Jonathan looked grave. This was a solemn moment for him.

Philip surveyed the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. There was not much forest in sight now: over the years the monks had cleared many acres, and the monastery was surrounded by fields. There were more stone buildings-a chapter house, a refectory and a dormitory-plus a host of smaller wooden barns and dairies. It hardly looked like the place he had left seventeen years ago. The people were different, too. Several of those young monks now occupied positions of responsibility at Kingsbridge. William Beauvis, who had caused trouble by flicking hot candle wax at the novice-master’s bald head all those years ago, was now prior here. Some had gone: that troublemaker Peter of Wareham was in Canterbury, working for an ambitious young archdeacon called Thomas Becket.

“I wonder what they were like,” said Jonathan. “I mean my parents.”

Philip felt a twinge of pain for him. Philip himself had lost his parents, but not until he was six years old, and he could remember them both quite well: his mother calm and loving, his father tall and black-bearded and-to Philip, anyway-brave and strong. Jonathan did not even have that. All he knew about his parents was that they had not wanted him.

“We can guess a lot about them,” Philip said.

“Really?” Jonathan said eagerly. “What?”

“They were poor,” Philip said. “Wealthy people have no reason to abandon their children. They were friendless: friends know when you’re expecting a baby, and ask questions if a child disappears. They were desperate. Only desperate people can bear to lose a child.”

Jonathan’s face was taut with unshed tears. Philip wanted to weep for him, this boy who-everyone said-was so much like Philip himself. Philip wished he could give him some consolation, tell him something warm and heartening about his parents; but how could he pretend that they had loved the boy, when they had left him to die?

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.”