The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [75]
“When you put it that way, it seems easy,” Philip said. “How long have we got?”
“Can’t tell. The brothers call the election, but if we do it too early the bishop may refuse to confirm our choice. And if we delay too long he can order us to call it. He also has the right to nominate a candidate. Right now he probably hasn’t even heard that the old prior is dead.”
“It could be a long time, then.”
“Yes. And as soon as we’re confident of a majority, you must go back to your cell, and stay away from here until it’s all over.”
Philip was puzzled by this proposal. “Why?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt.” Milius waved the sharpened knife enthusiastically. “Forgive me if I sound disrespectful, but you did ask. At the moment you’ve got an aura. You’re a remote, sanctified figure, especially to us younger monks. You worked a miracle at that little cell, reforming it and making it self-sufficient. You’re a tough disciplinarian but you feed your monks well. You’re a born leader but you can bow your head and accept rebuke like the youngest novice. You know the Scriptures and you make the best cheese in the country.”
“And you exaggerate.”
“Not much.”
“I can’t believe people think of me like that—it’s not natural.”
“Indeed it’s not,” Milius acknowledged with another little shrug. “And it won’t last once they get to know you. If you stayed here you’d lose that aura. They’d see you pick your teeth and scratch your arse, they’d hear you snore and fart, they’d find out what you’re like when you’re bad-tempered or your pride is hurt or your head aches. We don’t want them to do that. Let them watch Remigius blunder and bungle from day to day while your image remains shining and perfect in their minds.”
“I don’t like this,” Philip said in a troubled voice. “It has a deceitful feeling to it.”
“There’s nothing dishonest about it,” Milius protested.
“It’s a true reflection of how well you would serve God and the monastery if you were prior—and how badly Remigius would rule.”
Philip shook his head. “I refuse to pretend to be an angel. All right, I won’t stay here—I have to go back to the forest anyway. But we must be straightforward with the brothers. We’re asking them to elect a fallible, imperfect man, who will need their help and their prayers.”
“Tell them that!” said Milius enthusiastically. “That’s perfect—they’ll love it.”
He was incorrigible, Philip thought. He changed the subject. “What’s your impression of the waverers—the brothers who haven’t yet made up their minds?”
“They’re conservative,” Milius said without hesitation.
“They see Remigius as the older man, the one who will make fewer changes, the predictable one, the man who is effectively in charge at the moment.”
Philip nodded agreement. “And they look at me warily, like a strange dog that may bite.”
The bell rang for chapter. Milius swallowed the last of his beer. “There’ll be some kind of attack on you now, Philip. I can’t forecast what form it will take, but they will be trying to portray you as youthful, inexperienced, headstrong and unreliable. You must appear calm, cautious and judicious, but leave it to me and Cuthbert to defend you.”
Philip began to feel apprehensive. This was a new way of thinking—to weigh his every move and calculate how others would interpret and judge it. A slightly disapproving tone crept into his voice as he said: “Normally, I only think about how God would view my behavior.”
“I know, I know,” Milius said impatiently. “But it’s not a sin to help simpler folk see your actions in the right light.”
Philip frowned. Milius was distressingly plausible.
They left the kitchen and walked through the refectory to the cloisters. Philip was highly anxious. Attack? What did that mean, an attack? Would they tell lies about him? How should he react? If people told lies about him he would be angry. Should