Philip had a bad feeling about this. Remigius had suppressed his rage and was once again calm and haughty. Philip still did not know what was coming, but his triumphant feeling evaporated.

“The reason I mention all this today is that two important items of information have come to my notice,” Remigius went on. “The first is that there may be more than one candidate nominated from among us here in this room.” That didn’t surprise anyone, Philip thought. “The second is that the bishop will also nominate a candidate.”

There was a pregnant pause. This was bad news for both parties. Someone said: “Do you know whom the bishop wants?”

“Yes,” Remigius said, and in that instant Philip felt sure the man was lying. “The bishop’s choice is Brother Osbert of Newbury.”

One or two of the monks gasped. They were all horrified. They knew Osbert, for he had been circuitor at Kingsbridge for a while. He was the bishop’s illegitimate son, and he regarded the Church purely as a means whereby he could live a life of idleness and plenty. He had never made any serious attempt to abide by his vows, but kept up a semi-transparent sham and relied upon his paternity to keep him out of trouble. The prospect of having him as prior was appalling, even to Remigius’s friends. Only the guest-master and one or two of his irredeemably depraved cronies might favor Osbert in anticipation of a regime of slack discipline and slovenly indulgence.

Remigius plowed on. “If we nominate two candidates, brothers, the bishop may say that we are divided and cannot make up our collective mind, so therefore he must decide for us, and we should accept his choice. If we want to resist Osbert, we would do well to put forward one candidate only; and, perhaps I should add, we should make sure that our candidate cannot easily be faulted, for example on grounds of youth or inexperience.”

There was a murmur of assent. Philip was devastated. A moment ago he had been sure of victory, but it had been snatched from his grasp. Now all the monks were with Remigius, seeing him as the safe candidate, the unity candidate, the man to beat Osbert. Philip felt sure Remigius was lying about Osbert, but it would make no difference. The monks were scared now, and they would back Remigius; and that meant more years of decline for Kingsbridge Priory.

Before anyone could comment, Remigius said: “Let us now dismiss, and think and pray about this problem as we do God’s work today.” He stood up and went out, followed by Andrew, Pierre and John Small, these three looking dazed but triumphant.

As soon as they had gone, a buzz of conversation broke out among the others. Milius said to Philip: “I never thought Remigius had it in him to pull a trick like that.”

“He’s lying,” Philip said bitterly. “I’m sure of it.”

Cuthbert joined them and heard Philip’s remark. “It doesn’t really matter if he’s lying, does it?” he said. “The threat is enough.”

“The truth will come out eventually,” Philip said.

“Not necessarily,” Milius replied. “Suppose the bishop doesn’t nominate Osbert. Remigius will just say the bishop yielded before the prospect of a battle with a united priory.”

“I’m not ready to give in,” Philip said stubbornly.

Milius said: “What else will we do?”

“We must find out the truth,” Philip said.

“We can’t,” said Milius.

Philip racked his brains. The frustration was agony. “Why can’t we just ask?” he said.

“Ask? What do you mean?”

“Ask the bishop what his intentions are.”

“How?”

“We could send a message to the bishop’s palace, couldn’t we?” Philip said, thinking aloud. He looked at Cuthbert.

Cuthbert was thoughtful. “Yes. I send messengers out all the time. I can send one to the palace.”

Milius said skeptically: “And ask the bishop what his intentions are?”

Philip frowned. That was the problem.

Cuthbert agreed with Milius. “The bishop won’t tell us,” he said.

Philip was struck by an inspiration. His brow cleared, and he punched his palm excitedly as he saw the solution. “No,” he said. “The bishop won’t tell us. But his archdeacon will.”

That night Philip dreamed about Jonathan, the abandoned baby. In his dream the child was in the porch of the chapel at St-John-in-the-Forest and Philip was inside, reading the service of prime, when a wolf came slinking out of the woods and crossed the field, smooth as a snake, heading for the baby. Philip was afraid to move for fear of causing a disturbance during the service and being reprimanded by Remigius and Andrew, both of whom were there (although in reality neither of them had ever been to the cell). He decided to shout, but although he tried, no sound would come, as often happened in dreams. At last he made such an effort to call out that he woke himself up, and lay in the dark trembling while he listened to the breathing of the sleeping monks all around him and slowly convinced himself that the wolf was not real.

He had hardly thought of the baby since arriving at Kingsbridge. He wondered what he would do with the child if he were to become prior. Everything would be different then. A baby in a little monastery hidden in the forest was of no consequence, however unusual. The same baby at Kingsbridge Priory would cause a stir. On the other hand, what was wrong with that? It was not a sin to give people something to talk about. He would be prior, so he could do as he pleased. He could bring Johnny Eightpence to Kingsbridge to take care of the baby. The idea pleased him inordinately. That’s just what I’ll do, he thought. Then he remembered that in all probability he would not become prior.

He lay awake until dawn, in a fever of impatience. There was nothing he could do now to press his case. It was useless to talk to the monks, for their thinking was dominated by the threat of Osbert. A few of them had even approached Philip and told him they were sorry he had lost, as if the election had already been held. He had resisted the temptation to call them faithless cowards. He just smiled and told them they might yet be surprised. But his own faith was not strong. Archdeacon Waleran might not be at the bishop’s palace; or he might be there but have some reason for not wanting to tell Philip the bishop’s plans; or-most likely of all, given the archdeacon’s character-he might have plans of his own.

Philip got up at dawn with the other monks and went into the church for prime, the first service of the day. Afterward he headed for the refectory, intending to take his breakfast with the others, but Milius intercepted him and beckoned him, with a furtive gesture, to the kitchen. Philip followed him, his nerves wound taut. The messenger must be back: that was quick. He must have got his reply immediately and started back yesterday afternoon. Even so he had been fast. Philip did not know a horse in the priory stable that was capable of doing the journey so rapidly. But what would the answer be?

It was not the messenger who was waiting in the kitchen-it was the archdeacon himself, Waleran Bigod.

Philip stared at him in surprise. The thin, black-draped form of the archdeacon was perched on a stool like a crow on a tree stump. The end of his beaky nose was red with cold. He was warming his bony white hands around a cup of hot spiced wine.

“It’s good of you to come!” Philip blurted out.

“I’m glad you wrote to me,” Waleran said coolly.

“Is it true?” Philip asked impatiently. “Will the bishop nominate Osbert?”

Waleran held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll get to that. Cuthbert here is just telling me of yesterday’s events.”

Philip concealed his disappointment. This was not a straightforward answer. He studied Waleran’s face, trying to read his mind. Waleran did indeed have plans of his own, but Philip could not guess what they were.

Cuthbert-whom Philip had not at first noticed, sitting by the fire dipping his horsebread into his beer to soften it for his elderly teeth-resumed an account of yesterday’s chapter. Philip fidgeted restlessly, trying to guess what Waleran might be up to. He tried a morsel of bread but found he was too tense to swallow. He drank some of the watery beer, just to have something to do with his hands.