He went to the cathedral early every morning, carrying the precious charter that gave the priory the right to take stone from the quarry. Day after day the king failed to notice him. When the other petitioners talked among themselves, discussing who was in favor and who was out, Philip remained aloof.

He knew why he was being kept waiting. The entire Church was at odds with the king. Stephen had not kept the generous promises that had been extracted from him at the start of his reign. He had made an enemy of his brother, the wily Bishop Henry of Winchester, by supporting someone else for the job of archbishop of Canterbury; a move which had also disappointed Waleran Bigod, who wanted to rise on Henry’s coattails. But Stephen’s greatest sin, in the eyes of the Church, had been to arrest Bishop Roger of Salisbury and Roger’s two nephews, who were bishops of Lincoln and Ely, all on one day, on charges of unlicensed castle building. A chorus of outrage had gone up from cathedrals and monasteries all over the country at this act of sacrilege. Stephen was hurt. As men of God the bishops had no need of castles, he said; and if they built castles they could not expect to be treated purely as men of God. He was sincere, but naive.

The split had been patched up, but King Stephen was no longer eager to hear the petitions of holy men, so Philip had to wait. He used the opportunity to meditate. It was something he had little time for as prior, and he missed it. Now, suddenly, he had nothing to do for hours on end, and he spent the time lost in thought.

Eventually the other courtiers left a space around him, making him quite conspicuous, and it must have been increasingly difficult for Stephen to ignore him. He was deep in contemplation of the sublime mystery of the Trinity on the morning of his seventh day in Lincoln when he realized that someone was standing right in front of him, looking at him and speaking to him, and that person was the king.

“Are you asleep with your eyes open, man?” Stephen was saying in a tone halfway between amusement and irritation.

“I’m sorry, lord, I was thinking,” Philip said, and bowed belatedly.

“Never mind. I want to borrow your clothes.”

“What?” Philip was too surprised to mind his manners.

“I want to take a look around the castle, and if I’m dressed as a monk they won’t shoot arrows at me. Come on-go into one of the chapels and take off your robe.”

Philip had only an undershirt on beneath his robe. “But, lord, what shall I wear?”

“I forget how modest you monks are.” Stephen clicked his fingers at a young knight. “Robert-lend me your tunic, quick.”

The knight, who was talking to a girl, took off his tunic with a swift motion, gave it to the king with a bow, then made a vulgar gesture to the girl. His friends laughed and cheered.

King Stephen gave the tunic to Philip.

Philip slipped into the tiny chapel of St. Dunstan, asked the saint’s pardon with a hasty prayer, then took off his habit and put on the knight’s short-skirted scarlet tunic. It seemed very strange indeed: he had been wearing monastic clothing since the age of six, and he could not have felt more odd if he had been dressed as a woman. He emerged and handed his monkish robe to Stephen, who pulled it over his head swiftly.

Then the king astonished him by saying: “Come with me, if you like. You can tell me about Kingsbridge Cathedral.”

Philip was taken aback. His first instinct was to refuse. A sentry on the castle ramparts might be tempted to take a shot at him, and he would not be protected by religious garments. But he was being offered an opportunity to be totally alone with the king, with plenty of time to explain about the quarry and the market. He might never get another chance like this.

Stephen picked up his own cloak, which was purple with white fur at the collar and hem. “Wear this,” he said to Philip. “You’ll draw their fire away from me.”

The other courtiers had gone quiet, watching, wondering what would happen.

The king was making a point, Philip realized. He was saying that Philip had no business here in an armed camp, and could not expect to be granted privileges at the expense of men who risked their lives for the king. This was not unfair. But Philip knew that if he accepted this point of view he might as well go home and give up all hope of repossessing the quarry or reopening the market. He had to accept the challenge. He drew a deep breath and said: “Perhaps it is God’s will that I should die to save the king.” Then he took the purple cloak and put it on.

There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd; and King Stephen himself looked quite startled. Everyone had expected Philip to back down. Almost immediately he wished he had. But he had committed himself now.

Stephen turned and walked toward the north door. Philip followed him. Several courtiers made to go with them, but Stephen waved them back, saying: “Even a monk might attract suspicion if he is attended by the entire royal court.” He pulled the cowl of Philip’s robe over his head and they passed out into the graveyard.

Philip’s costly cloak drew curious glances as they picked their way across the campsite: men assumed he was a baron and were puzzled not to recognize him. The glances made him feel guilty, as if he were some kind of impostor. Nobody looked at Stephen.

They did not go directly to the main gate of the castle, but made their way through a maze of narrow lanes and came out by the church of St.-Paul-in-the-Bail, across from the northeast corner of the castle. The castle walls were built on top of massive earth ramparts and surrounded by a dry moat. There was a swath of open space fifty yards wide between the edge of the moat and the nearest buildings. Stephen stepped onto the grass and began to walk west, studying the north wall of the castle, staying close to the backs of the houses on the outer rim of the cleared area. Philip went with him. Stephen made Philip walk on his left, between him and the castle. The open space was there to give bowmen a clear shot at anyone who approached the walls, of course. Philip was not afraid to die but he was afraid of pain, and the thought uppermost in his mind was how much an arrow would hurt.

“Scared, Philip?” said Stephen.

“Terrified,” Philip replied candidly; and then, made reckless by fear, he added cheekily: “How about you?”

The king laughed at his nerve. “A little,” he admitted.

Philip remembered that this was his chance to talk about the cathedral. But he could not concentrate while his life was in such peril. His eyes went constantly to the castle, and he raked the ramparts, watching for a man drawing a bow.

The castle occupied the entire southwest corner of the inner city, its west wall being part of the city wall, so to walk all the way around it one had to go out of the city. Stephen led Philip through the west gate, and they passed out into the suburb called Newland. Here the houses were like peasant hovels, made of wattle-and-daub, with large gardens such as village houses had. A bitter cold wind whipped across the open fields beyond the houses. Stephen turned south, still skirting the castle. He pointed to a little door in the castle wall. “That’s where Ranulf of Chester sneaked out to make his escape when I took the city, I suspect,” he said.

Philip was less frightened here. There were other people on the pathway, and the ramparts on this side were less heavily guarded, for the occupants of the castle were afraid of an attack from the city, not from the countryside. Philip took a deep breath and then blurted out: “If I am killed, will you give Kingsbridge a market and make William Hamleigh give back the quarry?”

Stephen did not answer immediately. They walked downhill to the southwest corner of the castle and looked up at the keep. From their position it appeared loftily impregnable. Just below that corner they turned into another gateway and entered the lower city to walk along the castle’s south side. Philip felt in danger again. It would not be too difficult for someone inside the castle to deduce that the two men who were making a circuit of the walls must be on a scouting expedition, and therefore they were fair game, especially the one in the purple cloak. To distract himself from his fear he studied the keep. There were small holes in the wall which served as outlets for the latrines, and the refuse and filth which was washed out simply fell on the walls and the mound below and stayed there until it rotted away. No wonder there was a stink. Philip tried not to breathe too deeply, and they hurried past.