“Promise?” she said with a grin.
Jack followed Jonathan down the stairs and through the church to the door in the south transept that led into the cloisters. They went along the north walk, past the schoolboys with their wax tablets, and stopped at the corner. With an inclination of his head Jonathan directed Jack’s attention to a monk sitting alone on a stone ledge halfway down the west walk. The monk’s hood was up, covering his face, but as they paused, the man turned, looked up, and then quickly averted his gaze.
Jack took an involuntary step back.
The monk was Waleran Bigod.
Jack said angrily: “What’s that devil doing here?”
“Preparing to meet his Maker,” Jonathan said.
Jack frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s a broken man,” Jonathan said. “He’s got no position, no power and no friends. He’s realized that God doesn’t want him to be a great and powerful bishop. He’s seen the error of his ways. He came here, on foot, and begged to be admitted as a humble monk, to spend the rest of his days asking God’s forgiveness for his sins.”
“I find that hard to believe,” said Jack.
“So did I, at first,” said Jonathan. “But in the end I realized that he has always been a genuinely God-fearing man.”
Jack looked skeptical.
“I really think he was devout. He just made one crucial mistake: he believed that the end justifies the means in the service of God. That permitted him to do anything.”
“Including conspiring to murder an archbishop!”
Jonathan held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “God must punish him for that—not I.”
Jack shrugged. It was the kind of thing Philip would have said. Jack saw no reason to let Waleran live in the priory. However, that was the way of monks. “Why did you want me to see him?”
“He wants to tell you why they hanged your father.”
Jack suddenly felt cold.
Waleran was sitting as still as a stone, gazing into space. He was barefoot. The fragile white ankles of an old man were visible below the hem of his homespun habit. Jack realized that Waleran was no longer frightening. He was feeble, defeated and sad.
Jack walked slowly forward and sat down on the bench a yard away from Waleran.
“The old King Henry was too strong,” Waleran said without preamble. “Some of the barons didn’t like it—they were too restricted. They wanted a weaker king next time. But Henry had a son, William.”
All this was ancient history. “That was before I was born,” Jack said.
“Your father died before you were born,” Waleran said, with just a hint of his old superciliousness.
Jack nodded. “Go on, then.”
“A group of barons decided to kill Henry’s son, William. Their thinking was that if the succession was in doubt, they would have more influence over the choice of the new king.”
Jack studied Waleran’s pale, thin face, searching for evidence of guile. The old man just looked weary, beaten and remorseful. If he was up to something, Jack could see no sign of it. “But William died in the wreck of the White Ship,” Jack said.
“That shipwreck was no accident,” Waleran said.
Jack was jolted. Could this be true? The heir to the throne, murdered just because a group of barons wanted a weak monarchy? But it was no more shocking than the murder of an archbishop. “Go on,” he said.
“The barons’ men scuttled the ship and escaped in a boat. Everybody else drowned, except for one man who clung to a spar and floated ashore.”
“That was my father,” Jack said. He was beginning to see where this was leading.
Waleran’s face was white and his lips were bloodless. He spoke without emotion, and did not meet Jack’s eyes. “He was beached near a castle that belonged to one of the conspirators, and they caught him. The man had no interest in exposing them. Indeed, he never realized that the ship had been scuttled. But he had seen things which would have revealed the truth to others, if he had been allowed to go free and talk about his experience. So they kidnapped him, brought him to England, and put him in the care of some people they could trust.”
