Resentment burned in his stomach as he regarded Aliena’s prosperous, dignified, happy family. Everything they had should have been his. But he had not given up the hope of revenge.

The voices of several hundred monks were raised in song, drowning the conversations and the cries of the hawkers, and Prior Philip entered the church at the head of a procession. There never used to be this many monks, William thought. The priory had grown along with the town. Philip, now over sixty years old, was almost completely bald, and rather stout, so that his formerly thin face had become quite round. Not surprisingly, he looked pleased with himself: the dedication of this cathedral was the aim he had conceived when he first came to Kingsbridge, thirty-four years ago.

There was a murmur of comment when Bishop Waleran came in, clad in his most gorgeous robes. His pale, angular face was frozen in a stiffly neutral expression, but William knew he was seething inside. This cathedral was the triumphant symbol of Philip’s victory over Waleran. William hated Philip too, but all the same he secretly enjoyed seeing the supercilious Bishop Waleran humbled for a change.

Waleran was rarely seen here. A new church had finally been built in Shiring-with a special chapel dedicated to the memory of William’s mother-and although it was nowhere near as large or impressive as this cathedral, nevertheless Waleran had made the Shiring church his headquarters.

However, Kingsbridge was still the cathedral church, despite all Waleran’s efforts. In a war that had raged over three decades, Waleran had done everything he could to destroy Philip, but in the end Philip had triumphed. They were a bit like William and Aliena. In both cases, weakness and scruples had defeated strength and ruthlessness. William felt he would never understand it.

The bishop had been obliged to come here today, for the dedication ceremony: it would have looked very peculiar if he had not been here to welcome all the celebrity guests. Several bishops from neighboring dioceses were here, as well as a number of distinguished abbots and priors.

The archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, would not be here. He was in the throes of a quarrel with his old friend, King Henry; a quarrel so bitter and fierce that the archbishop had been forced to flee the country, and had taken refuge in France. They were in conflict over a whole list of legal issues, but the heart of the dispute was simple: Could the king do as he pleased, or was he constrained? It was the dispute William himself had had with Prior Philip. William took the view that the earl could do anything-that was what it meant to be earl. Henry felt the same about kingship. Prior Philip and Thomas Becket were both bent on restricting the power of rulers.

Bishop Waleran was a clergyman who sided with the rulers. For him, power was meant to be used. The defeats of three decades had not shaken his belief that he was the instrument of God’s will, nor his ruthless determination to do his holy duty. William felt sure that even while he conducted the consecration service for Kingsbridge Cathedral, he was casting about for some way to spoil Philip’s moment of glory.

William moved about throughout the service. Standing was worse for his legs than walking. When he went to Shiring church, Walter carried a chair for him. Then he could doze off for a while. Here, though, there were people to talk to, and much of the congregation used the time to conduct business. William went around ingratiating himself with the powerful, intimidating the weak, and gathering information on all and sundry. He no longer struck terror into the hearts of the population, as he had in the good old days, but as sheriff he was still feared and deferred to.

The service went on interminably. There was a long interval during which the monks went around the outside of the church sprinkling the walls with holy water. Near the end, Prior Philip announced the appointment of a new sub-prior: it was to be Brother Jonathan, the priory orphan. Jonathan, now in his middle thirties and unusually tall, reminded William of old Tom Builder: he too had been something of a giant.

When the service finally ended, the distinguished guests lingered in the south transept, and the minor gentry of the county crowded around to meet them. William limped over to join them. Once upon a time he had treated bishops as his equals, but now he had to bow and scrape with the knights and small landowners. Bishop Waleran drew William aside and said: “Who is that new sub-prior?”

“The priory orphan,” William replied. “He’s always been a favorite of Philip’s.”

“He seems young to be made sub-prior.”

“He’s older than Philip was when Philip became prior.”

Waleran looked thoughtful. “The priory orphan. Remind me of the details.”

“When Philip came here he brought a baby with him.”

Waleran’s face cleared as he remembered. “By the cross, yes! I’d forgotten Philip’s baby. How could I have let something like that slip my mind?”

“It is thirty years. And who cares?”

Waleran gave William the scornful look that William hated so much, the look that said You dumb ox, can’t you figure out something that simple? Pain stabbed his foot, and he shifted his weight in a vain attempt to ease it. Waleran said: “Well, where did the baby come from?”

William swallowed his resentment. “It was found abandoned near his old cell in the forest, if I remember rightly.”

“Better and better,” Waleran said eagerly.

William still did not see what he was getting at. “So what?” he said sullenly.

“Would you say that Philip has brought the child up as if it was his own son?”

“Yes.”

“And now he’s made him sub-prior.”

“He was elected by the monks, presumably. I believe he’s very popular.”

“Anyone who is sub-prior at thirty-five must be in line for the post of prior eventually.”

William was not going to say So what? again so he just waited, feeling like a stupid schoolboy, for Waleran to explain.

At last Waleran said: “Jonathan is obviously Philip’s own child.”

William burst out laughing. He had been expecting a profound thought, and Waleran had come up with a notion that was totally ludicrous. To William’s satisfaction, his scorn brought a slight flush to Waleran’s waxy complexion. William said: “No one who knows Philip would believe such a thing. He was born a dried-up old stick. The idea!” He laughed again. Waleran might think he was ever so clever, but this time he had lost his sense of reality.

Waleran’s hauteur was icy. “I say Philip used to have a mistress, when he ran that little priory out in the forest. Then he became prior of Kingsbridge and had to leave the woman behind. She didn’t want the baby if she couldn’t have the father, so she dumped the child on him. Philip, being a sentimental soul, felt obliged to take care of it, so he passed it off as a foundling.”

William shook his head. “Unbelievable. Anyone else, yes. Philip, no.”

Waleran persisted: “If the baby was abandoned, how can he prove where it came from?”

“He can’t,” William acknowledged. He looked across the south transept to where Philip and Jonathan stood together, talking to the bishop of Hereford. “But they don’t even look alike.”

“You don’t look like your mother,” Waleran said. “Thank God.”

“What good is all this?” William said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Accuse him before an ecclesiastical court,” Waleran replied.

That made a difference. No one who knew Philip would credit Waleran’s accusation for a moment, but a judge who was a stranger to Kingsbridge might find it more plausible. William saw reluctantly that Waleran’s idea was not so stupid after all. As usual, Waleran was shrewder than William. Waleran was looking irritatingly smug, of course. But William was enthused by the prospect of bringing Philip down. “By God,” he said eagerly. “Do you think it could be done?”