Page 176 of The Pillars of the Earth

“Ah.” The faint hope faded. Philip’s problems were not to be solved that easily.

The conversation lapsed and the cage fell silent. Outside, the soldiers were on the move, nursing their hangovers, checking their booty, making sure their hostages were still in captivity, and getting breakfast from the kitchen. Philip wondered whether prisoners got fed. They must, he thought, for otherwise they would die and there would be no ransoms; but who would take the responsibility for feeding all these people? That started him wondering how long he would be here. His captors would have to send a message to Kingsbridge, demanding a ransom. The brothers would send one of their number to negotiate his release. Who would it be? Milius would be the best, but Remigius, who as sub-prior was in charge in Philip’s absence, might send one of his cronies, or even come himself. Remigius would do everything slowly: he was incapable of prompt and decisive action even in his own interest. It could take months. Philip became gloomier.

Other prisoners were luckier. Soon after sunrise, wives and children and relatives of the captives began to trickle into the castle, fearfully and hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, to negotiate the ransom of their loved ones. They would bargain with the captors for a while, protesting their lack of money, offering cheap jewelry or other valuables; then they would reach an agreement, depart, and return a little later with whatever ransom had been agreed, usually cash. The piles of booty grew higher and the cages emptied out.

By midday half the prisoners had gone. They were the local people, Philip assumed. Those remaining must be from distant towns, and were probably all knights who had been taken during the battle. This impression was confirmed when the constable of the castle came around the cages and asked the names of everyone remaining: most of them were knights from the south. Philip noticed that in one of the cages there was only one man, and he was confined in stocks, as if someone wanted to be doubly sure he could not escape. After staring at the special prisoner for a few minutes Philip realized who it was.

“Look!” he said to the three men in his own cage. “That man on his own. Is it who I think it is?”

The others looked. “By Christ, it’s the king,” said one, and the others agreed.

Philip stared at the muddy, tawny-haired man with his hands and feet confined uncomfortably in the wooden vise of the stocks. He looked just like all the rest of them. Yesterday he had been king of England. Yesterday he had refused Kingsbridge a market license. Today he could not stand up without someone else’s leave. The king had got his just deserts, but all the same Philip felt sorry for him.

Early in the afternoon the prisoners were given food. It was lukewarm leftovers from the dinner provided for the fighting men, but they fell on it ravenously. Philip hung back and let the others have most of it, for he regarded hunger as a base weakness that ought to be resisted from time to time, and considered any enforced fast to be an opportunity to mortify the flesh.

While they were scraping the bowl there was a flurry of activity over at the keep, and a group of earls came out. As they walked down the steps of the keep and across the castle compound, Philip observed that two of them went a little in front of the others, and were treated with deference. They had to be Ranulf of Chester and Robert of Gloucester, but Philip did not know which was which. They approached Stephen’s cage.

“Good day, Cousin Robert,” Stephen said, heavily emphasizing the wordcousin.

The taller of the two men replied. “I didn’t intend for you to spend the night in the stocks. I ordered that you be moved, but the order wasn’t obeyed. However, you seem to have survived.”

A man in priest’s clothing detached himself from the group and came toward Philip’s cage. At first Philip paid him no attention, for Stephen was asking what was to be done with him, and Philip wanted to hear the answer; but the priest said: “Which one of you is the prior of Kingsbridge?”

“I am,” Philip said.

The priest spoke to one of the men-at-arms who had brought Philip here. “Release that man.”

Philip was mystified. He had never seen the priest in his life. Clearly his name had been picked out of the list compiled earlier by the castle constable. But why? He would be glad to get out of the cage, but he was not ready to rejoice—he did not know what was in store for him.

The man-at-arms protested: “He’s my prisoner!”

“Not anymore,” said the priest. “Let him go.”

“Why should I release him without a ransom?” the man said belligerently.

The priest replied equally forcefully. “First, because he’s neither a fighting man in the king’s army nor a citizen of this town, so you have committed a crime by imprisoning him. Second, because he’s a monk, and you are guilty of sacrilege by laying hands on a man of God. Third, because Queen Maud’s secretary says you have to release him, and if you refuse you’ll end up inside that cage yourself, faster than you can blink,so jump to it.”

“All right,” the man grumbled.

Philip was dismayed. He had been nursing a faint hope that Maud would never get to know of his imprisonment here. If Maud’s secretary had asked to see him, that hope was now dashed. Feeling as if he had hit rock bottom, he stepped out of the cage.

“Come with me,” said the priest.

Philip followed him. “Am I to be set free?” he said.

“I imagine so.” The priest looked surprised by the question. “Don’t you know whom you’re going to see?”

“I haven’t an inkling.”

The priest smiled. “I’ll let him surprise you.”

They crossed the compound to the keep and climbed the long flight of steps that led up the mound to the gate. Philip racked his brains but could not guess why a secretary of Maud’s should have an interest in him.

He followed the priest through the gate. The circular stone keep was lined with two-story houses built against the wall. In the middle was a tiny courtyard with a well. The priest led Philip into one of the houses.

Inside the house was another priest, standing in front of the fire with his back to the door. He had the same build as Philip, short and slight, and the same black hair, but his head was not shaved and his hair was not graying. It was a very familiar back. Philip could hardly believe his luck. A broad grin spread across his face.

The priest turned. He had bright blue eyes just like Philip’s and he, too, was grinning. He held out his arms. “Philip,” he said.