Epic Historial Collection (280 page)

Caris watched the faces. Elfric was furious. Merthin smiled faintly, guessing that she had maneuvered herself into this position, pleased for her and for the town, the rueful twist to his mouth showing that he knew this would keep her out of his arms. Everyone else seemed glad. They knew and trusted her, and she had won even more loyalty by staying while Godwyn fled.

She would make the most of it. “Three matters I want to take care of urgently on my first day as acting prior,” she said. “First, drunkenness. Today I saw Duncan Dyer unconscious in the street before dinnertime. I believe this contributes to an atmosphere of debauchery in the town, which is the last thing we need during this dreadful crisis.”

There were loud sounds of approval. The parish guild was dominated by the older and more conservative of the town merchants. If they ever got drunk in the morning, they did it at home where no one could see.

Caris went on: “I want to give John Constable an extra deputy and instruct him to arrest anyone found drunk in daylight. He can put them in the jail until they sober up.”

Even Elfric was nodding.

“Second is the question of what happens to the property of people who die without heirs. This morning I found Joseph Blacksmith and Toby Peterson fighting in the street over three chickens belonging to Jack Marrow.”

There was laughter at the idea of grown men fighting over such trifles.

Caris had thought out her solution to that problem. “In principle, such property reverts to the lord of the manor, which for Kingsbridge residents means the priory. However, I don't want the monastery buildings filled up with old clothes, so I propose to waive the rule for anyone whose possessions are worth less than two pounds. Instead, the two nearest neighbors should lock up the house, to make sure nothing is taken; then the property should be inventoried by the parish priest, who will also hear the claims of any creditors. Where there is no priest, they can come to me. When any debts have been paid, the deceased's personal possessions—clothing, furniture, food and drink—will be divided up among the neighbors, and any cash given to the parish church.”

There was widespread approval for this, too, most people nodding and murmuring agreement.

“Finally, I found a thirteen-year-old orphan girl trying to sell her body outside the White Horse. Her name is Ismay, and she did it because she had nothing to eat.” Caris looked around the room with a challenging stare. “Can anyone tell me how such a thing could possibly happen in a Christian town? All her family are dead—but did they have no friends or neighbors? Who allows a child to starve?”

Edward Butcher said in a low voice: “Ismay Taylor is a rather badly behaved child.”

Caris was not accepting excuses. “She's thirteen!”

“I'm just saying that she might have been offered help and spurned it.”

“Since when did we allow children to make such decisions for themselves? If a child is orphaned, it is the duty of every one of us to take care of her. What does your religion mean, if not that?”

They all looked shamefaced.

“In future, whenever a child is orphaned, I want the two nearest neighbors to bring the child to me. Those who cannot be placed with a friendly family will move into the priory. The girls can live with the nuns, and we will turn the monks' dormitory into a bedroom for boys. They can all have lessons in the morning and do suitable work in the afternoon.”

There was general approval for that, too.

Elfric spoke up. “Have you finished, Mother Caris?”

“I think so, unless anyone wants to discuss the details of what I have suggested.”

No one spoke up, and the members began to move in their seats as if the meeting was over.

Then Elfric said: “Some of the men here may remember that they elected
me
as alderman of the guild.”

His voice was full of resentment. Everyone fidgeted impatiently.

“We have now seen the prior of Kingsbridge accused of theft and condemned without trial,” he went on.

That went down badly. There was a rumble of dissent. No one thought Godwyn innocent.

Elfric ignored the mood of the room. “And we have sat here like slaves and let a woman dictate the laws of the city to us. By whose authority are drunks to be imprisoned? Hers. Who is the ultimate judge of inheritance? She is. Who will dispose of the city's orphans? She will. What have you come to? Are you not men?”

Betty Baxter said: “No.”

The men laughed.

Caris decided not to intervene. It was unnecessary. She glanced at the bishop, wondering if he would assert himself against Elfric, and saw that he was sitting back, mouth clamped shut: plainly he, too, had realized that Elfric was fighting a losing battle.

Elfric raised his voice. “I say we reject a female prior, even acting prior, and we deny the right of the prioress to come to the parish guild and issue commandments!”

Several muttered mutinously. Two or three stood up, as if about to walk out in disgust. Someone called out: “Forget it, Elfric.”

He persisted. “And this is a woman who was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to death!”

All the men were standing, now. One walked out of the door.

“Come back!” Elfric shouted. “I haven't closed the meeting!”

No one took any notice.

Caris joined the group at the door. She made way for the bishop and the archdeacon. She was the last to leave. She turned back at the exit and looked at Elfric. He sat alone at the head of the room.

She went out.

64

I
t was twelve years since Godwyn and Philemon had visited the cell of St.-John-in-the-Forest. Godwyn remembered being impressed by the neatness of the fields, the trimmed hedges, the cleared ditches, and the apple trees in straight lines in the orchard. It was the same today. Evidently Saul Whitehead had not changed, either.

Godwyn and his caravan crossed a checkerboard of frozen fields toward the clustered buildings of the monastery. As they came closer, Godwyn saw that there had been some developments. Twelve years ago the little stone church with its cloister and dormitory had been surrounded by a scatter of small wooden structures: kitchen, stables, dairy, bakery. Now the flimsy timber outbuildings had gone, and the stone-built complex attached to the church had grown correspondingly. “The compound is more secure than it used to be,” Godwyn remarked.

“Because of the increase in outlawry by soldiers coming home from the French wars, I'd guess,” Philemon said.

Godwyn frowned. “I don't recall being asked for my permission for the building program.”

“You were not.”

“Hmm.” Unfortunately, he could hardly complain. Someone might ask how it was possible for Saul to have carried out such a program without Godwyn's knowledge, unless Godwyn had neglected his duty of supervision.

Besides, it suited his purpose now for the place to be easily closed to intruders.

The two-day journey had somewhat calmed him. The death of his mother had thrown him into a frenzy of fear. Every hour he remained in Kingsbridge, he had felt he was sure to die. He had got just enough grip on his emotions to address the meeting in the chapter house and organize the exodus. Despite his eloquence, a few of the monks had had misgivings about fleeing. Fortunately, they were all sworn to obedience, and the habit of doing as they were told had prevailed. Nevertheless, he had not begun to feel safe until his group had crossed the double bridge, torches blazing, and headed off into the night.

He still felt close to the edge. Every now and again he would be mulling something over and would decide to ask Petranilla what she thought, then he would realize he could not ask her advice ever again, and panic would rise like bile in his throat.

He was fleeing from the plague—but he should have done it three months ago, when Mark Webber died. Was he too late? He fought down terror. He would not feel safe until he was locked away from the world.

He wrenched his thoughts back to the present. There was no one in the fields at this time of year, but in a yard of beaten earth in front of the monastery he saw a handful of monks working: one shoeing a horse, another mending a plow, and a small group turning the lever of a cider press.

They all stopped what they were doing and stared, astonished, at the crowd of visitors approaching them: twenty monks, half a dozen novices, four carts, and ten packhorses. Godwyn had left nobody behind but the priory servants.

One of those at the cider press detached himself from the group and came forward. Godwyn recognized him as Saul Whitehead. They had met on Saul's annual visits to Kingsbridge, but now for the first time Godwyn noticed touches of gray in Saul's distinctive ash blond hair.

Twenty years ago they had been students together at Oxford. Saul had been the star pupil, quick to learn and agile in argument. He had also been the most devoutly religious of them all. He might have become prior of Kingsbridge if he had been less spiritual, and had thought strategically about his career instead of leaving such matters to God. As it was, when Prior Anthony had died and the election was held, Godwyn had easily outmaneuvered Saul.

All the same, Saul was not weak. He had a streak of stubborn righteousness that Godwyn feared. Would he go along obediently with Godwyn's plan today, or would he make trouble? Once again Godwyn fought down panic and struggled to remain cool.

He studied Saul's face carefully. The prior of St. John was surprised to see him, and clearly displeased. His expression was carefully composed into a look of polite welcome, but he was not smiling.

During the election campaign, Godwyn had made everyone believe that he himself did not want the job, but he had eliminated every other reasonable candidate, including Saul. Did Saul suspect how he had been hoodwinked?

“Good day to you, Father Prior,” Saul said as he approached. “This is an unexpected blessing.”

So he was not going to be openly hostile. No doubt he would think that such behavior conflicted with his vow of obedience. Godwyn was relieved. He said: “God bless you, my son. It is too long since I have visited my children at St. John.”

Saul looked at the monks, the horses, and the carts loaded with supplies. “This appears to be more than a simple visit.” He did not offer to help Godwyn down from his horse. It was as if he wanted an explanation before he would invite them in—which was ridiculous: he had no right to turn away his superior.

All the same, Godwyn found himself explaining. “Have you heard about the plague?”

“Rumors,” Saul said. “There are few visitors to bring us news.”

That was good. The lack of visitors was what drew Godwyn here. “The disease has killed hundreds in Kingsbridge. I feared it might wipe out the priory. That's why I've brought the monks here. It may be the only way to ensure our survival.”

“You are welcome here, of course, whatever the reason for your visit.”

“It goes without saying,” Godwyn said stiffly. He felt angry that he had been nudged into justifying himself.

Saul looked thoughtful. “I'm not sure where everyone's going to sleep…”

“I shall decide that,” Godwyn said, reasserting his authority. “You can show me around while your kitchen is preparing our supper.” He got down from his horse unaided and walked into the monastery.

Saul was obliged to follow.

The whole place had a bare, scrubbed look that expressed how serious Saul was about the monkish vow of poverty. But today Godwyn was more interested in how readily the place could be closed to outsiders. Fortunately, Saul's belief in order and control had led him to design buildings with few entrances. There were only three ways into the priory: through the kitchen, the stable, or the church. Each entrance had a stout door that could be firmly barred.

The dormitory was small, normally accommodating nine or ten monks, and there was no separate bedroom for the prior. The only way to fit twenty extra monks in was the let them sleep in the church.

Godwyn thought of taking over the dormitory for himself, but there was nowhere in the room to hide the cathedral treasures, and he wanted to keep them close. Fortunately, the little church had a small side chapel that could be closed off, and Godwyn took that for his own room. The rest of the Kingsbridge monks spread straw on the stamped earth floor of the nave and made the best of it.

The food and wine went to the kitchen and the cellar, but Philemon brought the ornaments into Godwyn's chapel-bedroom. Philemon had been chatting to the St. John monks. “Saul has his own way of running things,” he reported. “He demands rigid obedience to God and the Rule of St. Benedict, but they say he doesn't set himself up on a pedestal. He sleeps in the dorm, eats the same food as the others, and in general takes no privileges. Needless to say, they like him for that. But there's one monk who is constantly being punished—Brother Jonquil.”

“I remember him.” Jonquil had always been in trouble while a novice at Kingsbridge—for lateness, slovenliness, laziness, and greed. He was without self-control, and had probably been drawn to the monastic life as a way of getting someone else to enforce the restraint he could not impose on himself. “I doubt that he will be much help to us.”