The Pillars of the Earth (81 page)

William, Walter and the entire royal army turned and ran.

Philip was jubilant. The retreat started in the middle of the king’s army and spread like a ripple to the flanks. Within a few heartbeats the entire royal army was on the run. This was King Stephen’s reward for injustice.

The attackers gave chase. There were forty or fifty riderless horses in the rear of the king’s army, being held by squires, and some of the fleeing men leaped on them and made their escape, heading not for the city of Lincoln but for the open country.

Philip wondered what had happened to the king.

The citizens of Lincoln were hurriedly leaving their rooftops. Children and animals were rounded up. Some families disappeared into their houses, closing the shutters and barring the doors. There was a flurry of movement among the boats on the lake: some citizens were trying to get away by river. People began to arrive at the cathedral, to take refuge there.

At each entrance to the city, people rushed to close the huge ironbound doors. Suddenly Ranulf of Chester’s men burst out of the castle. They divided into groups, evidently following a prearranged plan, and one group went to each city gate. They waded in among the citizens, striking them down to left and right, and reopened the doors to admit the conquering rebels.

Philip decided to get off the cathedral roof. The others with him, mostly cathedral canons, had the same thought. They all ducked through the low doorway that led into the turret. There they met the bishop and the archdeacons, who had been higher up in the tower. Philip thought Bishop Alexander looked frightened. That was a pity: the bishop would need courage to share today.

They all went carefully down the long, narrow spiral staircase and emerged in the nave of the church at the west end. There were already a hundred or so citizens in the church, and more pouring through the three great doorways. As Philip looked out, two knights came into the cathedral courtyard, bloodstained and muddy, riding hard, obviously having come from the battle. They rode straight into the church without dismounting. When they saw the bishop one of them shouted: “The king is captured!”

Philip’s heart leaped. King Stephen was not just beaten, he was taken prisoner! The royalist forces throughout the kingdom would surely collapse now. The implications tumbled over one another in Philip’s imagination, but before he could sort them out he heard Bishop Alexander shout: “Close the doors!”

Philip could hardly believe his ears. “No!” he shouted. “You can’t do that!”

The bishop stared at him, white with fear and panic. He was not sure who Philip was. Philip had made a formal call on him, out of courtesy, but they had not spoken since. Now, with a visible effort, Alexander remembered him. “This is not your cathedral, Prior Philip, it’s mine. Close the doors!” Several priests went to do his bidding.

Philip was horrified at this display of naked self-interest by a clergyman. “You can’t lock people out,” he shouted angrily. “They might be killed!”

“If we don’t lock the doors we’ll all be killed!” Alexander screeched hysterically.

Philip grabbed him by the front of the robe. “Remember who you are,” he hissed. “We’re not supposed to be afraid—especially of death. Pull yourself together.”

“Get him off me!” Alexander screamed.

Several canons pulled Philip away.

Philip shouted at them: “Don’t you see what he’s doing?”

A canon said: “If you’re so brave, why don’t you go out there and protect them yourself?”

Philip tore himself free. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he said.

He turned around. The big central door was just closing. He dashed across the nave. Three priests were pushing it shut as more people fought to get through the narrowing gap. Philip squeezed out just before the door closed.

In the next few moments a small crowd gathered in the porch. Men and women banged on the door and screamed to be let in, but there was no response from inside the church.

Suddenly Philip was afraid. The panic on the faces of the people locked out scared him. He felt himself trembling. He had encountered a victorious army once before, at the age of six, and the horror he had felt then returned to him now. The moment when the men-at-arms had burst into his parents’ house came back as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. He stood rooted to the spot, and tried to stop shaking, while the crowd boiled around him. It was a long time since he had been tormented by this nightmare. He saw the bloodlust on the men’s faces, and the way the sword had transfixed his mother, and the awful sight of his father’s guts spilling out of his belly; and he felt again that uncomprehending, overwhelming, insane hysterical terror. Then he saw a monk come through the door with a cross in his hand, and the screaming stopped. The monk showed him and his brother how to close the eyes of his mother and father, so that they could sleep the long sleep. He remembered, as if he had just awakened from a dream, that he was not a frightened child anymore, he was a grown man and a monk; and just as Abbot Peter had rescued him and his brother on that dreadful day twenty-seven years ago, so today the grown-up Philip, strengthened by faith and protected by God, would come to the help of those in fear of their lives.

He forced himself to take a single step forward; and once he had done that the second was a little less difficult, and the third was almost easy.

When he reached the street that led to the west gate he was almost knocked over by a mob of fleeing townspeople: men and boys running with bundles of precious possessions, old people gasping for breath, screaming girls, women carrying squalling children in their arms. The rush carried him back several yards, then he fought against the flow. They were heading for the cathedral. He wanted to tell them it was closed, and they should stay quietly in their own homes and bar the doors; but everyone was shouting and no one was listening.

He progressed slowly along the street, moving against the flood of people. He had gained only a few yards when a group of four horsemen came charging along the street. They were the cause of the stampede. Some people flattened themselves against house walls, but others could not get out of the way in time, and many fell beneath the flailing hooves. Philip was horrified but there was nothing he could do, and he dodged into an alleyway to avoid becoming a victim himself. A moment later the horsemen had passed by and the street was deserted.

Several bodies were left lying on the ground. As Philip stepped out of his alley he saw one of them move: a middle-aged man in a scarlet cloak was trying to crawl along the ground despite an injured leg. Philip crossed the street, intending to try to carry the man; but before he got there, two men with iron helmets and wooden shields appeared. One of them said: “This one’s alive, Jake.”

Philip shuddered. It seemed to him that their demeanor, their voices, their clothes and even their faces were the same as those of the two men who had killed his parents.

The one called Jake said: “He’ll fetch a ransom—look at that red cloak.” He turned, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. A third man came running up. “Take Redcoat here into the castle and tie him up.”

The third man put his arms around the wounded citizen’s chest and dragged him off. The injured man screamed in pain as his legs bumped over the stones. Philip shouted: “Stop!” They all stopped for a moment, looked at him, and laughed; then they carried on with what they were doing.

Philip shouted again but they ignored him. He watched helplessly as the wounded man was dragged off. Another man-at-arms came out of a house, wearing a long fur coat and carrying six silver plates under his arm. Jake saw him and took note of the booty. “These are rich houses,” he said to his comrade. “We ought to get into one of them. See what we can find.” They went up to the locked door of a stone house and attacked it with a battle-ax.

Philip felt useless but he was not willing to give up. However, God had not put him in this position to defend rich men’s property, so he left Jake and his companions and hurried toward the west gate. More men-at-arms came running along the street. Mingled with them were several short, dark men with painted faces, dressed in sheepskin coats and armed with clubs. They were the Welsh tribesmen, Philip realized, and he felt ashamed that he came from the same country as these savages. He clung to the wall of a house and tried to look inconspicuous.

Two men emerged from a stone house dragging by the legs a white-bearded man in a skullcap. One of them held a knife to the man’s throat and said: “Where’s your money, Jew?”

“I have no money,” the man said plaintively.

Nobody would believe that, Philip thought. The wealth of the Jews of Lincoln was famous; and anyway, the man had been living in a stone house.

Another man-at-arms came out dragging a woman by the hair. The woman was middle-aged and presumably the Jew’s wife. The first man shouted: “Tell us where the money is, or she’ll have my sword up her cunt.” He lifted the woman’s skirt, exposing her graying pubic hair, and held a long dagger pointing at her groin.

Philip was about to intervene, but the old man gave in immediately. “Don’t hurt her, the money’s in the back,” he said urgently. “It’s buried in the garden, by the woodpile—please, let her go.”

The three men ran back into the house. The woman helped the man to his feet. Another group of horsemen thundered down the narrow street, and Philip flung himself out of the way. When he got up again, the two Jews had disappeared.

A young man in armor came down the street, running for his life, with three or four Welshmen in pursuit. They caught him just as he drew level with Philip. The foremost pursuer swung with his sword and touched the fugitive’s calf. It did not seem to Philip like a deep wound but it was enough to make the young man stumble and fall to the ground. Another pursuer reached the fallen man and hefted a battle-ax.

With his heart in his mouth, Philip stepped forward and shouted: “Stop!”

The man raised his ax.

Philip rushed at him.

The man swung the ax, but Philip pushed him at the last minute. The blade of the ax clanged on the stone pavement a foot from the victim’s head. The attacker recovered his balance and stared at Philip in amazement. Philip stared back at him, trying not to tremble, wishing he could remember a word or two of Welsh. Before either of them moved, the other two pursuers caught up, and one of them cannoned into Philip, sending him sprawling. That probably saved his life, he realized a moment later. When he recovered, everyone had forgotten him. They were butchering the poor young man on the ground with unbelievable savagery. Philip scrambled to his feet, but he was already too late: their hammers and axes were thudding into a corpse. He looked up at the sky and shouted angrily: “If I can’t save anyone, why did you send me here?”

As if in reply, he heard a scream from a nearby house. It was a one-story building of stone and wood, not as costly as those around it. The door stood open. Philip ran inside. There were two rooms with an arch between, and straw on the floor. A woman with two small children huddled in a corner, terrified. Three men-at-arms were in the middle of the house, confronting one small, bald man. A young woman of about eighteen years was on the floor. Her dress was ripped and one of the three men-at-arms was kneeling on her chest, holding her thighs apart. The bald man was clearly trying to stop them from raping his daughter. As Philip came in, the father flung himself at one of the men-at-arms. The soldier threw him off. The father staggered back. The soldier plunged his sword into the father’s abdomen. The woman in the corner screamed like a lost soul.

Philip yelled: “Stop!”

They all looked at him as if he were mad.

In his most authoritative voice he said: “You’ll all go to hell if you do this!”

The one who had killed the father raised his sword to strike Philip.

“Just a minute,” said the man on the ground, still holding the girl’s legs. “Who are you, monk?”

“I am Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge, and I command you in God’s name to leave that girl alone, if you care for your immortal souls.”

“A prior—I thought so,” said the man on the ground. “He’s worth a ransom.”

The first man sheathed his sword and said: “Get over in the corner with the woman, where you belong.”

Philip said: “Don’t lay hands on a monk’s robes.” He was trying to sound dangerous but he could hear the note of desperation in his voice.

“Take him to the castle, John,” said the man on the ground, who was still sitting on the girl. He seemed to be the leader.

“Go to hell,” said John. “I want to fuck her first.” He grabbed Philip’s arms and, before Philip could resist, flung him into the corner. Philip tumbled onto the floor beside the mother.

The man called John lifted the front of his tunic and fell on the girl.

The mother turned her head aside and began to sob.

Philip said: “I will not watch this!” He stood up and grabbed the rapist by the hair, pulling him off the girl. The rapist roared with pain.

The third man raised a club. Philip saw the blow coming, but he was too late. The club landed on his head. He felt a moment of agonizing pain, then everything went black and he lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

The prisoners were taken to the castle and locked in cages. These were stout wooden structures like miniature houses, six feet long and three feet wide, and only a little higher than a man’s head. Instead of solid walls they had close-spaced vertical posts, which enabled the jailer to see inside. In normal times, when they were used to confine thieves and murderers and heretics, there would be only one or two people to a cage. Today the rebels put eight or ten in each, and still there were more prisoners. The surplus captives were tied together with ropes and herded into a corner of the compound. They could have escaped fairly easily, but they did not, probably because they were safer here than outside in the town.

Philip sat in one corner of a cage, nursing a splitting headache, feeling a fool and a failure. In the end he had been as useless as the cowardly Bishop Alexander. He had not saved a single life; he had not even prevented one blow. The citizens of Lincoln would have been no worse off without him. Unlike Abbot Peter, he had been powerless to stop the violence. I’m just not the man Father Peter was, he thought.