The Pillars of the Earth (116 page)

The procession moved up the middle of the church. Philip decided to do nothing and see what happened. A buzz of excitement went around as people recognized Jack and Aliena. Then there was a new sound, rather like a murmur of awe, and someone said: “She weeps!”

Others repeated it like a litany: “She weeps! She weeps!” Philip peered at the statue. Sure enough, there was water coming from the eyes. He suddenly remembered the archbishop’s mysterious letter about the miraculous Weeping Madonna. So this was it. As to whether the weeping was a miracle, Philip would suspend judgment. He could see that the eyes appeared to be made of stone, or perhaps some kind of crystal, whereas the rest of the statue was wooden: that might have something to do with it.

The priests turned around and put the board down on the floor so that the Madonna was facing the congregation. Then Jack began to speak.

“The Weeping Madonna came to me in a far, far country,” he began. Philip resented his taking over the service but he decided not to act precipitately: he would let Jack have his say. Anyway, he was intrigued. “A baptized Saracen gave her to me,” Jack went on. The congregation murmured in surprise: Saracens were usually the barbaric black-faced enemy in such stories, and few people knew that some of them were actually Christians. “At first I wondered why she had been given to me. Nevertheless, I carried her for many miles.” Jack had the congregation spellbound. He’s a better preacher of sermons than I am, Philip thought ruefully; I can feel the tension building already. “At last I began to realize that she wanted to go home. But where was her home? Finally it came to me: she wanted to go to Kingsbridge.”

The congregation broke into a hubbub of amazement. Philip was skeptical. There was a difference between the way God worked and the way Jack worked, and this had the hallmark of Jack. But Philip remained silent.

“But then I thought: What am I taking her to? What shrine will she have at Kingsbridge? In what church will she find her rest?” He looked around at the plain whitewashed interior of the parish church, as if to say: This obviously will not do. “And it was as if she spoke aloud, and said to me: ‘You, Jack Jackson, shall make me a shrine, and build me a church.’ ”

Philip began to see what Jack was up to. The Madonna was to be the spark that reignited the people’s enthusiasm for building a new cathedral. It would do what Philip’s sermon about Job had failed to do. But still Philip had to ask himself: Is this God’s will, or just Jack’s?

“So I asked her: ‘With what? I have no money.’ And she said: ‘I will provide the money.’ Well, we set off, with the blessing of Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury.” Jack glanced up at Philip as he named the archbishop. He’s telling me something, Philip thought: he’s saying that he’s got powerful backing for this.

Jack swung his gaze back to the congregation. “And along the road, from Paris, across Normandy, over the sea, and all the way to Kingsbridge, devout Christians have given money for the building of the shrine of the Weeping Madonna.” With that, Jack beckoned to someone outside.

A moment later two beturbaned Saracens marched solemnly into the church, carrying on their shoulders an iron-bound chest.

The villagers cowered back from them in fear. Even Philip was astonished. He knew, in theory, that Saracens had brown skin, but he had never seen one, and the reality was amazing. Their swirling, brightly colored robes were equally striking. They strode through the awestruck congregation and knelt before the Madonna, placing the chest reverently on the floor.

There was a breathless silence as Jack unlocked the chest with a huge key and lifted the lid. People craned their necks to look. Suddenly Jack tipped the chest over.

There was a noise like a waterfall, and a stream of silver pennies poured out of the chest, hundreds of them, thousands. People crowded around to stare: none of them had ever seen so much money.

Jack raised his voice to be heard over their exclamations. “I have brought her home, and now I give her to the building of the new cathedral.” Then he turned, looked Philip in the eye, and inclined his head in a little bow, as if to say: Over to you.

Philip hated to be manipulated like this but at the same time he was bound to acknowledge that the way it had been done was masterly. However, that did not mean he was going to give in to it. The people might acclaim the Weeping Madonna but only Philip could decide whether she would be allowed to rest in Kingsbridge Cathedral alongside the bones of Saint Adolphus. And he was not yet convinced.

Some of the villagers began questioning the Saracens. Philip stepped down from his pulpit and went closer to listen. “I come from a far, far country,” one of them was saying. Philip was surprised to hear that he spoke English just like a Dorset fisherman, but most of the villagers did not even know that Saracens had a language of their own.

“What is your country called?” someone asked.

“My country is called Africa,” the Saracen replied. There was more than one country in Africa, of course, as Philip knew—although most of the villagers did not—and Philip wondered which one this Saracen came from. How exciting it would be if it were a place mentioned in the Bible, such as Egypt or Ethiopia.

A little girl reached out a tentative finger and touched his dark-brown hand. The Saracen smiled at her. Apart from his color, Philip thought, he looked no different from anyone else. Encouraged, the girl said: “What’s it like in Africa?”

“There are great deserts, and fig trees.”

“What’s a fig?”

“It’s ... it’s a fruit, that looks like a strawberry and tastes like a pear.”

Philip was suddenly struck by a horrible suspicion. He said: “Tell me, Saracen, what city were you born in?”

“Damascus,” the man said.

Philip’s suspicion was confirmed. He was angered. He touched Jack’s arm and drew him aside. In a quietly furious voice he said: “What are you playing at?”

“What do you mean?” Jack said, trying to play innocent.

“Those two aren’t Saracens. They’re fishermen from Wareham with brown dye on their faces and hands.”

Jack did not seem bothered about having his deception discovered. He grinned and said: “How did you guess?”

“I don’t think that man has ever seen a fig, and Damascus is not in Africa. What is the meaning of this dishonesty?”

“It’s a harmless deception,” Jack said, and flashed his engaging smile.

“There is no such thing as a harmless deception,” Philip said coldly.

“All right.” Jack saw that Philip was angry. He became serious. “It serves the same purpose as an illuminated drawing on a page of the Bible. It’s not the truth, it’s an illustration. My brown-dyed Dorsetshire men dramatize the true fact that the Weeping Madonna comes from a Saracen land.”

The two priests and Aliena had detached themselves from the crowd around the Madonna and joined Philip and Jack. Philip ignored them and said to Jack: “You aren’t frightened of a drawing of a snake. An illustration isn’t a lie. Your Saracens aren’t illustrations, they’re impostors.”

“We collected much more money after we got the Saracens,” Jack said.

Philip looked at the pennies heaped on the floor. “The townspeople probably think that’s enough to build a whole cathedral,” he said. “It looks to me like about a hundred pounds. You know that won’t even pay for a year’s work.”

“The money is like the Saracens,” Jack said. “It’s symbolic. You know you’ve got the money to start building.”

That was true. There was nothing stopping Philip from building. The Madonna was just the sort of thing needed to bring Kingsbridge back to life. It would attract people to the town—pilgrims and scholars as well as the idly curious. It would put new heart into the townspeople. It would be seen as a good omen. Philip had been waiting for a sign from God, and he wanted very badly to believe that this was it. But this did not have the feel of a sign from God. It had the feel of a stunt by Jack.

The younger of the two priests said: “I’m Reynold and this is Edward—we work for the archbishop of Canterbury. He sent us to accompany the Weeping Madonna.”

Philip said: “If you have the archbishop’s blessing, why did you need a couple of fairground Saracens to legitimize the Madonna?”

Edward looked a little shamefaced. Reynold
said: “It was Jack’s idea, but I confess I saw no harm in it. Surely you’re not dubious about the Madonna, Philip?”

“You can call me Father,” Philip snapped. “Working for the archbishop doesn’t give you the right to condescend to your superiors. The answer to your question is yes. I am dubious about the Madonna. I am not going to install this statue in the precincts of Kingsbridge Cathedral until I’m convinced that it is a holy artifact.”

“A wooden statue weeps,” Reynold said. “How much of a miracle do you want?”

“The weeping is unexplained. That doesn’t make it a miracle. The changing of liquid water into solid ice is also inexplicable, but it isn’t miraculous.”

“The archbishop would be most disappointed if you refused the Madonna. He had a battle to prevent Abbot Suger from commandeering her for Saint-Denis.”

Philip knew he was being threatened. Young Reynold will have to work a lot harder than this to intimidate me, he thought. He said smoothly: “I’m quite sure the archbishop would not want me to accept the Madonna without making some routine inquiries about her legitimacy.”

There was a movement at their feet. Philip looked down and saw the cripple he had noticed earlier. The unfortunate man was dragging himself across the floor, his paralyzed legs trailing behind him, trying to get close to the statue. Whichever way he turned he was blocked by the crowd. Automatically, Philip stood aside to let him through. The Saracens were preventing people from actually touching the statue, but the cripple escaped their notice. Philip saw the man’s hand reach out. Philip would normally have prevented someone from touching a holy relic, but he had not yet accepted that this statue was holy, so he did nothing. The cripple touched the hem of the wooden dress. Suddenly he let out a shout of triumph. “I feel it!” he yelled. “I feel it!”

Everyone looked at him.

“I feel the strength coming back!” he shouted.

Philip stared at the man incredulously, knowing what would happen next. The man bent one leg, then the other. There was a collective gasp from the onlookers. He reached out a hand and someone took it. With an effort, the man pulled himself upright.

The crowd made a noise like a groan of passion.

Someone called out: “Try to walk!”

Still holding the hand of his helper, the man took one tentative step, then another. The people watched in dead silence. On his third step he stumbled, and they sighed. But the man regained his balance and walked on.

They cheered.

He went down the nave with the people following him. After a few more steps he broke into a run. The cheering rose to a crescendo as he went out through the church door into the sunshine, followed by most of the congregation.

Philip looked at the two priests. Reynold was awestruck, and Edward had tears pouring down his face. Obviously they were not in on it. Philip turned to Jack and said furiously: “How dare you pull a trick like that?”

“Trick?” said Jack. “What trick?”

“That man had never been seen in this district until a few days ago. In another day or two he’ll disappear, never to be seen again, with his pockets full of your money. I know how these things are done, Jack. You’re not the first person to fake a miracle, regrettably. There was never anything wrong with his legs, was there? He’s another Wareham fisherman.”

The accusation was confirmed by Jack’s guilty look.

Aliena said: “Jack, I told you you shouldn’t try that.”

The two priests were thunderstruck. They had been completely taken in. Reynold was furious. He rounded on Jack. “You had no right!” he spluttered.

Philip felt sad as well as angry. In his heart he had hoped the Madonna would prove legitimate, for he could see just how he would use her to revitalize the priory and the town. But it was not to be. He looked around the little parish church. Only a handful of worshipers remained, still staring at the statue. He said to Jack: “You’ve gone too far this time.”

“The tears are real—there’s no trick involved there,” Jack said. “But the cripple was a mistake, I admit.”

“It was worse than a mistake,” Philip said angrily. “When people learn the truth it will shake their faith in
all
miracles.”

“Why do they need to learn the truth?”

“Because I’ll have to explain to them why the Madonna is not going to be installed in the cathedral. There’s no question of my accepting the statue now, of course.”

Reynold said: “I think that’s a little hasty—”

“When I want your opinion, young man, I’ll ask for it,” Philip snapped.

Reynold shut up but Jack persisted. “Are you sure you’ve got the right to deprive your people of the Madonna? Look at them.” He indicated the handful of worshipers who had remained behind. Among them was Meg Widow. She was kneeling in front of the statue with tears streaming down her face. Jack did not know, Philip realized, that Meg had lost her entire family in the collapse of Alfred’s roof. Her emotion touched Philip’s heart, and he wondered if Jack might be right after all. Why take this away from people? Because it’s dishonest, he reminded himself sternly. They believed in the statue because they saw a faked miracle. He hardened his heart.

Jack knelt down beside Meg and spoke to her. “Why are you weeping?”

“She’s dumb,” Philip told him.

Then Meg said: “The Madonna has suffered as I have. She understands.”

Philip was thunderstruck.

Jack said: “You see? The statue eases her suffering—What are you staring at?”

“She’s dumb,” Philip said again. “She hasn’t uttered a word for more than a year.”

“That’s right!” Aliena said. “Meg was struck dumb after her husband and boys died when the roof fell.”

“This woman?” Jack said. “But she just ...”

Reynold looked bewildered. “You mean this is a miracle?” he said. “A
real
one?”

Philip looked at Jack’s face. Jack was more shocked than anyone. There was no trickery here.