Philip felt nauseated with anxiety. In the next few minutes his whole future might be decided. He wished he felt better about his allies. He wished he had spent the early morning hours praying for success instead of wandering around Winchester. He wished he had worn a clean robe.

There were twenty or thirty other people in the room, nearly all of them men. They seemed to be a mixture of knights, priests and prosperous townspeople. Suddenly Philip started, surprised: over by the fire, talking to a woman and a young man, was Percy Hamleigh. What was he doing here? The two people with him were his ugly wife and his brutish son. They had been Waleran’s collaborators, as it were, in the downfall of Bartholomew: it could hardly be a coincidence that they were here today. Philip wondered whether Waleran had expected them.

Philip said to Waleran: “Do you see-”

“I see them,” Waleran snapped, visibly displeased.

Philip felt their presence here was ominous, though he could not have said just why. He studied them. The father and son were alike: big, beefy men with yellow hair and sullen faces. The wife looked like the kind of demon that tortured sinners in paintings of hell. She touched the sores on her face constantly, her skeletal hands moving restlessly. She wore a yellow gown that made her look even uglier. She shifted from one foot to another, darting glances around the room all the time. She met Philip’s eyes, and he looked away quickly.

Bishop Henry was moving around, greeting the people he knew and blessing those he did not, but he must have been keeping an eye on the stairs, for as soon as the sentry came down again, Henry looked across at him, saw the man nod, and abandoned his conversation in midsentence.

Waleran followed Henry up the stairs and Philip brought up the rear with his heart in his mouth.

The upstairs room was the same size and shape as the entrance hall, but it felt completely different. There were tapestries on the walls and sheepskin rugs on the scrubbed floorboards. The fire blazed strongly and the room was brightly lit by dozens of candles. Near the door was an oak table with pens, ink and a stack of vellum sheets for letters, and a cleric sat waiting to take the king’s dictation. Near the fireplace, in a big wooden chair covered with fur, sat the king.

The first thing Philip noticed was that he was not wearing a crown. He had on a purple tunic over leather leggings, as if he were about to go out on horseback. Two big hunting dogs lay at his feet like favored courtiers. He resembled his brother Bishop Henry, but Stephen’s features were a little finer, making him more handsome, and he had a lot of tawny hair. However, there was the same look of intelligence about the eyes. He sat back in his big chair-Philip supposed it was a throne-looking relaxed, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his elbows on the arms of the seat, but despite his posture there was an air of tension in the room. The king was the only one at ease.

As the bishops and Philip entered, a big man in expensive clothes was leaving. He nodded in a familiar way to Bishop Henry and ignored Waleran. He was probably a powerful baron, Philip thought.

Bishop Henry approached the king, bowed, and said: “Good morning, Stephen.”

“I still haven’t seen that bastard Ranulf,” said King Stephen. “If he doesn’t show up soon I’m going to cut his fingers off.”

Henry said: “He’ll be here any day, I promise you, but perhaps you should cut his fingers off anyway.”

Philip had no idea who Ranulf was or why the king wanted to see him, but he got the impression that although Stephen was displeased, he was not serious about mutilating the man.

Before Philip could give it any further thought, Waleran stepped forward and bowed, and Henry said: “You remember Waleran Bigod, the new bishop of Kingsbridge.”

“Yes,” Stephen said, “but who’s this?” He looked at Philip.

Waleran said: “This is my prior.”

Waleran did not say his name, so Philip supplied it. “Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge.” His voice sounded louder than he had intended. He bowed.

“Come forward, father prior,” Stephen said. “You seem afraid. What are you worried about?”

Philip could not think how to answer that. He was worried about so many things. In desperation he said: “I’m worried because I don’t have a clean robe to wear.”

Stephen laughed, but not unkindly. “Then stop worrying,” he said. With a glance at his well-dressed brother he added: “I like a monk to look like a monk, not like a king.”

Philip felt a little better.

Stephen said: “I heard about the fire. How are you managing?”

Philip said: “On the day of the fire, God sent us a builder. He repaired the cloisters very quickly, and we use the crypt for services. With his help, we’re clearing the ruins ready for rebuilding; and he has drawn plans for a new church.”

Waleran raised his eyebrows at that: he did not know about the plans. Philip would have told him, if he had asked; but he had not. The king said: “Commendably prompt. When will you begin to build?”

“As soon as I can find the money.”

Bishop Henry cut in: “That’s why I’ve brought Prior Philip and Bishop Waleran to see you. Neither the priory nor the diocese has the resources to finance a project this big.”

“Nor does the Crown, my dear brother,” said Stephen.

Philip was discouraged: that was not a promising beginning.

Henry said: “I know. That’s why I’ve looked for a way in which you could make it possible for them to rebuild Kingsbridge, but at no cost to yourself.”

Stephen looked skeptical. “And did you succeed in devising such an ingenious, not to say magical, scheme?”

“Yes. My suggestion is that you should give the earl of Storing’s lands to the diocese to finance the building program.”

Philip held his breath.

The king looked thoughtful.

Waleran opened his mouth to speak, but Henry silenced him with a gesture.

The king said: “It’s a clever idea. I’d like to do it.”

Philip’s heart leaped.

The king said: “Unfortunately, I’ve just virtually promised the earldom to Percy Hamleigh.”

A groan escaped Philip’s lips. He had thought the king was going to say yes. The disappointment was like a knife wound.

Henry and Waleran were dumbstruck. No one had anticipated this.

Henry was the first to speak. He said: “Virtually?”

The king shrugged. “I might wriggle out of it, although not without considerable embarrassment. But after all, it was Percy who brought the traitor Bartholomew to justice.”

Waleran burst out: “Not without help, my lord!”

“I knew you had played some part in it…”

“It was I who told Percy Hamleigh of the plot against you.”

“Yes. By the way, how did you learn of it?”

Philip shuffled his feet. They were on dangerous ground. No one must know that the information had come originally from his brother, Francis, for Francis was still working for Robert of Gloucester, who had been forgiven for his part in the plot.

Waleran said: “The information came from a deathbed confession.”

Philip was relieved. Waleran was repeating the lie Philip had told him, but speaking as if the “confession” had been made to him rather than to Philip. Philip was more than content to have attention drawn away from his own role in this.

The king said: “Still, it was Percy, not you, who attacked Bartholomew’s castle, risking life and limb, and arrested the traitor.”

“You could reward Percy some other way,” Henry put in.

“Shiring is what Percy wants,” the king said. “He knows the area. And he’ll rule effectively there. I could give him Cambridgeshire, but would the fenmen follow him?”

Henry said: “You ought to give thanks to God first, men second. It was God who made you king.”

“But it was Percy who arrested Bartholomew.”