There were several good horses in the stable, including a couple of chargers, and a handful of men-at-arms were scattered around, killing time. Perhaps the bishop had visitors.

Philip left his horse with a stableboy and climbed the steps with a sense of foreboding. The whole place had a distressingly military feel. Where were the queues of petitioners with grievances, the mothers with babies to be blessed? He was entering an unfamiliar world, and he was in possession of a dangerous secret. It might be a long time before I leave here, he thought fearfully. I wish Francis had not come to me.

He reached the top of the stairs. Such unworthy thoughts, he told himself. Here I have a chance to serve God and the Church, and I react by worrying about my own safety. Some men face danger every day, in battle, at sea, and on hazardous pilgrimages or crusades. Even a monk must suffer a little fear and trembling sometimes.

He took a deep breath and went in.

The hall was dim and smoky. Philip closed the door quickly to keep out the cold air, then peered into the gloom. A big fire blazed on the opposite side of the room. That and the small windows provided the only light. Around the fireplace was a group of men, some in clerical clothes and others in the expensive but well-worn garments of minor gentry. They were involved in a serious discussion, their voices low and businesslike. Their seats were scattered randomly, but they all looked at and spoke to a priest who sat in the middle of the group like a spider at the center of a web. He was a thin man, and the way his long legs were splayed apart and his long arms draped over the arms of the chair made him look as if he were about to spring. He had lank, jet-black hair and a pale face with a sharp nose, and his black clothes made him at once handsome and menacing.

He was not the bishop.

A steward got up from a seat beside the door and said to Philip: “Good day, Father. Who do you want to see?” At the same time a hound lying by the fire raised its head and growled. The man in black looked up quickly, saw Philip, and stopped the conversation instantly with a raised hand. “What is it?” he said brusquely.

“Good day,” Philip said politely. “I’ve come to see the bishop.”

“He’s not here,” the priest said dismissively.

Philip’s heart sank. He had been dreading the interview and its dangers, but now he felt let down. What was he going to do with his awful secret? He said to the priest: “When do you expect him back?”

“We don’t know. What’s your business with him?”

The priest’s tone was a little abrupt, and Philip was stung. “God’s business,” he said sharply. “Who are you?”

The priest raised his eyebrows, as if surprised to be challenged, and the other men became suddenly quiet, like people expecting an explosion; but after a pause he replied mildly enough. “I’m his archdeacon. My name is Waleran Bigod.”

A good name for a priest, Philip thought. He said: “My name is Philip. I’m the prior of the monastery of St-John-in-the-Forest. It’s a cell of Kingsbridge Priory.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said Waleran. “You’re Philip of Gwynedd.”

Philip was surprised. He could not imagine why an actual archdeacon should know the name of someone as lowly as himself. But his rank, modest though it was, was enough to change Waleran’s attitude. The irritated look went from the archdeacon’s face. “Come to the fire,” he said. “You’ll take a draft of hot wine to warm your blood?” He gestured to someone sitting on a bench against the wall, and a ragged figure sprang up to do his bidding.

Philip approached the fire. Waleran said something in a low voice and the other men got to their feet and began to take their leave. Philip sat down and warmed his hands while Waleran went to the door with his guests. Philip wondered what they had been discussing, and why the archdeacon had not closed the meeting with a prayer.

The ragged servant handed him a wooden cup. He sipped hot, spiced wine and considered his next move. If the bishop was not available, whom could Philip turn to? He thought of going to Earl Bartholomew and simply begging him to reconsider his rebellion. The idea was ludicrous: the earl would put him in a dungeon and throw away the key. That left the sheriff, who was in theory the king’s representative in the county. But there was no telling which side the sheriff might take while there was still some doubt about who was going to be king. Still, Philip thought, I might just have to take that risk, in the end. He longed to return to the simple life of the monastery, where his most dangerous enemy was Peter of Wareham.

Waleran’s guests departed, and the door closed on the noise of horses in the yard. Waleran returned to the fireside and pulled up a big chair.

Philip was preoccupied with his problem and did not really want to talk to the archdeacon, but he felt obliged to be civil. “I hope I didn’t break up your meeting,” he said.

Waleran made a deprecatory gesture. “It was due to end,” he said. “These things always go on longer than they need to. We were discussing the renewal of leases of diocesan land-the kind of thing that could be settled in a few moments if only people would be decisive.” He fluttered a bony hand as if to dismiss all diocesan leases and their holders. “Now, I hear you’ve done good work at that little cell in the forest.”

“I’m surprised you know about it,” Philip replied.

“The bishop is ex officio abbot of Kingsbridge, so he’s bound to take an interest.”

Or he has a well-informed archdeacon, Philip thought. He said: “Well, God has blessed us.”

“Indeed.”

They were speaking Norman French, the language Waleran and his guests had been using, the language of government; but something about Waleran’s accent was a little strange, and after a few moments Philip realized that Waleran had the inflections of one who had been brought up to speak English. That meant he was not a Norman aristocrat, but a native who had risen by his own efforts-like Philip.

A moment later this was confirmed when Waleran switched to English to say: “I wish God would confer similar blessings on Kingsbridge Priory.”

Philip was not the only one to be troubled by the state of affairs at Kingsbridge, then. Waleran probably knew more about events there than Philip did. Philip said: “How is Prior James?”

“Sick,” Waleran replied succinctly.

Then he definitely would not be able to do anything about Earl Bartholomew’s insurrection, Philip thought gloomily. He was going to have to go to Shiring and take his chance with the sheriff.

It occurred to him that Waleran was the kind of man who would know everyone of importance in the county. “What is the sheriff of Shiring like?” he asked.

Waleran shrugged. “Ungodly, arrogant, grasping and corrupt. So are all sheriffs. Why do you ask?”

“If I can’t talk to the bishop I probably should go and see the sheriff.”

“I am in the bishop’s confidence, you know,” said Waleran with a little smile. “If I can help…” He made an open-handed gesture, like a man who is being generous but knows he may be refused.

Philip had relaxed a little, thinking that the moment of crisis had been postponed for a day or two, but now he was filled with trepidation again. Could he trust Archdeacon Waleran? Waleran’s nonchalance was studied, he thought: the archdeacon appeared diffident, but in truth he was probably bursting to know what Philip had to say that was so important. However, that was no reason to mistrust him. He seemed a judicious fellow. Was he powerful enough to do anything about the rebellion? If he could not do it himself, he might be able to locate the bishop. It struck Philip that in fact there was a major advantage to the idea of confiding in Waleran; for whereas the bishop might insist on knowing the real source of Philip’s information, the archdeacon did not have the authority to do that, and would have to be content with the story Philip told him, whether he believed it or not.