The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [242]
For the next hour Philip was frantically busy. At first, just to get people out of the way, he assigned a hundred or more to the task of bringing materials up from the riverbank. As soon as Milius had assembled a supervisory group of monks, he began sending the volunteers down into the foundations. They soon ran out of shovels, barrels and buckets. Philip ordered all the cooking pots brought from the kitchen, and set some of the volunteers to making rough timber boxes and basketwork platters for carrying earth. There were not enough ladders or lifting devices, so they made a long slope at one end of the largest foundation hole so that people could walk into and out of it. He realized he had not given sufficient thought to the question of where he was going to put the vast quantity of earth that was coming out of the foundations. Now it was too late to mull it over: he made a snap decision, and ordered the earth dumped on a patch of rocky ground near the river. Perhaps it might become cultivable. While he was giving that order, Bernard Kitchener came to him in a panic, saying he had only catered for two hundred people at most, and there seemed to be at least a thousand here. “Build a fire in the kitchen courtyard and make soup in an iron bath,” Philip said. “Water the beer. Use all the stores. Get some of the villagers to prepare food on their own hearths. Improvise!” He turned away from the kitchener and resumed organizing laborers.
He was still giving orders when someone tapped him on the shoulder and said in French: “Prior Philip, may I have your attention for a moment?” It was Dean Baldwin, Waleran Bigod’s associate.
Philip turned around and saw the entire visiting party, all on horseback and gorgeously dressed, gazing in astonishment at the scene around them. There was Bishop Henry, a short, thickset man with a pugnacious look about him, his monkish haircut contrasting strangely with his embroidered scarlet coat. Beside him was Bishop Waleran, dressed in black as always, his dismay not quite concealed by his habitual look of frozen disdain. There was fat Percy Hamleigh, his strapping son, William, and his hideous wife, Regan: Percy and William were looking bemused, but Regan understood exactly what Philip had done and she was furious.
Philip returned his attention to Bishop Henry, and found to his surprise that the bishop was favoring him with a look of intense interest. Philip returned his gaze frankly. Bishop Henry’s expression showed surprise, curiosity and a kind of amused respect. After a moment Philip approached the bishop, held his horse’s head, and kissed the beringed hand that Henry proffered.
Henry dismounted with a smooth, agile movement, and the rest of his party followed suit. Philip called a couple of monks to stable the horses. Henry was the same age as Philip, approximately, but his florid complexion and well-covered frame made him look older. “Well, Father Philip,” he said. “I came to verify reports that you were not capable of getting a new cathedral built here at Kingsbridge.” He paused, looked around at the hundreds of workers, then returned his gaze to Philip. “It seems I was misinformed.”
Philip’s heart missed a beat. Henry could hardly make it plainer: Philip had won.
Philip turned to Bishop Waleran. Waleran’s face was a mask of suppressed fury. He knew he had been defeated again. Philip knelt, bowing his head to hide the look of triumphant delight on his face, and kissed Waleran’s hand.
Tom was enjoying building the wall. It was so long since he had done this that he had forgotten the deep tranquillity that came from laying one stone upon another in perfect straight lines and watching the structure grow.
When the volunteers started to arrive by the hundred, and he realized that Philip