Seven-year-old Sally said: “But I haven’t got a quarry!”
Everyone laughed.
Then they went quiet again.
Richard looked exuberant and determined. “Very well,” he said tightly. “Sally’s Quarry.”
“We’d been working hard all morning, uprooting a massive tree stump up the hill,” said Philip. “When we came back, my brother, Francis, was standing right there, in the goat pen, holding you in his arms. You were a day old.”
Jonathan looked grave. This was a solemn moment for him.
Philip surveyed the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. There was not much forest in sight now: over the years the monks had cleared many acres, and the monastery was surrounded by fields. There were more stone buildings—a chapter house, a refectory and a dormitory—plus a host of smaller wooden barns and dairies. It hardly looked like the place he had left seventeen years ago. The people were different, too. Several of those young monks now occupied positions of responsibility at Kingsbridge. William Beauvis, who had caused trouble by flicking hot candle wax at the novice-master’s bald head all those years ago, was now prior here. Some had gone: that troublemaker Peter of Wareham was in Canterbury, working for an ambitious young archdeacon called Thomas Becket.
“I wonder what they were like,” said Jonathan. “I mean my parents.”
Philip felt a twinge of pain for him. Philip himself had lost his parents, but not until he was six years old, and he could remember them both quite well: his mother calm and loving, his father tall and black-bearded and—to Philip, anyway—brave and strong. Jonathan did not even have that. All he knew about his parents was that they had not wanted him.
“We can guess a lot about them,” Philip said.
“Really?” Jonathan said eagerly. “What?”
“They were poor,” Philip said. “Wealthy people have no reason to abandon their children. They were friendless: friends know when you’re expecting a baby, and ask questions if a child disappears. They were desperate. Only desperate people can bear to lose a child.”
Jonathan’s face was taut with unshed tears. Philip wanted to weep for him, this boy who—everyone said—was so much like Philip himself. Philip wished he could give him some consolation, tell him something warm and heartening about his parents; but how could he pretend that they had loved the boy, when they had left him to die?
Jonathan said: “But why does God do such things?”
Philip saw his opportunity. “Once you start asking that question, you can end up in confusion. But in this case I think the answer is clear. God wanted you for himself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Have I never told you that before? I’ve always believed it. I said so to the monks here, on the day you were found. I told them that God had sent you here for a purpose of his own, and it was our duty to raise you in God’s service so that you would be fit to perform the task he has assigned you.”
“I wonder if my mother knows that.”
“If she’s with the angels, she does.”
“What do you think my task might be?”
“God needs monks to be writers, illuminators, musicians, and farmers. He needs men to take on the demanding jobs, such as cellarer, prior and bishop. He needs men who can trade in wool, heal the sick, educate the schoolboys and build churches.”
“It’s hard to imagine that he has a role cut out for me.”
“I can’t think he would have gone to this much trouble with you if he didn’t,” Philip said with a smile. “However, it might not be a grand or prominent role in worldly terms. He might want you to become one of the quiet monks, a humble man who devotes his life to prayer and contemplation.”
Jonathan’s face fell. “I suppose he might.”
Philip laughed. “But I don’t think so. God wouldn’t make a knife out of wood, or a lady’s chemise of shoe leather. You aren’t the right material for a life of quietude, and God knows it. My guess is that he wants you to fight for him, not sing to him.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“But right now I think he wants you to go and see Brother Leo and find out how many cheeses he has for the cellar at Kingsbridge.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to talk to my brother in the chapter house. And remember—if any of the monks speak to you about Francis, say as little as you can.”
“I shall say nothing.”
