William spun round, scanning the whole scene. He saw two stonecutters running away, presumably having seen their leader killed. As they ran they shouted to the others. The fight turned into a retreat. The knights chased the runaways.

William stood still, breathing hard. The damned quarrymen had fought back! He looked at Gilbert. He lay still, in a pool of blood, with his eyes closed. William put a hand on his chest: there was no heartbeat. Gilbert was dead.

William walked around the still-burning houses, counting bodies. Three stonecutters lay dead, plus a woman and a child who both looked as if they had been trampled by horses. Three of William’s men-at-arms were wounded, and four horses were dead or crippled.

When he had completed his count he stood by the corpse of his war-horse. He had liked that horse better than he liked most people. After a battle he usually felt exhilarated, but now he was depressed. It was a shambles. This should have been a simple operation to chase off a group of helpless workmen, and it had turned into a pitched battle with high casualties.

The knights chased the stonecutters as far as the woods, but there the horses could not catch the men, so they turned back. Walter rode up to where William stood and saw Gilbert dead on the ground. He crossed himself and said: “Gilbert has killed more men than I have.”

“There aren’t so many like him, that I can afford to lose one in a squabble with a damned monk,” William said bitterly. “To say nothing of the horses.”

“What a turnup,” Walter said. “These people put up more of a fight than Robert of Gloucester’s rebels!”

William shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know,” he said, looking around at the bodies. “What the devil did they think they were fighting for?”

Chapter 9

I

JUST AFTER DAWN, when most of the brothers were in the crypt for the service of prime, there were only two people in the dormitory: Johnny Eightpence, sweeping the floor at one end of the long room, and Jonathan, playing school at the other.

Prior Philip paused in the doorway and watched Jonathan. He was. almost five years old, an alert, confident boy with a childish gravity that charmed everyone. Johnny still dressed him in a miniature monk’s habit. Today Jonathan was pretending to be the novice-master, giving lessons to an imaginary row of pupils. “That’s wrong, Godfrey!” he said sternly to the empty bench. “No dinner for you if you don’t learn your berves!” He meant verbs. Philip smiled fondly. He could not have loved a son more deeply. Jonathan was the one thing in life that gave him sheer unadulterated joy.

The child ran around the priory like a puppy, petted and spoiled by all the monks. To most of them he was just like a pet, an amusing plaything; but to Philip and Johnny he was something more. Johnny loved him like a mother; and Philip, though he tried to conceal it, felt like the boy’s father. Philip himself had been raised, from a young age, by a kindly abbot, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to play the same role with Jonathan. He did not tickle or chase him the way the monks did, but he told him Bible stories, and played counting games with him, and kept an eye on Johnny.

He went into the room, smiled at Johnny, and sat on the bench with the imaginary schoolboys.

“Good morning, Father,” Jonathan said solemnly. Johnny had taught him to be scrupulously polite.

Philip said: “How would you like to go to school?”

“I know Latin already,” Jonathan boasted.

“Really?”

“Yes. Listen. Omnius pluvius buvius tuvius nomine patri amen.”

Philip tried not to laugh. “That sounds like Latin, but it’s not quite right. Brother Osmund, the novice-master, will teach you to speak it properly.”

Jonathan was a little cast down to discover that he did not know Latin after all. He said: “Anyway, I can run fast and fast, look!” He ran at top speed from one side of the room to the other.

“Wonderful!” said Philip. “That really is fast.”

“Yes-and I can go even faster-”

“Not just now,” Philip said. “Listen to me for a moment. I’m going away for a while.”

“Will you be back tomorrow?”

“No, not that soon.”

“Next week?”

“Not even then.”

Jonathan looked blank. He could not conceive of a time farther ahead than next week. Another mystery occurred to him. “But why?”

“I have to see the king.”

“Oh.” That did not mean much to Jonathan either.

“And I’d like you to go to school while I’m away. Would you like that?”

“Yes!”

“You’re almost five years old. Your birthday is next week. You came to us on the first day of the year.”

“Where did I come from?”

“From God. All things come from God.”

Jonathan knew that was no answer. “But where was I before?” he persisted.

“I don’t know.”

Jonathan frowned. A frown looked funny on such a carefree young face. “I must have been somewhere.”

One day, Philip realized, someone would have to tell Jonathan how babies were born. He grimaced at the thought. Well, this was not the time, happily. He changed the subject. “While I’m away, I want you to learn to count up to a hundred.”

“I can count,” Jonathan said. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen porteen scorteen horteen-”

“Not bad,” said Philip, “but Brother Osmund will teach you more. You must sit still in the schoolroom and do everything he tells you to.”

“I’m going to be the best in the school!” said Jonathan.

“We’ll see.” Philip studied him for a moment longer. Philip was fascinated by the child’s development, the way he learned things and the phases through which he passed. This current insistence on being able to speak Latin, or count, or run fast, was curious: was it a necessary prelude to real learning? It must serve some purpose in God’s plan. And one day Jonathan would be a man. What would he be like then? The thought made Philip impatient for Jonathan to grow up. But that would take as long as the building of the cathedral.

“Give me a kiss, then, and say goodbye,” Philip said.

Jonathan lifted his face and Philip kissed the soft cheek. “Goodbye, Father,” said Jonathan.

“Goodbye, my son,” Philip said.

He gave Johnny Eightpence’s arm an affectionate squeeze and went out.

The monks were coming out of the crypt and heading for the refectory. Philip went the opposite way, and entered the crypt to pray for success on his mission.

He had been heartbroken when they told him what had happened at the quarry. Five people killed, one of them a little girl! He had hidden himself in his house and cried like a child. Five of his flock, struck down by William Hamleigh and his pack of brutes. Philip had known them all: Harry of Shiring, who had once been Lord Percy’s quarryman; Otto Blackface, the dark-skinned man who had been in charge of the quarry since the very beginning; Otto’s handsome son Mark; Mark’s wife, Alwen, who played tunes on sheep bells in the evenings; and little Norma, Otto’s seven-year-old granddaughter, his favorite. Good-hearted, God-fearing, hardworking people, who had a right to expect peace and justice from their lords. William had slaughtered them like a fox killing chickens. It was enough to make the angels weep.

Philip had grieved for them, and then he had gone to Shiring to demand justice. The sheriff had refused point-blank to take any action. “Lord William has a small army-how should I arrest him?” Sheriff Eustace had said. “The king needs knights to fight against Maud-what will he say if I incarcerate one of his best men? If I brought a charge of murder against William, I’d either be killed immediately by his knights or hanged for a traitor later by King Stephen.”