The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [266]
“I have to see the king.”
“Oh.” That did not mean much to Jonathan either.
“And I’d like you to go to school while I’m away. Would you like that?”
“Yes!”
“You’re almost five years old. Your birthday is next week. You came to us on the first day of the year.”
“Where did I come from?”
“From God. All things come from God.”
Jonathan knew that was no answer. “But where was I before?” he persisted.
“I don’t know.”
Jonathan frowned. A frown looked funny on such a care-free young face. “I must have been somewhere.”
One day, Philip realized, someone would have to tell Jonathan how babies were born. He grimaced at the thought. Well, this was not the time, happily. He changed the subject. “While I’m away, I want you to learn to count up to a hundred.”
“I can count,” Jonathan said. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen porteen scorteen horteen—”
“Not bad,” said Philip, “but Brother Osmund will teach you more. You must sit still in the schoolroom and do everything he tells you to.”
“I’m going to be the best in the school!” said Jonathan.
“We’ll see.” Philip studied him for a moment longer. Philip was fascinated by the child’s development, the way he learned things and the phases through which he passed. This current insistence on being able to speak Latin, or count, or run fast, was curious: was it a necessary prelude to real learning? It must serve some purpose in God’s plan. And one day Jonathan would be a man. What would he be like then? The thought made Philip impatient for Jonathan to grow up. But that would take as long as the building of the cathedral.
“Give me a kiss, then, and say goodbye,” Philip said.
Jonathan lifted his face and Philip kissed the soft cheek. “Goodbye, Father,” said Jonathan.
“Goodbye, my son,” Philip said.
He gave Johnny Eightpence’s arm an affectionate squeeze and went out.
The monks were coming out of the crypt and heading for the refectory. Philip went the opposite way, and entered the crypt to pray for success on his mission.
He had been heartbroken when they told him what had happened at the quarry. Five people killed, one of them a little girl! He had hidden himself in his house and cried like a child. Five of his flock, struck down by William Hamleigh and his pack of brutes. Philip had known them all: Harry of Shiring, who had once been Lord Percy’s quarryman; Otto Blackface, the dark-skinned man who had been in charge of the quarry since the very beginning; Otto’s handsome son Mark; Mark’s wife, Alwen, who played tunes on sheep bells in the evenings; and little Norma, Otto’s seven-year-old granddaughter, his favorite. Good-hearted, God-fearing, hardworking people, who had a right to expect peace and justice from their lords. William had slaughtered them like a fox killing chickens. It was enough to make the angels weep.
Philip had grieved for them, and then he had gone to Shiring to demand justice. The sheriff had refused point-blank to take any action. “Lord William has a small army—how should I arrest him?” Sheriff Eustace had said. “The king needs knights to fight against Maud—what will he say if I incarcerate one of his best men? If I brought a charge of murder against William, I’d either be killed immediately by his knights or hanged for a traitor later by King Stephen.”
The first casualty of a civil war was justice, Philip had realized.
Then the sheriff had told him that William had made a formal complaint about the Kingsbridge market.
It was ludicrous, of course, that William could get away with murder and at the same time charge Philip on a technicality; but Philip felt helpless. It was true that he did not have permission to hold a market, and he was in the wrong, strictly speaking. But he could not remain in the wrong. He was the prior of Kingsbridge. All he had was his moral authority. William could call up an army of knights; Bishop Waleran could use his contacts in high places; the sheriff could claim royal authority; but all Philip could do was to say this is right and