The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [173]
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.”
Henry bridled at this irreverence. “God controls all things—”
“Don’t press me on this,” Stephen said, holding up his right hand.
“Of course,” Henry said submissively.
It was a vivid demonstration of royal power. For a moment there they had been arguing almost like equals, but Stephen had been able to regain the upper hand with a word.
Philip was bitterly disappointed. At the start he had thought this an impossible demand, but he had gradually come to hope it would be granted, even to fantasize about how he would use the wealth. Now he had been brought back to reality with a hard bump.
Waleran said: “My lord king, I thank you for being willing to reconsider the future of the Shiring earldom, and I will await your decision anxiously and prayerfully.”
That was neat, Philip thought. It sounded as if Waleran was giving in gracefully. In fact he was summing up by saying that the question was still open. The king had not said that. If anything, his response had been negative. But there was nothing offensive about insisting that the king could still decide one way or the other. I must remember that, Philip thought: when you’re about to be turned down, go for a postponement.
Stephen hesitated a moment, as if entertaining a faint suspicion that he was being manipulated; then he seemed to dismiss any doubts. “Thank you all for coming to see me,” he said.
Philip and Waleran turned to leave, but Henry stood his ground and said: “When shall we hear your decision?”
Stephen once again looked somewhat cornered. “The day after tomorrow,” he said.
Henry bowed, and the three of them went out.
The uncertainty was almost as bad as a negative decision. Philip found the waiting unbearable. He spent the afternoon with the Winchester priory’s marvelous collection of books, but they could not distract him from wondering what was going on in the king’s mind. Could the king renege on his promise to Percy Hamleigh? How important was Percy? He was a member of the gentry who aspired to an earldom—surely Stephen had no reason to fear offending him. But how badly did Stephen want to help Kingsbridge? Notoriously, kings became pious as they aged. Stephen was young.
Philip was turning the possibilities over and over in his mind, and looking at but not reading Boethius’s The Consolation of Philosophy, when a novice came tiptoeing along the cloister walk and approached him shyly. “There’s someone asking for you in the outer court, Father,” the lad whispered.
If the visitor had been made to wait outside, that meant he was not a monk. “Who is it?” Philip said.
“It’s a woman.”
Philip’s first, horrified thought was that it was the whore who had accosted him outside the mint; but something in the novice’s expression told him otherwise. There was another woman whose eyes had met his today. “What does she look like?”
The boy made a disgusted face.
Philip nodded, understanding. “Regan Hamleigh.” What mischief was she up to now? “I’ll come at once.”
He walked slowly and thoughtfully around the cloisters and out to the courtyard. He would need his wits about him to deal with this woman.
She was standing outside the cellarer’s parlor, wrapped in a heavy cloak, hiding her face in a hood. She gave Philip a look of such naked malevolence that he had half a mind to turn around and go back in immediately; but he was ashamed to run from a woman, so he stood his ground and said: “What do you want with me?”
“You foolish monk,” she spat. “How can you be so stupid?”
He felt his face redden. “I’m the prior of Kingsbridge, and you’d better call me Father,” he said; but to his chagrin he sounded petulant rather than authoritative.
“All right, Father—how can you just let yourself be used by those two greedy bishops?”
Philip took a deep breath. “Speak plainly,” he said angrily.
“It’s hard to find words plain enough for someone as witless as you, but I’ll try.