But Waleran went on. “Of course, the monks will not be completely free to choose whom they like to be bishop, for the archbishop and the king will have their views; but in the end it is the monks who legitimize the appointment. And when that time comes, you three will have a powerful influence on the decision.”
Cuthbert was nodding as if his guess had turned out to be right, and now Philip, too, had an inkling of what was coming.
Waleran finished: “You want me to make you prior of Kingsbridge. I want you to make me bishop.”
So that was it!
Philip stared in silence at Waleran. It was very simple. The archdeacon wanted to make a deal.
Philip was shocked. It was not quite the same as buying and selling a clerical office, which was known as the sin of simony; but it had an unpleasantly commercial feeling about it.
He tried to think objectively about the proposal. It would mean that Philip would become prior. His heart beat faster at the thought. He was reluctant to quibble with anything that would give him the priory.
It would mean that Waleran would probably become bishop at some point. Would he be a good bishop? He would certainly be competent. He appeared to have no serious vices. He had a rather worldly, practical approach to the service of God, but then so did Philip. Philip sensed that Waleran had a ruthless edge that he himself lacked, but he also sensed that it was based on a genuine determination to protect and nurture the interests of the Church.
Who else might be a candidate, when the bishop eventually died? Probably Osbert. It was not unknown for religious offices to be passed from father to son, despite the official requirement of clerical celibacy. Osbert, of course, would be even more of a liability to the Church as bishop than he would be as prior. It would be worth supporting a much worse candidate than Waleran just to keep Osbert out.
Would anyone else be in the running? It was impossible to guess. It might be years yet before the bishop died.
Cuthbert said to Waleran: “We couldn’t guarantee to get you elected.”
“I know,” said Waleran. “I’m asking only for your nomination. Appropriately, that’s exactly what I have to offer you in return—a nomination.”
Cuthbert nodded. “I’ll agree to that,” he said solemnly.
“So will I,” said Milius.
The archdeacon and the two monks looked at Philip. He hesitated, torn. This was not the way to choose a bishop, he knew; but the priory was within his grasp. It could not be right to barter one holy office for another, like horse traders—but if he refused, the result might be that Remigius became prior and Osbert became bishop!
However, the rational arguments now seemed academic. The desire to be prior was like an irresistible force within him, and he could not refuse, regardless of the pros and cons. He recalled the prayer he had sent up yesterday, telling God that he intended to fight for the job. He raised his eyes now, and sent up another:If you don’t want this to happen, then still my tongue, and paralyze my mouth, and stop my breath in my throat, and prevent me from speaking.
Then he looked at Waleran and said: “I accept.”
The prior’s bed was huge, three times the width of any bed Philip had ever slept in. The wooden base stood half the height of a man, and there was a feather mattress on top of that. It had curtains all around to keep out drafts, and on the curtains biblical scenes had been embroidered by the patient hands of a pious woman. Philip examined it with some misgivings. It seemed to him enough of an extravagance that the prior should have a bedroom all to himself—Philip had never in his life had his own bedroom, and tonight would be the first time he had ever slept alone. The bed was too much. He considered having a straw mattress brought over from the dormitory, and moving the bed into the infirmary, where it would ease an ailing monk’s old bones. But of course the bed was not just for Philip. When the priory had an especially distinguished guest, a bishop or a great lord or even a king, then the guest would have this bedroom and the prior would shift as best he could somewhere else. So Philip could not really get rid of it.
“You’ll sleep soundly tonight,” said Waleran Bigod, not without a hint of envy.
“I suppose I shall,” Philip said dubiously.
Everything had happened very quickly. Waleran had written a letter to the priory, right there in the kitchen, ordering the monks to hold an immediate election and nominating Philip. He had signed the letter with the bishop’s name and sealed it with the bishop’s seal. Then the four of them had gone into chapter.
As soon as Remigius saw them enter he knew the battle was over. Waleran read the letter, and the monks cheered when he got to Philip’s name. Remigius had the wit to dispense with the formality of the vote and concede defeat.
And Philip was prior.
He had conducted the rest of chapter in something of a daze, and then had walked across the lawns to the prior’s house, in the southeast corner of the priory close, to take up residence.
When he saw the bed he realized that his life had changed utterly and irrevocably. He was different, special, set apart from other monks. He had power and privilege. And he had responsibility. He alone had to make sure that this little community of forty-five men survived and prospered. If they starved, it would be his fault; if they became depraved, he would be to blame; if they disgraced God’s Church, God would hold Philip responsible. He had sought this burden, he reminded himself; now he must bear it.
His first duty as prior would be to lead the monks into church for high mass. Today was Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas, and a holiday. All the villagers would be at the service, and more people would come from the surrounding district. A good cathedral with a strong body of monks and a reputation for spectacular services could attract a thousand people or more. Even dreary Kingsbridge would draw most of the local gentry, for the service was a social occasion too, when they could meet their neighbors and talk business.
But before the service Philip had something else to discuss with Waleran, now that they were alone at last. “That information I passed you,” he began. “About the earl of Shiring ...”
Waleran nodded. “I haven’t forgotten—indeed, that could be more important than the question of who is prior or bishop. Earl Bartholomew has arrived in England already. They expect him at Shiring tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do?” Philip said anxiously.
“I’m going to make use of Sir Percy Hamleigh. In fact, I’m hoping he’ll be in the congregation today.”
