They looked indifferent. Philip plowed on. “And Kingsbridge will prosper again, one day. The widows shall marry again, and the widowers find wives; and those whose children died shall conceive again; and our streets will be full of people, and our shops stocked with bread and wine, leather and brass, buckles and shoes; and one day we will rebuild our cathedral.”

The trouble was, he was not sure he believed it himself; and so he could not say it with conviction. No wonder the congregation was unmoved.

He looked down at the heavy book in front of him, and translated the Latin into English. “And Job lived a hundred and forty years more, and saw his sons, and his grandsons, and his great-grandsons. And then he died, being old and full of days.” He closed the book.

There was a disturbance at the back of the little church. Philip looked up irritably. He was aware that his sermon had not had the effect he hoped for, but nevertheless he wanted a few moments of silence at the end of it. The church door was open, and all those at the back were looking out. Philip could see quite a crowd outside-it must contain everyone in Kingsbridge who was not in the church, he thought. What was going on?

Several possibilities went through his mind-there had been a fight, a fire, someone was dying, a large troop of horsemen was approaching-but he was completely unprepared for what actually happened. First, two priests came in carrying a statue of a woman on a board draped with an embroidered altar cloth. The solemnity of their demeanor suggested that the statue represented a saint, presumably the Virgin. Behind the priests walked two more people, and they provided the bigger surprise: one was Aliena, and the other was Jack.

Philip regarded Jack with affection mingled with exasperation. That boy, he thought: on the day he first came here the old cathedral burned down, and since then nothing connected with him has been normal. But Philip was more pleased than annoyed by Jack’s entrance. Despite all the trouble the boy caused, he made life interesting. Boy? Philip looked at him again. Jack was no longer a boy. He had been away two years but he had aged ten, and his eyes were weary and knowing. Where had he been? And how had Aliena found him?

The procession moved up the middle of the church. Philip decided to do nothing and see what happened. A buzz of excitement went around as people recognized Jack and Aliena. Then there was a new sound, rather like a murmur of awe, and someone said: “She weeps!”

Others repeated it like a litany: “She weeps! She weeps!” Philip peered at the statue. Sure enough, there was water coming from the eyes. He suddenly remembered the archbishop’s mysterious letter about the miraculous Weeping Madonna. So this was it. As to whether the weeping was a miracle, Philip would suspend judgment. He could see that the eyes appeared to be made of stone, or perhaps some kind of crystal, whereas the rest of the statue was wooden: that might have something to do with it.

The priests turned around and put the board down on the floor so that the Madonna was facing the congregation. Then Jack began to speak.

“The Weeping Madonna came to me in a far, far country,” he began. Philip resented his taking over the service but he decided not to act precipitately: he would let Jack have his say. Anyway, he was intrigued. “A baptized Saracen gave her to me,” Jack went on. The congregation murmured in surprise: Saracens were usually the barbaric black-faced enemy in such stories, and few people knew that some of them were actually Christians. “At first I wondered why she had been given to me. Nevertheless, I carried her for many miles.” Jack had the congregation spellbound. He’s a better preacher of sermons than I am, Philip thought ruefully; I can feel the tension building already. “At last I began to realize that she wanted to go home. But where was her home? Finally it came to me: she wanted to go to Kingsbridge.”

The congregation broke into a hubbub of amazement. Philip was skeptical. There was a difference between the way God worked and the way Jack worked, and this had the hallmark of Jack. But Philip remained silent.

“But then I thought: What am I taking her to? What shrine will she have at Kingsbridge? In what church will she find her rest?” He looked around at the plain whitewashed interior of the parish church, as if to say: This obviously will not do. “And it was as if she spoke aloud, and said to me: ‘You, Jack Jackson, shall make me a shrine, and build me a church.’ ”

Philip began to see what Jack was up to. The Madonna was to be the spark that reignited the people’s enthusiasm for building a new cathedral. It would do what Philip’s sermon about Job had failed to do. But still Philip had to ask himself: Is this God’s will, or just Jack’s?

“So I asked her: ‘With what? I have no money.’ And she said: ‘I will provide the money.’ Well, we set off, with the blessing of Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury.” Jack glanced up at Philip as he named the archbishop. He’s telling me something, Philip thought: he’s saying that he’s got powerful backing for this.

Jack swung his gaze back to the congregation. “And along the road, from Paris, across Normandy, over the sea, and all the way to Kingsbridge, devout Christians have given money for the building of the shrine of the Weeping Madonna.” With that, Jack beckoned to someone outside.

A moment later two beturbaned Saracens marched solemnly into the church, carrying on their shoulders an iron-bound chest.

The villagers cowered back from them in fear. Even Philip was astonished. He knew, in theory, that Saracens had brown skin, but he had never seen one, and the reality was amazing. Their swirling, brightly colored robes were equally striking. They strode through the awestruck congregation and knelt before the Madonna, placing the chest reverently on the floor.

There was a breathless silence as Jack unlocked the chest with a huge key and lifted the lid. People craned their necks to look. Suddenly Jack tipped the chest over.

There was a noise like a waterfall, and a stream of silver pennies poured out of the chest, hundreds of them, thousands. People crowded around to stare: none of them had ever seen so much money.

Jack raised his voice to be heard over their exclamations. “I have brought her home, and now I give her to the building of the new cathedral.” Then he turned, looked Philip in the eye, and inclined his head in a little bow, as if to say: Over to you.

Philip hated to be manipulated like this but at the same time he was bound to acknowledge that the way it had been done was masterly. However, that did not mean he was going to give in to it. The people might acclaim the Weeping Madonna but only Philip could decide whether she would be allowed to rest in Kingsbridge Cathedral alongside the bones of Saint Adolphus. And he was not yet convinced.

Some of the villagers began questioning the Saracens. Philip stepped down from his pulpit and went closer to listen. “I come from a far, far country,” one of them was saying. Philip was surprised to hear that he spoke English just like a Dorset fisherman, but most of the villagers did not even know that Saracens had a language of their own.

“What is your country called?” someone asked.

“My country is called Africa,” the Saracen replied. There was more than one country in Africa, of course, as Philip knew-although most of the villagers did not-and Philip wondered which one this Saracen came from. How exciting it would be if it were a place mentioned in the Bible, such as Egypt or Ethiopia.

A little girl reached out a tentative finger and touched his dark-brown hand. The Saracen smiled at her. Apart from his color, Philip thought, he looked no different from anyone else. Encouraged, the girl said: “What’s it like in Africa?”

“There are great deserts, and fig trees.”