“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.”

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

Godwyn 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.”

“If you don’t stop that—” Godwyn checked himself. Nothing was to be gained by berating Philemon. The man was truly pathetic. Speaking more gently, he said: “Try to pull yourself together. Where is the ruby?”

“I hid it.”

“Yes…”

“In the refectory chimney.”

Godwyn immediately turned away, heading for the refectory. “Mary save us, it could fall into the fire!”

Philemon followed, his tears drying. “There’s no fire in August. I would have moved it before the cold weather.”

They entered the refectory. At one end of the long room was a wide fireplace. Philemon put his arm up the chimney and fumbled for a moment. Then he produced a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg, covered with soot. He wiped it clean on his sleeve.

Godwyn took it. “Now come with me,” he said.

“What are we going to do?”

“Simeon is going to find this.”

They went to the church. Simeon was still searching on hands and knees. “Now,” Godwyn said to Philemon. “Try to remember exactly where you were when you picked up the crucifix.”

Simeon looked at Philemon and, seeing signs of emotion on his face, spoke kindly to him. “Don’t be afraid, lad, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Philemon positioned himself on the east side of the crossing, close to the steps leading up to the chancel. “I think it was here,” he said.

Godwyn climbed the two steps and looked under the choir stalls, pretending to search. Surreptitiously, he placed the ruby under one of the rows of seats, close to the near end, where it was not visible to a casual glance. Then, as if changing his mind about the likeliest place to look, he moved to the south side of the chancel. “Come and search under here, Philemon,” he said.

As he had hoped, Simeon then moved to the north side and got down on his knees to look under the stalls, murmuring a prayer as he did so.

Godwyn expected Simeon to see the ruby immediately. He pretended to search the south aisle, waiting for Simeon to find it. He began to think there must be something wrong with Simeon’s eyesight. He might have to go over there and “find” it himself. Then at last Simeon called out: “Oh! Here!”

Godwyn pretended to be excited. “Have you found it?”

“Yes! Hallelujah!”

“Where was it?”

“Here—under the choir stalls!”

“Praise be to God,” said Godwyn.

 

Godwyn told himself not to be frightened of Earl Roland. As he climbed the stone stairs of the hospital to the guest rooms, he asked himself what the earl could do to him. Even if Roland had been capable of getting out of his bed and drawing a sword, he would not be foolish enough to attack a monk within the precincts of a monastery—even a king would hardly get away with that.

Ralph Fitzgerald announced him, and he went into the room.

The earl’s sons stood either side of the bed: tall William, in soldierly brown hose and muddy boots, his hair already receding from his forehead; and Richard, in bishop’s purple, his growing roundness of figure evidence of a sybaritic nature and the means to indulge it. William was thirty, a year younger than Godwyn; he had his father’s strength of will, but it was sometimes softened by the influence of his wife, Philippa. Richard was twenty-eight, and presumably took after his late mother, for he had little of the earl’s imposing bearing and forcefulness.

“Well, monk?” said the earl, speaking out of the left side of his mouth. “Have you held your little election?”

Godwyn suffered a moment of resentment for this discourteous form of address. One day, he vowed silently, Roland would call him Father Prior. Indignation gave him the courage he needed to tell the earl the news. “We have, Lord,” he said. “I have the honor to tell you that the monks of Kingsbridge have chosen me as their prior.”

“What?” the earl bellowed. “You?”

Godwyn bowed his head in an affectation of humility. “No one could be more surprised than I.”

“You’re nothing but a boy!”

The insult stung Godwyn into a rejoinder. “I’m older than your son, the bishop of Kingsbridge.”

“How many votes did you get?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And how many for Friar Murdo?”

“None. The monks were unanimous—”

“None?” Roland roared. “There must have been a conspiracy—this is treason!”

“The election was held in strict accordance with the rules.”

“I don’t care a pig’s prick for your rules. I won’t be ignored by a bunch of effeminate monks.”

“I am the choice of my brothers, my lord. The inauguration ceremony will be held this coming Sunday, before the wedding.”

“The monks’ choice must be ratified by the bishop of Kingsbridge. And I can tell you he will not ratify you. Rerun the election, and this time bring me the result I want.”

“Very good, Earl Roland.” Godwyn went to the door. He had several more cards in his hand, but he was not going to lay them on the table all at once. He turned and addressed Richard. “My lord bishop, when you wish to speak to me about this, you will find me in the prior’s house.”

He stepped outside. “You’re not the prior!” Roland shouted as he shut the door.

Godwyn was trembling. Roland was formidable, especially when angry, and he was often angry. But Godwyn had stood his ground. Petranilla would be proud of him.

He went down the stairs on shaky legs and made his way to the prior’s house. Carlus had already moved out. For the first time in fifteen years, Godwyn would have a bedroom to himself. His pleasure was only slightly damped by having to share the place with the bishop, who traditionally stayed there while visiting. The bishop was, technically, the abbot of Kingsbridge ex officio and, though his power was limited, his status was above that of the prior. Richard was rarely in the house during the day, but returned every night to sleep in the best bedroom.

Godwyn entered the ground-floor hall and sat in the big chair, waiting. It would not be long before Bishop Richard appeared, his ears burning with his father’s scorching instructions. Richard was a rich and powerful man, but not frightening in the way the earl was. All the same, it was a bold monk who defied his bishop. However, Godwyn had an advantage in this confrontation, for he knew something shameful about Richard, and that was as good as a knife up his sleeve.

Richard bustled in a few minutes later, showing a confidence that Godwyn knew to be faked. “I’ve struck a bargain for you,” he said without preamble. “You can be subprior under Murdo. You’ll be in charge of day-to-day management of the priory. Murdo doesn’t want to be an administrator, anyway—he just wants the prestige. You’ll have all the power, but my father will be satisfied.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Godwyn. “Murdo agrees to make me his subprior. Then we tell the rest of the monks that he is the only one you’ll ratify. And you think they will accept that.”

“They have no choice!”

“I have an alternative suggestion. Tell the earl that the monks will not have anyone but me—and that I must be ratified before the wedding, otherwise the monks will not take part in the nuptials. The nuns, too, will refuse.” Godwyn did not know whether the monks would go along with this—let alone Mother Cecilia and the nuns—but he was too far gone for caution.

“They wouldn’t dare!”

“I’m afraid they would.”

Richard looked panicky. “My father won’t be bullied!”

Godwyn laughed. “Small chance of that. But I hope he may be made to see reason.”

“He’ll say the wedding must go ahead anyway. I’m the bishop, I can marry the couple, I don’t need monks to help me.”

“Of course. But there will be no singing, no candles, no psalms, no incense—just you and Archdeacon Lloyd.”

“They will still be married.”

“How will the earl of Monmouth feel about such a mean wedding for his son?”

“He’ll be furious, but he’ll accept it. The alliance is the important thing.”

That was probably right, Godwyn thought, and he felt the cold draft of imminent failure.

It was time to draw his concealed knife.

“You owe me a kindness,” he said.

At first, Richard pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Do I?”

“I concealed a sin you committed. Don’t pretend to have forgotten, it was only a couple of months ago.”

“Ah, yes, that was generous of you.”

“I saw, with my own eyes, you and Margery on the bed in the guest room.”

“Hush, for pity’s sake!”

“Now is your chance to repay me that kindness. Intercede with your father. Tell him to give in. Argue that the wedding is more important. Insist on ratifying me.”

Richard’s face showed desperation. He looked crushed by opposing forces. “I can’t!” he said, and there was panic in his voice. “My father won’t be defied. You know what he’s like.”

“Try.”

“I’ve already tried! I forced him to concede that you could be subprior.”

Godwyn doubted that Roland had conceded any such thing. Richard had almost certainly made it up, knowing that such a promise could easily be broken. All the same, Godwyn said: “I thank you for that.” Then he added: “But it’s not enough.”

“Just think about it,” Richard pleaded. “That’s all I ask.”

“I will. And I suggest you ask your father to do the same.”

“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. “This is going to be a catastrophe.”

 

The wedding was scheduled for Sunday. On the Saturday, in place of the service of Sext, Godwyn ordered a rehearsal, beginning with the ceremony of inauguration of the new prior and continuing with the marriage service. Outside it was another sunless day, the sky full of low, gray cloud heavy with rain, and the inside of the cathedral was gloomy. After the rehearsal, as the monks and nuns headed off for dinner and the novices began to tidy up the church, Godwyn was approached by Carlus and Simeon, both looking solemn.

“I think that went very smoothly, don’t you?” Godwyn said brightly.

Simeon said: “Is there actually going to be an inauguration for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“We hear the earl has ordered the election to be rerun.”

“Do you think he has the right to do that?”

“Indeed not,” said Simeon. “He has the power of nomination, that’s all. But he says Bishop Richard will not ratify you as prior.”

“Has Richard told you that?”

“Not himself, no.”

“I thought not. Trust me, the bishop will ratify me.” Godwyn heard his own voice sounding sincere and confident, and wished his feelings matched it.

Carlus said anxiously. “Did you tell Richard the monks would refuse to take part in the wedding?”

“I did.”

“That’s very hazardous. We’re not here to oppose the will of noblemen.”

Godwyn could have predicted that Carlus would weaken at the first sign of serious opposition. Fortunately, he was not planning to test the monks’ resolve. “We won’t have to do it, don’t worry. It’s just an empty threat. But don’t tell the bishop I said so.”

“So you’re not planning to ask the monks to boycott the wedding?”

“No.”

Simeon said: “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Perhaps—but I trust no one is in danger except me.”

“You did not even want to be prior. You would not allow your name to be put forward. You only accepted when all else failed.”

“I don’t want to be prior,” Godwyn lied. “But the earl of Shiring must not be allowed to choose for us, and that’s more important than my personal feelings.”

Simeon looked at him with respect. “You’re being very honorable.”

“Like you, Brother, I’m just trying to do the will of God.”

“May He bless your efforts.”

The two old monks left him. He felt a twinge of conscience for allowing them to believe that he was acting unselfishly. They saw him as some kind of martyr. But it was true, he told himself, that he was only trying to do the will of God.

He looked around: the church was back to normal. He was about to go to the prior’s house for dinner when his cousin Caris appeared, her blue dress a startling splash of color in the dim, gray church. “Are you going to be inaugurated tomorrow?” she said.

He smiled. “Everyone’s asking the same question. The answer is yes.”

“We hear the earl is putting up a fight.”

“He’s going to lose it.”

Her shrewd green eyes gave him a penetrating stare. “I’ve known you since you were a child, and I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re pretending to be more certain than you actually feel.”

“That’s not a sin.”

“My father is worried about the bridge. Friar Murdo is even more likely to obey the earl’s will than Saul Whitehead was.”

“Murdo is not going to be prior of Kingsbridge.”

“There you go again.”

Godwyn was annoyed by her perspicacity. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he snapped. “I’ve been elected, and I mean to take the post. Earl Roland would like to stop me, but he doesn’t have the right, and I’m fighting him with all the means at my disposal. Am I scared? Yes. But I still intend to beat him.”

She grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” She punched his shoulder. “Go and see your mother. She’s in your house, waiting for you. That’s what I came to tell you.” With that she turned and left.

Godwyn went out through the north transept. Caris was clever, he thought with a mixture of admiration and irritation. She had cajoled him into giving her an assessment of the situation more candid than anything he had said to anyone else.

But he was glad of the chance to talk to his mother. Everyone else doubted his power to win this fight. She would have confidence—and perhaps some strategic ideas.

He found Petranilla in the hall, sitting at the table, which was laid for two with bread, ale, and a platter of salted fish. He kissed her forehead, said grace, and sat down to eat. He allowed himself a moment of triumphant pleasure. “Well,” he said. “I’m the prior-elect, at least, and here we are having dinner in the prior’s house.”

“But Roland is still fighting you,” she said.

“Harder than I expected. After all, he has the right of nomination, not selection. It’s inherent in his position that his choice will not always be elected.”

“Most earls would accept that, but not him,” Petranilla said. “He’s felt superior to everyone he’s ever met.” There was a bitterness in her tone which, Godwyn guessed, sprang from memories of their aborted engagement more than thirty years ago. She smiled vengefully. “Soon he will realize how badly he’s underestimated us.”

“He knows I’m your son.”

“Then that will be a factor. You probably remind him of the dishonorable way he behaved to me. That’s enough to make him hate you.”

“It’s a shame.” Godwyn lowered his voice in case a servant might be listening outside the door. “Until this point, your plan has worked perfectly. Withdrawing myself from the contest, then discrediting everyone else, was brilliant.”

“Perhaps. But we may be about to lose everything. Have you said any more to the bishop?”

“No. I’ve reminded him that we know about Margery. He was scared, but not scared enough to defy his father, it seems.”

“He should be. If this comes out, he won’t be forgiven. He could end up a lowly knight on the level of Sir Gerald, wasting his days as a pensioner. Doesn’t he realize that?”

“Perhaps he thinks I don’t have the courage to reveal what I know.”

“Then you’ll have to go to the earl with the information.”

“Heavens! He’ll explode!”

“Steel your nerve.”

She always said this kind of thing. It was why he looked forward with such apprehension to meetings with her. She always wanted him to be a little more daring, and take greater risks, than was his inclination. But he could never refuse her.

She went on: “If it came out that Margery’s not a virgin, the marriage would be called off. Roland doesn’t want that. He’ll accept the lesser evil of you as prior.”

“But he’ll be my enemy for the rest of his life.”

“He’ll be that whatever happens.”

Small consolation, Godwyn thought; but he did not argue, for he could see that his mother was right.

There was a tap at the door, and Lady Philippa walked in.

Godwyn and Petranilla stood up.

“I need to talk to you,” Philippa said to Godwyn.

He said: “May I present my mother, Petranilla?”

Petranilla curtsied, then said: “I’d better leave. You’re obviously here to broker a deal, my lady.”

Philippa gave her an amused look. “If you know that much, you know everything of importance. Perhaps you should stay.”

As the two women stood facing one another, Godwyn noticed that they were similar: same height, same statuesque build, and the same imperious air. Philippa was younger, of course, by something like twenty years; and she had a relaxed authority, and a touch of humor, that contrasted with Petranilla’s tight-wound determination—perhaps because Philippa had a husband and Petranilla had lost hers. But Philippa was a strong-willed woman who exercised power through a man—Lord William—and, Godwyn now realized, Petranilla also wielded influence through a man—himself.

“Let’s sit down,” Philippa said.

Petranilla said: “Has the earl approved whatever you’re about to propose?”

“No.” Philippa made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Roland is too proud to agree in advance to something that might then be rejected by the other side. If I can get Godwyn’s agreement to what I’m about to suggest, then I’ve got a chance of persuading Roland to compromise.”

“I thought as much.”

Godwyn said: “Would you like something to eat, my lady?”

Philippa dismissed the offer with an impatient wave. “As things stand, everyone is going to lose,” she began. “The wedding will take place, but without the proper pomp and ceremony; so that Roland’s alliance with the earl of Monmouth will be blighted from the start. The bishop will refuse to ratify you as prior, Godwyn, so the archbishop will be called in to resolve the dispute; and he will dismiss both you and Murdo, and nominate someone new, probably a member of his staff whom he wants to be rid of. No one will get what they want. Am I right?”

She directed the question at Petranilla, who made a noncommittal sound.

“So why not anticipate the archbishop’s compromise?” Philippa went on. “Bring forward the third candidate now. Only”—she pointed a finger at Godwyn—“the candidate is chosen by you—and he promises to make you subprior.”

Godwyn considered. This would relieve him of the need to confront the earl eyeball-to-eyeball and threaten him with the revelation of his son’s behavior. But the compromise would doom him to be subprior for an indefinite period—and then, when the new prior died, he would have to fight the battle all over again. He was inclined to refuse, despite his apprehension.

He glanced at his mother. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She did not like it either.

“I’m sorry,” Godwyn said to Philippa. “The monks have held an election, and the result must stand.”

Philippa stood up. “In that case, I must give you the message that is my official reason for coming here. Tomorrow morning the earl will rise from his sickbed. He wishes to inspect the cathedral and make sure all is ready in plenty of time for the wedding. You are to meet him in the church at eight o’clock. All the monks and nuns must be robed and ready, and the church dressed with the usual ornaments.”

Godwyn bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she went out.

 

At the appointed hour Godwyn stood in a bare, silent church.

He was alone: there were no monks or nuns with him. No furniture was to be seen, except for the fixed choir stalls. There were no candles, no crucifixes, no chalices, no flowers. The watery sun that had shone fitfully through rain clouds much of this summer now cast a weak, cold light into the nave. Godwyn held his hands tightly together behind his back to keep them from shaking.

On time, the earl walked in.

With him were Lord William, Lady Philippa, Bishop Richard, Richard’s assistant Archdeacon Lloyd, and the earl’s clerk Father Jerome. Godwyn would have liked to surround himself with an entourage, but none of the monks knew quite how risky his scheme was, and if they had known, they might not have had the nerve to back him up; so he had decided to face the earl alone.

The bandages had been removed from Roland’s head. He walked slowly but steadily. He must surely feel shaky after so many weeks in bed, Godwyn thought, but he seemed determined not to show it. He looked normal apart from the paralysis of half his face. His message to the world today would be that he was fully recovered and back in charge. And Godwyn was threatening to spoil that design.

The others looked with incredulity at the empty church, but the earl showed no surprise. “You’re an arrogant monk,” he said to Godwyn, speaking as always out of the left side of his mouth.

Godwyn was risking everything, and had nothing further to lose by being defiant, so he said: “You’re an obstinate earl.”

Roland put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I ought to run you through for that.”

“Go ahead.” Godwyn held his arms out sideways, ready to be crucified. “Murder the prior of Kingsbridge, here in the cathedral, just as King Henry’s knights murdered Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury. Send me to Heaven and yourself to eternal damnation.”

Philippa gasped with shock at Godwyn’s disrespect. William moved as if to silence Godwyn. Roland restrained him with a gesture, and said to Godwyn: “Your bishop orders you to ready the church for the wedding. Don’t monks take a vow of obedience?”

“The lady Margery cannot be married here.”

“Why not—because you want to be prior?”

“Because she is not a virgin.”

Philippa’s hand flew to her mouth. Richard groaned. William drew his sword. Roland said: “This is treason!”

Godwyn said: “Put away your sword, Lord William—you can’t restore her maidenhead with that.”

Roland said: “What do you know of such things, monk?”

“Two men of this priory witnessed the act, which took place in a private room of the hospital, the very room where you, my lord, are staying.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“The earl of Monmouth will.”

“You would not dare to tell him.”

“I must explain to him why his son cannot marry Margery in Kingsbridge Cathedral—at least until she has confessed her sin and received absolution.”

“You have no proof of this slander.”

“I have two witnesses. But ask the girl. I believe she will confess. I imagine she favors the lover who took her virginity over the political match chosen by her uncle.” Once again Godwyn was going out on a limb. But he had seen Margery’s face when Richard was kissing her, and at that moment he had felt sure she was in love. Having to marry the earl’s son must be breaking her heart. It would be very difficult for such a young woman to lie convincingly if her emotions were as turbulent as Godwyn guessed.

The animated half of Roland’s face was working with fury. “And who is this man who you claim committed this crime? For, if you can prove what you allege, the villain will hang, I swear. And, if not, you will. So let him be sent for, and we’ll see what he has to say.”

“He’s already here.”

Roland looked with incredulity at the four men with him—his two sons, William and Richard, plus two priests, Lloyd and Jerome.

Godwyn stared at Richard.

Roland followed the direction of Godwyn’s stare. In a moment, they were all looking at Richard.

Godwyn held his breath. What would Richard say? Would he bluster? Would he accuse Godwyn of lying? Would he fly into a rage and attack his accuser?

But his face showed defeat, not anger, and after a moment he bowed his head and said: “It’s no good. The damned monk is right—she will not withstand interrogation.”

Earl Roland went white. “You did this?” he said. For once he was not shouting, but that seemed to make him more terrifying. “The girl I betrothed to an earl’s son—you fucked her?”

Richard made no reply, but looked down at the ground.

“You fool,” the earl said. “You traitor. You—”

Philippa interrupted him. “Who else knows?”

That stopped the tirade. They all looked at her.

“Perhaps the wedding may still take place,” she said. “Thank God, the earl of Monmouth isn’t here.” She looked at Godwyn. “Who knows about this, other than the people here now, and the two men of the priory who witnessed the act?”

Godwyn tried to calm his thudding heart. He was so close to success that he seemed to taste it. “No one else knows, my lady,” he said.

“All of us on the earl’s side can keep the secret,” she said. “What about your men?”

“They will obey their elected prior,” he said, with the slightest emphasis on the word “elected.”

Philippa turned to Roland. “Then the wedding can take place.”

Godwyn added: “Provided the inauguration ceremony is held first.”

Everyone looked at the earl.

He took a step forward and suddenly hit Richard in the face. It was a powerful blow struck by a soldier who knew how to put all his weight into it. Although he used his open hand, Richard was knocked to the ground.

Richard lay still, looking terrified, blood trickling from his mouth.

Earl Roland’s face was white and sweating: the blow had used up all his reserves, and he now looked shaky. Several silent seconds passed. At last he seemed to recover his strength. With a contemptuous glance at the purple-robed figure cowering on the floor, he turned on his heel and walked, slowly but steadily, out of the church.

24

Caris stood on the green in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral, along with at least half the population of the town, waiting for the bride and groom to emerge from the great west door of the church.

Caris was not sure why she was here. She had been feeling negative about marriage ever since the day Merthin had finished his hoist, and they had had an abrasive conversation about their future. She felt angry with him, even though everything he had said made perfect sense. Of course he wanted to have his own house and live with her in it; of course he wanted to sleep with her every night and have children. That was what everyone wanted—everyone, it seemed, except Caris.

And in fact she wanted all those things, too, in a way. She would have liked to lie down beside him every evening, and put her arms around his slim body anytime she wanted, and feel his clever hands on her skin when she woke up in the morning, and give birth to a miniature version of him that they could both love and care for. But she did not want the things that went with marriage. She wanted a lover, not a master; she wanted to live with him, not dedicate her life to him. And she was angry with Merthin for forcing her to face up to the dilemma. Why could they not go on just as they were?

For three weeks she had hardly spoken to him. She pretended to have a summer cold, and in fact she developed a painful sore on her lip that gave her an excuse not to kiss him. He still took his meals at her house, and talked amiably with her father; but he did not linger after Edmund and Petranilla went to bed.

Now Caris’s sore had healed and her anger had cooled. She still did not want to become Merthin’s property, but she wished he would start kissing her again. However, he was not with her now. He was in the crowd, some distance away, talking to Bessie Bell, daughter of the landlord of the Bell Inn. She was a small girl with a curvy body and the kind of grin that men called saucy and women called tarty. Merthin was making her laugh. Caris looked away.

The big wooden church door opened. A cheer went up from the crowd, and the bride emerged. Margery was a pretty girl of sixteen, dressed in white, with flowers in her hair. The groom followed her out, a tall, serious-looking man about ten years older than she.

They both looked completely miserable.

They hardly knew each other. Until this week, they had met only once, six months ago, when the two earls had arranged the marriage. There was a rumor that Margery loved someone else, but of course there was no question of her disobeying Earl Roland. And her new husband had a studious air, as if he would prefer to be in a library somewhere, reading a book about geometry. What would their life together be like? It was hard to imagine their developing the kind of passion for one another that Caris and Merthin enjoyed.

She saw Merthin coming toward her through the crowd, and suddenly she was struck by the thought that she was ungrateful. How lucky she was not to be the niece of an earl! No one was going to force her into an arranged marriage. She was free to marry the man she loved—and all she could do was find reasons not to.

She greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the lips. He looked surprised, but made no comment. Some men would have been unnerved by her change of mood, but Merthin had a bedrock equanimity that was hard to shake.

They stood together and watched as Earl Roland came out of the church, followed by the earl and countess of Monmouth, then Bishop Richard and Prior Godwyn. Caris noticed that her cousin Godwyn looked both pleased and apprehensive—almost as if he were the groom. The reason, no doubt, was that he had just been inaugurated as prior.

An escort of knights formed up, the Shiring men in Roland’s red-and-black livery, the Monmouth men in yellow and green. The procession moved off, heading for the guildhall. There Earl Roland was giving a banquet for the wedding guests. Edmund was going, but Caris had managed to get out of it, and Petranilla was to accompany him.

As the bridal party left the precincts, a light shower of rain began to fall. Caris and Merthin took shelter in the cathedral porch. “Come with me to the chancel,” Merthin said. “I want to look at Elfric’s repairs.”

The wedding guests were still leaving the church. Moving against the flow, Merthin and Caris pushed through the crowd in the nave and went to the south aisle of the chancel. This part of the church was reserved for the clergy, and they would have disapproved of Caris’s being there, but the monks and nuns had already left. Caris glanced around, but there was no one to see her except one unfamiliar woman, a well-dressed redhead of about thirty, presumably a wedding guest, apparently waiting for someone.

Merthin craned his neck to look up at the vaulted ceiling over the aisle. The repairs were not quite finished: a small section of the vault was still open, and a sheet of canvas, painted white, was stretched across the gap, so that the ceiling looked complete to a casual glance.

“He’s doing a decent job,” Merthin said. “I wonder how long it will last.”

“Why wouldn’t it last indefinitely?” Caris asked.

“Because we don’t know why the vault crumbled. These things don’t happen for no reason—they’re not acts of God, regardless of what the priests may say. Whatever caused the stonework to collapse once will, presumably, do so again.”

“Is it possible to discover the cause?”

“It’s not easy. Elfric certainly can’t do it. I might.”

“But you’ve been sacked.”

“Exactly.” He stood there for a few moments, head tilted back, then said: “I want to see this from above. I’m going into the loft.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They both looked around, but there was no one nearby except for the red-haired wedding guest, who was still loitering in the south transept. Merthin led Caris to a small door that opened on a narrow spiral staircase. She followed him up, wondering what the monks would think if they knew a woman was exploring their secret passageways. The staircase emerged into an attic over the south aisle.

Caris was intrigued to see the vault from the other side. “What you’re looking at is called the extrados,” Merthin said. She liked the casual way he gave her architectural information, assuming she would be interested and knowing she would understand. He never made stupid jokes about women not grasping technicalities.

He moved along the narrow walkway then lay down to examine the new stonework closely. Mischievously, she lay beside him and put her arm around him, as if they were in bed. Merthin touched the mortar between the new stones then put his finger on his tongue. “It’s drying out quite quickly,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s very dangerous if there’s moisture in the cleft.”

He looked at her. “I’ll give you moisture in the cleft.”

“You already have.”

He kissed her. She closed her eyes to enjoy it more.

After a minute she said: “Let’s go to my house. We’ll have it to ourselves—my father and my aunt are both at the wedding banquet.”

They were about to get up when they heard voices. A man and a woman had come into the south aisle, immediately below the repair work. What they said was only a little muffled by the canvas sheet covering the hole in the ceiling. “Your son is thirteen now,” the woman said. “He wants to be a knight.”

“All boys do,” came the reply.

Merthin whispered: “Don’t move—they’ll hear us.”

Caris presumed the female voice to be that of the wedding guest. The male voice was familiar, and she had the feeling the speaker was a monk—but a monk could not have a son.

“And your daughter is twelve. She’s going to be beautiful.”

“Like her mother.”

“A little.” There was a pause, then the woman went on: “I can’t stay long—the countess may look for me.”

So she was in the entourage of the countess of Monmouth. She might be a lady-in-waiting, Caris guessed. She seemed to be giving news of children to a father who had not seen them for years. Who could it be?

He said: “Why did you want to meet me, Loreen?”

“Just to look at you. I’m sorry you lost your arm.”

Caris gasped, then covered her mouth, hoping she had not been heard. There was only one monk who had lost an arm: Thomas. Now that the name had come into her mind, she knew that the voice was his. Could it be that he had a wife? And two children? Caris looked at Merthin and saw that his face was a mask of incredulity.

“What do you tell the children of me?” Thomas asked.

“That their father is dead,” Loreen replied harshly. Then she began to cry. “Why did you do it?”

“I had no choice. If I had not come here, I would have been killed. Even now, I almost never leave the precincts.”

“Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“To protect a secret.”

“I’d be better off if you’d died. As a widow, I could find a husband, someone to be a father to my children. But this way I have all the burdens of a wife and mother but no one to help me…no one to put his arms around me in the night.”

“I’m sorry I’m still alive.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t wish you dead. I loved you once.”

“And I loved you as much as a man of my kind can love a woman.”

Caris frowned. What did he mean by “a man of my kind”? Was he one of those men who loved other men? Monks often were.

Whatever he meant, Loreen seemed to understand, for she said gently: “I know you did.”

There was a long silence. Caris knew she and Merthin should not be eavesdropping on such an intimate conversation—but it was now too late to reveal themselves.

Loreen said: “Are you happy?”

“Yes. I was not made to be a husband, or a knight. I pray for my children every day—and for you. I ask God to wash from my hands the blood of all the men I killed. This is the life I always wanted.”

“In that case, I wish you well.”

“You’re very generous.”

“You’ll probably never see me again.”

“I know.”

“Kiss me, and say good-bye.”

There was a long silence, then light footsteps receded. Caris lay still, hardly daring to breathe. After another pause, she heard Thomas crying. His sobs were muffled, but seemed to come from deep inside. Tears came to her own eyes as she listened.

Eventually Thomas got himself under control. He sniffed, coughed, and muttered something that might have been a prayer; then she heard his steps as he walked away.

At last she and Merthin could move. They stood up and walked back along the loft and down the spiral stairs. Neither spoke as they went down the nave of the great church. Caris felt as if she had been staring at a painting of high tragedy, the figures frozen in their dramatic attitudes of the moment, their past and future only to be guessed at.

Like a painting, the scene aroused different emotions in different people, and Merthin’s reaction was not the same as hers. As they emerged into a damp summer afternoon, he said: “What a sad story.”

“It makes me angry,” Caris said. “That woman has been ruined by Thomas.”

“You can hardly blame him. He had to save his life.”

“And now her life is over. She has no husband, but she can’t marry again. She’s forced to raise two children alone. At least Thomas has the monastery.”

“She has the court of the countess.”

“How can you compare the two?” Caris said irritably. “She’s probably a distant relation, kept on as an act of charity, asked to perform menial tasks, helping the countess dress her hair and choose her clothes. She’s got no choice—she’s trapped.”

“So is he. You heard him say he can’t leave the precincts.”

“But Thomas has a role, he’s the matricularius, he makes decisions, he does something.”

“Loreen has her children.”

“Exactly! The man takes care of the most important building for miles around, and the woman is stuck with her children.”

“Queen Isabella had four children, and for a while she was one of the most powerful people in Europe.”

“But she had to get rid of her husband first.”

They went on in silence, walking out of the priory grounds into the main street, and stopped in front of Caris’s house. She realized that this was another quarrel, and it was on the same subject as last time: marriage.

Merthin said: “I’m going to the Bell for dinner.”

That was Bessie’s father’s inn. “All right,” Caris said despondently.

As Merthin walked away, she called after him: “Loreen would be better off if she’d never married.”

He spoke over his shoulder. “What else would she do?”

That was the problem, Caris thought resentfully as she entered her house. What else was a woman to do?

The place was empty. Edmund and Petranilla were at the banquet, and the servants had the afternoon off. Only Scrap the dog was there to welcome Caris with a lazy wag of her tail. Caris patted her black head absentmindedly, then sat at the table in the hall, brooding.

Every other young woman in Christendom wanted nothing more than to marry the man she loved—why was Caris so horrified by the prospect? From where had she got such unconventional feelings? Certainly not from her own mother. Rose had wanted only to be a good wife to Edmund. She had believed what men said about the inferiority of women. Her subordination had embarrassed Caris and, though Edmund never complained, Caris suspected that he had been bored by it. Caris had more respect for her forceful, unlovable aunt Petranilla than for her compliant mother.

Even Petranilla had allowed her life to be shaped by men. For years she had worked to maneuver her father up the social ladder until he became alderman of Kingsbridge. Her strongest emotion was resentment: toward Earl Roland because he had jilted her, and toward her husband because he had died. As a widow she had dedicated herself to Godwyn’s career.

Queen Isabella had been similar. She had deposed her husband, King Edward II; but the result had been that her lover, Roger Mortimer, had effectively ruled England until her son grew old enough and confident enough to oust him.

Was that what Caris should do—live her life through men? Her father wanted her to work with him in the wool business. Or she could manage Merthin’s career, helping him secure contracts to construct churches and bridges, expanding his business until he was the richest and most important builder in England.

She was roused from her thoughts by a tap at the door, and the birdlike figure of Mother Cecilia walked briskly in.

“Good afternoon!” Caris said in surprise. “I was just asking myself whether all women are doomed to live their lives through men—and here you are, an obvious counterexample.”

“You’re not quite right,” Cecilia said with a friendly smile. “I live through Jesus Christ, who was a man, though he is God, too.”

Caris was not sure whether that counted. She opened the cupboard and took out a small barrel of the best wine. “Would you like a cup of my father’s Rhenish?”

“Just a little, mixed with water.”

Caris half-filled two cups with wine then topped up the drinks with water from a jug. “You know that my father and aunt are at the banquet.”

“Yes. I came to see you.”

Caris had guessed as much. The prioress did not wander around the town making social calls without a purpose.

Cecilia sipped, then went on: “I’ve been thinking about you, and the way you acted on the day the bridge collapsed.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“On the contrary. You did everything perfectly. You were gentle but firm with the injured, and you obeyed my orders but at the same time used your initiative. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“And you seemed…not to enjoy it, exactly, but at least to find satisfaction in the work.”

“People were in distress, and we brought them relief—what could be more satisfying?”

“That’s how I feel, and it’s why I’m a nun.”

Caris saw where this was going. “I couldn’t spend my life in the priory.”

“The natural aptitude you showed for looking after the sick is only part of what I noticed. When people first started to walk into the cathedral carrying the injured and dead, I asked who had told them what to do. The answer was Caris Wooler.”

“It was obvious what should be done.”

“Yes—to you.” Cecilia leaned forward earnestly. “The talent for organization is given to few people. I know—I have it, and I recognize it in others. When everyone around us is baffled, or panicked, or terrified, you and I take charge.”

Caris felt this was true. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.

“I’ve watched you for ten years—since the day your mother died.”

“You brought her relief in her distress.”

“I knew then, just by talking to you, that you were going to grow up into an exceptional woman. My feeling was confirmed when you attended the nuns’ school. You’re twenty now. You must be thinking about what to do with your life. I believe that God has work for you.”

“How do you know what God thinks?”

Cecilia bristled. “If anyone else in town asked me that question, I’d order them down on their knees to pray for forgiveness. But you’re sincere, so I’ll answer. I know what God thinks because I accept the teachings of His church. And I’m convinced he wants you to be a nun.”

“I like men too much.”

“Always a problem for me, as a youngster—but, I can assure you, a problem that diminishes with every passing year.”

“I can’t be told how to live.”

“Don’t be a Beguine.”

“What’s that?”

“Beguines are nuns who accept no rules and consider their vows to be temporary. They live together, cultivate their lands and graze their cattle, and refuse to be governed by men.”

Caris was always intrigued to hear of women who defied the rules. “Where are they to be found?”

“Mostly in the Netherlands. They had a leader, Marguerite Porete, who wrote a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“Out of the question. The Beguines have been condemned by the church for the heresy of the Free Spirit—the belief that we can attain spiritual perfection here on earth.”

“Spiritual perfection? What does that mean? It’s just a phrase.”

“If you’re determined to close your mind to God, you’ll never understand it.”

“I’m sorry, Mother Cecilia, but every time I’m told something about God by a mere human, I think: But humans are fallible, so the truth might be different.”

“How could the church be wrong?”

“Well, the Muslims have different beliefs.”

“They’re heathens!”

“They call us infidels—it’s the same thing. And Buonaventura Caroli says there are more Muslims than Christians in the world. So somebody’s church is wrong.”

“Be careful,” Cecilia said severely. “Don’t allow your passion for argument to lead you into blasphemy.”

“Sorry, Mother.” Caris knew that Cecilia enjoyed sparring with her, but there always came a moment when the prioress stopped arguing and started preaching, and Caris had to back down. It left her feeling slightly cheated.

Cecilia stood up. “I know I can’t persuade you against your will, but I wanted you to know the tendency of my thoughts. You could do nothing better than to join our nunnery, and dedicate your life to the sacrament of healing. Thank you for the wine.”

As Cecilia was leaving, Caris said: “What happened to Marguerite Porete? Is she still alive?”

“No,” said the prioress. “She was burned at the stake.” She went out into the street, shutting the door behind her.

Caris stared at the closed door. A woman’s life was a house of closed doors: she could not be an apprentice, she could not study at the university, she could not be a priest or a physician, or shoot a bow or fight with a sword, and she could not marry without submitting herself to the tyranny of her husband.

She wondered what Merthin was doing now. Was Bessie sitting at his table at the Bell Inn, watching him drink her father’s best ale, giving him that inviting smile, pulling the front of her dress tight to make sure he could see what nice breasts she had? Was he being charming and amusing to her, making her laugh? Was she parting her lips to show him her even teeth, and throwing back her head so that he could appreciate the soft skin of her white throat? Was he talking to her father, Paul Bell, asking respectful and interested questions about his business, so that later Paul would tell his daughter that Merthin was a good sort, a fine young man? Would Merthin get drunk and put his arm around Bessie’s waist, resting his hand on her hip then slyly inching his fingertips toward that sensitive place between her thighs that was already itching for his touch—just as he once had with Caris?

Tears came to her eyes. She felt she was a fool. She had the best man in town and here she was handing him over to a barmaid. Why did she do these things to herself?

At that moment he walked in.

She looked at him through a mist of tears. Her vision was so blurred that she could not read his expression. Had he come to make friends again—or to berate her, venting his anger with the courage of several tankards of ale?

She stood up. For a moment she was held in suspense, as he closed the door behind him and came slowly to stand in front of her. Then he said: “No matter what you do or say, I still love you.”

She threw her arms around him and burst out crying.

He stroked her hair and said nothing, which was just right.

After a while they started to kiss. She felt the familiar hunger, but stronger than ever: she wanted his hands all over her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers inside her. She felt differently and she wanted their love to find a new expression. “Let’s take off all our clothes,” she said. They had never done that before.

He smiled with pleasure. “All right, but what if someone comes in?”

“They’ll be at the banquet for hours. And anyway we can go upstairs.”

They went to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes. Suddenly she felt shy. What would he think when he saw her naked? She knew he loved her body bit by bit: her breasts, her legs, her throat, her cunt—he always told her how beautiful they were as he kissed and caressed them. But would he now notice that her hips were too wide, her legs a little short, her breasts quite small?

He seemed to have no such inhibitions. He threw off his shirt, pulled down his underdrawers, and stood unself-consciously before her. His body was slight but strong, and he seemed full of pent-up energy, like a young deer. She noticed for the first time that the hair at his groin was the color of autumn leaves. His cock stood up eagerly. Desire overcame her shyness, and she pulled her dress quickly over her head.

He stared at her bare body, but she no longer felt embarrassed—his look inflamed her like an intimate caress. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“So are you.”

They lay side by side on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. As they kissed and touched one another, she realized that today she was not going to be satisfied with the games they usually played. “I want to do it properly,” she said.

“You mean go the whole way?”

The thought of pregnancy surfaced in her mind, but she pushed it back down. She was too heated to think of consequences. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

He lay on top of her. Half her life she had wondered what this moment would be like. She looked up at his face. It wore the concentrated expression that she loved so much, the look he had when he was working, his small hands shaping wood with tenderness and skill. His fingertips softly spread the petals of her sex. She was slippery and yearning for him.

He said: “Are you sure?”

Once again she suppressed the thought of pregnancy. “I’m sure.”

She felt a moment of fear when he entered her. She tightened involuntarily, and he hesitated, feeling her body resisting him. “It’s all right,” she said. “You can push harder. You won’t hurt me.” She was wrong about that, and there was a sudden sharp pain as he thrust. She could not help crying out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Just wait a minute,” she said.

They lay still. He kissed her eyelids and her forehead and the tip of her nose. She stroked his face and looked into his golden brown eyes. Then the pain was gone and the desire came back, and she began to move, rejoicing in the feeling of having the man she loved deep inside her body for the first time. She thrilled to see the intensity of his pleasure. He stared at her, a faint smile on his lips, a deep hunger in his eyes, as they moved faster.

“I can’t stop,” he said breathlessly.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

She watched him intently. In a few moments he was overwhelmed by pleasure, his eyes shut tight and his mouth open and his whole body as taut as a bowstring. She felt his spasms inside her, and the jet of his ejaculation, and she thought that nothing in life had prepared her for such happiness. A moment later she herself was convulsed with ecstasy. She had had this sensation before, but not so powerfully, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, pulling his body hard against her own as she shook like a tree in the wind.

When it was over, they lay still for a long while. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt his panting breath on her skin. She stroked his back. His skin was damp with perspiration. Gradually her heartbeat slowed, and a deep contentment stole over her like twilight on a summer evening.

“So,” she said after a while, “that’s what all the fuss is about.”

25

The day after Godwyn was confirmed as prior of Kingsbridge, Edmund Wooler came to Merthin’s parents’ house early in the morning.

Merthin tended to forget what an important personage Edmund was, for Edmund treated him as a member of the family; but Gerald and Maud acted as if receiving an unexpected royal visitation. They were embarrassed that Edmund should see how poor their house was. There was only one room. Merthin and his parents slept on straw mattresses on the floor. There was a fireplace and a table and a small yard at the back.

Fortunately, the family had been up since sunrise, and had washed and dressed and tidied the place. All the same, when Edmund came stomping into the house with his uneven gait, Merthin’s mother dusted a stool, patted her hair, closed the back door then opened it again, and put a log on the fire. His father bowed several times, put on a surcoat, and offered Edmund a cup of ale.

“No, thank you, Sir Gerald,” said Edmund, no doubt knowing that the family had none to spare. “However, I’ll take a small bowl of your pottage, Lady Maud, if I may.” Every family kept a pot of oats on the fire to which they added bones, apple cores, pea pods, and other scraps, to be slow-cooked for days. Flavored with salt and herbs, the result was a soup that never tasted the same twice. It was the cheapest food.

Pleased, Maud ladled some pottage into a bowl and put it on the table with a spoon and a plate of bread.

Merthin was still feeling the euphoria of the previous afternoon. It was like being slightly drunk. He had gone to sleep thinking of Caris’s naked body and woken up smiling. But he was suddenly reminded of his confrontation with Elfric over Griselda. A false instinct told him that Edmund was going to scream, “You defiled my daughter!” and hit him across the face with a length of timber.

It was only a momentary vision, and it vanished as Edmund sat at the table. He picked up the spoon but, before he began to eat, he said to Merthin: “Now that we’ve got a prior, I want to start work on the new bridge as soon as possible.”

“Good,” said Merthin.

Edmund swallowed a spoonful and smacked his lips. “This is the best pottage I’ve ever tasted, Lady Maud.” Merthin’s mother looked pleased.

Merthin was grateful to Edmund for being charming to his parents. They felt the humiliation of their reduced status, and it was balm to the wound to have the town’s alderman eating at their table and calling them Sir Gerald and Lady Maud.

Now his father said: “I almost didn’t marry her, Edmund—did you know that?”

Merthin was sure Edmund had heard the story before, but he replied: “Good lord, no—how did that happen?”

“I saw her in church on Easter Sunday, and fell in love with her instantly. There must have been a thousand people in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and she was the most beautiful woman there.”

“Now, Gerald, no need to exaggerate,” Maud said crisply.

“Then she disappeared into the crowd, and I couldn’t find her! I didn’t know her name. I asked people who was the pretty girl with the fair hair, and they said all the girls were pretty and fair.”

Maud said: “I hurried away after the service. We were staying at the Holly Bush Inn, and my mother was unwell, so I went back to take care of her.”

Gerald said: “I looked all over town, but I couldn’t find her. After Easter, everyone went home. I was living in Shiring, and she in Casterham, though I didn’t know that. I thought I’d never see her again. I imagined she might have been an angel, come to earth to make sure everyone was attending the service.”

She said: “Gerald, please.”

“But my heart was lost. I took no interest in other women. I expected to spend my life longing for the Angel of Kingsbridge. This went on for two years. Then I saw her at a tournament in Winchester.”

She said: “This complete stranger came up to me and said: ‘It’s you—after all this time! You must marry me before you disappear again.’ I thought he was mad.”

“Amazing,” said Edmund.

Merthin thought Edmund’s goodwill had been stretched far enough. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve drawn some designs on the tracing floor in the mason’s loft at the cathedral.”

Edmund nodded. “A stone bridge wide enough for two carts?”

“As you specified—and ramped at both ends. And I’ve found a way to reduce the price by about a third.”

“That’s astonishing! How?”

“I’ll show you, as soon as you’ve finished eating.”

Edmund spooned up the last of the pottage and stood. “I’m done. Let’s go.” He turned to Gerald and inclined his head in a slight bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, alderman.”

Merthin and Edmund stepped out into a light drizzle. Instead of heading for the cathedral, Merthin led Edmund toward the river. Edmund’s lopsided stride was instantly recognizable, and every second person on the street greeted him with a friendly word or a respectful bow.

Merthin suddenly felt nervous. He had been thinking about the bridge design for months. While he worked at St Mark’s, supervising the carpenters who were constructing the new roof as the old was demolished, he mulled over the greater challenge of the bridge. Now for the first time his ideas would come under scrutiny by someone else.

As yet, Edmund had no idea how radical Merthin’s plan was.

The muddy street wound downhill through houses and workshops. The city ramparts had fallen into disrepair during two centuries of civil peace, and in some places all that remained were humps of earth that now formed parts of garden walls. At the river’s edge were industries that used large quantities of water, especially wool dyers and leather tanners.

Merthin and Edmund emerged onto the muddy foreshore between a slaughterhouse that gave off a strong smell of blood and a smithy where hammers clanged on iron. Directly in front of them, across a narrow stretch of water, was Leper Island. Edmund said: “Why are we here? The bridge is a quarter of a mile upstream.”

“It was,” said Merthin. He took a breath and said: “I think we should build the new one here.”

“A bridge to the island?”

“And another from the island to the far shore. Two small bridges instead of one big one. Much cheaper.”

“But people will have to walk across the island from one bridge to the other.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a leper colony!”

“There’s only one leper left. He can be moved elsewhere. The disease seems to be dying out.”

Edmund looked thoughtful. “So everyone who comes to Kingsbridge will arrive at this spot, where we’re standing.”

“We’ll have to build a new street, and knock down some of these buildings—but the cost will be small by comparison with the money saved on the bridge.”

“And on the other side…”

“A pasture that belongs to the priory. I can see the whole layout when I’m on the roof of St. Mark’s. That’s how come I thought of it.”

Edmund was impressed. “That’s very clever. I wonder why the bridge wasn’t put here originally.”

“The first bridge was erected hundreds of years ago. The river probably had a different shape then. Riverbanks must move their position as the centuries go by. The channel between the island and the pasture could have been wider at one time. Then there would have been no advantage in building here.”

Edmund peered across the water, and Merthin followed his gaze. The leper colony was a scatter of tumbledown wooden buildings spread over three or four acres. The island was too rocky for cultivation, but there were some trees and scrubby grass. The place was infested with rabbits, which the townspeople would not eat because of a superstition that they were the souls of dead lepers. At one time the ostracized inhabitants had kept their own chickens and pigs. Now, however, it was simpler for the priory to supply food to the last remaining inhabitant. “You’re right,” Edmund said. “There hasn’t been a new case of leprosy in the town for at least ten years.”

“I’ve never seen a leper,” Merthin said. “As a child, I thought people were saying ‘leopard.’ I imagined that island to be occupied by spotted lions.”

Edmund laughed. Turning his back on the river, he looked at the buildings around. “There will be some political work to do,” he mused. “The people whose homes must be demolished will have to be convinced that they’re the lucky ones, being moved to new and better houses while their neighbors missed out. And the island may have to be cleansed with holy water to convince people that it’s safe. But we can handle all that.”

“I’ve drawn both bridges with pointed arches, like the cathedral,” Merthin said. “They will be beautiful.”

“Show me.”

They left the riverside and walked uphill through the town to the priory. The cathedral dripped with rain under a layer of low cloud like smoke from a damp fire. Merthin was looking forward to seeing his drawings again—he had not been to the loft for a week or so—and to explaining them to Edmund. He had thought a great deal about the way the current had undermined the old bridge, and how he could protect the new one from the same fate.