The hall was already full. Bishop Waleran was there, up on the dais, looking malevolent. To Philip’s surprise, William Hamleigh was sitting with him, talking to the bishop out of the corner of his mouth as they watched people coming in. What was William doing here? For nine months he had been lying low, hardly moving from his village, and Philip-together with many other people in the county-had entertained the hope that he might stay there forever. But here he was, sitting on the bench as if he were still the earl. Philip wondered what mean-minded, ruthless, greedy little scheme had brought him to the county court today.

Philip and Jonathan sat down at the side of the room and waited for the proceedings to begin. There was a busy, optimistic air to the court. Now that the war had come to an end, the elite of the country had turned their attention back to the business of creating wealth. It was a fertile land and it quickly repaid their efforts: a bumper harvest was expected this year. The price of wool was up. Philip had reemployed almost all the builders who had left at the height of the famine. Everywhere the people who had survived were the younger, stronger, healthier individuals, and now they were full of hope, and here in the great hall of Shiring Castle it showed in the tilt of their heads, the pitch of their voices, the men’s new boots and the women’s fancy headgear, and the fact that they were prosperous enough to own something worth arguing in court about.

They stood up as the sheriffs deputy walked in with Earl Richard. The two men mounted the dais and then, still standing, the deputy began to read the royal writ appointing the new sheriff. As he went through the initial verbiage, Philip looked around at the four presumed candidates. He hoped the winner had courage: he would need it, to stand up for the law in the presence of such powerful local barons as Bishop Waleran, Earl Richard and Lord William. The successful candidate presumably knew he had been appointed-there was no reason to keep it secret-but none of the four looked very animated. Normally the appointee would stand beside the deputy as the proclamation was read, but the only people up there with him were Richard, Waleran and William. The appalling thought crossed Philip’s mind that Waleran might have been made sheriff. Then he was even more horrified as he heard: “… appoint as sheriff of Shiring my servant William of Hamleigh, and I order all men to assist him…”

Philip looked at Jonathan and said: “William!”

There were sounds of surprise and disapproval from the townspeople.

Jonathan said: “How did he do it?”

“He must have paid for it.”

“Where did he get the money?”

“Borrowed it, I suppose.”

William moved to the wooden throne in the middle of the top table, smiling. He had once been a handsome young man, Philip remembered. He was still under forty, just, but he looked older. His body was too heavy, and his complexion was flushed with wine; and the lively strength and optimism that makes young faces attractive had gone, to be replaced by a look of dissipation.

As William sat down, Philip stood up.

Jonathan got up too and whispered: “Are we leaving?”

“Follow me,” Philip hissed.

The room fell silent. All eyes were on them as they walked across the courtroom. The public crowd parted for them to pass through. They reached the door and went out. A buzz of comment broke out as the door closed behind them.

Jonathan said: “We had no chance of success with William in the chair.”

“Worse than that,” Philip said. “If we had pressed our case we might have lost other rights.”

“My soul, I never thought of that.”

Philip nodded grimly. “With William as sheriff, Waleran as bishop, and the faithless Richard as earl, it is now completely impossible for Kingsbridge Priory to get justice in this county. They can do anything they like to us.”

While a stableboy saddled their mounts, Philip said: “I’m going to petition the king to make Kingsbridge a borough. That way we’d have our own court, and we’d pay our taxes directly to the king. In effect, we would be out of the jurisdiction of the sheriff.”

“You’ve always been against that, in the past,” Jonathan said.

“I’ve been against it because it makes the town as powerful as the priory. But now I think we may have to accept that as the price of independence. The alternative is William.”

“Will King Stephen give us borough status?”

“He might, at a price. But if he doesn’t, perhaps Henry will when he becomes king.”

They mounted their horses and rode dejectedly through the town.

They went out through the gate and passed the rubbish dump on the waste ground just outside. A few decrepit people were picking over the refuse, looking for anything they could eat, wear or burn for fuel. Philip glanced at them without interest, but one of them caught his eye. A familiar tall figure was stooping over a heap of rags, sorting through them. Philip reined in his horse. Jonathan pulled up beside him.

“Look,” Philip said.

Jonathan followed his gaze. After a moment he said quietly: “Remigius.”

Philip watched. Waleran and William had obviously thrown Remigius out some time ago, when funds for the new church dried up. They had no further need of him. Remigius had betrayed Philip, betrayed the priory, and betrayed Kingsbridge, all in the hope of becoming dean of Shiring; but his prize had turned to ashes.

Philip turned his horse off the road and crossed the waste ground to where Remigius stood. Jonathan followed. There was a bad smell that seemed to rise from the ground like fog. As he approached, he saw that Remigius was skeletally thin. His habit was filthy and he was barefoot. He was sixty years old, and he had been at Kingsbridge Priory all his adult life: no one had ever taught him how to live rough. Philip saw him pull a pair of leather shoes out of the trash. There were huge holes in the soles, but Remigius looked at them with the expression of a man who has found buried treasure. As he was about to try them on, he saw Philip.

He straightened up. His face evidenced the struggle between shame and defiance in his heart. After a moment he said: “Well, have you come to gloat?”

“No,” Philip said softly. His old enemy was such a pitiful sight that Philip felt nothing but compassion for him. He got off his horse and took a flask out of his saddlebag. “I’ve come to offer you a drink of wine.”

Remigius did not want to accept it but he was too starved to resist. He hesitated only for a moment, then snatched the flask. He sniffed the wine suspiciously, then put the flask to his mouth. Once he had begun drinking, he could not stop. There was only half a pint left and he drained it in a few moments. He lowered the flask and staggered a little.

Philip took it from him and put it back into his saddlebag. “You’d better have something to eat, as well,” he said. He brought out a small loaf.

Remigius took the proffered bread and began to stuff it into his mouth. He obviously had not eaten for days, and he probably had not had a decent meal for weeks. He could die soon, Philip thought sadly; if not of starvation, then of shame.

The bread went down fast. Philip said: “Do you want to come back?”

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Jonathan. Like a good many of the monks, Jonathan had hoped never to see Remigius again. He probably thought Philip was mad to offer to take him back.

A hint of the old Remigius showed for a moment, and he said: “Come back? In what position?”

Philip shook his head sorrowfully. “You’ll never hold a position of any kind in my priory, Remigius. Come back as a plain, humble monk. Ask God to forgive your sins, and live the rest of your days in prayer and contemplation, preparing your soul for heaven.”

Remigius tilted his head back, and Philip expected a scornful refusal; but it never came. Remigius opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again and looked down. Philip stood still and quiet, watching, wondering what would happen. There was a long moment of silence. Philip was holding his breath. When Remigius looked up again, his face was wet with tears. “Yes, please, Father,” he said. “I want to come home.”