Philip was glad to be able to contradict her. “No, my brother left the order.”
The children came back. They had not found any broad leaves—it was not easy in winter—so they would eat without platters. Philip gave them all bread and cheese. They tore into the food like starving animals. “We make this cheese at my monastery,” he said. “Most people like it when it’s new, like this, but it’s even better if you leave it to ripen.” They were too hungry to care. They finished the bread and cheese in no time. Philip had three pears. He fished them out of his bag and gave them to Tom. Tom gave one to each of the children.
Philip got to his feet. “I’ll pray that you find work.”
Tom said: “If you think of it, Father, mention me to the bishop. You know our need, and you’ve found us honest.”
“I will.”
Tom held the horse while Philip mounted. “You’re a good man, father,” he said, and Philip saw to his surprise that there were tears in Tom’s eyes.
“God be with you,” Philip said.
Tom held the horse’s head a moment longer. “The baby you told us about—the foundling.” He spoke softly, as if he did not want the children to hear. “Did you ... have you named him yet?”
“Yes. We call him Jonathan, which means a gift from God.”
“Jonathan. I like that.” Tom released the horse.
Philip looked at him curiously for a moment, then kicked his horse and trotted away.
The bishop of Kingsbridge did not live at Kingsbridge. His palace stood on a south-facing hillside in a lush valley a full day’s journey from the cold stone cathedral and its mournful monks. He preferred it this way, for too much churchgoing would get in the way of his other duties of collecting rents, dispensing justice and maneuvering at the royal court. It suited the monks, too, for the farther away the bishop was, the less he interfered with them.
It was cold enough for snow on the afternoon that Philip arrived there. A bitter wind whipped across the bishop’s valley, and low gray clouds frowned on his hillside manor house. It was not a castle, but it was nonetheless well defended. The woodland had been cleared for a hundred yards all around. The house was enclosed by a stout wooden fence the height of a man, with a rainwater ditch outside it. The guard at the gate had a slovenly manner but his sword was heavy.
The palace was a fine stone house built in the shape of the letter E. The ground floor was an undercroft, its stout walls pierced by several heavy doors but no windows. One door was open, and through it Philip could see barrels and sacks in the gloom. The other doors were closed and chained. Philip wondered what was behind them: when the bishop had prisoners, that was where they would languish.
The short stroke of the E was an exterior staircase leading to the living quarters above the undercroft. The main room, the upright stroke of the E, would be the hall. The two rooms forming the head and foot of the E would be a chapel and a bedroom, Philip guessed. There were small shuttered windows like beady eyes looking suspiciously out at the world.
Within the compound were a kitchen and a bakehouse of stone as well as wooden stables and a barn. All the buildings were in good repair—which was unfortunate for Tom Builder, Philip thought.
There were several good horses in the stable, including a couple of chargers, and a handful of men-at-arms were scattered around, killing time. Perhaps the bishop had visitors.
Philip left his horse with a stableboy and climbed the steps with a sense of foreboding. The whole place had a distressingly military feel. Where were the queues of petitioners with grievances, the mothers with babies to be blessed? He was entering an unfamiliar world, and he was in possession of a dangerous secret. It might be a long time before I leave here, he thought fearfully. I wish Francis had not come to me.
He reached the top of the stairs. Such unworthy thoughts, he told himself. Here I have a chance to serve God and the Church, and I react by worrying about my own safety. Some men face danger every day, in battle, at sea, and on hazardous pilgrimages or crusades. Even a monk must suffer a little fear and trembling sometimes.
He took a deep breath and went in.
The hall was dim and smoky. Philip closed the door quickly to keep out the cold air, then peered into the gloom. A big fire blazed on the opposite side of the room. That and the small windows provided the only light. Around the fireplace was a group of men, some in clerical clothes and others in the expensive but well-worn garments of minor gentry. They were involved in a serious discussion, their voices low and businesslike. Their seats were scattered randomly, but they all looked at and spoke to a priest who sat in the middle of the group like a spider at the center of a web. He was a thin man, and the way his long legs were splayed apart and his long arms draped over the arms of the chair made him look as if he were about to spring. He had lank, jet-black hair and a pale face with a sharp nose, and his black clothes made him at once handsome and menacing.
He was not the bishop.
A steward got up from a seat beside the door and said to Philip: “Good day, Father. Who do you want to see?” At the same time a hound lying by the fire raised its head and growled. The man in black looked up quickly, saw Philip, and stopped the conversation instantly with a raised hand. “What is it?” he said brusquely.
“Good day,” Philip said politely. “I’ve come to see the bishop.”
“He’s not here,” the priest said dismissively.
Philip’s heart sank. He had been dreading the interview and its dangers, but now he felt let down. What was he going to do with his awful secret? He said to the priest: “When do you expect him back?”
“We don’t know. What’s your business with him?”
The priest’s tone was a little abrupt, and Philip was stung. “God’s business,” he said sharply. “Who are you?”
The priest raised his eyebrows, as if surprised to be challenged, and the other men became suddenly quiet, like people expecting an explosion; but after a pause he replied mildly enough. “I’m his archdeacon. My name is Waleran Bigod.”
A good name for a priest, Philip thought. He said: “My name is Philip. I’m the prior of the monastery of St-John-in-the-Forest. It’s a cell of Kingsbridge Priory.”
