Epic Historial Collection (78 page)

William realized that Otto was the problem. He was giving the stonecutters courage as well as organizing them. As soon as he fell, the others would give up. William reined in his horse and looked for the dark-skinned man. Most of the women and children had disappeared, except for two five-year-olds standing in the middle of the battlefield, holding hands and crying. William's knights were charging between the houses, chasing the stonecutters. To his surprise, William saw that one of his men-at-arms had fallen to a hammer, and lay on the ground, groaning and bleeding. William was dismayed: he had not anticipated any casualties on his own side.

A distraught woman was running in and out of burning houses, calling out something William could not hear. She was searching for someone. Finally she saw the two five-year-olds, and picked them up one in each arm. As she ran away she almost collided with one of William's knights, Gilbert de Rennes. Gilbert raised his sword to strike her. Suddenly Otto sprang out from behind a hut and swung a long-handled ax. His handling of the weapon was skillful and its blade sliced right through Gilbert's thigh and bit into the wood of the saddle. The severed leg dropped to the ground, and Gilbert screamed and fell off his horse.

He would never fight again.

Gilbert was a valuable knight. Angry, William spurred his horse forward. The woman with the children vanished. Otto was struggling to pull the blade of his ax from Gilbert's saddle. He looked up and saw William coming. If he had run at that moment he might have escaped, but he stayed and tugged at his ax. It came free when William was almost on him. William raised his sword. Otto stood his ground and lifted the ax. At the last moment William realized the ax was going to be used on the horse, and the stonecutter could cripple the animal before William was close enough to strike him down. William hauled on the reins desperately, and the horse skidded to a halt and reared up, turning its head away from Otto. The blow fell on the horse's neck, and the edge of the ax bit deeply into the powerful muscles. Blood spurted like a fountain, and the horse fell. William was off its back before the huge body hit the ground.

He was enraged. The war-horse had cost a fortune and had survived with him through a year of civil war, and it was maddening to lose it to a quarryman's ax. He jumped over its body and lunged furiously at Otto with the sword.

Otto was no easy victim. He held his ax in both hands and used its heart-of-oak handle to parry William's sword. William struck harder and harder, driving him back. Despite his age Otto was powerfully muscled, and William's blows hardly jarred him. William took his sword in both hands and struck harder. Once again the handle of the ax intervened, but this time William's blade stuck in the wood. Then Otto was advancing and William was retreating. William tugged hard at his sword and his blade came unstuck, but now Otto was almost on him.

Suddenly William was afraid for his life.

Otto raised the ax. William dodged back. His heel connected with something and he stumbled and fell backward over the body of his horse. He landed in a puddle of warm blood but managed to keep hold of his sword. Otto stood over him with his ax raised. As the weapon came down, William rolled frantically sideways. He felt the wind as the blade sliced the air next to his face; then he sprang to his feet and thrust at the stonecutter with his sword.

A soldier would have moved sideways before pulling his weapon out of the ground, knowing that a man is at his most vulnerable when he has just struck a blow and missed; but Otto was no soldier, just a brave fool, and he was standing with one hand on the haft of the ax and the other arm stretched out for balance, leaving the whole of his body an easy target. William's hasty thrust was almost blind, but nevertheless it connected. The point of the sword pierced Otto's chest. William pushed harder and the blade slid between the man's ribs. Otto released his hold on the ax, and over his face came an expression William knew well. His eyes showed surprise, his mouth opened as if to scream, although no sound came, and his skin suddenly looked gray. It was the look of a man who has received a mortal wound. William thrust the blade home harder, just to make sure, then pulled it out. Otto's eyes rolled up in his head, a bright red stain appeared on his shirt front and instantly grew large, and he fell.

William spun round, scanning the whole scene. He saw two stonecutters running away, presumably having seen their leader killed. As they ran they shouted to the others. The fight turned into a retreat. The knights chased the runaways.

William stood still, breathing hard. The damned quarrymen had fought back! He looked at Gilbert. He lay still, in a pool of blood, with his eyes closed. William put a hand on his chest: there was no heartbeat. Gilbert was dead.

William walked around the still-burning houses, counting bodies. Three stonecutters lay dead, plus a woman and a child who both looked as if they had been trampled by horses. Three of William's men-at-arms were wounded, and four horses were dead or crippled.

When he had completed his count he stood by the corpse of his war-horse. He had liked that horse better than he liked most people. After a battle he usually felt exhilarated, but now he was depressed. It was a shambles. This should have been a simple operation to chase off a group of helpless workmen, and it had turned into a pitched battle with high casualties.

The knights chased the stonecutters as far as the woods, but there the horses could not catch the men, so they turned back. Walter rode up to where William stood and saw Gilbert dead on the ground. He crossed himself and said: “Gilbert has killed more men than I have.”

“There aren't so many like him, that I can afford to lose one in a squabble with a damned monk,” William said bitterly. “To say nothing of the horses.”

“What a turnup,” Walter said. “These people put up more of a fight than Robert of Gloucester's rebels!”

William shook his head in disgust. “I don't know,” he said, looking around at the bodies. “What the devil did they think they were fighting for?”

J
UST AFTER DAWN
, when most of the brothers were in the crypt for the service of prime, there were only two people in the dormitory: Johnny Eightpence, sweeping the floor at one end of the long room, and Jonathan, playing school at the other.

Prior Philip paused in the doorway and watched Jonathan. He was almost five years old, an alert, confident boy with a childish gravity that charmed everyone. Johnny still dressed him in a miniature monk's habit. Today Jonathan was pretending to be the novice-master, giving lessons to an imaginary row of pupils. “That's wrong, Godfrey!” he said sternly to the empty bench. “No dinner for you if you don't learn your berves!” He meant
verbs
. Philip smiled fondly. He could not have loved a son more deeply. Jonathan was the one thing in life that gave him sheer unadulterated joy.

The child ran around the priory like a puppy, petted and spoiled by all the monks. To most of them he was just like a pet, an amusing plaything; but to Philip and Johnny he was something more. Johnny loved him like a mother; and Philip, though he tried to conceal it, felt like the boy's father. Philip himself had been raised, from a young age, by a kindly abbot, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to play the same role with Jonathan. He did not tickle or chase him the way the monks did, but he told him Bible stories, and played counting games with him, and kept an eye on Johnny.

He went into the room, smiled at Johnny, and sat on the bench with the imaginary schoolboys.

“Good morning, Father,” Jonathan said solemnly. Johnny had taught him to be scrupulously polite.

Philip said: “How would you like to go to school?”

“I know Latin already,” Jonathan boasted.

“Really?”

“Yes. Listen. Omnius pluvius buvius tuvius nomine patri amen.”

Philip tried not to laugh. “That
sounds
like Latin, but it's not
quite
right. Brother Osmund, the novice-master, will teach you to speak it properly.”

Jonathan was a little cast down to discover that he did not know Latin after all. He said: “Anyway, I can run fast and fast, look!” He ran at top speed from one side of the room to the other.

“Wonderful!” said Philip. “That really is fast.”

“Yes—and I can go even faster—”

“Not just now,” Philip said. “Listen to me for a moment. I'm going away for a while.”

“Will you be back tomorrow?”

“No, not that soon.”

“Next week?”

“Not even then.”

Jonathan looked blank. He could not conceive of a time farther ahead than next week. Another mystery occurred to him. “But why?”

“I have to see the king.”

“Oh.” That did not mean much to Jonathan either.

“And I'd like you to go to school while I'm away. Would you like that?”

“Yes!”

“You're almost five years old. Your birthday is next week. You came to us on the first day of the year.”

“Where did I come from?”

“From God. All things come from God.”

Jonathan knew that was no answer. “But where was I
before
?” he persisted.

“I don't know.”

Jonathan frowned. A frown looked funny on such a carefree young face. “I must have been
somewhere
.”

One day, Philip realized, someone would have to tell Jonathan how babies were born. He grimaced at the thought. Well, this was not the time, happily. He changed the subject. “While I'm away, I want you to learn to count up to a hundred.”

“I can count,” Jonathan said. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen porteen scorteen horteen—”

“Not bad,” said Philip, “but Brother Osmund will teach you more. You must sit still in the schoolroom and do everything he tells you to.”

“I'm going to be the best in the school!” said Jonathan.

“We'll see.” Philip studied him for a moment longer. Philip was fascinated by the child's development, the way he learned things and the phases through which he passed. This current insistence on being able to speak Latin, or count, or run fast, was curious: was it a necessary prelude to real learning? It must serve some purpose in God's plan. And one day Jonathan would be a man. What would he be like then? The thought made Philip impatient for Jonathan to grow up. But that would take as long as the building of the cathedral.

“Give me a kiss, then, and say goodbye,” Philip said.

Jonathan lifted his face and Philip kissed the soft cheek. “Goodbye, Father,” said Jonathan.

“Goodbye, my son,” Philip said.

He gave Johnny Eightpence's arm an affectionate squeeze and went out.

The monks were coming out of the crypt and heading for the refectory. Philip went the opposite way, and entered the crypt to pray for success on his mission.

He had been heartbroken when they told him what had happened at the quarry. Five people killed, one of them a little girl! He had hidden himself in his house and cried like a child. Five of his flock, struck down by William Hamleigh and his pack of brutes. Philip had known them all: Harry of Shiring, who had once been Lord Percy's quarryman; Otto Blackface, the dark-skinned man who had been in charge of the quarry since the very beginning; Otto's handsome son Mark; Mark's wife, Alwen, who played tunes on sheep bells in the evenings; and little Norma, Otto's seven-year-old granddaughter, his favorite. Good-hearted, God-fearing, hardworking people, who had a right to expect peace and justice from their lords. William had slaughtered them like a fox killing chickens. It was enough to make the angels weep.

Philip had grieved for them, and then he had gone to Shiring to demand justice. The sheriff had refused point-blank to take any action. “Lord William has a small army—how should I arrest him?” Sheriff Eustace had said. “The king needs knights to fight against Maud—what will he say if I incarcerate one of his best men? If I brought a charge of murder against William, I'd either be killed immediately by his knights or hanged for a traitor later by King Stephen.”

The first casualty of a civil war was justice, Philip had realized.

Then the sheriff had told him that William had made a formal complaint about the Kingsbridge market.

It was ludicrous, of course, that William could get away with murder and at the same time charge Philip on a technicality; but Philip felt helpless. It was true that he did not have permission to hold a market, and he was in the wrong, strictly speaking. But he could not remain in the wrong. He was the prior of Kingsbridge. All he had was his moral authority. William could call up an army of knights; Bishop Waleran could use his contacts in high places; the sheriff could claim royal authority; but all Philip could do was to say
this
is right and
that
is wrong; and if he were to forfeit that position he really would be helpless. So he had ordered the market to cease.

That left him in a truly desperate position.

The priory's finances had improved dramatically, thanks to stricter controls on the one hand, and on the other, ever-rising earnings from the market and from sheep farming; but Philip always spent every penny on the building, and he had borrowed heavily from the Jews of Winchester, a loan he had yet to repay. Now, at a stroke, he had lost his supply of cost-free stone, his income from the market had dried up, and his volunteer laborers—many of whom came mainly for the market—were likely to dwindle. He would have to lay off half the builders, and abandon hope of finishing the cathedral in his own lifetime. He was not prepared to do that.

He wondered if the crisis was his own fault. Had he been too confident, too ambitious? Sheriff Eustace had said as much. “You're too big for your boots, Philip,” he had said angrily. “You run a little monastery, and you're a little prior, but you want to rule the bishop and the earl and the sheriff. Well, you can't. We're too powerful for you. All you do is cause trouble.” Eustace was an ugly man with uneven teeth and a cast in one eye, and he was wearing a dirty yellow robe; but unimpressive though he was, his words had stabbed Philip's heart. He was painfully aware that the quarrymen would not have died if he had not made an enemy of William Hamleigh. But he could not do other than be William's enemy. If he gave up, even more people would suffer, people such as the miller William had killed and the serf's daughter he and his knights had raped. Philip had to fight on.

And that meant he had to go to see the king.

He hated the idea. He had approached the king once before, at Winchester four years ago, and although he had got what he wanted, he had been dreadfully ill-at-ease at the royal court. The king was surrounded by wily and unscrupulous people jostling for his attention and squabbling over his favors, and Philip found such people contemptible. They were trying to acquire wealth and position they did not merit. He did not really understand the game they were playing: in his world, the best way to get something was to deserve it, not to toady to the giver. But now he had no alternative but to enter their world and play their game. Only the king could grant Philip permission to hold a market. Only the king could now save the cathedral.

He finished his prayers and left the crypt. The sun was coming up, and there was a pink flush on the gray stone walls of the rising cathedral. The builders, who worked from sunrise to sunset, were just beginning, opening their lodges and sharpening their tools and mixing up the first batch of mortar. The loss of the quarry had not yet affected the building: they had always quarried stone faster than they could use it, from the beginning, and now they had a stockpile that would last many months.

It was time for Philip to leave. All the arrangements were made. The king was at Lincoln. Philip would have a traveling companion: Richard, the brother of Aliena. After fighting for a year as a squire, Richard had been knighted by the king. He had come home to re-equip himself and was now going to rejoin the royal army.

Aliena had done astonishingly well as a wool merchant. She no longer sold her wool to Philip, but dealt directly with the Flemish buyers herself. Indeed, this year she had wanted to buy the entire fleece production of the priory. She would have paid less than the Flemish, but Philip would have got the money earlier. He had turned her down. However, it was a measure of her success that she could even make the offer.

She was at the stable with her brother now, Philip saw as he walked across. A crowd had gathered to say goodbye to the travelers. Richard was sitting on a chestnut war-horse that must have cost Aliena twenty pounds. He had grown into a handsome, broad-shouldered young man, his regular features marred only by an angry scar on his right ear: the earlobe had been cut off, no doubt in some fencing accident. He was splendidly dressed in red and green and outfitted with a new sword, lance, battle-ax and dagger. His baggage was carried by a second horse which he had on a leading-rein. With him were two men-at-arms on coursers and a squire on a cob.

Aliena was in tears, although Philip could not tell whether she was sorry to see her brother go, proud that he looked so fine, or frightened that he might never come back. All three, perhaps. Some of the villagers had come to say goodbye, including most of the young men and boys. No doubt Richard was their hero. All the monks were here, too, to wish their prior a safe journey.

The stable hands brought out two horses, a palfrey saddled ready for Philip and a cob loaded with his modest baggage—mainly food for the journey. The builders put down their tools and came over, led by bearded Tom and his redheaded stepson, Jack.

Philip formally embraced Remigius, his sub-prior, and took a warmer farewell of Milius and Cuthbert, then mounted the palfrey. He would be sitting in this hard saddle a long time, he realized grimly. From his raised position he blessed them all. The monks, builders and villagers waved and called out their goodbyes as he and Richard rode side by side through the priory gates.

They went down the narrow street through the village, waving to people who looked out of their doorways, then clattered across the wooden bridge and onto the road through the fields. A little later, Philip glanced back over his shoulder, and saw the rising sun shining through the window space in the half-built east end of the new cathedral. If he failed in his mission, it might never be finished. After all he had been through to get this far, he could not bear to contemplate the idea of defeat now. He turned back and concentrated on the road ahead.

 

Lincoln was a city on a hill. Philip and Richard approached it from the south, on an ancient and busy road called Ermine Street. Even from a distance they could see, at the top of the hill, the towers of the cathedral and the battlements of the castle. But they were still three or four miles away when, to Philip's astonishment, they came to a city gate. The suburbs must be
vast
, he thought; the population must run to
thousands
.

At Christmas the city had been seized by Ranulf of Chester, the most powerful man in the north of England and a relative of the Empress Maud. King Stephen had since retaken the city, but Ranulf's forces still held the castle. Now, Philip and Richard had learned as they drew nearer, Lincoln was in the peculiar position of having two rival armies camped within its walls.