The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [57]
He looked around once again. Now they were all wary, for none of them wanted this job. He let his gaze rest on Peter of Wareham. Peter realized what was coming, and his face fell.
“It was Peter who drew our attention to our shortcomings in this area,” Philip said slowly, “so I have decided that it shall be Peter who has the honor of being our almoner.” He smiled. “You can begin today.”
Peter’s face was as black as thunder.
You’ll be away too much to cause trouble, Philip thought; and close contact with the vile, verminous poor of Winchester’s stinking alleyways will temper your scorn of soft living.
However, Peter evidently saw this as a punishment, pure and simple, and he looked at Philip with an expression of such hatred that for a moment Philip quailed.
He tore his gaze away and looked at the others. “After the death of a king there is always danger and uncertainty,” he said. “Pray for me while I’m away.”
II
At noon on the second day of his journey, Prior Philip was within a few miles of the bishop’s palace. His bowels felt watery as he got nearer. He had thought of a story to explain how he came to know of the planned rebellion. But the bishop might not believe his story; or, believing it, he might demand proof. Worse still—and this possibility had not occurred to Philip until after he parted company with Francis—it was conceivable, albeit unlikely, that the bishop was one of the conspirators, and supported the rebellion. He might be a crony of the earl of Shiring. It was not unknown for bishops to put their own interests before those of the Church.
The bishop could torture Philip to make him reveal his source of information. Of course he had no right to, but then he had no right to plot against the king, either. Philip recalled the instruments of torture depicted in paintings of hell. Such paintings were inspired by what went on in the dungeons of barons and bishops. Philip did not feel he had the strength for a martyr’s death.
When he saw a group of travelers on foot in the road ahead of him his first instinct was to rein in to avoid passing them, for he was alone, and there were plenty of footpads who would not scruple to rob a monk. Then he saw that two of the figures were children, and another was a woman. A family group was usually safe. He trotted to catch them.
As he drew nearer he could see them more clearly. They were a tall man, a small woman, a youth almost as big as the man, and two children. They were visibly poor: they carried no little bundles of precious possessions and they were dressed in rags. The man was big-boned, but emaciated, as if he were dying of a wasting disease—or just starving. He looked warily at Philip, and drew the children closer to him with a touch and a murmured word. Philip had at first guessed his age at fifty, but now he saw that the man was in his thirties, although his face was lined with care.
The woman said: “What ho, monk.”
Philip looked sharply at her. It was unusual for a woman to speak before her husband did, and while monk was not exactly impolite, it would have been more respectful to say brother or father. The woman was younger than the man by about ten years, and she had deep-set eyes of an unusual pale gold color that gave her a rather arresting appearance. Philip felt she was dangerous.
“Good day, Father,” the man said, as if to apologize for his wife’s brusqueness.
“God bless you,” said Philip, slowing his mare. “Who are you?”
“Tom, a master builder, seeking work.”
“And not finding any, I’d guess.”
“That’s the truth.”
Philip nodded. It was a common story. Building craftsmen normally wandered in search of work, and sometimes they did not find it, either through bad luck or