The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [78]
Milius’s face fell. He stared incredulously at Philip. He opened his mouth, but visibly did not know what to say. Philip felt guilty about letting him down. I’ll explain myself to him afterward, he thought, unless he’s too angry.
Remigius was about to press on with the indictment when another voice said: “I would like to confess.”
Everyone looked. It was William Beauvis, the original offender, standing up and looking shamefaced. “I was flicking pellets of mud at the novice-master and laughing,” he said in a low, clear voice. “Brother Philip made me ashamed. I beg God’s forgiveness and ask the brothers to give me a penance.” He sat down abruptly.
Before Remigius could react, another youngster stood up and said: “I have a confession. I did the same. I ask for a penance.” He sat down again. This sudden access of guilty conscience was infectious: a third monk confessed, then a fourth, then a fifth.
The truth was out, despite Philip’s scruples, and he could not help feeling pleased. He saw that Milius was struggling to suppress a triumphant smile. The confession left no doubt that there had been a minor riot going on under the noses of the sacrist and the circuitor.
The culprits were sentenced, by a highly displeased Remigius, to a week of total silence: they were not to speak and no one was to speak to them. It was a harsher punishment than it sounded. Philip had suffered it when he was young. Even for one day the isolation was oppressive, and a whole week of it was utterly miserable.
But Remigius was merely giving vent to his anger at having been outmaneuvered. Once they had confessed he had no option but to punish them, although in punishing them he was conceding that Philip had been right in the first place. His attack on Philip had gone badly wrong, and Philip was triumphant. Despite a guilty pang, he relished the moment.
But Remigius’s humiliation was not yet complete.
Cuthbert spoke again. “There was another disturbance that we ought to discuss. It took place in the cloisters just after high mass.” Philip wondered what on earth was coming next. “Brother Andrew confronted Brother Philip and accused him of misconduct.” Of course he did, Philip was thinking; everyone knows that. Cuthbert went on: “Now, we all know that the time and place for such accusations is here and now, in chapter. And there are good reasons why our forebears ordained it so. Tempers cool overnight, and grievances can be discussed the next morning in an atmosphere of calm and moderation; and the whole community can bring its collective wisdom to bear on the problem. But, I regret to say, Andrew flouted this sensible rule, and made a scene in the cloisters, disturbing everyone and speaking intemperately. To let such misbehavior pass would be unfair on the younger brothers who have been punished for what they have done.”
It was merciless, and it was brilliant, Philip thought happily. The question of whether Philip had been right to take William out of the quire during the service had never actually been discussed. Every attempt to raise it had been turned into an inquiry into the behavior of the accuser. And that was as it should be, for Andrew’s complaint against Philip had been insincere. Between them Cuthbert and Milius had now discredited Remigius and his two main allies, Andrew and Pierre.
Andrew’s normally red face was purple with fury, and Remigius looked almost frightened. Philip was pleased—they deserved it—but now he worried that their humiliation was in danger of going too far. “It’s unseemly for junior brothers to discuss the punishment of their seniors,” he said. “Let the sub-prior deal with this matter privately.” Looking around, he saw that the monks approved of his magnanimity, and he realized that unintentionally he had scored yet another point.
It seemed to be all over. The mood of the meeting