World Without End

9

Godwyn was completely fascinated by Timothy's Book. It was a history of Kingsbridge Priory and, like most such histories, it began with the creation by God of Heaven and Earth. But mostly it recounted the era of Prior Philip, two centuries ago, when the cathedral was built - a time now regarded by the monks as a golden age. The author, Brother Timothy, claimed that the legendary Philip had been a stern disciplinarian as well as a man of compassion. Godwyn was not sure how you could be both.

On the Wednesday of Fleece Fair week, in the study hour before the service of Sext, Godwyn sat on a high stool in the monastery library, the book open on a lectern before him. This was his favorite place in the priory: a spacious room, well lit by high windows, with almost a hundred books in a locked cupboard. It was normally hushed, but today he could hear, from the far side of the cathedral, the muffled roar of the fair - a thousand people buying and selling, haggling and quarreling, calling their wares and shouting encouragement at cockfighting and bear-baiting.

At the back of the book, later authors had tracked the descendants of the cathedral builders down to the present day. Godwyn was pleased - and frankly surprised - to find confirmation of his mother's theory that she was descended from Tom Builder through Tom's daughter Martha. He wondered what family traits might have come down from Tom. A mason needed to be a shrewd businessman, he supposed, and Godwyn's grandfather and his uncle Edmund had that quality. His cousin Caris also showed signs of the same flair. Perhaps Tom had also had the green eyes flecked with yellow that they all shared.

Godwyn also read about Tom Builder's stepson, Jack, the architect of Kingsbridge Cathedral, who had married the Lady Aliena and fathered a dynasty of earls of Shiring. He was the ancestor of Caris's sweetheart, Merthin Fitzgerald. That made sense: young Merthin was already showing unparalleled ability as a carpenter. Timothy's Book even mentioned Jack's red hair, which had been inherited by Sir Gerald and Merthin, though not Ralph.

What interested him most was the book's chapter on women. It seemed there had been no nuns at Kingsbridge in Prior Philip's day. Women had been strictly forbidden to enter the monastery buildings. The author, quoting Philip, said that if possible a monk should never look at a female, for his own peace of mind. Philip disapproved of combined monastery-nunneries, saying the advantages of shared facilities were outweighed by the opportunities for the devil to introduce temptation. Where there was a double house, the separation of monks and nuns should be as rigid as possible, he added.

Godwyn felt the thrill of finding authoritative support for a preexisting conviction. At Oxford he had enjoyed the all-male environment of Kingsbridge College. The university teachers were men, as were the students, without exception. He had hardly spoken to a female for seven years and, if he kept his eyes on the ground as he walked through the city, he could even avoid looking at them. On his return to the priory, he had found it disturbing to see nuns so frequently. Although they had their own cloisters, refectory, kitchen, and other buildings, he met them constantly in the church, the hospital, and other communal areas. At this moment there was a pretty young nun called Mair just a few feet away, consulting an illustrated book on medicinal herbs. It was even worse to encounter girls from the town, with their close-fitting clothes and alluring hairstyles, casually walking through the priory grounds on everyday errands, bringing supplies to the kitchen or visiting the hospital.

Clearly, he thought, the priory had fallen from Philip's high standards - another example of the slackness that had crept in under the rule of Anthony, Godwyn's uncle. But perhaps there was something he could do about this.

The bell rang for Sext, and he closed the book. Sister Mair did the same, and smiled at him, her red lips forming a sweet curve as she did so. He looked away and hurried out of the room.

The weather was improving, the sun shining fitfully between showers of rain. In the church, the stained-glass windows brightened and faded as patchy clouds blew across the sky. Godwyn's mind was equally restless, distracted from his prayers by thoughts of how he could best use Timothy's Book to inspire a revival in the priory. He decided he would raise the subject at chapter, the daily meeting of all the monks.

The builders were getting on quickly with the repairs to the chancel after last Sunday's collapse, he noted. The rubble had been cleared away and the area had been roped off. There was a growing stack of thin, lightweight stones in the transept. The men did not stop work when the monks began to sing - there were so many services during the course of a normal day that the repairs would have been severely delayed. Merthin Fitzgerald, who had temporarily abandoned his work on the new door, was in the south aisle, constructing an elaborate spiderweb of ropes, branches, and hurdles on which the masons would stand as they rebuilt the vaulted ceiling. Thomas Langley, whose job it was to supervise the builders, was standing in the south transept with Elfric, pointing with his one arm at the collapsed vault, obviously discussing Merthin's work.

Thomas was effective as matricularius: he was decisive, and he never let things slip. Any morning the builders failed to show up - a frequent irritation - Thomas would go and find them and demand to know why. If he had a fault, it was that he was too independent: he rarely reported progress or asked Godwyn's opinion, but got on with the work as if he were his own master rather than Godwyn's subordinate. Godwyn had an annoying suspicion that Thomas doubted his ability. Godwyn was younger, but only slightly: he was thirty-one, Thomas thirty-four. Perhaps Thomas thought that Godwyn had been promoted by Anthony under pressure from Petranilla. However, he showed no other sign of resentment. He just did things his own way.

As Godwyn watched, murmuring the responses of the service automatically, Thomas's conversation with Elfric was interrupted. Lord William of Caster came striding into the church. He was a tall, black-bearded figure very like his father, and equally harsh, though people said he was sometimes softened by his wife, Philippa. He approached Thomas and waved Elfric away. Thomas turned to William, and something in his stance reminded Godwyn that Thomas had once been a knight, and had first arrived at the priory bleeding from the sword wound that had eventually necessitated the amputation of his left arm at the elbow.

Godwyn wished he could hear what Lord William was saying. William was leaning forward, speaking aggressively, pointing a finger. Thomas, unafraid, answered with equal vigor. Godwyn suddenly remembered Thomas having just such an intense, combative conversation ten years ago, on the day he arrived here. On that occasion, he had been arguing with William's younger brother, Richard - then a priest, now the bishop of Kingsbridge. Perhaps it was fanciful, but Godwyn imagined they were quarreling about the same thing today. What could it be? Could there really be an issue between a monk and a noble family that was still a cause of anger after ten years?

Lord William stamped off, evidently unsatisfied, and Thomas turned back to Elfric.

The argument ten years ago had resulted in Thomas's joining the priory. Godwyn recalled that Richard had promised a donation to secure Thomas's admittance. Godwyn had never heard any more about that donation. He wondered if it had ever been paid.

In all that time, no one at the priory seemed to have learned much about Thomas's former life. That was curious: monks gossiped constantly. Living closely together in a small group - there were twenty-six at present - they tended to know almost everything about one another. What lord had Thomas served? Where had he lived? Most knights ruled over a few villages, receiving rents that enabled them to pay for horses, armor, and weapons. Had Thomas had a wife and children? If so, what had become of them? No one knew.

Apart from the mystery of his background, Thomas was a good monk, devout and hardworking. It seemed as if this existence suited him better than his life as a knight. Despite his former career of violence, there was something of the woman about him, as there was about many monks. He was very close to Brother Matthias, a sweet-natured man a few years younger than he. But, if they were committing sins of impurity, they were very discreet about it, for no accusation had ever been made.

Toward the end of the service Godwyn glanced into the deep gloom of the nave and saw his mother, Petranilla, standing as still as one of the pillars, a shaft of sunlight illuminating her proud gray head. She was alone. He wondered how long she had been there, watching. Laypeople were not encouraged to attend the weekday services, and Godwyn guessed she was here to see him. He felt the familiar mixture of pleasure and apprehension. She would do anything for him, he knew. She had sold her house and become her brother Edmund's housekeeper just so that he could study at Oxford; and when he thought of the sacrifice that entailed for his proud mother, he wanted to weep with gratitude. Yet her presence always made him anxious, as if he were going to be reprimanded for some transgression.

As the monks and nuns filed out, Godwyn peeled off from the procession and approached her. 'Good morning, Mama.'

She kissed his forehead. 'You look thin,' she said with maternal anxiety. 'Aren't you getting enough to eat?'

'Salt fish and porridge, but there's plenty of it,' he said.

'What are you so excited about?' She could always read his mood.

He told her about Timothy's Book. 'I could read the passage during chapter,' he said.

'Would others support you?'

'Theodoric and the younger monks would. A lot of them find it disturbing to see women all the time. After all, they have all chosen to live in an all-male community.'

She nodded approvingly. 'This casts you in the role of leader. Excellent.'

'Besides, they like me because of the hot stones.'

'Hot stones?'

'I introduced a new rule in the winter. On frosty nights, when we go into church for Matins, each monk is given a hot stone wrapped in a rag. It prevents them getting chilblains in their feet.'

'Very clever. All the same, check your support before you make your move.'

'Of course. But it fits in with what the masters teach at Oxford.'

'Which is?'

'Mankind is fallible, so we should not rely on our own reasoning. We cannot hope to understand the world - all we can do is stand amazed at God's creation. True knowledge comes only from revelation. We should not question received wisdom.'

Mother looked skeptical, as laypeople often did when educated men tried to explain high philosophy. 'And this is what bishops and cardinals believe?'

'Yes. The University of Paris has actually banned the works of Aristotle and Aquinas because they are based on rationality rather than faith.'

'Will this way of thinking help you find favor with your superiors?'

That was all she really cared about. She wanted her son to be prior, bishop, archbishop, even cardinal. He wanted the same, but he hoped he was not as cynical as she. 'I'm sure of it,' he replied.

'Good. But that's not why I came to see you. Your uncle Edmund has suffered a blow. The Italians are threatening to take their custom to Shiring.'

Godwyn was shocked. 'That will ruin his business.' But he was not sure why she had made a special visit to tell him.

'Edmund thinks he can win them back if we improve the Fleece Fair, and in particular if we tear down the old bridge and build a new, wider one.'

'Let me guess: Uncle Anthony refused.'

'But Edmund has not given up.'

'You want me to talk to Anthony?'

She shook her head. 'You can't persuade him. But, if the subject comes up in chapter, you should support the proposal.'

'And go against Uncle Anthony?'

'Whenever a sensible proposal is opposed by the old guard, you must be identified as leader of the reformers.'

Godwyn smiled admiringly. 'Mama, how do you know so much about politics?'

'I'll tell you.' She looked away, her eyes focusing on the great rose window at the east end, her mind in the past. 'When my father started to trade with the Italians, he was treated as an upstart by the leading citizens of Kingsbridge. They turned up their noses at him and his family, and did everything they could to prevent him implementing his new ideas. My mother was dead by then, and I was an adolescent, so I became his confidante, and he told me everything.' Her face, normally fixed in an expression of frozen calm, twisted now into a mask of bitterness and resentment: her eyes narrowed, her lip curled, and her cheek flushed with remembered shame. 'He decided he would never be free of them until he took control of the parish guild. So that's what he set out to do, and I helped him.' She drew a deep breath, as if once again gathering her strength for a long war. 'We divided the ruling group, set one faction against the other, made alliances then shifted them, ruthlessly undermined our opponents, and used our supporters until it suited us to discard them. It took us ten years, and at the end of it, he was alderman of the guild and the richest man in town.'

She had told him the story of his grandfather before, but never in quite such bluntly honest terms. 'So you were his aide, as Caris is to Edmund?'

She gave a short, harsh laugh. 'Yes. Except that, by the time Edmund took over, we were the leading citizens. My father and I climbed the mountain, and Edmund just had to walk down the other side.'

They were interrupted by Philemon. He came into the church from the cloisters, a tall, scrawny-necked man of twenty-two, walking like a bird, with short, pigeon-toed steps. He carried a broom: he was employed by the priory as a cleaner. He seemed excited. 'I've been looking for you, Brother Godwyn.'

Petranilla ignored his obvious hurry. 'Hello, Philemon, haven't they made you a monk yet?'

'I can't raise the necessary donation, Mistress Petranilla. I come from a humble family.'

'But it's not unknown for the priory to waive the donation in the case of an applicant who shows devotion. And you've been a servant of the priory, paid and unpaid, for years.'

'Brother Godwyn has proposed me, but some of the older monks argued against me.'

Godwyn put in: 'Blind Carlus hates Philemon - I don't know why.'

Petranilla said: 'I'll speak to my brother Anthony. He should overrule Carlus. You're a good friend to my son - I'd like to see you get on.'

'Thank you, Mistress.'

'Well, you're obviously bursting to tell Godwyn something that can't be said in front of me, so I'll take my leave.' She kissed Godwyn. 'Remember what I said.'

'I will, Mama.'

Godwyn felt relieved, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead and gone on to drench some other town.

As soon as Petranilla was out of earshot, Philemon said: 'It's Bishop Richard!'

Godwyn raised his eyebrows. Philemon had a way of learning people's secrets. 'What have you found out?'

'He's in the hospital, right now, in one of the private rooms upstairs - with his cousin Margery!'

Margery was a pretty girl of sixteen. Her parents - a younger brother of Earl Roland and a sister of the countess of Marr - were both dead, and she was Roland's ward. He had arranged for her to marry a son of the earl of Monmouth, in a political alliance that would greatly strengthen Roland's position as the leading nobleman of southwest England. 'What are they doing?' Godwyn said, though he could guess.

Philemon lowered his voice. 'Kissing!'

'How do you know?'

'I'll show you.'

Philemon led the way out of the church via the south transept, through the monks' cloisters, and up a flight of steps to the dormitory. It was a plain room with two rows of simple wooden bedsteads, each having a straw mattress. It shared a party wall with the hospital. Philemon went to a large cupboard that contained blankets. With an effort, he pulled it forward. In the wall behind it there was a loose stone. Momentarily Godwyn wondered how Philemon had come across this peephole, and guessed he might have hidden something in the gap. Philemon lifted the stone out, careful to make no noise, and whispered: 'Look, quick!'

Godwyn hesitated. In a low voice he said: 'How many other guests have you observed from here?'

'All of them,' Philemon replied, as if that should have been obvious.

Godwyn thought he knew what he was going to see, and he did not relish it. Peeping at a misbehaving bishop might be all right for Philemon, but it seemed shamefully underhand. However, his curiosity urged him on. In the end he asked himself what his mother would advise, and knew immediately that she would tell him to look.

The hole in the wall was a little below eye level. He stooped and peeked through.

He was looking into one of the two private guest rooms upstairs at the hospital. In one corner stood a prie-dieu facing a wall painting of the crucifixion. There were two comfortable chairs and a couple of stools. When there was a crowd of important guests, the men took one room and the women the other; and this was clearly the women's room, for on a small table were several distinctly feminine articles: combs, ribbons, and mysterious small jars and vials.

On the floor were two straw mattresses. Richard and Margery lay on one of them. They were doing more than kissing.

Bishop Richard was an attractive man with wavy mid-brown hair and regular features. Margery was not much more than half his age, a slender girl with white skin and dark eyebrows. They lay side by side. Richard was kissing her face and speaking into her ear. A smile of pleasure played upon his fleshy lips. Margery's dress was pushed up around her waist. She had beautiful long white legs. His hand was between her thighs, moving with a practised, regular motion: although Godwyn had no experience of women, somehow he knew what Richard was doing. Margery looked at Richard adoringly, her mouth half-open, panting with excitement, her face flushed with passion. Perhaps it was mere prejudice, but Godwyn sensed intuitively that Richard saw Margery as a plaything of the moment, whereas Margery believed Richard was the love of her life.

Godwyn stared at them for a horrified moment. Richard moved his hand, and suddenly Godwyn was looking at the triangle of coarse hair between Margery's thighs, dark against her white skin, like her eyebrows. Quickly, he looked away.

'Let me see,' said Philemon.

Godwyn moved away from the wall. This was shocking, but what should he do about it - if anything?

Philemon looked through the hole and gave a gasp of excitement. 'I can see her cunt!' he whispered. 'He's rubbing it!'

'Come away from there,' Godwyn said. 'We've seen enough - too much.'

Philemon hesitated, fascinated; then, reluctantly, he moved away and replaced the loose stone. 'We must expose the bishop's fornication at once!' he said.

'Shut your mouth and let me think,' Godwyn said. If he did as Philemon suggested, he would make enemies of Richard and his powerful family - and to no purpose. But surely there was a way something like this could be turned to advantage? Godwyn tried to think about it as his mother would. If there was nothing to be gained by revealing Richard's sin, was it possible to make a virtue of concealing it? Perhaps Richard would be grateful to Godwyn for keeping it secret.

That was more promising. But for it to work, Richard had to know that Godwyn was protecting him.

'Come with me,' Godwyn said to Philemon.

Philemon moved the cupboard back into place. Godwyn wondered whether the sound of the wood scraping on the floor was audible in the next room. He doubted it - and, anyway, Richard and Margery were surely too absorbed in what they were doing to notice noises from beyond the wall.

Godwyn led the way down the stairs and through the cloisters. There were two staircases to the private rooms: one led up from the hospital's ground floor, and the other was outside the building, permitting important guests to come and go without passing through the common people's quarters. Godwyn hurried up the outside stairs.

He paused outside the room where Richard and Margery were and spoke to Philemon quietly. 'Follow me in,' he said. 'Do nothing. Say nothing. Leave when I leave.'

Philemon put down his broom.

'No,' Godwyn said. 'Carry it.'

'All right.'

Godwyn threw open the door and strode in. 'I want this chamber immaculately clean,' he said loudly. 'Sweep every corner - oh! I beg your pardon! I thought the room was empty!'

In the time it had taken Godwyn and Philemon to rush from the dormitory to the hospital, the lovers had progressed. Richard now lay on top of Margery, his long clerical robe lifted in front. Her shapely white legs stuck straight up in the air either side of the bishop's hips. There was no mistaking what they were doing.

Richard ceased his thrusting motion and looked at Godwyn, his expression a mixture of angry frustration and frightened guilt. Margery gave a cry of shock and she, too, stared at Godwyn with fear in her eyes.

Godwyn drew the moment out. 'Bishop Richard!' he said, feigning bewilderment. He wanted Richard to be in no doubt that he had been recognized. 'But how...and Margery?' He pretended to understand suddenly. 'Forgive me!' He spun on his heel. He shouted at Philemon: 'Get out! Now!' Philemon scuttled back through the door, still clutching his broom.

Godwyn followed, but he turned at the door, to make sure Richard got a good look at him. The two lovers remained frozen in position, locked in sexual congress, but their faces had changed. Margery's hand had flown to her mouth in the eternal gesture of surprised guilt. Richard's expression had become frantically calculating. He wanted to speak but he could not think what to say. Godwyn decided to put them out of their misery. He had done everything he needed to do.

He stepped out - then, before he could close the door, a shock made him stop. A woman was coming up the stairs. He suffered a moment of panic. It was Philippa, the wife of the earl's other son.

He realized instantly that Richard's guilty secret would lose its value if someone else knew it. He had to warn Richard. 'Lady Philippa!' he said in a loud voice. 'Welcome to Kingsbridge Priory!'

Urgent scuffling noises came from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richard leap to his feet.

Luckily, Philippa did not march straight past, but stopped and spoke to Godwyn. 'Perhaps you can help me.' From where she stood, she could not quite see into the room, he thought. 'I've lost a bracelet. It's not precious, just carved wood, but I'm fond of it.'

'What a shame,' Godwyn said sympathetically. 'I'll ask all the monks and nuns to look out for it.'

Philemon said: 'I haven't seen it.'

Godwyn said to Philippa: 'Perhaps it slipped from your wrist.'

She frowned. 'The odd thing is, I haven't actually worn it since I got here. I took it off when I arrived, and put it on the table, and now I can't find it.'

'Perhaps it rolled into a dark corner. Philemon here will look for it. He cleans the guest rooms.'

Philippa looked at Philemon. 'Yes, I saw you as I was leaving, an hour or so ago. You didn't spot it when you swept the room?'

'I didn't sweep. Miss Margery came in just as I was getting started.'

Godwyn said: 'Philemon has just come back to clean your room, but Miss Margery is...,' he looked into the room, '...at prayer,' he finished. Margery was kneeling on the prie-dieu, eyes closed - begging forgiveness for her sin, Godwyn hoped. Richard stood behind her, head bowed, hands clasped, lips moving in a murmur.

Godwyn stepped aside to let Philippa enter the room. She gave her brother-in-law a suspicious look. 'Hello, Richard,' she said. 'It's not like you to pray on a weekday.'

He put his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and pointed to Margery on the prayer stool.

Philippa said briskly: 'Margery can pray as much as she likes, but this is the women's room, and I want you out.'

Richard concealed his relief and left, closing the door on the two women.

He and Godwyn stood face to face in the hallway. Godwyn could tell that Richard did not know what line to take. He might be inclined to say How dare you burst into a room without knocking? However, he was so badly in the wrong that he probably could not summon up the nerve to bluster. On the other hand, he could hardly beg Godwyn to keep quiet about what he had seen, for that would be to acknowledge himself in Godwyn's power. It was a moment of painful awkwardness.

While Richard hesitated, Godwyn spoke. 'No one shall hear of this from me.'

Richard looked relieved, then glanced at Philemon. 'What about him?'

'Philemon wants to be a monk. He is learning the virtue of obedience.'

'I'm in your debt.'

'A man should confess his own sins, not those of others.'

'All the same, I'm grateful, Brother...'

'Godwyn, the sacrist. I'm the nephew of Prior Anthony.' He wanted Richard to know that he was sufficiently well connected to make serious trouble. But, to take the edge off the threat, he added: 'My mother was betrothed to your father, many years ago, before your father became the earl.'

'I've heard that story.'

Godwyn wanted to add: And your father spurned my mother, just as you're planning to spurn the wretched Margery. But instead he said pleasantly: 'We might have been brothers.'

'Yes.'

The bell rang for dinner. Relieved of their embarrassment, the three men parted company: Richard to Prior Anthony's house, Godwyn to the monks' refectory, and Philemon to the kitchen to help serve.

Godwyn was thoughtful as he walked through the cloisters. He was upset by the animal scene he had witnessed, but he felt he had handled it well. At the end, Richard had seemed to trust him.

In the refectory Godwyn sat next to Theodoric, a bright monk a couple of years younger than he. Theodoric had not studied at Oxford, and in consequence he looked up to Godwyn. Godwyn treated him as an equal, which flattered Theodoric. 'I've just read something that will interest you,' Godwyn said. He summarized what he had read about the revered Prior Philip's attitude to women in general and nuns in particular. 'It's what you've always said,' he finished. In fact, Theodoric had never expressed an opinion on the subject, but he always agreed when Godwyn complained about Prior Anthony's slackness.

'Of course,' Theodoric said. He had blue eyes and fair skin, and now he flushed with excitement. 'How can we have pure thoughts when we are constantly distracted by females?'

'But what can we do about it?'

'We must confront the prior.'

'In chapter, you mean,' Godwyn said, as if it were Theodoric's idea rather than his own. 'Yes, excellent plan. But would others support us?'

'The younger monks would.'

Young men probably agreed with more or less any criticism of their elders, Godwyn thought. But he also knew that many monks shared his own preference for a life in which women were absent or, at least, invisible. 'If you talk to anyone between now and chapter, let me know what they say,' he said. That would encourage Theodoric to go around whipping up support.

The dinner arrived, a stew of salt fish and beans. Before Godwyn could begin to eat, he was prevented by Friar Murdo.

Friars were monks who lived among the people instead of secluding themselves in monasteries. They felt that their self-denial was more rigorous than that of institutional monks, whose vow of poverty was compromised by their splendid buildings and extensive landholdings. Traditionally friars had no property, not even churches - although many had slipped from this ideal after pious admirers gave them land and money. Those who still lived by the original principles scrounged their food and slept on kitchen floors. They preached in marketplaces and outside taverns, and were rewarded with pennies. They did not hesitate to sponge off ordinary monks for food and lodging anytime it suited their convenience. Not surprisingly, their assumption of superiority was resented.

Friar Murdo was a particularly unpleasant example: fat, dirty, greedy, often drunk, and sometimes seen in the company of prostitutes. But he was also a charismatic preacher who could hold a crowd of hundreds with his colorful, theologically dubious sermons.

Now he stood up, uninvited, and began to pray in a loud voice. 'Our Father, bless this food to our foul, corrupt bodies, as full of sin as a dead dog is full of maggots...'

Murdo's prayers were never short. Godwyn put down his spoon with a sigh.