The wily old fox, Philip thought. Of course, Remigius had had no intention of confessing a fault. Nevertheless, Cuthbert had pardoned him, hereby making everyone feel that a fault had indeed been admitted. Now, even if Philip were to be convicted of an error, it would do no more than put him on the same level as Remigius. In addition, Cuthbert had planted the suggestion that Remigius was having difficulty coping with the prior’s duties. Cuthbert had completely undermined Remigius’s authority with a few kindly-sounding words. Remigius looked furious. Philip felt the thrill of triumph tighten his throat.

Andrew Sacrist glared accusingly at Cuthbert. “I’m sure none of us would wish to criticize our revered sub-prior,” he said. “The disturbance referred to was caused by Brother Philip, who is visiting us from the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. Philip took young William Beauvis out of his place in the quire, hauled him over to the south transept, and there reprimanded him while I was conducting the service.”

Remigius composed his face in a mask of sorrowful reproof. “We may all agree that Philip should have waited until the end of the service.”

Philip examined the expressions of the other monks. They seemed neither to agree nor disagree with what was being said. They were following the proceedings with the air of spectators at a tournament, in which there is no right or wrong and the only interest is in who will triumph.

Philip wanted to protest If I had waited, the misbehavior would have gone on all through the service, but he remembered Milius’s advice, and remained silent; and Milius spoke up for him. “I too missed high mass, as is frequently my misfortune, for high mass comes just before dinner; so perhaps you could tell me, Brother Andrew, what was happening in the quire before Brother Philip took this action. Was everything orderly and becoming?”

“There was some fidgeting among the youngsters,” the sacrist replied sulkily. “I intended to speak to them about it later.”

“It’s understandable that you should be vague about the details-your mind was on the service,” Milius said charitably. “Fortunately, we have a circuitor whose particular duty it is to attend to misbehavior among us. Tell us, Brother Pierre, what you observed.”

The circuitor looked hostile. “Just what the sacrist has already told you.”

Milius said: “It seems we’ll have to ask Brother Philip himself for the details.”

Milius had been very clever, Philip thought. He had established that neither the sacrist nor the circuitor had seen what the young monks were doing during the service. But although Philip admired Milius’s dialectical skill, he was reluctant to play the game. Choosing a prior was not a contest of wits, it was a matter of seeking to know the will of God. He hesitated. Milius was giving him a look that said Now’s your chance! But there was a stubborn streak in Philip, and it showed most clearly when someone tried to push him into a morally dubious position. He looked Milius in the eye and said: “It was as my brothers have described.”

Milius’s face fell. He stared incredulously at Philip. He opened his mouth, but visibly did not know what to say. Philip felt guilty about letting him down. I’ll explain myself to him afterward, he thought, unless he’s too angry.

Remigius was about to press on with the indictment when another voice said: “I would like to confess.”

Everyone looked. It was William Beauvis, the original offender, standing up and looking shamefaced. “I was flicking pellets of mud at the novice-master and laughing,” he said in a low, clear voice. “Brother Philip made me ashamed. I beg God’s forgiveness and ask the brothers to give me a penance.” He sat down abruptly.

Before Remigius could react, another youngster stood up and said: “I have a confession. I did the same. I ask for a penance.” He sat down again. This sudden access of guilty conscience was infectious: a third monk confessed, then a fourth, then a fifth.

The truth was out, despite Philip’s scruples, and he could not help feeling pleased. He saw that Milius was struggling to suppress a triumphant smile. The confession left no doubt that there had been a minor riot going on under the noses of the sacrist and the circuitor.

The culprits were sentenced, by a highly displeased Remigius, to a week of total silence: they were not to speak and no one was to speak to them. It was a harsher punishment than it sounded. Philip had suffered it when he was young. Even for one day the isolation was oppressive, and a whole week of it was utterly miserable.

But Remigius was merely giving vent to his anger at having been outmaneuvered. Once they had confessed he had no option but to punish them, although in punishing them he was conceding that Philip had been right in the first place. His attack on Philip had gone badly wrong, and Philip was triumphant. Despite a guilty pang, he relished the moment.

But Remigius’s humiliation was not yet complete.

Cuthbert spoke again. “There was another disturbance that we ought to discuss. It took place in the cloisters just after high mass.” Philip wondered what on earth was coming next. “Brother Andrew confronted Brother Philip and accused him of misconduct.” Of course he did, Philip was thinking; everyone knows that. Cuthbert went on: “Now, we all know that the time and place for such accusations is here and now, in chapter. And there are good reasons why our forebears ordained it so. Tempers cool overnight, and grievances can be discussed the next morning in an atmosphere of calm and moderation; and the whole community can bring its collective wisdom to bear on the problem. But, I regret to say, Andrew flouted this sensible rule, and made a scene in the cloisters, disturbing everyone and speaking intemperately. To let such misbehavior pass would be unfair on the younger brothers who have been punished for what they have done.”

It was merciless, and it was brilliant, Philip thought happily. The question of whether Philip had been right to take William out of the quire during the service had never actually been discussed. Every attempt to raise it had been turned into an inquiry into the behavior of the accuser. And that was as it should be, for Andrew’s complaint against Philip had been insincere. Between them Cuthbert and Milius had now discredited Remigius and his two main allies, Andrew and Pierre.

Andrew’s normally red face was purple with fury, and Remigius looked almost frightened. Philip was pleased-they deserved it-but now he worried that their humiliation was in danger of going too far. “It’s unseemly for junior brothers to discuss the punishment of their seniors,” he said. “Let the sub-prior deal with this matter privately.” Looking around, he saw that the monks approved of his magnanimity, and he realized that unintentionally he had scored yet another point.

It seemed to be all over. The mood of the meeting was with Philip, and he felt sure he had won over most of the waverers. Then Remigius said: “There is another matter I have to raise.”

Philip studied the sub-prior’s face. He looked desperate. Philip glanced at Andrew Sacrist and Pierre Circuitor and saw that they both looked surprised. This was something unplanned, then. Was Remigius going to plead for the job, perhaps?

“Most of you know that the bishop has a right to nominate candidates for our consideration,” Remigius began. “He may also refuse to confirm our choice. This division of powers can lead to quarreling between bishop and monastery, as some older brothers know from experience. In the end, the bishop cannot force us to accept his candidate, nor can we insist on ours; and where there is conflict, it has to be resolved by negotiation. In that case, the outcome depends a good deal on the determination and unity of the brothers-especially their unity.”