There was always a reading in chapter - usually from the Rule of St. Benedict, but often from the Bible, and occasionally other religious books. As the monks were taking their places on the raked stone benches around the octagonal chapter house, Godwyn sought out the young monk who was due to read today and told him, quietly but firmly, that he, Godwyn, would be reading instead. Then, when the moment came, he read the crucial page from Timothy's Book.
He felt nervous. He had returned from Oxford a year ago, and he had been quietly talking to people about reforming the priory ever since; but, until this moment, he had not openly confronted Anthony. The prior was weak and lazy, and needed to be shocked out of his lethargy. Furthermore, St. Benedict had written: 'All must be called to chapter, for the Lord often reveals to a younger member what is best.' Godwyn was perfectly entitled to speak out in chapter and call for stricter compliance with monastic rules. All the same, he suddenly felt he was running a risk, and wished he had taken longer to think about his tactics in using Timothy's Book.
But it was too late for regrets. He closed the book and said: 'My question, to myself and my brethren, is this: Have we slipped below the standards of Prior Philip in the matter of separation between monks and females?' He had learned, in student debates, to put his argument in the form of a question whenever he could, giving his opponent as little as possible to argue against.
The first to reply was Blind Carlus, the subprior, Anthony's deputy. 'Some monasteries are located far from any center of population, on an uninhabited island, or deep in the forest, or perched on a lonely mountaintop,' he said. His slow, deliberate speech made Godwyn fidget with impatience. 'In such houses, the brothers seclude themselves from all contact with the secular world,' he went on unhurriedly. 'Kingsbridge has never been like that. We're in the heart of a great city, the home of seven thousand souls. We care for one of the most magnificent cathedrals in Christendom. Many of us are physicians, because St. Benedict said: 'Special care must be taken of the sick, so that in very deed they be looked after as if it were Christ himself.' The luxury of total isolation has not been granted to us. God has given us a different mission.'
Godwyn had expected something like this. Carlus hated furniture to be moved, for then he would stumble over it; and he opposed any other kind of change, out of a parallel anxiety about coping with the unfamiliar.
Theodoric had a quick answer to Carlus. 'All the more reason for us to be strict about the rules,' he said. 'A man who lives next door to a tavern must be extra careful to avoid drunkenness.'
There was a murmur of pleased agreement: the monks enjoyed a smart riposte. Godwyn gave a nod of approval. The fair-skinned Theodoric blushed with gratification.
Emboldened, a novice called Juley said in a loud whisper: 'Women don't bother Carlus, he can't see them.' Several monks laughed, though others shook their heads in disapproval.
Godwyn felt it was going well. He seemed to be winning the argument, so far. Then Prior Anthony said: 'Exactly what are you proposing, Brother Godwyn?' He had not been to Oxford, but he knew enough to press for his opponent's real agenda.
Reluctantly, Godwyn put his cards on the table. 'We might consider reverting to the position as it was in the time of Prior Philip.'
Anthony persisted: 'What do you mean by that, exactly? No nuns?'
'Yes.'
'But where would they go?'
'The nunnery could be removed to another location, and become a remote cell of the priory, like Kingsbridge College, or St.-John-in-the-Forest.'
That shocked them. There was a clamor of comment, which the prior suppressed with difficulty. The voice that emerged from the hubbub was that of Joseph, the senior physician. He was a clever man, but proud, and Godwyn was wary of him. 'How would we run a hospital without nuns?' he said. His bad teeth caused him to slur his sibilants, making him sound drunk, but he spoke with no less authority. 'They administer medicines, change dressings, feed the incapable, comb the hair of senile old men - '
Theodoric said: 'Monks could do all that.'
'Then what about childbirth?' Joseph said. 'We often deal with women who are having difficulty bringing a baby into the world. How could monks help them without nuns to do the actual...handling?'
Several men voiced their agreement, but Godwyn had anticipated this question, and now he said: 'Suppose the nuns removed to the old lazar house?' The leper colony - or lazar house - was on a small island in the river on the south side of the town. In the old days it had been full of sufferers, but leprosy seemed to be dying out, and now there were only two occupants, both elderly.
Brother Cuthbert, who was a wit, muttered: 'I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Mother Cecilia she's being moved to a leper colony.' There was a ripple of laughter.
'Women should be ruled by men,' said Theodoric.
Prior Anthony said: 'And Mother Cecilia is ruled by Bishop Richard. He would have to make a decision such as this.'
'Heaven forbid that he should,' said a new voice. It was Simeon, the treasurer. A thin man with a long face, he spoke against every proposal that involved spending money. 'We could not survive without the nuns,' he said.
Godwyn was taken by surprise. 'Why not?' he said.
'We don't have enough money,' Simeon said promptly. 'When the cathedral needs repair, who do you think pays the builders? Not us - we can't afford it. Mother Cecilia pays. She buys supplies for the hospital, parchment for the scriptorium, and fodder for the stables. Anything used communally by both monks and nuns is paid for by her.'
Godwyn was dismayed. 'How can this be? Why are we dependent on them?'
Simeon shrugged. 'Over the years, many devout women have given the nunnery land and other assets.'
That was not the whole story, Godwyn felt sure. The monks also had extensive resources. They collected rent and other charges from just about every citizen of Kingsbridge, and they held thousands of acres of farmland, too. The way the wealth was husbanded must be a factor. But there was no point going into that now. He had lost the argument. Even Theodoric was silent.
Anthony said complacently: 'Well, that was a most interesting discussion. Thank you, Godwyn, for asking the question. And now let us pray.'
Godwyn was too angry for prayer. He had gained nothing of what he wanted, and he was unsure where he had gone wrong.
As the monks filed out, Theodoric gave him a frightened look and said: 'I didn't know the nuns paid for so much.'
'None of us knew,' Godwyn said. He realized he was glaring at Theodoric, and made amends hastily, adding: 'But you were splendid - you debated better than many an Oxford man.'
It was just the right thing to say, and Theodoric looked happy.
This was the hour for monks to read in the library or walk in the cloisters, meditating, but Godwyn had other plans. Something had been nagging him all through dinner and chapter. He had thrust it to the back of his mind, because more important things had intervened, but now it came back. He thought he knew where Lady Philippa's bracelet might be.
There were few hiding places in a monastery. The monks lived communally: no one but the prior had a room to himself. Even in the latrine they sat side by side over a trough that was continuously flushed by a stream of piped water. They were not permitted to have personal possessions, so no one had his own cupboard or even box.
But today Godwyn had seen a hiding place.
He went upstairs to the dormitory. It was empty. He pulled the blanket cupboard away from the wall and removed the loose stone, but he did not look through the hole. Instead, he put his hand into the gap, exploring. He felt the top, bottom, and sides of the hole. To the right there was a small fissure. Godwyn eased his fingers inside and touched something that was neither stone nor mortar. Scrabbling with his fingertips, he drew the object out.
It was a carved wooden bracelet.
Godwyn held it to the light. It was made of some hard wood, probably oak. The inner surface was smoothly polished, but the outside was carved with an interlocking design of bold squares and diagonals, executed with pleasing precision: Godwyn could see why Lady Philippa was fond of it.
He put it back, restored the loose stone, and returned the cupboard to its usual position.
What did Philemon want with such a thing? He might be able to sell it for a penny or two, though that would be dangerous because it was so recognizable. But he certainly could not wear it.
Godwyn left the dormitory and went down the stairs to the cloisters. He was in no mood for study or meditation. He needed to talk over the day's events. He felt the need to see his mother.
The thought made him apprehensive. She might berate him for his failure in chapter. But she would praise him for his handling of Bishop Richard, he felt sure, and he was eager to tell her the story. He decided to go in search of her.
Strictly speaking, this was not allowed. Monks were not supposed to roam about the streets of the town at will. They needed a reason, and in theory they were supposed to ask the prior's permission before leaving the precincts. But in practice, the obedientiaries - monastic officials - had dozens of excuses. The priory did business constantly with merchants, buying food, cloth, shoes, parchment, candles, garden tools, tack for horses - all the necessities of everyday life. The monks were landlords, owning almost the entire city. And any one of the physicians might be called to see a patient who was unable to walk to the hospital. So it was common to see monks in the streets, and Godwyn, the sacrist, was not likely to be asked to explain what he was doing out of the monastery.
Nevertheless it was wise to be discreet, and he made sure he was not observed as he left the priory. He passed through the busy fair and went quickly along the main street to his uncle Edmund's house.
As he hoped, Edmund and Caris were out doing business, and he found his mother alone but for the servants. 'This is a treat for a mother,' she said. 'To see you twice in one day! And it gives me a chance to feed you up.' She poured him a big tankard of strong ale and told the cook to bring a plate of cold beef. 'What happened in chapter?' she said.
He told her the story. 'I was in too much of a hurry,' he said at the end.
She nodded. 'My father used to say: never call a meeting until the outcome is a foregone conclusion.'
Godwyn smiled. 'I must remember that.'
'All the same, I don't think you've done any harm.'
That was a relief. She was not going to be angry. 'But I lost the argument,' he said.
'You also established your position as leader of the reformist younger group.'
'Even though I made a fool of myself?'
'Better than being a nonentity.'
He was not sure she was right about that but, as usual when he doubted the wisdom of his mother's advice, he did not challenge her, but resolved to think about it later. 'Something very odd happened,' he said, and he told her about Richard and Margery, leaving out the gross physical details.
She was surprised. 'Richard must be mad!' she said. 'The wedding will be called off if the earl of Monmouth finds out that Margery isn't a virgin. Earl Roland will be furious. Richard could be unfrocked.'
'But a lot of bishops have mistresses, don't they?'
'That's different. A priest may have a 'housekeeper' who is his wife in all but name. A bishop may have several. But to take the virginity of a noblewoman shortly before her wedding - even the son of an earl might find it difficult to survive as a clergyman after that.'
'What do you think I should do?'
'Nothing. You've handled it perfectly so far.' He glowed with pride. She added: 'One day this information will be a powerful weapon. Just remember it.'
'There's one more thing. I wondered how Philemon had come across the loose stone, and it occurred to me that he might have used it initially as a hiding place. I was right - and I found a bracelet that Lady Philippa had lost.'
'Interesting,' she said. 'I have a strong feeling that Philemon will be useful to you. He'll do anything, you see. He has no scruples, no morals. My father had an associate who was always willing to do his dirty work - start rumors, spread poisonous gossip, foment strife. Such men can be invaluable.'
'So you don't think I should report the theft.'
'Certainly not. Make him give the bracelet back, if you think it's important - he can just say he found it while sweeping. But don't expose him. You'll reap the benefit, I guarantee.'
'So I should protect him?'
'As you would a mad dog that mauls intruders. He's dangerous, but he's worth it.'