Epic Historial Collection (199 page)

He saw that Carlus was struggling to his feet. He pointed at two nuns. “Help the subprior to the hospital,” he said. “Brother Simeon, Mother Cecilia, will you go with him?”

He picked up another bone. He was frightened, knowing that he more than Carlus was to blame for what had happened; but his intentions had been pure, and he still hoped to mollify the saint. At the same time, he was aware that his actions must look good in the eyes of everyone present: he was taking charge in a crisis, like a true leader.

However, this moment of awe and horror could not be allowed to last too long. He needed to gather up the bones more quickly. “Brother Thomas,” he said. “Brother Theodoric. Come and help me.” Philemon stepped forward, but Godwyn waved him back: he was not a monk, and only men of God should touch the bones.

Carlus limped out of the church, helped by Simeon and Cecilia, leaving Godwyn the undisputed master of the occasion.

Godwyn beckoned Philemon and another employee, Otho, and told them to right the altar. They set it straight on the platform. Otho picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the jeweled crucifix. They placed them reverently on the altar then retrieved the scattered candles.

All the bones were picked up. Godwyn tried to close the lid of the reliquary, but it had buckled and did not quite fit. Making the best of it, he ceremoniously placed the casket on the altar.

Godwyn remembered, just in time, that he was seeking to show Thomas, not himself, in the light of leader of the priory—for the present. He picked up the book Simeon had been carrying and handed it to Thomas. Thomas did not need to be told what to do. He opened the book, found the correct page, and read the verse. The monks and nuns formed lines either side of the altar, then Thomas led them in singing the psalm.

Somehow, they got through the service.

 

Godwyn began to tremble again as soon as he got out of the church. It had been a near-disaster, but he seemed to have got away with it.

The monks burst into excited chatter as the procession reached the cloisters and broke up. Godwyn leaned against a pillar, struggling to regain his composure. He listened to the comments of the monks. Some felt the desecration of the relics was a sign that God did not want Carlus to be prior—the reaction Godwyn had intended. But, to his dismay, most expressed compassion for Carlus. That was not what Godwyn wanted. He realized he might have given Carlus the benefit of a sympathetic backlash.

He pulled himself together and hurried to the hospital. He needed to get to Carlus while the man was still demoralized, and before he got wind of the monks' understanding.

The subprior was sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head. He was pale and looked shaken, and every few moments his face would twitch nervously. Simeon was sitting beside him.

Simeon gave Godwyn a filthy look. “I suppose you're pleased,” he said.

Godwyn ignored him. “Brother Carlus, you'll be glad to know that the relics of the saint have been restored to their usual place with hymns and prayers. The saint will surely forgive us all for this tragic accident.”

Carlus shook his head. “There are no accidents,” he said. “Everything is ordained by God.”

Godwyn's hopes lifted. This was promising.

Simeon's thoughts followed the same lines, and he tried to restrain Carlus. “Don't say anything hasty, Brother.”

“It's a sign,” Carlus said. “God is telling us he does not want me to be prior.”

This was what Godwyn had been hoping for.

Simeon said: “Nonsense.” He picked up a cup from a table beside the bed. Godwyn guessed it contained warm wine and honey, Mother Cecilia's prescription for most ills. Simeon put the cup into Carlus's hand. “Drink.”

Carlus drank, but he was not to be diverted from his theme. “It would be a sin to ignore such a portent.”

“Portents are not so easily interpreted,” Simeon protested.

“Perhaps not. But even if you're right, will the brothers vote for a prior who can't carry the relics of the saint without falling over?”

Godwyn said: “Some of them might, in fact, be drawn to you in commiseration, rather than repelled.”

Simeon shot him a puzzled look, wondering what he was up to.

Simeon was right to be suspicious. Godwyn was playing devil's advocate because he wanted more than vague expressions of doubt from Carlus. Could he possibly extract a definitive withdrawal?

As he hoped, Carlus argued with him. “A man should be made prior because the brothers respect him and believe he can lead them wisely—not out of pity.” He spoke with the bitter conviction of a lifetime of disability.

“I suppose that's true,” Godwyn said with feigned reluctance, as if the admission had been wrung from him against his will. Taking a risk, he added: “But perhaps Simeon is right, and you should postpone any final decision until you feel more yourself.”

“I'm as well as I'm ever going to be,” Carlus retorted, refusing to admit to weakness in front of young Godwyn. “Nothing is going to change. I'll feel tomorrow the way I feel today. I will not stand for election as prior.”

Those were the words Godwyn had been waiting for. He stood up abruptly and bowed his head as if in acknowledgment, hiding his face for fear he might reveal his sense of triumph. “You are as clear as always, Brother Carlus,” he said. “I will convey your wishes to the rest of the monks.”

Simeon opened his mouth to protest, but he was forestalled by Mother Cecilia, coming into the room from the stairwell. She looked flustered. “Earl Roland is demanding to see the subprior,” she said. “He's threatening to get out of bed, but he must not move, for his skull may not yet be fully healed. But Brother Carlus should not move either.”

Godwyn looked at Simeon. “We'll go,” he said.

They went together up the stairs.

Godwyn was feeling good. Carlus did not even know that he had been routed. Of his own accord, he had withdrawn himself from the contest, leaving only Thomas. And Godwyn could eliminate Thomas anytime he liked.

The plan had been astonishingly successful—so far.

Earl Roland was lying on his back, and his head was thickly bandaged, but all the same he managed to look like a man in power. The barber must have visited him, for his face was shaved and his black hair—as much of it as was not covered by the bandage—had been neatly trimmed. He wore a short purple tunic and new hose, the two legs fashionably dyed different colors, one red and one yellow. Despite lying in bed, he wore a belt with a dagger and short leather boots. His elder son, William, and William's wife, Philippa, stood by the bed. His young secretary, Father Jerome, in priestly robes, sat at a nearby writing desk with pens and sealing wax ready.

The message was clear: the earl was back in charge.

“Is the subprior there?” he said in a clear, strong voice.

Godwyn was quicker-thinking than Simeon, and he replied first. “Subprior Carlus has suffered a fall and is himself lying here in this hospital, Lord,” he said. “I am the sacrist, Godwyn, and with me is the treasurer, Simeon. We thank God for your miraculous recovery, for He guided the hands of the physician-monks who have been attending you.”

“It was the barber who mended my broken head,” said Roland. “Thank him.”

Because the earl was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Godwyn could not see his face well; but he had the impression that the earl's expression was curiously blank, and he wondered whether the injury had done some permanent damage. He said: “Do you have everything you need to make you comfortable?”

“If I don't, you'll soon know. Now, listen. My niece, Margery, is to marry Monmouth's younger son, Roger. I presume you know this.”

“Yes.” Godwyn had a sudden flash of memory: Margery lying on her back in this very room, her white legs in the air, fornicating with her cousin Richard, the bishop of Kingsbridge.

“The wedding has been unduly delayed by my injuries.”

That was not true, Godwyn reflected. The collapse of the bridge had taken place only a month ago. The truth was probably that the earl needed to prove that the injury had not diminished him, and he was still a power worthy of an alliance with the earl of Monmouth.

Roland went on: “The wedding will take place in Kingsbridge Cathedral three weeks from today.”

Strictly speaking the earl should have made a request, not issued a command, and an elected prior might have bristled at his high-handedness; but, of course, there was no prior. Anyway, Godwyn could think of no reason why Roland should not have his wish. “Very well, my lord,” he said. “I will make the necessary preparations.”

“I want the new prior installed in time for the service,” Roland went on.

Simeon grunted in surprise.

Godwyn quickly calculated that haste would suit his plans remarkably well. “Very good,” he replied. “There were two candidates, but today Subprior Carlus withdrew his name, leaving only Brother Thomas, the matricularius. We can hold the election as soon as you like.” He could hardly believe his luck.

Simeon knew he was looking defeat in the face. “Wait a minute,” he said.

But Roland was not listening. “I don't want Thomas,” he said.

Godwyn had not been expecting that.

Simeon grinned, pleased at this last-minute reprieve.

Shocked, Godwyn said: “But, my lord—”

Roland did not permit him to interrupt. “Summon my nephew, Saul Whitehead, from St.-John-in-the-Forest,” he said.

Godwyn's heart filled with foreboding. Saul was his contemporary. As novices, they had been friends. They had gone to Oxford together—but there they had grown apart, Saul becoming more devout and Godwyn more worldly. Saul was now the competent prior of the remote cell of St. John. He took very seriously the monastic virtue of humility, and he would never have put forward his own name. But he was bright, devout, and liked by everyone.

“Get him here as soon as possible,” said Roland. “I shall nominate him as the next prior of Kingsbridge.”

21

M
erthin sat on the roof of St. Mark's Church, at the north end of Kingsbridge. From here he could see the whole town. To the southeast, a bend in the river cradled the priory in the crook of its elbow. A quarter of the town was taken up by the priory buildings and the grounds around them—cemetery, marketplace, orchard, and vegetable garden—with the cathedral rising from its surroundings like an oak in a field of nettles. He could see priory employees picking vegetables in the garden, mucking out a stable, and unloading barrels from a cart.

The center of town was the wealthy neighborhood, especially the main street, climbing the slope from the river as the first monks must have climbed it hundreds of years ago. Several wealthy merchants, identifiable by the glowing colors of their fine wool coats, walked purposefully along the street: merchants were always busy. Another wide thoroughfare, the high street, ran west to east through the middle of the town, bisecting the main street at right angles near the northwest corner of the priory. On the same corner he could see the broad roof of the guildhall, the largest building in town outside the priory.

On the main street next to the Bell were the priory gates, with Caris's house opposite, taller than most of the other buildings. Outside the Bell, Merthin could see a crowd gathered around Friar Murdo. The friar, who did not seem to be attached to any particular fraternal order, had stayed in Kingsbridge after the bridge collapse. Shocked and bereaved people were particularly susceptible to his emotional roadside sermons, and he was raking in the silver halfpennies and farthings. Merthin thought he was a fraud, his holy anger faked and his tears a cover for cynicism and greed—but Merthin was in a minority.

At the bottom of the main street, the stumps of the bridge still stuck up out of the water, and next to them Merthin's ferry was crossing the water bearing a cart loaded with tree trunks. To the southwest was the industrial sector, where large houses on broad plots encompassed abattoirs, tanneries, breweries, bakeries, and workshops of all kinds—too smelly and dirty for the town's leading citizens, but nevertheless a district where plenty of money was made. The river widened there, dividing into two channels either side of Leper Island. Merthin could see Ian Boatman rowing his small craft to the island, his passenger a monk, probably carrying food to the one remaining leper. The south bank of the river was lined with wharves and warehouses, and rafts and barges were being unloaded at several of them. Beyond was the suburb of Newtown, where rows of poor houses ran between orchards, pastures, and gardens in which priory employees produced food for the monks and nuns.

The north end of town, where St. Mark's stood, was the poor quarter, and the church was surrounded by the huddled homes of laborers, widows, the unsuccessful, and the old. It was a poor church—luckily for Merthin.

Four weeks ago, a desperate Father Joffroi had hired Merthin to build a hoist and repair his roof. Caris had persuaded Edmund to lend Merthin the money to buy tools. Merthin had hired a fourteen-year-old boy, Jimmie, to labor for a halfpenny a day. And today the hoist was finished.