He held an emergency chapter immediately after vespers and told the monks the news.
He had developed a technique for handling chapter meetings. Remigius, the sub-prior, still bore a grudge against Philip for defeating him in the election, and he often let his resentment show when monastery business was discussed. He was a conservative, unimaginative, pedantic man, and his whole approach to the running of the priory conflicted with Philip’s. The brothers who had supported Remigius in the election tended to back him in chapter: Andrew, the apoplectic sacrist; Pierre, the circuitor, who was responsible for discipline and had the narrow-minded attitudes that seemed to go with the job; and John Small, the lazy treasurer. Similarly, Philip’s closest colleagues were the men who had campaigned for him: Cuthbert Whitehead, the old cellarer; and young Milius, to whom Philip had given the newly created post of bursar, controller of the priory’s finances. Philip always let Milius argue with Remigius. Philip had normally discussed anything important with Milius before the meeting, and when he had not, Milius could be relied on to present a point of view close to Philip’s own. Then Philip could sum up like an impartial arbiter, and although Remigius rarely got his way, Philip would often accept some of his arguments, or adopt part of his proposal, to maintain the feeling of consensus government.
The monks were enraged by what Earl Percy had done. They had all rejoiced when King Stephen had given the priory unlimited free timber and stone, and now they were scandalized that Percy should defy the king’s order.
When the protests died down, however, Remigius had another point to make. “I remember saying this a year ago,” he began. “The pact according to which the quarry is owned by the earl but we have quarrying rights was always unsatisfactory. We should have held out for total ownership.”
The fact that there was some justice in this remark did not make it any easier for Philip to swallow. Total ownership was what he had agreed with Lady Regan, but she had cheated him out of it at the last minute. He was tempted to say that he had got the best deal he could, and he would like to see Remigius do any better in the treacherous maze of the royal court; but he bit his tongue, for he was, after all, the prior, and he had to take responsibility when things went wrong.
Milius came to his rescue. “It’s all very well to wish the king had given us outright ownership of the quarry, but he didn’t, and the main question is, what do we do now?”
“I should think that’s fairly obvious,” Remigius said immediately. “We can’t expel the earl’s men ourselves, so we’ll have to get the king to do it. We must send a deputation to him and ask him to enforce his charter.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Andrew, the sacrist, said: “We should send our wisest and most fluent speakers.”
Philip realized that Remigius and Andrew saw themselves as leading the delegation.
Remigius said: “After the king hears what has happened, I don’t think Percy Hamleigh will be earl of Shiring much longer.”
Philip was not so sure of that.
“Where is the king?” Andrew said as an afterthought. “Does anybody know?”
Philip had recently been to Winchester, and had heard there of the king’s movements. “He’s gone to Normandy,” he said.
Milius quickly said: “It will take a long time to catch up with him.”
“The pursuit of justice always requires patience,” Remigius intoned pompously.
“But every day we spend pursuing justice, we’re not building our new cathedral,” Milius replied. His tone of voice showed that he was exasperated by Remigius’s ready acceptance of a delay to the building program. Philip shared that feeling. Milius went on: “And that’s not our only problem. Once we’ve found the king, we have to persuade him to hear us. That can take weeks. Then he may give Percy the chance to defend himself-more delay…”
“How could Percy possibly defend himself?” Remigius said testily.
Milius replied: “I don’t know, but I’m sure he’ll think of something.”
“But in the end the king is bound to stand by his word.”
A new voice was heard, saying: “Don’t be so sure.” Everyone turned to look. The speaker was Brother Timothy, the oldest monk in the priory. A small, modest man, he spoke rarely, but when he did he was worth listening to. Philip occasionally thought Timothy should have been prior. He normally sat through chapter looking half asleep, but now he was leaning forward, his eyes bright with conviction. “A king is a creature of the moment,” he went on. “He’s constantly under threat, from rebels within his own kingdom and from neighboring monarchs. He needs allies. Earl Percy is a powerful man with a lot of knights. If the king needs Percy at the moment when we present our petition, we will be refused, quite regardless of the justice of our case. The king is not perfect. There is only one true judge, and that is God.” He sat back, leaning against the wall and half closing his eyes, as if he were not in the least interested in how his speech was received. Philip concealed a smile: Timothy had precisely formulated Philip’s own misgivings about going to the king for justice.
Remigius was reluctant to give up the prospect of a long, exciting trip to France and a sojourn at the royal court; but at the same time he could not contradict Timothy’s logic. “What else can we do, then?” he said.
Philip was not sure. The sheriff would not be able to intervene in this case: Percy was too powerful to be controlled by a mere sheriff. And the bishop could not be relied upon either. It was frustrating. But Philip was not willing to sit back and accept defeat. He would take over that quarry if he had to do it himself…
Now there was an idea.
“Just a minute,” he said.
It would involve all the able-bodied brothers in the monastery… it would have to be carefully organized, like a military operation without weapons… they would need food for two days…
“I don’t know if this will work, but it’s worth a try,” he said. “Listen.”
He told them his plan.
They set out almost immediately: thirty monks, ten novices, Otto Blackface and his team of quarrymen, Tom Builder and Alfred, two horses and a cart. When darkness fell they lit lanterns to show them the road. At midnight they stopped to rest and eat the picnic the kitchen had hastily prepared: chicken, white bread and red wine. Philip had always believed that hard work should be rewarded by good food. When they marched on, they sang the service they should have been performing back at the priory.
At some point during the darkest hour, Tom Builder, who was leading the way, held up a hand to stop them. He said to Philip: “Only a mile more to the quarry.”
“Good,” said Philip. He turned to the monks. “Take off your clogs and sandals, and put on the felt boots.” He took off his own sandals and pulled on a pair of the soft felt boots that peasants wore in winter.
He singled out two novices. “Edward and Philemon, stay here with the horses and the cart. Keep quiet, and wait until full daylight; then join us. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Father,” they said together.
“All right, the rest of you,” Philip said. “Follow Tom Builder, now, in complete silence, please.”
They all walked on.
There was a light west wind blowing, and the rustling of the trees covered the sound of fifty men breathing and fifty pairs of felt boots shuffling. Philip began to feel tense. His plan seemed a little crazy now that he was about to put it into operation. He said a silent prayer for success.
The road curved to the left, and then the flickering lanterns dimly showed a wooden lodge, a stack of part-finished stone blocks, some ladders and scaffolding, and in the background a dark hillside disfigured by the white scars of quarrying. Philip suddenly wondered whether the men asleep in the lodge had dogs. If they did, Philip would lose the element of surprise, and the whole scheme would be jeopardized. But it was too late to back out now.