The Pillars of the Earth (133 page)

Jonathan said: “But why does God do such things?”

Philip saw his opportunity. “Once you start asking that question, you can end up in confusion. But in this case I think the answer is clear. God wanted you for himself.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Have I never told you that before? I’ve always believed it. I said so to the monks here, on the day you were found. I told them that God had sent you here for a purpose of his own, and it was our duty to raise you in God’s service so that you would be fit to perform the task he has assigned you.”

“I wonder if my mother knows that.”

“If she’s with the angels, she does.”

“What do you think my task might be?”

“God needs monks to be writers, illuminators, musicians, and farmers. He needs men to take on the demanding jobs, such as cellarer, prior and bishop. He needs men who can trade in wool, heal the sick, educate the schoolboys and build churches.”

“It’s hard to imagine that he has a role cut out for me.”

“I can’t think he would have gone to this much trouble with you if he didn’t,” Philip said with a smile. “However, it might not be a grand or prominent role in worldly terms. He might want you to become one of the quiet monks, a humble man who devotes his life to prayer and contemplation.”

Jonathan’s face fell. “I suppose he might.”

Philip laughed. “But I don’t think so. God wouldn’t make a knife out of wood, or a lady’s chemise of shoe leather. You aren’t the right material for a life of quietude, and God knows it. My guess is that he wants you to fight for him, not sing to him.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“But right now I think he wants you to go and see Brother Leo and find out how many cheeses he has for the cellar at Kingsbridge.”

“Right.”

“I’m going to talk to my brother in the chapter house. And remember—if any of the monks speak to you about Francis, say as little as you can.”

“I shall say nothing.”

“Off you go.”

Jonathan walked quickly across the yard. His solemn mood had left him already, and his natural exuberance had returned before he reached the dairy. Philip watched him until he disappeared into the building. I was just like that, except perhaps not so clever, he thought.

He went the opposite way, to the chapter house. Francis had sent a message asking Philip to meet him here discreetly. As far as the Kingsbridge monks were concerned, Philip was making a routine visit to a cell. The meeting could not be kept from the monks here, of course, but they were so isolated they had nobody to tell. Only the prior of the cell ever came to Kingsbridge, and Philip had sworn him to secrecy.

He and Francis had arrived this morning, and although they could not plausibly claim that the meeting was an accident, they were maintaining a pretense that they had organized it only for the pleasure of seeing one another. They had both attended high mass, then taken dinner with the monks. Now was their first chance to talk alone.

Francis was waiting in the chapter house, sitting on a stone bench against the wall. Philip almost never saw his own reflection—there were no looking-glasses in a monastery—so he measured his own aging by the changes in his brother, who was only two years younger. Francis at forty-two had a few threads of silver in his black hair, and a crop of stress lines around his bright blue eyes. He was much heavier around the neck and waist than last time Philip had seen him. I’ve probably got more gray hair and less surplus fat, Philip thought; but I wonder which of us has more worry lines?

He sat down beside Francis and looked across the empty octagonal room. Francis said: “How are things?”

“The savages are in control again,” Philip said. “The priory is running out of money, we’ve almost stopped building the cathedral, Kingsbridge is on the decline, half the county is starving and it’s not safe to travel.”

Francis nodded. “It’s the same story all over England.”

“Perhaps the savages will always be in control,” Philip said gloomily. “Perhaps greed will always outweigh wisdom in the councils of the mighty; perhaps fear will always overcome compassion in the mind of a man with a sword in his hand.”

“You’re not usually so pessimistic.”

“We were attacked by outlaws a few weeks ago. It was a pitiable effort: no sooner had the townsmen killed a few than the outlaws started fighting among themselves. But when they retreated, the young men of our town chased after the poor wretches and slaughtered all they could catch. It was sickening.”

Francis shook his head. “It’s hard to understand.”

“I think I do understand it. They’d been frightened, and could only exorcise their fear by shedding the blood of the people who had scared them. I saw that in the eyes of the men who killed our mother and father. They killed because they were scared. But what can take away their fear?”

Francis sighed. “Peace, justice, prosperity ... Hard things to achieve.”

Philip nodded. “Well. What are you up to?”

“I’m working for the son of the Empress Maud. His name is Henry.”

Philip had heard talk of this Henry. “What’s he like?”

“He’s a very clever and determined young man. His father is dead, so he’s count of Anjou. He’s also duke of Normandy, because he’s the eldest grandson of old Henry, who used to be king of England and duke of Normandy. And he’s married Eleanor of Aquitaine, so now he’s duke of Aquitaine as well.”

“He rules over more territory than the king of France.”

“Exactly.”

“But what’s he
like
?”

“Educated, hardworking, fast-moving, restless, strong-willed. He has a fearsome temper.”

“I sometimes wish I had a fearsome temper,” Philip said. “It keeps people on their toes. But everyone knows I’m always reasonable, so I’m never obeyed with quite the same alacrity as a prior who might explode at any minute.”

Francis laughed. “Stay just the way you are,” he said. He became serious again. “Henry has made me realize the importance of the king’s personality. Look at Stephen: his judgment is poor; he’s determined in short bursts, then he gives up; he’s courageous to the point of foolishness and he pardons his enemies all the time. People who betray him risk very little: they know they can count on his mercy. Consequently, he’s struggled unsuccessfully for eighteen years to rule a land that was a united kingdom when he took it over. Henry already has more control over his collection of previously independent duchies and counties than Stephen has ever had here.”

Philip was struck by an idea. “Why did Henry send you to England?” he said.

“To survey the kingdom.”

“What have you found?”

“That it is lawless and starving, battered by storms and ravaged by war.”

Philip nodded thoughtfully. Young Henry was duke of Normandy because he was the eldest son of Maud, who was the only legitimate child of old King Henry, who had been duke of Normandy and king of England.

By that line of descent young Henry could also claim to be king of England.

His mother had made the same claim, and had been opposed because she was a woman and because her husband was an Angevin. But young Henry was not only male but had the additional merit of being both Norman (on his mother’s side) and Angevin (on his father’s).

Philip said: “Is Henry going to try for the crown of England?”

“It depends on my report,” said Francis.

“And what will you tell him?”

“That there will never be a better time than now.”

“Praise God,” said Philip.

On his way to Bishop Waleran’s castle, Earl William stopped at Cowford Mill, which he owned. The miller, a dour middle-aged man called Wulfric, had the right to grind all the grain grown in eleven nearby villages. As his fee he kept two sacks in every twenty: one for himself and one for William.

William went there to collect his dues. He did not normally do this personally, but these were not normal times. Nowadays he had to provide an armed escort for every cart carrying flour or anything else edible. In order to use his people in the most economical way he was in the habit of taking a wagon or two with him, whenever he moved around with his entourage of knights, and collecting whatever he could.

The surge in outlaw crime was an unfortunate side effect of his firm policy on bad tenants. Landless people often turned to theft. Generally, they were no more efficient as thieves than they had been as farmers, and William had expected most of them to die off during the winter. At first his expectations had been borne out: the outlaws either went for lone travelers who had little to be stolen, or they carried out ill-organized raids on well-defended targets. Lately, however, the outlaws’ tactics had improved. Now they always attacked with at least double the numbers of the defending force. They came when barns were full, a sign that they were reconnoitering carefully. Their attacks were sudden and swift, and they had the courage of desperation. However, they did not stay to fight, but each man fled as soon as he had got his hands on a sheep, a ham, a cheese, a sack of flour or a bag of silver. There was no point in pursuing them, for they melted into the forest, dividing up and running all ways. Someone was commanding them, and he was doing it just the way William would have.

The outlaws’ success humiliated William. It made him look like a buffoon who could not police his own earldom. To make matters worse, the outlaws rarely stole from anyone else. It looked as if they were deliberately defying him. William hated nothing more than the feeling that people were laughing at him behind their hands. He had spent his life forcing people to respect him and his family, and this band of outlaws was undoing all his work.

Especially galling for William was what people were saying behind his back: that it served him right, he had treated his tenants harshly and now they were taking their revenge, he had brought this on himself. Such talk made him apoplectic with rage.

The villagers of Cowford looked startled and fearful as William and his knights rode in. William scowled at the thin, apprehensive faces that looked out from the doorways and quickly disappeared again. These people had sent their priest to plead for them to be allowed to grind their own grain this year, saying that they could not afford to give the miller a tenth. William had been tempted to pull out the priest’s tongue for insolence.

The weather was cold, and there was ice around the rim of the millpond. The waterwheel was still and the grindstone silent. A woman came out of the house beside the mill. William felt a spasm of desire when he looked at her. She was about twenty years old, with a pretty face and a cloud of dark curls. Despite the famine she had big breasts and strong thighs. She had a saucy look when she first appeared, but the sight of William’s knights wiped it off her face, and she ducked back inside.

“She didn’t fancy us,” Walter said. “She must have seen Gervase.” It was an old joke, but they laughed anyway.

They tied up their horses. It was not exactly the same group that William had gathered around him when the civil war began. Walter was still with him, of course, and Ugly Gervase, and Hugh Axe; but Gilbert had died in the unexpectedly bloody battle with the quarrymen, and had been replaced by Guillaume; and Miles had lost an arm in a sword fight over dice at an alehouse in Norwich, and Louis had joined the group. They were not boys anymore, but they talked and acted just the same, laughing and drinking, gambling and whoring. William had lost count of the alehouses they had wrecked, the Jews they had tormented and the virgins they had deflowered.

The miller came out. No doubt his sour expression was due to the perennial unpopularity of millers. His grouchy look was overlaid by anxiety. That was all right: William liked people to be anxious when he turned up.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter, Wulfric,” William said, leering. “You’ve been hiding her from me.”

“That’s Maggie, my wife,” he said.

“Cow shit. Your wife’s a raddled old crone, I remember her.”

“My May died last year, lord. I’ve married again.”

“You dirty old dog!” William said, grinning. “This one must be thirty years younger than you!”

“Twenty-five—”

“Enough of that. Where’s my flour? One sack in twenty!”

“All here, lord. If you please to come in.”

The way into the mill was through the house. William and the knights followed Wulfric into the single room. The miller’s new young wife was kneeling in front of the fire, putting logs on. As she bent down, her tunic stretched tight across her rear. She had meaty haunches, William observed. A miller’s wife was one of the last to go hungry in a famine, of course.

William stopped, looking at her bottom. The knights grinned and the miller fidgeted. The girl looked around, realized they were staring at her, and stood up, covered in confusion.

William winked at her and said: “Bring us some ale, Maggie—we’re thirsty men.”

They went through a doorway to the mill. The flour was in sacks piled around the outside of the circular threshing floor. There was not much of it. Normally the stacks were higher than a man. “Is this all?” William said.

“It was such a poor harvest, lord,” Wulfric said nervously.

“Where’s mine?”

“Here, lord.” He pointed to a pile of eight or nine sacks.

“What?” William felt his face flush. “That’s mine? I’ve got two wagons outside, and you offer me that?”

Wulfric’s face became even more doleful. “I’m sorry, lord.”

William counted them. “It’s only nine sacks!”

“That’s all there is,” Wulfric said. He was almost in tears. “You see mine next to yours, and it’s the same—”

“You lying dog,” William said angrily. “You’ve sold it—”

“No, lord,” Wulfric insisted. “That’s all there ever was.”

Maggie came to the doorway with six pottery tumblers of ale on a tray. She offered the tray to each of the knights. They took a mug each and drank thirstily. William ignored her. He was too wound up to drink. She stood waiting with the one remaining tumbler on the tray.

“What’s all this?” William said to Wulfric, pointing to the rest of the sacks, another twenty-five or thirty piled around the walls.