Epic Historial Collection (203 page)

Godwyn's calculations called for Thomas to give up at this point. But it was not a certainty. Thomas was tough. For ten years he had shown himself to be quiet, patient, and resilient. When approached by Godwyn to stand as prior, he must have decided that the past could be buried. He must now realize he had been wrong. But how would he react to that realization? Would he see his mistake and back away? Or would he grit his teeth and see it through? Godwyn bit his lip and waited.

Thomas spoke at last. “I think you may be right about the question being asked elsewhere,” he said. “Or, at least, I think you will do everything in your power, no matter how unbrotherly or dangerous, to make your forecast come true.”

“I don't know if you're implying—”

“You need say no more!” Thomas said, rising abruptly to his feet. Murdo recoiled. Thomas's height and soldierly physique, combined with a sharp rise in his voice, achieved the rare result of silencing the friar.

“I have never answered questions about my past,” Thomas said. His voice was quiet again, and every monk in the room was still and silent, straining to hear. “I never will.” He pointed at Murdo. “But this…slug…makes me realize that if I became your prior, such questions would never cease. A monk may keep his past to himself, but a prior is different, I now see. A prior may have enemies, and any mystery is a weakness. And then, of course, by the leader's vulnerability the institution itself is threatened. My brain should have led me where Friar Murdo's malice led him—to the conclusion that a man who does not want to answer questions about his past cannot be a prior. Therefore—”

Young Theodoric said: “No!”

“Therefore I now withdraw my candidacy in the coming election.”

Godwyn breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. He had achieved his object.

Thomas sat down; Murdo looked smug; and everyone else tried to speak at the same time.

Carlus banged the table, and slowly they quieted down. He said: “Friar Murdo, as you don't have a vote in this election, I must ask you to leave us now.”

Murdo slowly walked out, looking triumphant.

When he had gone, Carlus said: “This is a catastrophe—Murdo the only candidate!”

Theodoric said: “Thomas cannot be allowed to withdraw.”

“But he has!”

Simeon said: “There must be another candidate.”

“Yes,” said Carlus. “And I propose Simeon.”

“No!” said Theodoric.

“Let me speak,” said Simeon. “We must choose the one among us who is most certain to unite the brethren against Murdo. That is not myself. I know I don't have enough backing among the youngsters. I think we all know who would gather most support from all sections.”

He turned and looked at Godwyn.

“Yes!” Theodoric said. “Godwyn!”

The younger monks cheered, and the older ones looked resigned. Godwyn shook his head, as if reluctant even to respond to them. They began to bang the tables and chant his name: “God-wyn! God-wyn!”

At last he stood up. His heart was full of elation, but he kept his face straight. He held up his hands for quiet. Then, when the room was silent, he said in a low, modest voice: “I shall obey the will of my brethren.”

The room erupted in cheering.

23

G
odwyn delayed the election. Earl Roland was going to be angry at the result, and Godwyn wanted to give him as little time as possible to fight the decision before the wedding.

The truth was that Godwyn was frightened. He was going up against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. There were only thirteen earls. Together with about forty lesser barons, twenty-one bishops, and a handful of others, they governed England. When the king summoned Parliament, they were the Lords, the aristocratic group, by contrast with the Commons, who were knights, gentry, and merchants. The earl of Shiring was one of the more powerful and prominent men of his class. And yet Brother Godwyn, age thirty-one, son of the widow Petranilla, who had risen no higher than sacrist of Kingsbridge Priory, was in conflict with the earl—and, what was even more dangerous, he was winning.

So he dithered—but, six days before the wedding, Roland put his foot down and said: “Tomorrow!”

Guests were already arriving for the nuptials. The earl of Monmouth had moved into the hospital, using the private room next to Roland's. Lord William and Lady Philippa had had to remove to the Bell Inn. Bishop Richard was sharing the prior's house with Carlus. Lesser barons and knights filled the taverns, along with their wives and children, squires and servants and horses. The town enjoyed a surge of spending, much needed after the disappointing profits from the rain-drenched Fleece Fair.

On the morning of the election Godwyn and Simeon went to the treasury, a small windowless room behind a heavy oak door off the library. The precious ornaments used for special services were there, locked in an ironbound chest. Simeon as treasurer held the keys.

The election was a foregone conclusion, or so thought everyone except Earl Roland. No one suspected Godwyn's hidden hand. He had suffered one tense moment, when Thomas had wondered aloud how Friar Murdo got to know about the Isabella charter. “He can't have discovered it accidentally—he's never been seen reading in the library, and anyway that deed isn't kept with the others,” Thomas had said to Godwyn. “Someone must have told him about it. But who? Only Carlus and Simeon knew of it. Why would they have let the secret out? They didn't want to help Murdo.” Godwyn had said nothing, and Thomas had remained baffled.

Godwyn and Simeon dragged the treasure chest into the light of the library. The cathedral jewels were wrapped in blue cloth and cushioned in protective sheets of leather. As they sorted through the box, Simeon unwrapped some of the items, admiring them and checking that they were undamaged. There was a plaque a few inches wide made of ivory, delicately carved, showing the crucifixion of St. Adolphus, at which the saint had asked God to grant good health and long life to all those who venerated his memory. There were numerous candlesticks and crucifixes, all of gold or silver, most decorated with precious stones. In the strong light from the tall library windows the gems glittered and the gold glowed. These things had been given to the priory, over the centuries, by devout worshippers. Their combined value was awesome: there was more wealth here than most people ever saw in one place.

Godwyn had come for a ceremonial crosier, or shepherd's crook, made of wood encased in gold, with an elaborately jeweled handle. This was ritually handed to the new prior at the end of the election process. The crook was at the bottom of the chest, not having been used for thirteen years. As Godwyn drew it out, Simeon let out an exclamation.

Godwyn looked up sharply. Simeon was holding a large crucifix on a stand, intended to be placed on an altar. “What's the matter?” Godwyn said.

Simeon showed him the back of the cross and pointed to a shallow cup-shaped indentation just below the crosspiece. Godwyn immediately saw that a ruby was missing. “It must have fallen out,” he said. He glanced around the library: they were alone.

They were both worried. As treasurer and sacrist they shared responsibility. They would be blamed for any loss.

Together they examined every item in the chest. They unwrapped each one and shook out every blue cloth. They looked at all the leather sheets. Frantically, they scrutinized the empty box and the floor all around. The ruby was nowhere to be seen.

Simeon said: “When was the crucifix last used?”

“At the feast of St. Adolphus, when Carlus fell. He knocked it off the table.”

“Perhaps the ruby fell out then. But how is it possible that no one noticed?”

“The stone was on the back of the cross. But surely someone would have seen it on the floor?”

“Who picked up the crucifix?”

“I don't remember,” Godwyn said quickly. “The situation was confused.” In fact he remembered perfectly well.

It was Philemon.

Godwyn could picture the scene. Philemon and Otho together had righted the altar, setting it squarely on its platform. Then Otho had picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the cross.

With a growing feeling of dismay, Godwyn recalled the disappearance of Lady Philippa's bracelet. Had Philemon stolen again? He trembled to think how it might affect him. Everyone knew that Philemon was Godwyn's unofficial acolyte. Such a dreadful sin—stealing a jewel from a sacred ornament—would bring shame on everyone associated with the perpetrator. It could easily upset the election.

Simeon obviously did not recollect the scene exactly, and he accepted without question Godwyn's feigned inability to remember who had picked up the cross. But others among the monks would surely recall seeing it in Philemon's hands. Godwyn had to put this right quickly, before suspicion could fall on Philemon. But first he had to get Simeon out of the way.

“We must search for the ruby in the church,” Simeon said.

“But the service was two weeks ago,” Godwyn protested. “A ruby can't have lain on the floor unnoticed for that length of time.”

“It's unlikely, but we must check.”

Godwyn saw that he had to go with Simeon, and wait for an opportunity to get away from him and seek out Philemon. “Of course,” he said.

They put the ornaments away and locked the treasury door. As they left the library, Godwyn said: “I suggest we say nothing about this until we're sure the jewel has been lost. No point in bringing blame on our heads prematurely.”

“Agreed.”

They hurried around the cloisters and entered the church. They stood in the center of the crossing and scanned the ground all around them. A month ago, the idea that a ruby could lie hidden somewhere on the church floor would have been more plausible; but recently the flagstones had been repaired, and the cracks and chips had disappeared. A ruby would have stood out.

Simeon said: “Now that I come to think of it, wasn't it Philemon who picked up the crucifix?”

Godwyn looked at Simeon's face. Was there accusation in the expression? He could not tell. “It may have been Philemon,” Godwyn said. Then he saw a chance to get away. “I'll go and fetch him,” he suggested. “Perhaps he will be able to recall exactly where he was standing at the time.”

“Good idea. I'll wait here.” Simeon got down on his knees and began to pat the floor with his hands, as if the ruby might be found by touch more easily than by sight.

Godwyn hurried out. He went first to the dormitory. The blanket cupboard was in the same place. He pulled it away from the wall, found the loose stone, and removed it. He put his hand into the hidey-hole where Philemon had stashed Lady Philippa's bracelet.

He found nothing there.

He cursed. It was not going to be that easy.

I'll have to dismiss Philemon from the monastery, he thought as he strode through the priory buildings looking for him. If he has stolen this ruby, I can't cover up for him again. He's out.

Then he realized, with a shock of dismay, that he could not dismiss Philemon—not now, perhaps not ever. It was Philemon who had told Friar Murdo about the Isabella charter. If dismissed, Philemon could confess what he had done, and reveal that he had done it at Godwyn's instigation. And he would be believed. Godwyn recalled Thomas's puzzling over who had told Murdo the secret, and why. Philemon's revelation would gain conviction by answering that question.

There would be an outcry at such underhand work. Even if the disclosure were made after the election, it would undermine Godwyn's authority and cripple his ability to lead the monks. The ominous truth dawned on him that he now had to protect Philemon in order to protect himself.

He found Philemon sweeping the hospital floor. He beckoned him outside and led him around to the back of the kitchen, where it was unlikely that anyone would see them.

He looked Philemon in the eye and said: “There's a ruby missing.”

Philemon looked away. “How terrible.”

“It's from the altar crucifix that was knocked to the floor when Carlus fell over.”

Philemon pretended innocence. “How could it have gone missing?”

“The ruby may have become dislodged when the crucifix hit the floor. But it's not on the floor now—I've just looked. Someone found it—and kept it.”

“Surely not.”

Godwyn felt angered by Philemon's false air of innocence. “You fool, everyone saw you pick up that crucifix!”

Philemon's voice rose to a higher pitch. “I know nothing about it!”

“Don't waste time lying to me! We have to put this right. I could lose the election on your account.” Godwyn pushed Philemon up against the wall of the bakehouse. “Where is it?”

To his astonishment, Philemon began to cry.

“For the love of the saints,” Godwyn said disgustedly. “Stop this nonsense—you're a grown man!”

Philemon continued to sob. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry.”