Page 334 of The Pillars of the Earth
“I think I’ll have to go to France,” he said. “To see Archbishop Thomas Becket.”
In every other crisis, throughout his life, Philip had been able to come up with a plan. Whenever he or his priory or his town had been threatened by the forces of lawlessness and savagery, he had thought of some form of defense or counterattack. He had not always been sure of success but he had never been at a loss to know what to do—until now.
He was still baffled when he arrived at the city of Sens, southeast of Paris in the Kingdom of France.
The cathedral at Sens was the widest building he had ever seen. The nave had to be fifty feet across. By comparison with Kingsbridge Cathedral, Sens gave an impression of space rather than light.
Traveling through France, for the first time in his life he had realized there were more varieties of church in the world than he had previously imagined, and he understood the revolutionary effect travel had had on Jack Jackson’s thinking. Philip made sure to visit the abbey church of Saint-Denis when he passed through Paris, and he had seen where Jack got some of his ideas. He had also seen two churches with flying buttresses like those at Kingsbridge: obviously other master masons had been confronted with the problem Jack had faced, and had come up with the same solution.
Philip went to pay his respects to the archbishop of Sens, William Whitehands, a brilliant young clergyman who was the nephew of the late King Stephen. Archbishop William invited Philip to dinner. Philip was flattered, but he declined the invitation: he had come a long way to see Thomas Becket and now that he was so close he was impatient. After attending mass in the cathedral he followed the River Yonne northward out of the town.
He was traveling light, for the prior of one of the wealthiest monasteries in England: he had with him only two men-at-arms for protection, a young monk called Michael of Bristol as his aide, and a packhorse loaded with holy books, copied and beautifully illustrated in the scriptorium at Kingsbridge, to use as gifts for the abbots and bishops he called on during the journey. The costly books made impressive presents and contrasted sharply with the modesty of Philip’s entourage. This was deliberate: he wanted people to respect the priory, not the prior.
Just outside the north gate of Sens, in a sunny meadow by the river, he found the venerable abbey of Sainte-Colombe, where Archbishop Thomas had been living for the past three years. One of Thomas’s priests greeted him warmly, called servants to take care of his horses and baggage, and ushered him into the guesthouse where the archbishop was staying. It occurred to Philip that the exiles must be glad to receive visitors from home, not just for sentimental reasons, but because it was a sign of support.
Philip and his aide were given food and wine and introduced to Thomas’s household. His men were all priests, mostly young and—Philip thought—rather clever. Within a short while Michael was arguing with one of them about transubstantiation. Philip sipped a cup of wine and listened without taking part. Eventually one of the priests said to him: “What’s your view, Father Philip? You haven’t said anything yet.”
Philip smiled. “Knotty theological questions are the least worrying of problems, to me.”
“Why?”
“Because they will all be resolved in the hereafter, and meanwhile they can safely be shelved.”
“Well spoken!” said a new voice, and Philip looked up to see Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury.
He was immediately aware of being in the presence of a remarkable man. Thomas was tall, slender and exceptionally handsome, with a wide forehead, bright eyes, fair skin and dark hair. He was about ten years younger than Philip, around fifty or fifty-one. Despite his misfortunes he had a lively, cheerful expression. He was, Philip saw instantly, a veryattractiveman; and this partly explained his remarkable rise from humble beginnings.
Philip knelt and kissed his hand.
Thomas said: “I’m so glad to make your acquaintance! I’ve always wanted to visit Kingsbridge—I’ve heard so much about your priory and the marvelous new cathedral.”
Philip was charmed and flattered. He said: “I’ve come to see you because everything we’ve achieved has been put in peril by the king.”
“I want to hear all about it, right away,” Thomas said. “Come into my chamber.” He turned around and swept out.
Philip followed, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive.
Thomas led him into a smaller room. There was a costly leather-and-wood bed covered with fine linen sheets and an embroidered quilt, but Philip also saw a thin mattress rolled up in a corner, and he recalled stories that Thomas never used the luxurious furniture provided by his hosts. Remembering his own comfortable bed in Kingsbridge, Philip suffered a pang of guilt to think that he snored in comfort while the primate of all England slept on the floor.
“Speaking of cathedrals,” said Thomas, “what did you think of Sens?”
“Amazing,” Philip said. “Who’s the master builder?”
“William of Sens. I’m hoping to lure him to Canterbury one day. Sit down. Tell me what’s happening in Kingsbridge.”
Philip told Thomas about Bishop Waleran and Archdeacon Peter. Thomas appeared deeply interested in everything Philip said, and asked several perceptive questions. As well as charm, he had brains. He had needed both, to rise to a position from which he could frustrate the will of one of the strongest kings England had ever had. Underneath his archbishop’s robes, it was rumored, Thomas wore a hair shirt; and beneath that charming exterior, Philip reminded himself, there was a will of iron.
When Philip had finished his story, Thomas looked grave. “This must not be allowed to happen,” he said.
“Indeed,” Philip said. Thomas’s firm tone was encouraging. “Can you stop it?”
“Only if I’m restored to Canterbury.”
That was not the answer Philip had been hoping for. “But can’t you write to the pope, even now?”
“I will,” Thomas said. “Today. The pope will not recognize Peter as bishop of Kingsbridge, I promise you. But we can’t stop him from sitting in the bishop’s palace. And we can’t appoint another man.”
Philip was shocked and demoralized by the decisiveness of Thomas’s negative. All the way here he had nursed the hope that Thomas would do what he had failed to do, and come up with a way to frustrate Waleran’s scheme. But the brilliant Thomas was also stumped. All he could offer was the hope that he would be reinstated at Canterbury. Then, of course, he would have the power to veto episcopal appointments. Philip said dejectedly: “Is there any hope you’ll come back soon?”
