Page 40 of The Pillars of the Earth
Philip knelt before the altar and stayed there a moment, conscious that righteous indignation was not the appropriate state of mind for a worshiper. When he had cooled down a little he rose and passed on.
The eastern arm of the church, the chancel, was divided into two. Nearest the crossing was the quire, with wooden stalls where the monks sat and stood during the services. Beyond the quire was the sanctuary that housed the tomb of the saint. Philip moved behind the altar, intending to take aplace in the quire; then he was brought up short by a coffin.
He stopped, surprised. Nobody had told him that a monk was dead. But, of course, he had spoken to only three people: Paul, who was old and a little absentminded; and the two stable hands, to whom he had given no chance to make conversation. He approached the coffin to see who it was. He looked inside, and his heart missed a beat.
It was Prior James.
Philip stared openmouthed. Now everything was changed. There would be a new prior, new hope—
This jubilation was not the right response to the death of a venerable brother, no matter what his faults had been. Philip composed his face and his mind in an attitude of mourning. He studied the dead man. The prior had been white-haired and thin-faced, and he had had a stoop. Now his perpetually weary expression had gone, and instead of looking troubled and disconsolate, he seemed at peace. As Philip knelt beside the bier and murmured a prayer, he wondered if some great trouble had weighed on the old man’s heart in the latter years of his life: a sin unconfessed, a woman regretted, or a wrong done to an innocent man. Whatever it was, he would not speak of it now until the Day of Judgment.
Despite his resolution Philip could not prevent his mind from turning to the future. Prior James, indecisive, anxious and spineless, had touched the monastery with a dead hand. Now there would be someone new, someone who would discipline the lazy servants, repair the tumbledown church, and harness the great wealth of property, making the priory a powerful force for good. Philip was too excited to stay still. He got up from the coffin and walked, with a new lightness in his step, to the quire and took an empty place at the back of the stalls.
The service was being conducted by the sacrist, Andrew of York, an irascible, red-faced man who seemed permanently on the verge of apoplexy. He was one of the obedientaries, the senior officers of the monastery. His area of responsibility was everything holy: the services, the books, the sacred relics, the vestments and the ornaments, and most of all the fabric of the church building. Working under his orders were a cantor to supervise the music and a treasurer to take care of the jeweled gold and silver candlesticks, chalices and other sacred vessels. There was no one in authority over the sacrist except the prior and the sub-prior, Remigius, who was a great crony of Andrew’s.
Andrew was reading the service in his usual tone of barely controlled ire. Philip’s mind was in a turmoil, and it was some time before he noticed that the service was not proceeding in a seemly way. A group of younger monks were making a noise, talking and laughing. Philip saw that they were making fun of the old novice-master, who had fallen asleep in his place. The young monks—most of whom had been novices under the old master until quite recently, and probably still smarted from the sting of his switch—were flicking pellets of dirt at him. Each time one hit his face he would jerk and move, but would not wake up. Andrew seemed oblivious to what was going on. Philip looked around for the circuitor, the monk responsible for discipline. He was on the far side of the quire, deep in conversation with another monk, taking no notice of the service or the behavior of the youngsters.
Philip watched a moment longer. He had no patience for this kind of thing at the best of times. One of the monks seemed to be a ringleader, a good-looking lad of about twenty-one years with an impish grin. Philip saw him dip the end of his eating knife into the top of a burning candle and flick melted grease at the novice-master’s bald pate. As the hot fat landed on his scalp the old monk woke up with a yelp, and the youngsters dissolved in laughter.
With a sigh, Philip left his place. He approached the lad from behind, took him by the ear and ungently hauled him out of the quire and into the south transept. Andrew looked up from the service book and frowned at Philip as they went: he had not seen any of the commotion.
When they were out of earshot of the other monks, Philip stopped, released the lad’s ear, and said: “Name?”
“William Beauvis.”
“And what devil possessed you during high mass?”
William looked sulky. “I was weary of the service,” he said.
Monks who complained of their lot never got any sympathy from Philip. “Weary?” he said, raising his voice a little. “What have you done today?”
“William said defiantly. “Matins and lauds in the middle of the night, prime before breakfast, then terce, chapter mass, study, and now high mass.”
“And have you eaten?”
“I had breakfast.”
“And you expect to have dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Most people your age do backbreaking work in the fields from sunrise to sunset in order to get their breakfast and their dinner—and still they give some of their bread to you! Do you know why they do this?”
“Yes,” said William, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground.
“Go on.”
“They do it because they want the monks to sing the services for them.”
“Correct. Hardworking peasants give you bread and meat and a stone-built dormitory with a fire in winter—and you are sowearythat you will not sit still through high mass for them!”
“I’m sorry, Brother.”
Philip looked at William a moment longer. There was no great harm in him. The real fault lay with his superiors, who were lax enough to permit horseplay in the church. Philip said gently: “If services weary you, why did you become a monk?”
“I’m my father’s fifth son.”
Philip nodded. “And no doubt he gave the priory some land on condition we took you?”
