Waleran gave his little smile again. “If you think about it any longer, I shall begin to believe that you mistrust me!”

Philip felt he understood Waleran. Waleran was a man something like himself: young, well-educated, low-born, and intelligent. He was a little too worldly for Philip’s taste, perhaps, but this was pardonable in a priest who was obliged to spend so much of his time with lords and ladies, and did not have the benefit of a monk’s protected life. Waleran was a devout man at heart, Philip thought. He would do the right thing for the Church.

Philip hesitated on the edge of decision. Until now only he and Francis had known the secret. Once he told a third person, anything could happen. He took a deep breath.

“Three days ago, an injured man came to my monastery in the forest,” he began, silently praying forgiveness for lying. “He was an armed man on a fine, fast horse, and he had taken a fall a mile or two away. He must have been riding hard when he fell, for his arm was broken and his ribs were crushed. We set his arm, but there was nothing we could do about his ribs, and he was coughing blood, a sign of internal damage.” As he spoke, Philip was watching Waleran’s face. So far it showed nothing more than polite interest. “I advised him to confess his sins, for he was in danger of death. He told me a secret.”

He hesitated, not sure how much Waleran might have heard of the political news. “I expect you know that Stephen of Blois has claimed the throne of England with the blessing of the Church.”

Waleran knew more than Philip. “And he was crowned at Westminster three days before Christmas,” he said.

“Already!” Francis had not known that.

“What was the secret?” Waleran said with a touch of impatience.

Philip took the plunge. “Before he died, the horseman told me that his master Bartholomew, earl of Shiring, had conspired with Robert of Gloucester to raise a rebellion against Stephen.” He studied Waleran’s face, holding his breath.

Waleran’s pale cheeks went a shade whiter. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” he said urgently.

“A dying man usually tells the truth to his confessor.”

“Perhaps he was repeating a rumor that was current in the earl’s household.”

Philip had not expected Waleran to be skeptical. He improvised hastily. “Oh, no,” he said. “He was a messenger sent by Earl Bartholomew to muster the earl’s forces in Hampshire.”

Waleran’s intelligent eyes raked Philip’s expression. “Did he have the message in writing?”

“No.”

“Any seal, or token of the earl’s authority?”

“Nothing.” Philip began to perspire slightly. “I gathered he was well known, by the people he was going to see, as an authorized representative of the earl.”

“What was his name?”

“Francis,” Philip said stupidly, and wanted to bite his tongue.

“Just that?”

“He didn’t tell me what else he was called.” Philip had the feeling that his story was coming unraveled under Waleran’s interrogation.

“His weapons and his armor may identify him.”

“He had no armor,” Philip said desperately. “We buried his weapons with him-monks have no use for swords. We could dig them up, but I can tell you that they were plain and undistinguished-I don’t think you would find clues there…” He had to divert Waleran from this line of inquiry. “What do you think can be done?”

Waleran frowned. “It’s hard to know what to do without proof. The conspirators can simply deny the charge, and then the accuser stands condemned.” He did not say especially if the story turns out to be false, but Philip guessed that was what he was thinking. Waleran went on: “Have you told anyone else?”

Philip shook his head.

“Where are you going when you leave here?”

“Kingsbridge. I had to invent a reason for leaving the cell, so I said I would visit the priory; and now I must do so, to make the lie true.”

“Don’t speak of this to anyone there.”

“I shan’t.” Philip had not intended to, but he wondered why Waleran was insisting on the point. Perhaps it was self-interest: if he was going to take the risk of exposing the conspiracy, he wanted to be sure to get the credit. He was ambitious. So much the better, for Philip’s purpose.

“Leave this with me.” Waleran was suddenly brusque again, and the contrast with his previous manner made Philip realize that his amiability could be put on and taken off like a coat. Waleran went on: “You’ll go to Kingsbridge Priory now, and forget about the sheriff, won’t you.”

“Yes.” Philip realized it was going to be all right, at least for a while, and a weight rolled off his back. He was not going to be thrown into a dungeon, interrogated by a torturer, or accused of sedition. He had also handed the responsibility to someone else-someone who appeared quite happy to take it on.

He got up and went to the nearest window. It was mid-afternoon, and there was plenty of daylight left. He had an urge to get away from here and leave the secret behind him. “If I go now I can cover eight or ten miles before nightfall,” he said.

Waleran did not press him to stay. “That will take you to the village of Bassingbourn. You’ll find a bed there. If you set out early in the morning you can be at Kingsbridge by midday.”

“Yes.” Philip turned from the window and looked at Waleran. The archdeacon was frowning into the fire, deep in thought. Philip watched him for a moment. Waleran did not share his thoughts. Philip wished he knew what was going on in that clever head. “I’ll go right away,” he said.

Waleran came out of his reverie and grew charming again. He smiled and stood up. “All right,” he said. He walked with Philip to the door and then followed him down the stairs to the yard.

A stableboy brought Philip’s horse and saddled it. Waleran might have said goodbye then and returned to his fire, but he waited. Philip guessed that he wanted to make sure Philip took the road to Kingsbridge, not the road to Shiring.

Philip mounted, feeling happier than he had when he had arrived. He was about to take his leave when he saw Tom Builder come through the gate with his family in tow. Philip said to Waleran: “This man is a builder I met on the road. He seems like an honest fellow fallen on hard times. If you need any repairs you’ll be glad of him.”

Waleran made no reply. He was staring at the family as they walked across the compound. All his poise and composure had deserted him. His mouth was open and his eyes were staring. He looked like a man suffering a shock.

“What is it?” Philip said anxiously.

“That woman!” Waleran’s voice was just above a whisper.

Philip looked at her. “She’s rather beautiful,” he said, realizing it for the first time. “But we’re taught that it is better for a priest to be chaste. Turn your eyes away, Archdeacon.”

Waleran was not listening. “I thought she was dead,” he muttered. He seemed to remember Philip suddenly. He tore his gaze from the woman and looked up at Philip, collecting his wits. “Give my regards to the prior of Kingsbridge,” he said. Then he slapped Philip’s horse’s rump, and the animal sprang forward and trotted out through the gate; and by the time Philip had shortened his reins and got the horse under control he was too far away to say goodbye.