“I’ve heard of you,” said Waleran. “You’re Philip of Gwynedd.”
Philip was surprised. He could not imagine why an actual archdeacon should know the name of someone as lowly as himself. But his rank, modest though it was, was enough to change Waleran’s attitude. The irritated look went from the archdeacon’s face. “Come to the fire,” he said. “You’ll take a draft of hot wine to warm your blood?” He gestured to someone sitting on a bench against the wall, and a ragged figure sprang up to do his bidding.
Philip approached the fire. Waleran said something in a low voice and the other men got to their feet and began to take their leave. Philip sat down and warmed his hands while Waleran went to the door with his guests. Philip wondered what they had been discussing, and why the archdeacon had not closed the meeting with a prayer.
The ragged servant handed him a wooden cup. He sipped hot, spiced wine and considered his next move. If the bishop was not available, whom could Philip turn to? He thought of going to Earl Bartholomew and simply begging him to reconsider his rebellion. The idea was ludicrous: the earl would put him in a dungeon and throw away the key. That left the sheriff, who was in theory the king’s representative in the county. But there was no telling which side the sheriff might take while there was still some doubt about who was going to be king. Still, Philip thought, I might just have to take that risk, in the end. He longed to return to the simple life of the monastery, where his most dangerous enemy was Peter of Wareham.
Waleran’s guests departed, and the door closed on the noise of horses in the yard. Waleran returned to the fireside and pulled up a big chair.
Philip was preoccupied with his problem and did not really want to talk to the archdeacon, but he felt obliged to be civil. “I hope I didn’t break up your meeting,” he said.
Waleran made a deprecatory gesture. “It was due to end,” he said. “These things always go on longer than they need to. We were discussing the renewal of leases of diocesan land—the kind of thing that could be settled in a few moments if only people would be decisive.” He fluttered a bony hand as if to dismiss all diocesan leases and their holders. “Now, I hear you’ve done good work at that little cell in the forest.”
“I’m surprised you know about it,” Philip replied.
“The bishop isex officioabbot of Kingsbridge, so he’s bound to take an interest.”
Or he has a well-informed archdeacon, Philip thought. He said: “Well, God has blessed us.”
“Indeed.”
They were speaking Norman French, the language Waleran and his guests had been using, the language of government; but something about Waleran’s accent was a little strange, and after a few moments Philip realized that Waleran had the inflections of one who had been brought up to speak English. That meant he was not a Norman aristocrat, but a native who had risen by his own efforts—like Philip.
A moment later this was confirmed when Waleran switched to English to say: “I wish God would confer similar blessings on Kingsbridge Priory.”
Philip was not the only one to be troubled by the state of affairs at Kingsbridge, then. Waleran probably knew more about events there than Philip did. Philip said: “How is Prior James?”
“Sick,” Waleran replied succinctly.
Then he definitely would not be able to do anything about Earl Bartholomew’s insurrection, Philip thought gloomily. He was going to have to go to Shiring and take his chance with the sheriff.
It occurred to him that Waleran was the kind of man who would know everyone of importance in the county. “What is the sheriff of Shiring like?” he asked.
Waleran shrugged. “Ungodly, arrogant, grasping and corrupt. So are all sheriffs. Why do you ask?”
“If I can’t talk to the bishop I probably should go and see the sheriff.”
“I am in the bishop’s confidence, you know,” said Waleran with a little smile. “If I can help ...” He made an open-handed gesture, like a man who is being generous but knows he may be refused.
Philip had relaxed a little, thinking that the moment of crisis had been postponed for a day or two, but now he was filled with trepidation again. Could he trust Archdeacon Waleran? Waleran’s nonchalance was studied, he thought: the archdeacon appeared diffident, but in truth he was probably bursting to know what Philip had to say that was so important. However, that was no reason to mistrust him. He seemed a judicious fellow. Was he powerful enough to do anything about the rebellion? If he could not do it himself, he might be able to locate the bishop. It struck Philip that in fact there was a major advantage to the idea of confiding in Waleran; for whereas the bishop might insist on knowing the real source of Philip’s information, the archdeacon did not have the authority to do that, and would have to be content with the story Philip told him, whether he believed it or not.
Waleran gave his little smile again. “If you think about it any longer, I shall begin to believe that you mistrust me!”
Philip felt he understood Waleran. Waleran was a man something like himself: young, well-educated, low-born, and intelligent. He was a little too worldly for Philip’s taste, perhaps, but this was pardonable in a priest who was obliged to spend so much of his time with lords and ladies, and did not have the benefit of a monk’s protected life. Waleran was a devout man at heart, Philip thought. He would do the right thing for the Church.
Philip hesitated on the edge of decision. Until now only he and Francis had known the secret. Once he told a third person, anything could happen. He took a deep breath.
“Three days ago, an injured man came to my monastery in the forest,” he began, silently praying forgiveness for lying. “He was an armed man on a fine, fast horse, and he had taken a fall a mile or two away. He must have been riding hard when he fell, for his arm was broken and his ribs were crushed. We set his arm, but there was nothing we could do about his ribs, and he was coughing blood, a sign of internal damage.” As he spoke, Philip was watching Waleran’s face. So far it showed nothing more than polite interest. “I advised him to confess his sins, for he was in danger of death. He told me a secret.”
He hesitated, not sure how much Waleran might have heard of the political news. “I expect you know that Stephen of Blois has claimed the throne of England with the blessing of the Church.”
Waleran knew more than Philip. “And he was crowned at Westminster three days before Christmas,” he said.
“Already!” Francis had not known that.
“What was the secret?” Waleran said with a touch of impatience.
Philip took the plunge. “Before he died, the horseman told me that his master Bartholomew, earl of Shiring, had conspired with Robert of Gloucester to raise a rebellion against Stephen.” He studied Waleran’s face, holding his breath.
