Philip left the window and returned to his writing desk. What could be done? For a moment he was tempted to do nothing. Let Bishop Henry come and look, and make his own decision, he thought. If the cathedral is to be built at Shiring, so be it. Let Bishop Waleran take control of it and use it for his own ends; let it bring prosperity to the town of Shiring and the evil Hamleigh dynasty. God’s will be done.

He knew that would not do, of course. Having faith in God did not mean sitting back and doing nothing. It meant believing that you would find success if you did your best honestly and energetically. Philip’s holy duty was to do all he could to prevent the cathedral from falling into the hands of cynical and immoral people who would exploit it for their own aggrandizement. That meant showing Bishop Henry that his building program was well under way and Kingsbridge had the energy and determination to finish it.

Was it true? The fact was that Philip was going to find it mortally difficult to build a cathedral here. Already he had almost been forced to abandon the project just because the earl refused him access to the quarry. But he knew he would succeed, in the end, because God would help him. However, his own conviction would not be enough to persuade Bishop Henry.

He decided he would do his best to make the site look more impressive, for what it was worth. He would set all the monks to work for the ten days remaining before Whitsun. Perhaps they could get part of the foundation hole dug to its full depth, so that Tom and Alfred could begin laying the foundation stones. Perhaps a part of the foundation could be completed up to ground level, so that Tom could start building a wall. That would be a little better than the present scene, but not much. What Philip really needed was a hundred laborers, but he did not have the money even for ten.

Bishop Henry would arrive on a Sunday, of course, so nobody would be working, unless Philip were to co-opt the congregation. That would provide a hundred laborers. He imagined himself standing up in front of them and announcing a new kind of Whitsun service: instead of singing hymns and saying prayers, we’re going to dig holes and carry stones. They would be astonished. They would…

What would they do, actually?

They would probably cooperate wholeheartedly.

He frowned. Either I’m crazy, he thought, or this idea could actually work.

He thought about it some more. I get up at the end of the service, and I say that today’s penance for forgiveness of all sins is half a day’s labor on the cathedral building site. Bread and ale will be provided at dinnertime.

They would do it. Of course they would.

He felt the need to try the idea out on someone else. He considered Milius, but rejected him: Milius’s thought processes were too similar to his own. He needed someone with a slightly different outlook. He decided to talk to Cuthbert Whitehead, the cellarer. He pulled on his cloak, drew the hood forward to keep the rain off his face, and went out.

He hurried across the muddy building site, passing Tom with a perfunctory wave, and made for the kitchen courtyard. This range of buildings now included a hen house, a cow shed and a dairy, for Philip did not like to spend scarce cash on simple commodities that the monks could provide for themselves, such as eggs and butter.

He entered the cellarer’s storeroom in the undercroft below the kitchen. He inhaled the dry, fragrant air, full of the herbs and spices Cuthbert had stored. Cuthbert was counting garlic, peering at the strings of bulbs and muttering numbers in an undertone. Philip saw with a small shock that Cuthbert was getting old: his flesh seemed to be wasting away beneath his skin.

“Thirty-seven,” Cuthbert said aloud. “Would you like a cup of wine?”

“No, thank you.” Philip found that wine in the daytime made him lazy and short-tempered. No doubt that was why Saint Benedict counseled monks to drink in moderation. “I want your advice, not your victuals. Come and sit down.”

Negotiating a path through the boxes and barrels, Cuthbert stumbled over a sack and almost fell before sitting on a three-legged stool in front of Philip. The storeroom was not as tidy as it had once been, Philip noted. He was struck by a thought. “Are you having trouble with your eyesight, Cuthbert?”

“It’s not what it was, but it will do,” Cuthbert said shortly.

His eyes had probably been poor for years-that might even be why he had never learned to read very well. However, he was obviously touchy about it, so Philip said no more, but made a mental note to begin grooming a replacement cellarer. “I’ve had a very disturbing letter from the prior of Canterbury,” he said, and he told Cuthbert about Bishop Waleran’s scheming. He concluded by saying: “The only way to make the site look like a hive of activity is to get the congregation to work on it. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t do that?”

Cuthbert did not even think about it. “On the contrary, it’s a good idea,” he said immediately.

“It’s a little unorthodox, isn’t it?” Philip said.

“It’s been done before.”

“Really?” Philip was surprised and pleased. “Where?”

“I’ve heard of it in several places.”

Philip was excited. “Does it work?”

“Sometimes. It probably depends on the weather.”

“How is it managed? Does the priest make an announcement at the end of the service, or what?”

“It’s more organized than that. The bishop, or prior, sends out messengers to the parish churches, announcing that forgiveness for sins may be had in return for work on the building site.”

“That’s a grand idea,” Philip said enthusiastically. “We might get a bigger congregation than usual, attracted by the novelty.”

“Or a smaller one,” Cuthbert said. “Some people would rather give money to the priest, or light a candle to a saint, than spend all day wading in mud and carrying heavy stones.”

“I never thought of that,” Philip said, suddenly deflated. “Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea after all.”

“What other ideas have you got?”

“Not one.”

“Then you’ll have to try this, and hope for the best, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Philip. “Hope for the best.”

Philip did not sleep at all during the night before Whitsunday.

There had been a week of sunshine, perfect for his plan-more people would volunteer in fine weather-but as darkness fell on the Saturday, it began to rain. He lay awake listening disconsolately to the raindrops on the roof and the wind in the trees. He felt he had prayed enough. God must be fully aware of the circumstances now.

On the previous Sunday, every monk in the priory had visited one or more churches to speak to the congregations and tell them they could obtain forgiveness for their sins by working on the cathedral building site on Sundays. On Whitsunday they would get forgiveness for the past year, and thereafter a day of labor was worth a week of routine sins, excluding murder and sacrilege. Philip himself had gone to the town of Shiring, and had spoken at each of its four parish churches. He had sent two monks to Winchester to visit as many as possible of the multitude of small churches in that city. Winchester was two days’ journey away, but Whitsun was a six-day holiday, and people would make such a trip for a big fair or a spectacular service. In total, many thousands of people had heard the message. There was no knowing how many might respond.

For the rest of the time they had all been working on the site. The good weather and the long days of early summer had helped, and they had achieved most of what Philip had hoped for. The foundation had been laid for the wall at the easternmost end of the chancel. Some of the foundation for the north wall had been dug to its full depth, ready for foundation stones to be laid; and Tom had built enough lifting mechanisms to keep scores of people busy digging the rest of the vast hole, if scores of people should turn up. In addition, the riverbank was crowded with timber sent downstream by the foresters and with stones from the quarry, all of which had to be carried up the slope to the cathedral site. There was work here for hundreds.