Epic Historial Collection (202 page)

As they rode along the path through the fields, Philemon said: “Why is the earl so keen to make his cousin prior of Kingsbridge?”

“For the same reason that he had his younger son made bishop of Kingsbridge,” Godwyn replied. “Bishops and priors are powerful. The earl wants to make sure that any influential man in his neighborhood is an ally, not an enemy.”

“What might they quarrel about?”

Godwyn was interested to see that young Philemon was beginning to be intrigued by the chess game of power politics. “Land, taxes, rights, privileges…for example, the prior might want to build a new bridge at Kingsbridge, to bring more business to the Fleece Fair; and the earl might oppose such a scheme, on the grounds that it would take business away from his own fair at Shiring.”

“But I don't really see how the prior could fight against the earl. A prior has no soldiers…”

“A clergyman can influence the mass of the people. If he preaches a sermon against the earl, or calls upon the saints to bring misfortune to the earl, people will begin to believe that the earl is cursed. Then they will discount his power, mistrust him, and expect all his projects to be doomed. It can be very hard for a nobleman to oppose a truly determined cleric. Look what happened to King Henry II after the murder of Thomas Becket.”

They rode into the farmyard and dismounted. The horses immediately drank from the trough. There was no one about but a monk with his robe hitched up, mucking out a pigsty behind the stables. He was sure to be a youngster, doing a job like that. Godwyn called to him. “Hey, you, lad! Come and help us with our horses.”

“Righto!” the monk called back. He finished cleaning out the sty with a few more passes of his rake, then leaned the tool up against the stable wall and walked toward the newcomers. Godwyn was about to tell him to get a move on when he recognized the blond fringe of Saul.

Godwyn disapproved. A prior should not muck out a pigsty. Ostentatious humility was, after all, ostentation. However, in this case Saul's meekness might suit Godwyn's purpose.

He gave Saul a friendly smile. “Hello, Brother. I didn't mean to order the prior to unsaddle my horse.”

“Why not?” said Saul. “Someone must do it, and you've been traveling all day.” Saul led the horses into the stable. “The brothers are in the fields,” he called out. “But they'll be back soon for Evensong.” He reemerged. “Come into the kitchen.”

They had never been close. Godwyn could not helping feeling criticized by Saul's piety. Saul was never unfriendly, but with quiet determination he simply did things differently. Godwyn had to take care not to become irritated. He felt stressed enough already.

Godwyn and Philemon followed Saul across the farmyard and into a one-story building with a high roof. Although made of wood, it had a stone fireplace and chimney. They sat gratefully on a rough bench at a scrubbed table. Saul drew two generous cups of ale from a large barrel.

He sat opposite them. Philemon drank thirstily, but Godwyn just sipped. Saul offered no food, and Godwyn guessed they would get nothing more until after Evensong. He felt too tense to eat, anyway.

This was another delicate moment, he reflected anxiously. He had had to protest against Murdo's nomination in such a way as not to dissuade Roland. Now he had to invite Saul to stand in a way that he could not possibly accept. He knew what he was going to say, but he had to say it right. If he made a false step, Saul would become suspicious, and then anything could happen.

Saul gave him no time for further worry. “What brings you here, Brother?” he said.

“Earl Roland has recovered his wits.”

“I thank God.”

“This means we can hold the election for prior.”

“Good. We should not go too long without one.”

“But who should it be?”

Saul sidestepped the question. “Have any names been put forward?”

“Brother Thomas, the matricularius.”

“He'd be a good manager. No one else?”

Godwyn told a half truth. “Not formally.”

“What about Carlus? When I came to Kingsbridge for Prior Anthony's funeral, the subprior was the leading candidate.”

“He feels he is not capable of the job.”

“Because of his blindness?”

“Perhaps.” Saul did not know about Carlus falling over during the service for St. Adolphus's birthday. Godwyn decided not to tell him. “At any rate, he has thought and prayed about it, and made his decision.”

“Has the earl not made a nomination?”

“He's thinking about it.” Godwyn hesitated. “That's why we're here. The earl is…considering nominating you.” This was not really a lie, Godwyn told himself; just a misleading emphasis.

“I'm honored.”

Godwyn studied him. “But not completely surprised, perhaps?”

Saul flushed. “Forgive me. The great Philip was in charge here at St. John and then became prior of Kingsbridge, and others have followed the same route. That is not to say that I'm worthy as they were, of course. But the thought had crossed my mind, I confess.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. How would you feel about being nominated?”

“How would I feel?” Saul seemed mystified. “Why ask that? If the earl wishes, he will nominate me; and if my brethren want me, they'll vote for me; and I will consider myself called by God. It makes no difference how I feel about it.”

This was not the answer Godwyn wanted. He needed Saul to make up his own mind. Talk of God's will was counterproductive. “It's not quite so simple,” he said. “You don't have to accept the nomination. That's why the earl sent me here.”

“It's not like Roland to ask where he might command.”

Godwyn almost winced. Never forget how shrewd Saul is, he told himself. He backpedaled hastily. “No, indeed. However, if you think you might refuse, he needs to know as soon as possible, so that he can nominate someone else.” That was probably true, though Roland had not said it.

“I didn't realize it was done this way.”

It is not done this way, Godwyn thought. But he said: “Last time it happened, when Prior Anthony was elected, you and I were both novices, so we didn't know what went on.”

“True.”

“Do you feel you have the ability to fill the role of prior of Kingsbridge?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah.” Godwyn pretended disappointment, though he had been relying on Saul's humility to produce that answer.

“However…”

“What?”

“With God's help, who knows what might be accomplished?”

“How true.” Godwyn concealed his annoyance. The humble answer had just been a formality. The truth was that Saul thought he could do the job. “Of course, you should reflect and pray about it tonight.”

“I'm sure I'll think of little else.” They heard distant voices. “The brothers are returning from their work.”

“We can talk again in the morning,” Godwyn said. “If you decide to be a candidate, you must come back to Kingsbridge with us.”

“Very well.”

There was a serious danger of Saul's accepting, Godwyn feared. But he had one more arrow to shoot. “Something else you might bear in mind in your prayers,” he said. “A nobleman never offers a free gift.”

Saul looked worried. “What do you mean?”

“Earls and barons dispense titles, land, positions, monopolies—but these things always have a price.”

“And in this case?”

“If you are elected, Roland will expect you to make recompense. You are his cousin, anyway; and you'll owe your position to him. You will be his voice in chapter, making sure the priory's actions don't interfere with his interests.”

“Will he make that an explicit condition of the nomination?”

“Explicit? No. But, when you return with me to Kingsbridge, he will question you, and the questions will be designed to reveal your intentions. If you insist that you will be an independent prior, showing no special favor to your cousin and sponsor, he will nominate someone else.”

“I had not thought of that.”

“Of course, you may simply give him the answers he wants to hear and then change your mind after the election.”

“But that would be dishonest.”

“Some would think so.”

“God would think so.”

“That's something for you to pray about tonight.”

A group of young monks came into the kitchen, muddy from the fields, talking loudly; and Saul got up to serve them ale, but the worried look remained on his face. It stayed there when they went into the little church, with its wall painting of the Day of Judgment over the altar, for Evensong. It was still there when at last the evening meal was served and Godwyn's hunger was assuaged by the delicious cheese the monks made.

Godwyn lay awake that night, although he ached from two days on horseback. He had confronted Saul with an ethical dilemma. Most monks would have been willing to shade their position while talking to Roland, and speak words which promised a degree of subservience to the earl much greater than they really intended. But not Saul. He was driven by moral imperatives. Would he find a way through the dilemma, and accept the nomination? Godwyn did not see how he could.

Saul still wore the worried look when the monks got up, at first light, for the service of Lauds.

After breakfast, he told Godwyn he could not accept the nomination.

 

Godwyn could not get used to Earl Roland's face. It was the strangest thing to look at. The earl was now wearing a hat to cover the bandages on his head; but, by making his appearance more normal, the hat emphasized the paralysis of the right side of his face. Roland also seemed even more bad-tempered than usual, and Godwyn guessed he was still suffering severe headaches.

“Where is my cousin Saul?” he said as soon as Godwyn walked into the room.

“Still at St. John, my lord. I gave him your message—”

“Message? It was a command!”

Lady Philippa, standing beside the bed, said softly: “Don't excite yourself, lord—you know it makes you feel ill.”

Godwyn said: “Brother Saul simply said that he cannot accept the nomination.”

“Why the devil not?”

“He thought and prayed—”

“Of course he prayed, that's what monks do. What reason did he give for defying me?”

“He does not feel himself capable of such a challenging role.”

“Nonsense. What challenge? He's not being asked to lead a thousand knights into battle—just make sure a handful of monks sing their hymns at the right times of day.”

That was rubbish, so Godwyn bowed his head and said nothing.

The earl's tone changed suddenly. “I've just realized who you are. You're the son of Petranilla, aren't you?”

“Yes, Lord.” That Petranilla whom you jilted, Godwyn thought.

“She was sly, and I'll bet you are too. How do I know you didn't talk Saul out of accepting? You want Thomas Langley to be prior, don't you?”

My plan is a lot more devious than that, you fool, Godwyn thought. He said: “Saul did ask me what you might want in return for nominating him.”

“Ah, now we come to it. What did you tell him?”

“That you would expect him to listen to one who was his cousin, his sponsor, and his earl.”

“And he was too pigheaded to accept that, I suppose. Right. That settles it. I shall nominate that fat friar. Now, get out of my sight.”

Godwyn had to hide his elation as he bowed out of the room. The penultimate stage of his plan had worked perfectly. Earl Roland had not the least suspicion of how he had been nudged into nominating the most hopeless candidate Godwyn could think of.

Now for the final step.

He left the hospital and entered the cloisters. It was the hour of study before the midday service of Sext, and most of the monks were standing or sitting around reading, being read to, or meditating. Godwyn spotted Theodoric, his young ally, and summoned him with a jerk of the head.

In a low voice, he said: “Earl Roland has nominated Friar Murdo as prior.”

Theodoric said loudly: “What?”

“Hush.”

“It's impossible!”

“Of course it is.”

“No one will vote for him.”

“That's why I'm pleased.”

Understanding dawned on Theodoric's face. “Oh…I see. So it's good for us, really.”

Godwyn wondered why he always had to explain these things, even to intelligent men. No one saw below the surface, except him and his mother. “Go around telling everyone—quietly. No need to show your outrage. They'll get angry enough without encouragement.”

“Should I say that this is good for Thomas?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right,” said Theodoric. “I understand.”

He evidently did not, but Godwyn felt he could be trusted to follow instructions.

Godwyn left him and went in search of Philemon. He found him sweeping out the refectory. “Do you know where Murdo is?” he asked.

“Probably in the kitchen.”

“Find him and ask him to meet you in the prior's house when all the monks are in church for Sext. I don't want anyone to see you there with him.”

“All right. What do I tell him?”

“First of all, you say: ‘Brother Murdo, no one must ever know that I told you this.' Is that clear?”

“No one must ever know that I told you this. All right.”

“Then show him the charter we found. You remember where it is—in the bedroom beside the prie-dieu, there's a chest with a ginger-colored leather wallet inside.”

“Is that all?”

“Point out that the land Thomas brought to the priory belonged originally to Queen Isabella, and that this fact has been kept secret for ten years.”

Philemon looked puzzled. “But we don't know what Thomas is trying to hide.”

“No. But there's always a reason for a secret.”

“Don't you think Murdo will try to use this information against Thomas?”

“Of course.”

“What will Murdo do?”

“I don't know but, whatever it is, it's sure to be bad for Thomas.”

Philemon frowned. “I thought we were supposed to be helping Thomas.”

Godwyn smiled. “That's what everyone thinks.”

The bell rang for Sext.

Philemon went off in search of Murdo, and Godwyn joined the rest of the monks in church. In unison with the others he said: “Oh, God, incline unto mine aid.” On this occasion he prayed with unusual earnestness. Despite the confidence he had shown Philemon, he knew he was gambling. He had staked everything on Thomas's secret, but he did not know what the face of the card would show when he turned it up.

However, it was clear he had succeeded in stirring up the monks. They were restless and talkative, and Carlus had to call for quiet twice during the psalms. They disliked friars in general, for taking an attitude of moral superiority on the question of earthly possessions while, at the same time, sponging off those they condemned. And they disliked Murdo in particular for being pompous, greedy, and drunk. They would have anyone rather than him.

As they left the church after the service, Simeon spoke to Godwyn. “We cannot have the friar,” he said.

“I agree.”

“Carlus and I will not be putting forward another name. If the monks appear divided, the earl will be able to present his candidate as a necessary compromise. We must sink our differences and rally round Thomas. If we show the world a united front, it will be difficult for the earl to oppose us.”

Godwyn stopped and faced Simeon. “Thank you, Brother,” he said, forcing himself to look humble and hide the exultation he felt.

“We're doing it for the good of the priory.”

“I know. But I appreciate your generosity of spirit.”

Simeon nodded and walked away.

Godwyn smelled victory.

The monks went into the refectory for dinner. Murdo joined them. He missed services, but not meals. All monasteries had a general rule that any monk or friar was welcomed at the table—though few people exploited the practice as thoroughly as Murdo. Godwyn studied his face. The friar looked excited, as if he had news he was bursting to share. However, he contained himself while dinner was served, and remained silent throughout the meal, listening to a novice read.

The passage chosen was the story of Susanna and the Elders. Godwyn disapproved: the story was too sexy to be read aloud in a celibate community. But today even the attempts of two lascivious old men to blackmail a woman into having sex with them failed to capture the monks' attention. They kept whispering among themselves, looking sidelong at Murdo.

When the food was finished, and the prophet Daniel had saved Susanna from execution by interrogating the elders separately and showing that they told inconsistent stories, the monks got ready to leave. At that moment, Murdo spoke to Thomas.

“When you came here, Brother Thomas, you had a sword wound, I believe.”

He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the other monks stopped to listen.

Thomas looked at him stonily. “Yes.”

“The wound that eventually caused you to lose your left arm. I wonder, did you receive that wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”

Thomas turned pale. “I've been a monk of Kingsbridge for ten years. My previous life is forgotten.”

Murdo carried on unperturbed. “I ask because of the parcel of land that you brought with you when you joined the priory. A very productive little village in Norfolk. Five hundred acres. Near Lynn—where the queen lives.”

Godwyn interrupted, pretending to be indignant. “What does an outsider know of our property?”

“Oh, I've read the charter,” Murdo said. “These things aren't secret.”

Godwyn looked at Carlus and Simeon, sitting side by side. Both men looked startled. As subprior and treasurer, they knew already. They must be wondering how Murdo had got sight of the deed. Simeon opened his mouth to speak.

Murdo said: “Or, at least, they're not supposed to be secret.”

Simeon closed his mouth again. If he demanded to know how Murdo had found out, he would himself face questions about why he had kept the secret.

Murdo went on: “And the farm at Lynn was donated to the priory by…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Queen Isabella,” he finished.

Godwyn looked around. There was consternation among the monks, all but Carlus and Simeon, who both looked stone-faced.

Friar Murdo leaned across the table. Green herbs from the dinnertime stew adhered to his teeth. “I ask you again,” he said aggressively. “Did you receive your wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”

Thomas said: “Everyone knows what I did before I was a monk. I was a knight, I fought battles, I killed men. I have confessed and received absolution.”

“A monk may put his past behind him—but the prior of Kingsbridge carries a heavier burden. He may be asked whom he killed, and why, and—most importantly—what reward he received.”

Thomas stared back at Murdo without speaking. Godwyn tried to read Thomas's face. It was rigidly set in an expression of some strong emotion—but what? There was no sign of guilt, or even embarrassment: whatever the secret was, Thomas did not feel he had done something shameful. The look was not rage, either. Murdo's sneering tone might have provoked many men to violence, but Thomas did not look as if he were about to lash out. No, what Thomas seemed to be feeling was something different, colder than embarrassment, quieter than rage. It was, Godwyn realized at last, fear. Thomas was afraid. Of Murdo? Hardly. No, he feared something that might happen because of Murdo, some consequence of Murdo's having discovered the secret.

Murdo continued like a dog with a bone. “If you don't answer the question here in this room, it will be asked elsewhere.”