Philip nodded. It was a common story. Building craftsmen normally wandered in search of work, and sometimes they did not find it, either through bad luck or because not many people were building. Such men often took advantage of the hospitality of monasteries. If they had recently been in work they gave generous donations when they left, although after they had been on the road a while they might have nothing to offer. Giving an equally warm welcome to both kinds was sometimes a trial of monastic charity.

This builder was definitely the penniless kind, although his wife looked well enough. Philip said: “Well, I have food in my saddlebag, and it is dinnertime, and charity is a holy duty; so if you and your family will eat with me, I shall get a reward in heaven, as well as some company while I dine.”

“That’s good of you,” said Tom. He looked at the woman. She gave the slightest of shrugs, then a little nod. Almost without pause the man said: “We’ll accept your charity, and thank you.”

“Thank God, not me,” Philip said automatically.

The woman said: “Thank the peasants whose tithes provided the food.”

Here’s a sharp one, Philip thought; but he said nothing.

They stopped at a small clearing where Philip’s pony could graze the tired winter grass. Philip was secretly glad of the excuse to postpone his arrival at the palace and delay the dreaded interview with the bishop. The builder said that he too was heading for the bishop’s palace, hoping that the bishop might want to make repairs or even build an extension. While they were talking, Philip surreptitiously studied the family. The woman seemed too young to be the mother of the older boy. He was like a calf, strong and awkward and stupid-looking. The other boy was small and odd, with carrot-colored hair, snow-white skin and protuberant bright-blue eyes; and he had a way of staring intently at things, with an absent expression that reminded Philip of poor Johnny Eightpence, except that unlike Johnny this boy would give you a very adult, knowing look when you caught his eye. In his way he was as disturbing as his mother, Philip found. The third child was a girl of about six years. She was crying intermittently, and her father watched her constantly with affectionate concern, and gave her a comforting pat from time to time, although he said nothing to her. He was evidently very fond of her. He also touched his wife, once, and Philip saw a look of lust flash between them when their eyes met.

The woman sent the children to find broad leaves to use as platters. Philip opened his saddlebags. Tom said: “Where is your monastery, Father?”

“In the forest, a day’s journey from here, to the west.” The woman looked up sharply, and Tom raised his eyebrows. “Do you know it?” Philip asked.

For some reason Tom looked awkward. “We must have passed near it on the way from Salisbury,” he said.

“Oh, yes, you would have, but it’s a long way off the main road, so you wouldn’t have seen it, unless you knew where it was and went to find it.”

“Ah, I see,” said Tom, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Philip was struck by a thought. “Tell me something-did you come across a woman on the road? Probably very young, alone, and, ah, with child?”

“No,” said Tom. His tone was casual but Philip had the feeling he was intensely interested. “Why do you ask?”

Philip smiled. “I’ll tell you. Early yesterday a baby was found in the forest and brought to my monastery. It’s a boy, and I don’t think he was even as much as a day old. He must have been born that night. So the mother must have been in the area at the same time as you.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Tom repeated. “What did you do with the baby?”

“Fed him goat’s milk. He seems to be thriving on it.”

They were both looking at Philip intently. It was, he thought, a story to touch anyone’s heart. After a moment Tom said: “And you’re searching for the mother?”

“Oh, no. My question was casual. If I came across her, of course, I would give the baby back to her; but it’s clear she doesn’t want it, and she’ll make sure she can’t be found.”

“Then what will happen to the boy?”

“We’ll raise him at the monastery. He’ll be a child of God. That’s how I myself was brought up, and my brother too. Our parents were taken from us when we were young, and after that the abbot was our father, and the monks were our family. We were fed, we were warm, and we learned our letters.”

The woman said: “And you both became monks.” She said it with a touch of irony, as if it proved that the monastery’s charity was ultimately self-interested.

Philip was glad to be able to contradict her. “No, my brother left the order.”

The children came back. They had not found any broad leaves-it was not easy in winter-so they would eat without platters. Philip gave them all bread and cheese. They tore into the food like starving animals. “We make this cheese at my monastery,” he said. “Most people like it when it’s new, like this, but it’s even better if you leave it to ripen.” They were too hungry to care. They finished the bread and cheese in no time. Philip had three pears. He fished them out of his bag and gave them to Tom. Tom gave one to each of the children.

Philip got to his feet. “I’ll pray that you find work.”

Tom said: “If you think of it, Father, mention me to the bishop. You know our need, and you’ve found us honest.”

“I will.”

Tom held the horse while Philip mounted. “You’re a good man, father,” he said, and Philip saw to his surprise that there were tears in Tom’s eyes.

“God be with you,” Philip said.

Tom held the horse’s head a moment longer. “The baby you told us about-the foundling.” He spoke softly, as if he did not want the children to hear. “Did you… have you named him yet?”

“Yes. We call him Jonathan, which means a gift from God.”

“Jonathan. I like that.” Tom released the horse.

Philip looked at him curiously for a moment, then kicked his horse and trotted away.

The bishop of Kingsbridge did not live at Kingsbridge. His palace stood on a south-facing hillside in a lush valley a full day’s journey from the cold stone cathedral and its mournful monks. He preferred it this way, for too much churchgoing would get in the way of his other duties of collecting rents, dispensing justice and maneuvering at the royal court. It suited the monks, too, for the farther away the bishop was, the less he interfered with them.

It was cold enough for snow on the afternoon that Philip arrived there. A bitter wind whipped across the bishop’s valley, and low gray clouds frowned on his hillside manor house. It was not a castle, but it was nonetheless well defended. The woodland had been cleared for a hundred yards all around. The house was enclosed by a stout wooden fence the height of a man, with a rainwater ditch outside it. The guard at the gate had a slovenly manner but his sword was heavy.

The palace was a fine stone house built in the shape of the letter E. The ground floor was an undercroft, its stout walls pierced by several heavy doors but no windows. One door was open, and through it Philip could see barrels and sacks in the gloom. The other doors were closed and chained. Philip wondered what was behind them: when the bishop had prisoners, that was where they would languish.

The short stroke of the E was an exterior staircase leading to the living quarters above the undercroft. The main room, the upright stroke of the E, would be the hall. The two rooms forming the head and foot of the E would be a chapel and a bedroom, Philip guessed. There were small shuttered windows like beady eyes looking suspiciously out at the world.

Within the compound were a kitchen and a bakehouse of stone as well as wooden stables and a barn. All the buildings were in good repair-which was unfortunate for Tom Builder, Philip thought.