World Without End

15

Godwyn wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge. He longed for it with all his heart. He itched to reform the priory's finances, tightening up the management of its lands and other assets, so that the monks no longer had to go to Mother Cecilia for money. He yearned for the stricter separation of monks from nuns, and both from townspeople, so that they might all breathe the pure air of sanctity. But as well as these irreproachable motives, there was something else. He lusted for the authority and distinction of the title. At night, in his imagination, he was already prior.

'Clean up that mess in the cloister!' he would say to a monk.

'Yes, Father Prior, right away.'

Godwyn loved the sound of Father Prior.

'Good day, Bishop Richard,' he would say, not obsequiously, but with friendly courtesy.

And Bishop Richard would reply, as one distinguished clergyman to another: 'And a good day to you, too, Prior Godwyn.'

'I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Archbishop?' he might say, more deferentially this time, but still as a junior colleague of the great man, rather than as an underling.

'Oh, yes, Godwyn, you've done extraordinarily well here.'

'Your Reverence is very kind.'

And perhaps, one day, strolling in the cloister side by side with a richly dressed potentate: 'Your Majesty does us great honor to visit our humble priory.'

'Thank you, Father Godwyn, but I come to ask your advice.'

He wanted this position - but he was not sure how to get it. He pondered the question all week, as he supervised a hundred burials and planned the big Sunday service that would be both Anthony's funeral and a remembrance for the souls of all the Kingsbridge dead.

Meanwhile, he spoke to no one of his hopes. It was only ten days ago that he had learned the price of being guileless. He had gone to the chapter with Timothy's Book and a strong argument for reform - and the old guard had turned on him with perfect coordination, as if they had rehearsed it, and squashed him like a frog under a cartwheel.

He would not let that happen again.

On Sunday morning, as the monks were filing into the refectory for breakfast, a novice whispered to Godwyn that his mother would like to see him in the north porch of the cathedral. He slipped away discreetly.

He felt apprehensive as he passed quietly through the cloisters and the church. He could guess what had happened. Something had occurred yesterday to trouble Petranilla. She had lain awake half the night worrying about it. This morning she had woken up at dawn with a plan of action - and he was part of it. She would be at her most impatient and domineering. Her plan would probably be good - but even if it was not, she would insist he carry it out.

She stood in the gloom of the porch in a wet cloak - it was raining again. 'My brother Edmund came to see Blind Carlus yesterday,' she said. 'He tells me Carlus is acting as if he is already prior, and the election is a mere formality.'

There was an accusing note in her voice, as if this was Godwyn's fault, and he answered defensively. 'The old guard swung behind Carlus before Uncle Anthony's body was cold. They won't hear talk of rival candidates.'

'Hm. And the youngsters?'

'They want me to run, of course. They liked the way I stood up to Prior Anthony over Timothy's Book - even though I was overruled. But I've said nothing.'

'Any other candidates?'

'Thomas Langley is the outsider. Some disapprove of him because he used to be a knight, and has killed people, by his own admission. But he's capable, does his job with quiet efficiency, never bullies the novices...'

His mother looked thoughtful. 'What's his story? Why did he become a monk?'

Godwyn's apprehension began to ease. It seemed she was not going to berate him for inaction. 'Thomas just says he always hankered for the sanctified life and, when he came here to get a sword wound attended to, he resolved never to leave.'

'I remember that. It was ten years ago. But I never did hear how he got the wound.'

'Nor I. He doesn't like to talk about his violent past.'

'Who paid for his admission to the priory?'

'Oddly enough, I don't know.' Godwyn often marveled at his mother's ability to ask the revealing question. She might be tyrannical, but he had to admire her. 'It might have been Bishop Richard - I recall him promising the usual gift. But he wouldn't have had the resources personally - he wasn't a bishop, then, just a priest. Perhaps he was speaking for Earl Roland.'

'Find out.'

Godwyn hesitated. He would have to look through all the charters in the priory's library. The librarian, Brother Augustine, would not presume to question the sacrist, but someone else might. Then Godwyn would have the awkwardness of inventing a plausible story to explain what he was doing. If the gift had been cash, rather than land or other property - unusual, but possible - he would have to go through the account rolls...

'What's the matter?' his mother said sharply.

'Nothing. You're right.' He reminded himself that her domineering attitude was a sign of her love for him, perhaps the only way she knew how to express it. 'There must be a record. Come to think of it...'

'What?'

'A gift like that is usually trumpeted. The prior announces it in church, and calls down blessings on the head of the donor, then preaches a sermon on how people who give lands to the priory are rewarded in Heaven. But I don't remember anything like that happening at the time Thomas came to us.'

'All the more reason to seek out the charter. I think Thomas is a man with a secret. And a secret is always a weakness.'

'I'll look into it. What do you think I should say to people who want me to stand for election?'

Petranilla smiled slyly. 'I think you should tell them you're not going to be a candidate.'

Breakfast was over by the time Godwyn left his mother. Latecomers were not allowed to eat, by a longstanding rule. But the kitchener, Brother Reynard, could always find a morsel for someone he liked. Godwyn went to the kitchen and got a slice of cheese and a heel of bread. He ate it standing up, while around him the priory servants brought the breakfast bowls back from the refectory and scrubbed out the iron pot in which the porridge had been cooked.

As he ate, he mulled over his mother's advice. The more he thought about it, the cleverer it seemed. Once he had announced he would not stand for election, everything else he said would carry the authority of a disinterested commentator. He could manipulate the election without being suspected of selfish motives. Then he could make his move at the last moment. He felt a warm glow of loving gratitude for the shrewdness of his mother's restless brain, and the loyalty of her indomitable heart.

Brother Theodoric found him there. Theodoric's fair complexion was flushed with indignation. 'Brother Simeon spoke to us at breakfast about Carlus becoming prior,' he said. 'It was all about continuing the wise traditions of Anthony. He's not going to change anything!'

That was sly, Godwyn thought. Simeon had taken advantage of Godwyn's absence to say, with authority, things that Godwyn would have challenged if he had been present. He said sympathetically: 'That's disgraceful.'

'I asked whether the other candidates would be permitted to address the monks at breakfast in the same way.'

Godwyn grinned. 'Good for you!'

'Simeon said there was no need for other candidates. 'We're not holding an archery contest,' he said. In his view, the decision has already been made: Prior Anthony chose Carlus as his successor by making him subprior.'

'That's complete rubbish.'

'Exactly. The monks are furious.'

This was very good, Godwyn thought. Carlus had offended even his supporters by trying to take away their right to vote. He was undermining his own candidacy.

Theodoric went on: 'I think we should press Carlus to withdraw himself from the contest.'

Godwyn wanted to say: Are you mad? He bit his tongue and tried to look as if he were mulling over what Theodoric had said. 'Is that the best way to deal with it?' he asked, as if genuinely unsure.

Theodoric was surprised by the question. 'What do you mean?'

'You say the brothers are all furious with Carlus and Simeon. If this goes on, they won't vote for Carlus. But if Carlus withdraws, the old guard will come up with another candidate. They could make a better choice the second time. It might be someone popular - Brother Joseph, for example.'

Theodoric was thunderstruck. 'I never thought of it that way.'

'Perhaps we should hope that Carlus remains the choice of the old guard. Everyone knows he's against any kind of change. The reason he's a monk is that he likes to know that every day will be the same: he'll walk the same paths, sit in the same seats, eat and pray and sleep in the same places. Perhaps it's because of his blindness, though I suspect he might have been like that anyway. The cause doesn't matter. He believes that nothing here needs changing. Now, there aren't many monks who are that contented - which makes Carlus relatively easy to beat. A candidate who represented the old guard but advocated a few minor reforms would be much more likely to win.' Godwyn realized he had forgotten to seem tentative and had started laying down the law. Backtracking quickly, he added: 'I don't know - what do you think?'

'I think you're a genius,' said Theodoric.

I'm not a genius, Godwyn thought, but I learn fast.

He went to the hospital, where he found Philemon sweeping out the private guest rooms upstairs. Lord William was still here, watching over his father, waiting for him to wake up or die. Lady Philippa was with him. Bishop Richard had returned to his palace in Shiring, but was expected back today for the big funeral service.

Godwyn took Philemon to the library. Philemon could barely read, but he would be useful for getting out the charters.

The priory had more than a hundred charters. Most were deeds to landholdings, the majority near Kingsbridge, some scattered around far parts of England and Wales. Other charters entitled the monks to establish their priory, to build a church, to take stone from a quarry on the earl of Shiring's land without payment, to parcel the land around the priory into house plots and rent them out, to hold courts, to have a weekly market, to charge a toll for crossing the bridge, to have an annual Fleece Fair, and to ship goods by river to Melcombe without paying taxes to the lords of any of the lands through which the river passed.

The documents were written with pen and ink on parchment, thin leather painstakingly cleaned and scraped and bleached and stretched to form a writing surface. Longer ones were rolled up and tied with a fine leather thong. They were kept in an ironbound chest. The chest was locked, but the key was in the library, in a small carved box.

Godwyn frowned with disapproval when he opened the chest. The charters were not lined up in neat stacks, but tumbled in the box in no apparent order. Some had small rips and frayed edges, and all were covered with dust. They should be kept in date sequence, he thought, each one numbered, and the numbered list fixed to the inside of the lid, so that any particular charter could be quickly located. If I become prior...

Philemon took the charters out one by one, blew off the dust, and laid them on a table for Godwyn. Most people disliked Philemon. One or two of the older monks mistrusted him, but Godwyn did not: it was hard to mistrust someone who treated you like a god. Most of the monks were just used to him - he had been around for so long. Godwyn remembered him as a boy, tall and awkward, always hanging around the priory, asking the monks which saint was best to pray to, and had they ever witnessed a miracle.

Most of the charters had originally been written out twice on a single sheet. The word 'chirograph' had been written in large letters between the two copies, then the sheet had been cut in half with a zigzag line through the word. Each of the parties kept half the sheet, and the match between the zigzags was taken as proof that both documents were genuine.

Some of the sheets had holes, probably where the living sheep had been bitten by an insect. Others appeared to have been nibbled, at some point in their history, presumably by mice.

They were written in Latin, of course. The more recent ones were easier to read, but the older style of handwriting was sometimes hard for Godwyn to decipher. He scanned each until he came to a date. He was looking for something written soon after All Hallows Day ten years ago.

He examined every sheet and found nothing.

The nearest was a deed dated some weeks later in which Earl Roland gave permission to Sir Gerald to transfer his lands to the ownership of the priory, in exchange for which the priory would forgive Gerald's debts and support him and his wife for the rest of their lives.

Godwyn was not really disappointed. Rather the contrary. Either Thomas had been admitted without the usual gift - which would in itself be curious - or the charter was kept somewhere else, away from prying eyes. Either way, it seemed increasingly likely that Petranilla's instinct was right, and Thomas had a secret.

There were not many private places in a monastery. Monks were supposed to have no personal property and no secrets. Although some wealthy monasteries had built private cells for the senior monks, at Kingsbridge they slept in one big room - all except the prior himself. Almost certainly, the charter that had secured Thomas's admission was in the prior's house.

Which was now occupied by Carlus.

That made things difficult. Carlus would not let Godwyn search the place. Searching might hardly be necessary; there was probably a box or satchel somewhere in plain sight containing the late Prior Anthony's personal documents: a notebook from his novice days, a friendly letter from the archbishop, some sermons. Carlus had probably examined the contents after Anthony died. But he had no reason to permit Godwyn to do the same.

Godwyn frowned, thinking. Could someone else search? Edmund or Petranilla might ask to see their late brother's possessions, and it would be hard for Carlus to deny such a request. But he might remove any priory documents beforehand. No, the search had to be clandestine.

The bell rang for Terce, the morning office. Godwyn realized that the only time he could be certain Carlus would not be in the prior's house was during a service in the cathedral.

He would have to skip Terce. He could think up a plausible excuse. It would not be easy - he was the sacrist, the one person who should never skip services. But there was no alternative.

'I want you to come to me in the church,' he said to Philemon.

'All right,' said Philemon, though he looked worried: priory employees were not supposed to enter the chancel during worship.

'Come right after the verse. Whisper in my ear. It doesn't matter what you say. Take no notice of my reaction, just continue.'

Philemon frowned anxiously, but he nodded assent. He would do anything for Godwyn.

Godwyn left the library and joined the procession into the church. There was only a handful of people standing in the nave: most of the town would come later in the day to attend the mass for the victims of the bridge collapse. The monks took their places in the chancel, and the ritual began. 'Oh, God, incline unto mine aid,' Godwyn said along with the rest.

They finished the verse and began the first hymn, and Philemon appeared. All the monks stared at him, as people always did stare at anything out of the ordinary that occurred during a familiar rite. Brother Simeon frowned disapprovingly. Carlus, conducting the singing, sensed a disturbance and looked puzzled. Philemon came to Godwyn's seat and bent over. 'Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,' he whispered.

Godwyn pretended to be surprised, and continued to listen while Philemon recited Psalm number one. After a few moments he shook his head vigorously, as if denying a request. Then he listened some more. He was going to have to think up an elaborate story to account for this pantomime. Perhaps he would say that his mother had insisted on speaking to him immediately about the funeral of her brother, Prior Anthony, and that she was threatening to come into the chancel herself unless Philemon took a message to Godwyn. Petranilla's overbearing personality, combined with family grief, made the story just about credible. As Philemon finished the psalm, Godwyn made a resigned face and got up and followed Philemon out of the chancel.

They hurried around the cathedral to the prior's house. A young employee was sweeping the floor. He would not dare to question a monk. He might tell Carlus that Godwyn and Philemon had been here - but it would be too late then.

Godwyn thought the prior's house was a disgrace. It was smaller than Uncle Edmund's home in the main street. A prior should have a palace befitting his station, as the bishop did. There was nothing glorious about this building. A few tapestries covered the walls, depicting biblical scenes and keeping out the drafts, but overall the decor was dull and unimaginative - rather like the late Anthony.

They searched the place quickly and soon found what they were looking for. Upstairs in the bedroom, in a chest beside the prie-dieu, was a large wallet. It was made of soft ginger-brown goatskin and beautifully sewn with scarlet thread: Godwyn felt sure it had been a pious gift from one of the town's leatherworkers.

Watched intently by Philemon, he opened it.

Inside were about thirty sheets of parchment, laid flat and interleaved with protective linen cloths. Godwyn examined them quickly.

Several bore study notes on the Psalms: Anthony must at some time have contemplated writing a book of commentaries, but the work appeared to have been abandoned. The most surprising was a love poem, in Latin. Headed Virent Oculi, it was addressed to a man with green eyes. Uncle Anthony had green eyes flecked with gold, like all his family.

Godwyn wondered who had written it. Not many women could write Latin well enough to compose a poem. Had a nun loved Anthony? Or was the poem from a man? The parchment was old and yellowing: the love affair, if such it was, had happened in Anthony's youth. But he had kept the poem. Perhaps he had not been quite as dull as Godwyn had imagined.

Philemon said: 'What is it?'

Godwyn felt guilty. He had peeped into a deeply private corner of his uncle's life, and he wished he had not. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Just a poem.' He picked up the next sheet - and struck gold.

It was a charter dated Christmas ten years ago. It concerned a landholding of five hundred acres near Lynn, in Norfolk. The lord had recently died. The deed assigned the vacant lordship to Kingsbridge Priory, and specified the annual dues - grain, fleeces, calves, and chickens - payable to the priory by the serfs and tenants who farmed the land. It nominated one of the peasants to be a bailiff with the responsibility of delivering the produce to the priory annually. It also assigned money payments that could be offered instead of the actual produce - a practice that was now predominant, especially where the land was many miles from the residence of the lord.

It was a typical charter. Every year, after the harvest, representatives of dozens of similar communities made the pilgrimage to the priory to deliver what they owed. Those from nearby showed up early in the autumn; others came at intervals through the winter, with a few from long distances not arriving until after Christmas.

The deed also specified that the gift was given in consideration of the priory's accepting Sir Thomas Langley as a monk. That, too, was routine.

But one feature of this document was not commonplace. It was signed by Queen Isabella.

That was interesting. Isabella was the unfaithful wife of King Edward II. She had rebelled against her royal husband and installed, in his place, their fourteen-year-old son. Shortly afterward the deposed king had died, and Prior Anthony had been present at his burial in Gloucester. Thomas had come to Kingsbridge at around the same time.

For a few years the queen and her lover, Roger Mortimer, had ruled England; but, before long, Edward III had asserted his authority, despite his youth. The new king was now twenty-four and firmly in control. Mortimer was dead, and Isabella, now forty-two, lived in opulent retirement at Castle Rising in Norfolk, not far from Lynn.

'This is it!' Godwyn said to Philemon. 'It was Queen Isabella who arranged for Thomas to become a monk.'

Philemon frowned. 'But why?'

Though uneducated, Philemon was shrewd. 'Why indeed?' Godwyn answered. 'Presumably she wanted to reward him, or silence him, or perhaps both. And this happened in the year of her coup.'

'He must have performed some service for her.'

Godwyn nodded. 'He carried a message, or opened the gates of a castle, or betrayed the king's plans to her, or secured for her the support of some important baron. But why is it a secret?'

'It's not,' said Philemon. 'The treasurer must know about it. And everyone in Lynn. The bailiff must talk to a few people when he comes here.'

'But no one knows that the whole arrangement was made for the benefit of Thomas - unless they have seen this charter.'

'So that's the secret - that Queen Isabella made this gift for Thomas's sake.'

'Exactly.' Godwyn packed up the documents, carefully interleaving the sheets of parchment with linen cloths, and replaced the wallet in the chest.

Philemon asked: 'But why is it a secret? There's nothing dishonest or shameful about such an arrangement - it happens all the time.'

'I don't know why it's a secret, and perhaps we don't need to know. The fact that people want to keep it hidden may be sufficient for our purpose. Let's get out of this house.'

Godwyn felt satisfied. Thomas had a secret and Godwyn knew about it. That gave Godwyn power. Now he felt confident enough to risk putting Thomas forward as a candidate for prior. He also felt apprehensive: Thomas was no fool.

They returned to the cathedral. The office of Terce ended a few moments later, and Godwyn began to prepare the church for the big funeral service. On his instructions, six monks lifted Anthony's coffin and placed it on a stand in front of the altar, then surrounded it with candles. Townspeople began to gather in the nave. Godwyn nodded to his cousin Caris, who had covered her everyday headgear in black silk. Then he spotted Thomas, carrying in a large, ornate chair, with the help of a novice. This was the bishop's throne, or cathedra, that gave the church its special cathedral status.

Godwyn touched Thomas's arm. 'Let Philemon do that.'

Thomas bristled, thinking that Godwyn was offering help because of his missing arm. 'I can manage.'

'I know you can. I want a word.'

Thomas was older - he was thirty-four, Godwyn thirty-one - but Godwyn was his superior in the monastic hierarchy. All the same, Godwyn was always a little afraid of Thomas. The matricularius usually showed the appropriate deference to the sacrist, but all the same Godwyn felt he was getting just as much respect as Thomas thought he merited, and no more. Though Thomas conformed in every way to the discipline of St. Benedict's Rule, nevertheless he seemed to have brought into the priory with him a quality of independence and self-sufficiency that he never lost.

It would not be easy to deceive Thomas - but that was exactly what Godwyn planned to do.

Thomas allowed Philemon to take his side of the throne, and Godwyn drew him into the aisle. 'They're talking about you as possibly the next prior,' Godwyn said.

'They're saying the same about you,' Thomas rejoined.

'I shall refuse to stand.'

Thomas raised his eyebrows. 'You surprise me, Brother.'

'Two reasons,' Godwyn said. 'One, I think you would do a better job.'

Thomas looked more surprised. He probably had not suspected Godwyn of such modesty. He was right: Godwyn was lying.

'Two,' Godwyn continued, 'you're more likely to win.' Now Godwyn was telling the truth. 'The youngsters like me, but you're popular across the range of all ages.'

Thomas's handsome face looked quizzical. He was waiting for the catch.

'I want to help you,' Godwyn said. 'I believe the only important thing is to have a prior who will reform the monastery and improve its finances.'

'I think I could do that. But what do you want in return for your support?'

Godwyn knew better than to ask for nothing. Thomas would not believe that. He invented a plausible lie. 'I'd like to be your subprior.'

Thomas nodded, but did not immediately consent. 'How would you help me?'

'First, by gaining you the support of the townspeople.'

'Just because Edmund Wooler is your uncle?'

'It's not that simple. The townspeople are worried about the bridge. Carlus won't say when he'll begin building, if ever. They're desperate to stop him becoming prior. If I tell Edmund that you'll start work on the bridge as soon as you're elected, you'll have the whole town behind you.'

'That won't win me the votes of many monks.'

'Don't be so sure. Remember, the monks' choice has to be ratified by the bishop. Most bishops are prudent enough to consult local opinion - and Richard is as keen as anyone to avoid trouble. If the townspeople come out for you, it will make a difference.'

Godwyn could see that Thomas did not trust him. The matricularius studied him, and Godwyn felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as he fought to remain expressionless under that keen gaze. But Thomas was listening to his arguments. 'There's no doubt we need a new bridge,' he said. 'Carlus is foolish to prevaricate.'

'So you would be promising something you intend to do anyway.'

'You're very persuasive.'

Godwyn held up his hands in a defensive gesture. 'I don't mean to be. You must do what you feel is God's will.'

Thomas looked skeptical. He did not believe that Godwyn was so dispassionate. But he said: 'All right.' Then he added: 'I'll pray about it.'

Godwyn sensed he would get no stronger commitment out of Thomas today, and it might be counterproductive to push any harder. 'So will I,' he said, and he turned away.

Thomas would do exactly what he had promised, and pray about it. He had little in the way of personal desires. If he thought it was God's will he would stand as prior, and if not, not. Godwyn could do no more with him, for the moment.

There was now a blaze of candles around Anthony's coffin. The nave was filling with townspeople and peasants from the surrounding villages. Godwyn raked the crowd for the face of Caris, which he had spotted a few minutes earlier. He located her in the south transept, looking at Merthin's scaffolding in the aisle. He had affectionate memories of Caris as a child, when he had been her all-knowing grown-up cousin.

She had been looking glum since the bridge collapse, he had noticed, but today she seemed cheerful. He was glad: he had a soft spot for her. He touched her elbow. 'You look happy.'

'I am.' She smiled. 'A romantic knot just came untangled. But you wouldn't understand.'

'Of course not.' You have no idea, he thought, how many romantic tangles there are among monks. But he said nothing: laypeople were best left in ignorance of sins that took place in the priory. He said: 'Your father should speak to Bishop Richard about rebuilding the bridge.'

'Really?' she said skeptically. As a child she had hero-worshipped him, but nowadays she was less in awe. 'What's the point? It's not his bridge.'

'The monks' choice for prior has to be approved by the bishop. Richard could let it be known that he won't approve anyone who refuses to rebuild the bridge. Some monks might be defiant, but others will say there's no point in voting for someone who isn't going to be ratified.'

'I see. You really think my father could help?'

'Absolutely.'

'Then I'll suggest it.'

'Thank you.'

The bell rang. Godwyn slipped out of the church and again joined the procession forming up in the cloisters. It was midday.

He had done a good morning's work.