contraption with a rope and a pulley for lifting barrels of earth out of the foundation hole, and he was operating the winding wheel while his son Alfred, down in the hole, filled the barrels with wet mud. They looked as though they could work at that pace forever and never make any difference. Anyone but a professional would see this scene and conclude that no cathedral would be built here this side of the Day of Judgment.

Philip left the window and returned to his writing desk. What could be done? For a moment he was tempted to do nothing. Let Bishop Henry come and look, and make his own decision, he thought. If the cathedral is to be built at Shiring, so be it. Let Bishop Waleran take control of it and use it for his own ends; let it bring prosperity to the town of Shiring and the evil Hamleigh dynasty. God's will be done.

He knew that would not do, of course. Having faith in God did not mean sitting back and doing nothing. It meant believing that you would find success if you did your best honestly and energetically. Philip's holy duty was to do all he could to prevent the cathedral from falling into the hands of cynical and immoral people who would exploit it for their own aggrandizement. That meant showing Bishop Henry that his building program was well under way and Kingsbridge had the energy and determination to finish it.

Was it true? The fact was that Philip was going to find it mortally difficult to build a cathedral here. Already he had almost been forced to abandon the project just because the earl refused him access to the quarry. But he knew he would succeed, in the end, because God would help him. However, his own conviction would not be enough to persuade Bishop Henry.

He decided he would do his best to make the site look more impressive, for what it was worth. He would set all the monks to work for the ten days remaining before Whitsun. Perhaps they could get part of the foundation hole dug to its full depth, so that Tom and Alfred could begin laying the foundation stones. Perhaps a part of the foundation could be completed up to ground level, so that Tom could start building a wall. That would be a little better than the present scene, but not much. What Philip really needed was a hundred laborers, but he did not have the money even for ten.

Bishop Henry would arrive on a Sunday, of course, so nobody would be working, unless Philip were to co-opt the congregation. That would provide a hundred laborers. He imagined himself standing up in front of them and announcing a new kind of Whitsun service: instead of singing hymns and saying prayers, we're going to dig holes and carry stones. They would be astonished. They would…

What would they do, actually?

They would probably cooperate wholeheartedly.

He frowned. Either I'm crazy, he thought, or this idea could actually work.

He thought about it some more. I get up at the end of the service, and I say that today's penance for forgiveness of all sins is half a day's labor on the cathedral building site. Bread and ale will be provided at dinnertime.

They would do it. Of course they would.

He felt the need to try the idea out on someone else. He considered Milius, but rejected him: Milius's thought processes were too similar to his own. He needed someone with a slightly different outlook. He decided to talk to Cuthbert Whitehead, the cellarer. He pulled on his cloak, drew the hood forward to keep the rain off his face, and went out.

He hurried across the muddy building site, passing Tom with a perfunctory wave, and made for the kitchen courtyard. This range of buildings now included a hen house, a cow shed and a dairy, for Philip did not like to spend scarce cash on simple commodities that the monks could provide for themselves, such as eggs and butter.

He entered the cellarer's storeroom in the undercroft below the kitchen. He inhaled the dry, fragrant air, full of the herbs and spices Cuthbert had stored. Cuthbert was counting garlic, peering at the strings of bulbs and muttering numbers in an undertone. Philip saw with a small shock that Cuthbert was getting old: his flesh seemed to be wasting away beneath his skin.

“Thirty-seven,” Cuthbert said aloud. “Would you like a cup of wine?”

“No, thank you.” Philip found that wine in the daytime made him lazy and short-tempered. No doubt that was why Saint Benedict counseled monks to drink in moderation. “I want your advice, not your victuals. Come and sit down.”

Negotiating a path through the boxes and barrels, Cuthbert stumbled over a sack and almost fell before sitting on a three-legged stool in front of Philip. The storeroom was not as tidy as it had once been, Philip noted. He was struck by a thought. “Are you having trouble with your eyesight, Cuthbert?”

“It's not what it was, but it will do,” Cuthbert said shortly.

His eyes had probably been poor for years—that might even be why he had never learned to read very well. However, he was obviously touchy about it, so Philip said no more, but made a mental note to begin grooming a replacement cellarer. “I've had a very disturbing letter from the prior of Canterbury,” he said, and he told Cuthbert about Bishop Waleran's scheming. He concluded by saying: “The only way to make the site look like a hive of activity is to get the congregation to work on it. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't do that?”

Cuthbert did not even think about it. “On the contrary, it's a good idea,” he said immediately.

“It's a little unorthodox, isn't it?” Philip said.

“It's been done before.”

“Really?” Philip was surprised and pleased. “Where?”

“I've heard of it in several places.”