44
Gilbert Hereford was tried before the ecclesiastical court, found guilty, and sentenced, by Prior Godwyn, to an appropriate punishment for those who robbed churches: he would be flayed alive. His skin would be cut off him, while he was fully conscious, and he would bleed to death.
On the day of the flaying, Godwyn had his weekly meeting with Mother Cecilia. Their deputies would also attend: Subprior Philemon and Subprioress Natalie. Waiting in the hall of the prior's house for the nuns to arrive, Godwyn said to Philemon: 'We must try to persuade them to build a new treasury. We can no longer keep our valuables in a box in the library.'
Philemon said thoughtfully: 'Would it be a shared building?'
'It would have to be. We can't afford to pay for it.'
Godwyn thought regretfully of the ambitions he had once had, as a young man, to reform the monastery's finances and make it rich again. This had not happened, and he still did not understand why. He had been tough, forcing the townspeople to use and pay for the priory's mills, fishponds, and warrens, but they seemed to find ways around his rules - like building mills in neighboring villages. He had imposed harsh sentences on men and women caught poaching or illegally cutting down trees in the priory's forests. And he had resisted the blandishments of those who would tempt him to spend the priory's money by building mills, or waste the priory's timber by licensing charcoal burners and iron smelters. He felt sure his approach was right, but it had not yet yielded the increased income he felt he deserved.
'So you will ask Cecilia for the money,' Philemon said thoughtfully. 'There might be advantages in keeping our wealth in the same place as the nuns'.'
Godwyn saw which way Philemon's devious mind was leading him. 'But we wouldn't say that to Cecilia.'
'Of course not.'
'All right, I'll propose it.'
'While we're waiting...'
'Yes?'
'There's a problem you need to know about in the village of Long Ham.'
Godwyn nodded. Long Ham was one of dozens of villages that paid homage - and feudal dues - to the priory.
Philemon explained: 'It has to do with the landholding of a widow, Mary-Lynn. When her husband died, she agreed to let a neighbor farm her land, a man called John Nott. Now the widow has remarried, and she wants the land back so that her new husband can farm it.'
Godwyn was puzzled. This was a typical peasant squabble, too trivial to require his intervention. 'What does the bailiff say?'
'That the land should revert to the widow, since the arrangement was always intended to be temporary.'
'Then that is what must happen.'
'There is a complication. Sister Elizabeth has a half brother and two half sisters in Long Ham.'
'Ah.' Godwyn might have guessed there would be a reason for Philemon's interest. Sister Elizabeth, formerly Elizabeth Clerk, was the nuns' matricularius, in charge of their buildings. She was young and bright, and would rise farther up the hierarchy. She could be a valuable ally.
'They are the only family she's got, apart from her mother, who works at the Bell,' Philemon went on. 'Elizabeth is fond of her peasant relatives, and they in turn revere her as the holy one of the family. When they come to Kingsbridge they bring gifts to the nunnery - fruit, honey, eggs, that sort of thing.'
'And...?'
'John Nott is the half brother of Sister Elizabeth.'
'Has Elizabeth asked you to intervene?'
'Yes. And she also asked that I should not tell Mother Cecilia of the request.'
Godwyn knew that this was just the kind of thing Philemon liked. He loved to be regarded as a powerful person who could use his influence to favor one side or the other in a dispute. Such things fed his ego, which was never satisfied. And he was drawn to anything clandestine. The fact that Elizabeth did not want her superior to know about this request delighted Philemon. It meant he knew her shameful secret. He would store the information away like miser's gold.
'What do you want to do?' Godwyn asked.
'It's for you to say, of course, but I suggest we let John Nott keep the land. Elizabeth would be in our debt, and that cannot fail to be useful at some point in the future.'
'That's hard on the widow,' Godwyn said uneasily.
'I agree. But that must be balanced against the interests of the priory.'
'And God's work is more important. Very well. Tell the bailiff.'
'The widow will receive her reward in the hereafter.'
'Indeed.' There had been a time when Godwyn had hesitated to authorize Philemon's underhand schemes, but that was long ago. Philemon had proved too useful - as Godwyn's mother, Petranilla, had forecast all those years ago.
There was a tap at the door, and Petranilla herself came in.
She now lived in a comfortable small house in Candle Court, just off the main street. Her brother Edmund had left her a generous bequest, enough to last her the rest of her life. She was fifty-eight years old, her tall figure was now stooped and frail, and she walked with a stick, but she still had a mind like a bear trap. As always, Godwyn was glad to see her but also apprehensive that he might have done something to displease her.
Petranilla was the head of the family now. Anthony had been killed in the bridge collapse and Edmund had died seven years ago, so she was the last survivor of her generation. She never hesitated to tell Godwyn what to do. She was the same with her niece Alice. Alice's husband, Elfric, was the alderman, but she gave him orders, too. Her authority even extended to her stepgranddaughter Griselda, and she terrorized Griselda's eight-year-old son, Little Merthin. Her judgment was as sound as ever, so they all obeyed her most of the time. If for some reason she did not take command, they would usually ask her opinion anyway. Godwyn was not sure how they would manage without her. And on the rare occasions when they did not do her bidding, they worked very hard to hide the fact. Only Caris stood up to her. 'Don't you dare tell me what to do,' she had said to Petranilla more than once. 'You would have let them kill me.'
Petranilla sat down and looked around the room. 'This is not good enough,' she said.
She was often abrupt, but all the same Godwyn became edgy when she spoke like this. 'What do you mean?'
'You should have a better house.'
'I know.' Eight years ago, Godwyn had tried to persuade Mother Cecilia to pay for a new palace. She had promised to give him the money three years later but, when the time came, she said she had changed her mind. He felt sure it was because of what he had done to Caris. After that heresy trial, his charm had ceased to work on Cecilia, and it had become difficult to get money out of her.
Petranilla said: 'You need a palace for entertaining bishops and archbishops, barons and earls.'
'We don't get many of those, nowadays. Earl Roland and Bishop Richard have been in France for much of the last few years.' King Edward had invaded northeast France in 1339 and spent all of 1340 there; then in 1342 he had taken his army to northwest France and fought in Brittany. In 1345 English troops had done battle in the southwestern wine district of Gascony. Now Edward was back in England, but assembling another army of invasion.
'Roland and Richard aren't the only noblemen,' Petranilla said testily.
'The others never come here.'
Her voice hardened. 'Perhaps that's because you can't accommodate them in the style they expect. You need a banqueting hall, and a private chapel, and spacious bedchambers.'
She had been awake all night thinking about this, he guessed. That was her way: she brooded over things then shot off her ideas like arrows. He wondered what had brought on this particular complaint. 'It sounds very extravagant,' he said, playing for time.
'Don't you understand?' she snapped. 'The priory is not as influential as it might be, simply because you don't ever see the powerful men of the land. When you've got a palace with beautiful rooms for them, they will come.'
She was probably right. Wealthy monasteries such as Durham and St. Albans even complained about the number of noble and royal visitors they were obliged to entertain.
She went on: 'Yesterday was the anniversary of my father's death.' So that's what brought this on, Godwyn thought: she's been remembering Grandfather's glorious career. 'You've been prior here for almost nine years,' she said. 'I don't want you to get stuck. The archbishops and the king should be considering you for a bishopric, a major abbey such as Durham, or a mission to the pope.'
Godwyn had always assumed that Kingsbridge would be his springboard to higher things but, he realized now, he had let his ambition wane. It seemed only a little while ago that he had won the election for prior. He felt he had only just got on top of the job. But she was right, it was more than eight years.
'Why aren't they thinking of you for more important posts?' she asked rhetorically. 'Because they don't know you exist! You are prior of a great monastery, but you haven't told anyone about it. Display your magnificence! Build a palace. Invite the archbishop of Canterbury to be your first guest. Dedicate the chapel to his favorite saint. Tell the king you have built a royal bedchamber in the hope that he will visit.'
'Wait a moment, one thing at a time,' Godwyn protested. 'I'd love to build a palace, but I haven't got the money.'
'Then get it,' she said.
He wanted to ask her how, but at that moment the two leaders of the nunnery came into the room. Petranilla and Cecilia greeted one another with wary courtesy, then Petranilla took her leave.
Mother Cecilia and Sister Natalie sat down. Cecilia was fifty-one now, with gray in her hair and poor eyesight. She still darted about the place like a busy bird, poking her beak into every room, chirping her instructions to nuns, novices, and servants; but she had mellowed with the years, and would go a long way to avoid a conflict.
Cecilia was carrying a scroll. 'The nunnery has received a legacy,' she said as she made herself comfortable. 'From a pious woman of Thornbury.'
Godwyn said: 'How much?'
'One hundred and fifty pounds in gold coins.'
Godwyn was startled. It was a huge sum. It was enough to build a modest palace. 'The nunnery has received it - or the priory?'
'The nunnery,' she said firmly. 'This scroll is our copy of her will.'
'Why did she leave you so much money?'
'Apparently we nursed her when she fell ill on her way home from London.'
Natalie spoke. She was a few years older than Cecilia, a round-faced woman with a mild disposition. 'Our problem is, where are we going to keep the money?'
Godwyn looked at Philemon. Natalie had given them an opening for the topic they had planned to raise. 'What do you do with your money at present?' he asked her.
'It's in the prioress's bedroom, which can be reached only by going through the dormitory.'
As though thinking of it for the first time, Godwyn said: 'Perhaps we should spend a little of the bequest on a new treasury.'
'I think that's necessary,' said Cecilia. 'A simple stone building with no windows and a stout oak door.'
'It won't take long to construct,' Godwyn said. 'And shouldn't cost more than five or ten pounds.'
'For safety, we think it should be part of the cathedral.'
'Ah.' That was why the nuns had to discuss the plan with Godwyn. They would not have needed to consult him about building within their own area of the priory, but the church was common to monks and nuns. He said: 'It could go up against the cathedral wall, in the corner formed by the north transept and the choir, but be entered from inside the church.'
'Yes - that's just the kind of thing I had in mind.'
'I'll speak to Elfric today, if you like, and ask him to give us an estimate.'
'Please do.'
Godwyn was happy to have extracted from Cecilia a fraction of her windfall, but he was not satisfied. After the conversation with his mother, he yearned to get his hands on more of it. He would have liked to grab it all. But how?
The cathedral bell tolled, and the four of them stood up and went out.
The condemned man was outside the west end of the church. He was naked, and tied tightly by his hands and feet to an upright wooden rectangle like a door frame. A hundred or so townspeople stood waiting to watch the execution. The ordinary monks and nuns had not been invited: it was considered improper for them to see bloodshed.
The executioner was Will Tanner, a man of about fifty whose skin was brown from his trade. He wore a clean canvas apron. He stood by a small table on which he had laid out his knives. He was sharpening one of them on a stone, and the scrape of steel on granite made Godwyn shudder.
Godwyn said several prayers, ending with an extempore plea in English that the death of the thief would serve God by deterring others from the same sin. Then he nodded to Will Tanner.
Will stood behind the tethered thief. He took a small knife with a sharp point and inserted it into the middle of Gilbert's neck, then drew it downward in a long straight line to the base of the spine. Gilbert roared with pain, and blood welled out of the cut. Will made another slash across the man's shoulders, forming the shape of the letter T.
Will then changed his knife, selecting one with a long, thin blade. He inserted it carefully at the point where the two cuts met, and pulled away a corner of skin. Gilbert cried out again. Then, holding the corner in the fingers of his left hand, Will began carefully to cut the skin of Gilbert's back away from his body.
Gilbert began to scream.
Sister Natalie made a noise in her throat, turned away, and ran back into the priory. Cecilia closed her eyes and began to pray. Godwyn felt nauseated. Someone in the crowd fell to the ground in a dead faint. Only Philemon seemed unmoved.
Will worked quickly, his sharp knife slicing through the subcutaneous fat to reveal the woven muscles below. Blood flowed copiously, and he stopped every few seconds to wipe his hands on his apron. Gilbert screamed in undiminished agony at every cut. Soon the skin of his back hung in two broad flaps.
Will knelt on the ground, his knees an inch deep in blood, and began to work on the legs.
The screaming stopped suddenly: Gilbert appeared to have passed out. Godwyn was relieved. He had intended the man to suffer agony for trying to rob a church - and he had wanted others to witness the thief's torment - but, all the same, he had found it hard to listen to that screaming.
Will continued his work phlegmatically, apparently unconcerned whether his victim was conscious or not, until all the back skin - body, arms, and legs - was detached. Then he went around to the front. He cut around the ankles and wrists, then detached the skin so that it hung from the victim's shoulders and hips. He worked upward from the pelvis, and Godwyn realized he was going to try to take the entire skin off in one piece. Soon there was no skin left attached except for the head.
Gilbert was still breathing.
Will made a careful series of cuts around the skull. Then he put down his knives and wiped his hands one more time. Finally he grasped Gilbert's skin at the shoulders and gave a sudden jerk upward. The face and scalp were ripped off the head, yet remained attached to the rest of the skin.
Will held Gilbert's bloody hide up in the air like a hunting trophy, and the crowd cheered.