Page 175 of The Pillars of the Earth

As if in reply, he heard a scream from a nearby house. It was a one-story building of stone and wood, not as costly as those around it. The door stood open. Philip ran inside. There were two rooms with an arch between, and straw on the floor. A woman with two small children huddled in a corner, terrified. Three men-at-arms were in the middle of the house, confronting one small, bald man. A young woman of about eighteen years was on the floor. Her dress was ripped and one of the three men-at-arms was kneeling on her chest, holding her thighs apart. The bald man was clearly trying to stop them from raping his daughter. As Philip came in, the father flung himself at one of the men-at-arms. The soldier threw him off. The father staggered back. The soldier plunged his sword into the father’s abdomen. The woman in the corner screamed like a lost soul.

Philip yelled: “Stop!”

They all looked at him as if he were mad.

In his most authoritative voice he said: “You’ll all go to hell if you do this!”

The one who had killed the father raised his sword to strike Philip.

“Just a minute,” said the man on the ground, still holding the girl’s legs. “Who are you, monk?”

“I am Philip of Gwynedd, prior of Kingsbridge, and I command you in God’s name to leave that girl alone, if you care for your immortal souls.”

“A prior—I thought so,” said the man on the ground. “He’s worth a ransom.”

The first man sheathed his sword and said: “Get over in the corner with the woman, where you belong.”

Philip said: “Don’t lay hands on a monk’s robes.” He was trying to sound dangerous but he could hear the note of desperation in his voice.

“Take him to the castle, John,” said the man on the ground, who was still sitting on the girl. He seemed to be the leader.

“Go to hell,” said John. “I want to fuck her first.” He grabbed Philip’s arms and, before Philip could resist, flung him into the corner. Philip tumbled onto the floor beside the mother.

The man called John lifted the front of his tunic and fell on the girl.

The mother turned her head aside and began to sob.

Philip said: “I will not watch this!” He stood up and grabbed the rapist by the hair, pulling him off the girl. The rapist roared with pain.

The third man raised a club. Philip saw the blow coming, but he was too late. The club landed on his head. He felt a moment of agonizing pain, then everything went black and he lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

The prisoners were taken to the castle and locked in cages. These were stout wooden structures like miniature houses, six feet long and three feet wide, and only a little higher than a man’s head. Instead of solid walls they had close-spaced vertical posts, which enabled the jailer to see inside. In normal times, when they were used to confine thieves and murderers and heretics, there would be only one or two people to a cage. Today the rebels put eight or ten in each, and still there were more prisoners. The surplus captives were tied together with ropes and herded into a corner of the compound. They could have escaped fairly easily, but they did not, probably because they were safer here than outside in the town.

Philip sat in one corner of a cage, nursing a splitting headache, feeling a fool and a failure. In the end he had been as useless as the cowardly Bishop Alexander. He had not saved a single life; he had not even prevented one blow. The citizens of Lincoln would have been no worse off without him. Unlike Abbot Peter, he had been powerless to stop the violence. I’m just not the man Father Peter was, he thought.

Worse still, in his vain attempt to help the townspeople he had probably thrown away his chance of winning concessions from the Empress Maud when she became queen. He was now a prisoner of her army. It would be assumed, therefore, that he had been with King Stephen’s forces. Kingsbridge Priory would have to pay a ransom for Philip’s release. It was quite likely that the whole thing would come to Maud’s notice; and then she would be prejudiced against Philip. He felt sick, disappointed, and full of remorse.

More prisoners were brought in through the day. The influx ended around nightfall, but the sacking of the city went on outside the castle walls: Philip could hear the shouts and screams and sounds of destruction. Toward midnight the noise died down, presumably as the soldiers became so drunk on stolen wine and sated with rape and violence that they could do no more damage. A few of them staggered into the castle, boasting of their triumphs, quarreling among themselves and vomiting on the grass; and eventually fell down insensible and slept.

Philip slept, too, although he did not have enough room to lie down, and had to slump in the corner with his back against the wooden bars of his cage. He woke at dawn, shivering with cold, but the pain in his head had softened, mercifully, to a dull ache. He stood up to stretch his legs, and slapped his arms against his sides to warm himself. All the castle buildings were overflowing with people. The open-fronted stables revealed men sleeping in the stalls, while the horses were tied up outside. Pairs of legs stuck out of the bakehouse door and the kitchen undercroft. The small minority of sober soldiers had pitched tents. There were horses everywhere. In the southeast corner of the castle compound was the keep, a castle within a castle, built on a high mound, its mighty stone walls encircling half a dozen or more wooden buildings. The earls and knights of the winning side would be in there, sleeping off their own celebration.

Philip’s mind turned to the implications of yesterday’s battle. Did it mean the war was over? Probably. Stephen had a wife, Queen Matilda, who might fight on: she was countess of Boulogne, and with her French knights she had taken Dover Castle early in the war and now controlled much of Kent on her husband’s behalf. However, she would find it difficult to gather support from the barons while Stephen was in prison. She might hold on to Kent for a while but she was unlikely to make any gains.

Nevertheless, Maud’s problems were not yet over. She had to consolidate her military victory, gain the approval of the Church and be crowned at Westminster. However, given determination and a little wisdom she would probably succeed.

And that was good news for Kingsbridge; or it would be, if Philip could get out of here without being branded a supporter of Stephen.

There was no sun, but the air warmed a little as the day got brighter. Philip’s fellow-prisoners awoke gradually, groaning with aches and pains: most of them had been at least bruised, and they felt worse after a cold night, with only the minimal shelter of the roof and bars of the cage. Some were wealthy citizens and others were knights who had been captured in battle. When most of them were awake Philip asked: “Did anyone see what happened to Richard of Kingsbridge?” He was hoping Richard had survived, for Aliena’s sake.

A man with a bloodstained bandage around his head said: “He fought like a lion—he rallied the townsmen when things got bad.”

“Did he live or die?”

The man shook his wounded head slowly. “I didn’t see him at the end.”

“What about William Hamleigh?” It would be a blessed relief if William had fallen.

“He was with the king for most of the battle. But he got away at the end—I saw him on a horse, flying across the field, well ahead of the pack.”