The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [62]
He hesitated, not sure how much Waleran might have heard of the political news. “I expect you know that Stephen of Blois has claimed the throne of England with the blessing of the Church.”
Waleran knew more than Philip. “And he was crowned at Westminster three days before Christmas,” he said.
“Already!” Francis had not known that.
“What was the secret?” Waleran said with a touch of impatience.
Philip took the plunge. “Before he died, the horseman told me that his master Bartholomew, earl of Shiring, had conspired with Robert of Gloucester to raise a rebellion against Stephen.” He studied Waleran’s face, holding his breath.
Waleran’s pale cheeks went a shade whiter. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” he said urgently.
“A dying man usually tells the truth to his confessor.”
“Perhaps he was repeating a rumor that was current in the earl’s household.”
Philip had not expected Waleran to be skeptical. He improvised hastily. “Oh, no,” he said. “He was a messenger sent by Earl Bartholomew to muster the earl’s forces in Hampshire.”
Waleran’s intelligent eyes raked Philip’s expression. “Did he have the message in writing?”
“No.”
“Any seal, or token of the earl’s authority?”
“Nothing.” Philip began to perspire slightly. “I gathered he was well known, by the people he was going to see, as an authorized representative of the earl.”
“What was his name?”
“Francis,” Philip said stupidly, and wanted to bite his tongue.
“Just that?”
“He didn’t tell me what else he was called.” Philip had the feeling that his story was coming unraveled under Waleran’s interrogation.
“His weapons and his armor may identify him.”
“He had no armor,” Philip said desperately. “We buried his weapons with him—monks have no use for swords. We could dig them up, but I can tell you that they were plain and undistinguished—I don’t think you would find clues there....” He had to divert Waleran from this line of inquiry. “What do you think can be done?”
Waleran frowned. “It’s hard to know what to do without proof. The conspirators can simply deny the charge, and then the accuser stands condemned.” He did not say especially if the story turns out to be false, but Philip guessed that was what he was thinking. Waleran went on: “Have you told anyone else?”
Philip shook his head.
“Where are you going when you leave here?”
“Kingsbridge. I had to invent a reason for leaving the cell, so I said I would visit the priory; and now I must do so, to make the lie true.”
“Don’t speak of this to anyone there.”
“I shan’t.” Philip had not intended to, but he wondered why Waleran was insisting on the point. Perhaps it was self-interest: if he was going to take the risk of exposing the conspiracy, he wanted to be sure to get the credit. He was ambitious. So much the better, for Philip’s purpose.
“Leave this with me.” Waleran was suddenly brusque again, and the contrast with his previous manner made Philip realize that his amiability could be put on and taken off like a coat. Waleran went on: “You’ll go to Kingsbridge Priory now, and forget about the sheriff, won’t you.”
“Yes.” Philip realized it was going to be all right, at least for a while, and a weight rolled off his back. He was not going to be thrown into a dungeon, interrogated by a torturer, or accused of sedition. He had also handed the responsibility to someone else—someone who appeared quite happy to take it on.
He got up and went to the nearest window. It was mid-afternoon, and there