“Is it true?” Philip asked impatiently. “Will the bishop nominate Osbert?”
Waleran held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll get to that. Cuthbert here is just telling me of yesterday’s events.”
Philip concealed his disappointment. This was not a straightforward answer. He studied Waleran’s face, trying to read his mind. Waleran did indeed have plans of his own, but Philip could not guess what they were.
Cuthbert—whom Philip had not at first noticed, sitting by the fire dipping his horsebread into his beer to soften it for his elderly teeth—resumed an account of yesterday’s chapter. Philip fidgeted restlessly, trying to guess what Waleran might be up to. He tried a morsel of bread but found he was too tense to swallow. He drank some of the watery beer, just to have something to do with his hands.
“And so,” Cuthbert said at last, “it seemed that our only chance was to try to verify the bishop’s intentions; and fortunately Philip “felt able to presume upon his acquaintanceship with yourself; so we sent you the message.”
Philip said impatiently: “And now will you tell us what we want to know?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you.” Waleran put down his wine untasted. “The bishop would like his son to be prior of Kingsbridge.”
Philip’s heart sank. “So Remigius told the truth.”
Waleran went on: “However, the bishop is not willing to risk a quarrel with the monks.”
Philip frowned. This was more or less what Remigius had forecast—but something was not quite right. Philip said to Waleran: “You didn’t come all this way just to tell us that.”
Waleran shot a look of respect at Philip, and Philip knew he had guessed right. “No,” Waleran said. “The bishop has asked me to test the mood of the monastery. And he has empowered me to make a nomination on his behalf. Indeed, I have with me the bishop’s seal, so that I can write a letter of nomination, to make the matter formal and binding. I have his full authority, you see.”
Philip took a moment to digest that. Waleran was empowered to make a nomination and seal it with the bishop’s seal. That meant the bishop had put the whole matter in Waleran’s hands. He now spoke with the bishop’s authority.
Philip took a deep breath and said: “Do you accept what Cuthbert has told you—that if Osbert were to be nominated, it would cause the quarrel the bishop wants to avoid?”
“Yes, I understand that,” said Waleran.
“Then you won’t nominate Osbert.”
“No.”
Philip felt wound up tight enough to snap. The monks would be so glad to escape the threat of Osbert that they would gratefully vote for whoever Waleran might nominate.
Waleran now had the power to choose the new prior.
Philip said: “Then whom will you nominate?”
Waleran said: “You ... or Remigius.”
“Remigius’s ability to run the priory—”
“I know his abilities, and yours,” Waleran interrupted, once again holding up a thin white hand to stop Philip. “I know which of you would make the best prior.” He paused. “But there is another matter.”
What now? wondered Philip. What else was there to consider, other than who would make the best prior? He looked at the others. Milius was also mystified, but old Cuthbert had a slight smile, as if he knew what was coming.
Waleran said: “Like you, I’m anxious that important posts in the Church should go to energetic and capable men, regardless of age, rather than being handed out as rewards for long service to senior men whose holiness may be greater than their administrative ability.”
“Of course,” Philip said impatiently. He did not see the relevance of this lecture.
“We should work together to this end—you three, and me.”
Milius said: “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I do,” said Cuthbert.
Waleran gave Cuthbert a thin smile, then returned his attention to Philip. “Let me be plain,” he said. “The bishop himself is old. One day he will die, and then we will need a new bishop, just as today we need a new prior. The monks of Kingsbridge have the right to elect the new bishop, for the bishop of Kingsbridge is also the abbot of the priory.”
Philip frowned. All this was irrelevant. They were electing a prior, not a bishop.
