As soon as Remigius saw them enter he knew the battle was over. Waleran read the letter, and the monks cheered when he got to Philip’s name. Remigius had the wit to dispense with the formality of the vote and concede defeat.

And Philip was prior.

He had conducted the rest of chapter in something of a daze, and then had walked across the lawns to the prior’s house, in the southeast corner of the priory close, to take up residence.

When he saw the bed he realized that his life had changed utterly and irrevocably. He was different, special, set apart from other monks. He had power and privilege. And he had responsibility. He alone had to make sure that this little community of forty-five men survived and prospered. If they starved, it would be his fault; if they became depraved, he would be to blame; if they disgraced God’s Church, God would hold Philip responsible. He had sought this burden, he reminded himself; now he must bear it.

His first duty as prior would be to lead the monks into church for high mass. Today was Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas, and a holiday. All the villagers would be at the service, and more people would come from the surrounding district. A good cathedral with a strong body of monks and a reputation for spectacular services could attract a thousand people or more. Even dreary Kingsbridge would draw most of the local gentry, for the service was a social occasion too, when they could meet their neighbors and talk business.

But before the service Philip had something else to discuss with Waleran, now that they were alone at last. “That information I passed you,” he began. “About the earl of Shiring…”

Waleran nodded. “I haven’t forgotten-indeed, that could be more important than the question of who is prior or bishop. Earl Bartholomew has arrived in England already. They expect him at Shiring tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do?” Philip said anxiously.

“I’m going to make use of Sir Percy Hamleigh. In fact, I’m hoping he’ll be in the congregation today.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never seen him,” Philip said.

“Look for a fat lord with a hideous wife and a handsome son. You can’t miss the wife-she’s an eyesore.”

“What makes you think they will take King Stephen’s side against Earl Bartholomew?”

“They hate the earl passionately.”

“Why?”

“The son, William, was engaged to marry the earl’s daughter, but she took against him, and the marriage was called off, much to the humiliation of the Hamleighs. They’re still smarting from the insult, and they’ll jump at any chance to strike back at Bartholomew.”

Philip nodded, satisfied. He was glad to have shed that responsibility: he had a full quota. Kingsbridge Priory was a big enough problem for him to manage. Waleran could take care of the world outside.

They left the prior’s house and walked back to the cloisters. The monks were waiting. Philip took his place at the head of the line and the procession moved off.

It was a good moment when he walked into the church with the monks singing behind him. He liked it more than he had anticipated. He told himself that his new eminence symbolized the power he now had to do good, and that was why he was so profoundly thrilled. He wished Abbot Peter from Gwynedd could see him-the old man would be so proud.

He led the monks into the quire stalls. A major service such as this one was often taken by the bishop. Today it would be led by the bishop’s deputy, Archdeacon Waleran. As Waleran began, Philip scanned the congregation, looking for the family Waleran had described. There were about a hundred and fifty people standing in the nave, the wealthy in their heavy winter cloaks and leather shoes, the peasants in their rough jackets and felt boots or wooden clogs. Philip had no trouble picking out the Hamleighs. They were near the front, close to the altar. He saw the woman first. Waleran had not exaggerated-she was repulsive. She wore a hood, but most of her face was visible, and he could see that her skin was covered with unsightly boils which she touched nervously all the time. Beside her was a heavy man of about forty years: that would be Percy. His clothes showed him to be a man of considerable wealth and power, but not in the top rank of barons and earls. The son was leaning against one of the massive columns of the nave. He was a fine figure of a man, with very yellow hair and narrow, haughty eyes. A marriage with an earl’s family would have enabled the Hamleighs to cross the line that divided county gentry from the nobility of the kingdom. It was no wonder they were angry about the cancellation of the wedding.

Philip returned his mind to the service. Waleran was going through it a little too fast for Philip’s taste. He wondered again whether he had been right to agree to nominate Waleran as bishop when the present bishop should die. Waleran was a dedicated man, but he appeared to undervalue the importance of worship. The prosperity and power of the Church were only means to an end, after all: the ultimate object was the salvation of souls. Philip decided that he must not worry about Waleran too much. The thing was done, now; and anyway, the bishop would probably frustrate Waleran’s ambition by living another twenty years.

The congregation was noisy. None of them knew the responses, of course; only priests and monks were expected to take part, except in the most familiar prayers and the amens. Some of the congregation watched in reverent silence, but others wandered around, greeting one another and chatting. They’re simple people, Philip thought; you have to do something to keep their attention.

The service drew to a close, and Archdeacon Waleran addressed them. “Most of you know that the beloved prior of Kingsbridge has died. His body, which lies here with us in church, will be laid to rest in the priory graveyard today after dinner. The bishop and the monks have chosen as his successor Brother Philip of Gwynedd, who led us into church this morning.”

He stopped, and Philip stood up to lead the procession out. Then Waleran said: “I have another sad announcement.”

Philip was taken by surprise. He sat down promptly.

“I have just received a message,” Waleran said.

He had received no messages, Philip knew. They had been together all morning. What was the sly archdeacon up to now?

“The message tells me of a loss which will grieve us all deeply.” He paused again.

Someone was dead-but who? Waleran had known about it before he arrived, but he had kept it a secret, and he was going to pretend that he had only just heard the news. Why?

Philip could think of only one possibility-and if Philip’s suspicion were right, Waleran was much more ambitious and unscrupulous than Philip had imagined. Had he really deceived and manipulated them all? Had Philip been a mere pawn in Waleran’s game?

Waleran’s final words confirmed that he had. “Dearly beloved,” he said solemnly, “the bishop of Kingsbridge is dead.”