The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [144]
“I see.” Philip watched while Tom instructed the workers how to stack stones in an interlocking pattern so that the pile would not topple. It was already clear that Tom’s expertise was indispensable.
When Tom was satisfied, Philip took his arm and led him on around the church, to the graveyard on the north side. The rain had stopped, but the gravestones were still wet. Monks were buried at the east end of the graveyard, villagers at the west end. The dividing line was the out-jutting north transept of the church, now in ruins. Philip and Tom stopped in front of it. A weak sun broke through the clouds. There was nothing sinister about the blackened timbers in daylight, and Philip felt almost ashamed that he had thought he had seen a devil last night.
He said: “Some of the monks are uneasy about having a woman live within the precincts of the priory.” The look that came over Tom’s face was more intense than anxiety: he seemed scared, even panicked. He really loves her, Philip thought. He went on hastily: “But I don’t want you to have to live in the village and share a hovel with another family. To avoid trouble, it would be wise for your wife to be circumspect. Tell her to stay away from the monks as much as possible, especially the young ones. She should keep her face covered if she has to walk about the priory. Most of all, she mustn’t do anything which could incur the suspicion of witchcraft.”
“It shall be done,” said Tom. There was a note of determination in his voice, and he looked a little daunted. Philip recalled that the wife was a sharp-witted woman with a mind of her own. She might not take kindly to being told to make herself inconspicuous. However, her family had been destitute yesterday, so she was likely to see these restraints as a small price to pay for shelter and security.
They walked on. Last night Philip had seen all this destruction as a supernatural tragedy, a terrible defeat for the forces of civilization and true religion, a body blow to his life’s work. Now it just seemed like a problem he had to solve—formidable, yes; even daunting; but not superhuman. The change was mainly due to Tom. Philip felt very grateful to him.
They reached the west end. Philip saw a fast horse being saddled at the stable, and wondered who was going on a journey today, of all days. He left Tom to return to the cloisters while he himself went over to the stable to investigate.
One of the sacrist’s helpers had ordered the horse: young Alan, who had rescued the treasure chest from the chapter house. “And where are you off to, my son?” said Philip.
“To the bishop’s palace,” Alan replied. “Brother Andrew has sent me to fetch candles, holy water and the Host, as we lost all those things in the fire and we are to have services again as soon as possible.”
That made sense. All such supplies had been kept in a locked box in the quire, and the box was sure to have been burned. Philip was glad the sacrist was well organized for a change. “That’s good,” he said. “But wait a while. If you’re going to the palace, you can take a letter from me to Bishop Waleran.” Sly Waleran Bigod was now bishop-elect, thanks to some rather disreputable maneuvering; but Philip could not now withdraw his support, and was obliged to treat Waleran as his bishop. “I ought to give him a report on the fire.”
“Yes, Father,” Alan replied, “but I already have a letter to the bishop from Remigius.”
“Oh!” Philip was surprised. That was very enterprising of Remigius, he thought. “All right,” he said to Alan. “Travel cautiously, and may God go with you.”
“Thank you, Father.