Epic Historial Collection (191 page)

“Clean up that mess in the cloister!” he would say to a monk.

“Yes, Father Prior, right away.”

Godwyn loved the sound of
Father Prior.

“Good day, Bishop Richard,” he would say, not obsequiously, but with friendly courtesy.

And Bishop Richard would reply, as one distinguished clergyman to another: “And a good day to you, too, Prior Godwyn.”

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Archbishop?” he might say, more deferentially this time, but still as a junior colleague of the great man, rather than as an underling.

“Oh, yes, Godwyn, you've done extraordinarily well here.”

“Your Reverence is very kind.”

And perhaps, one day, strolling in the cloister side by side with a richly dressed potentate: “Your Majesty does us great honor to visit our humble priory.”

“Thank you, Father Godwyn, but I come to ask your advice.”

He wanted this position—but he was not sure how to get it. He pondered the question all week, as he supervised a hundred burials and planned the big Sunday service that would be both Anthony's funeral and a remembrance for the souls of all the Kingsbridge dead.

Meanwhile, he spoke to no one of his hopes. It was only ten days ago that he had learned the price of being guileless. He had gone to the chapter with
Timothy's Book
and a strong argument for reform—and the old guard had turned on him with perfect coordination, as if they had rehearsed it, and squashed him like a frog under a cartwheel.

He would not let that happen again.

On Sunday morning, as the monks were filing into the refectory for breakfast, a novice whispered to Godwyn that his mother would like to see him in the north porch of the cathedral. He slipped away discreetly.

He felt apprehensive as he passed quietly through the cloisters and the church. He could guess what had happened. Something had occurred yesterday to trouble Petranilla. She had lain awake half the night worrying about it. This morning she had woken up at dawn with a plan of action—and he was part of it. She would be at her most impatient and domineering. Her plan would probably be good—but even if it was not, she would insist he carry it out.

She stood in the gloom of the porch in a wet cloak—it was raining again. “My brother Edmund came to see Blind Carlus yesterday,” she said. “He tells me Carlus is acting as if he is already prior, and the election is a mere formality.”

There was an accusing note in her voice, as if this was Godwyn's fault, and he answered defensively. “The old guard swung behind Carlus before Uncle Anthony's body was cold. They won't hear talk of rival candidates.”

“Hm. And the youngsters?”

“They want me to run, of course. They liked the way I stood up to Prior Anthony over
Timothy's Book
—even though I was overruled. But I've said nothing.”

“Any other candidates?”

“Thomas Langley is the outsider. Some disapprove of him because he used to be a knight, and has killed people, by his own admission. But he's capable, does his job with quiet efficiency, never bullies the novices…”

His mother looked thoughtful. “What's his story? Why did he become a monk?”

Godwyn's apprehension began to ease. It seemed she was not going to berate him for inaction. “Thomas just says he always hankered for the sanctified life and, when he came here to get a sword wound attended to, he resolved never to leave.”

“I remember that. It was ten years ago. But I never did hear how he got the wound.”

“Nor I. He doesn't like to talk about his violent past.”

“Who paid for his admission to the priory?”

“Oddly enough, I don't know.” Godwyn often marveled at his mother's ability to ask the revealing question. She might be tyrannical, but he had to admire her. “It might have been Bishop Richard—I recall him promising the usual gift. But he wouldn't have had the resources personally—he wasn't a bishop, then, just a priest. Perhaps he was speaking for Earl Roland.”

“Find out.”

Godwyn hesitated. He would have to look through all the charters in the priory's library. The librarian, Brother Augustine, would not presume to question the sacrist, but someone else might. Then Godwyn would have the awkwardness of inventing a plausible story to explain what he was doing. If the gift had been cash, rather than land or other property—unusual, but possible—he would have to go through the account rolls…

“What's the matter?” his mother said sharply.

“Nothing. You're right.” He reminded himself that her domineering attitude was a sign of her love for him, perhaps the only way she knew how to express it. “There must be a record. Come to think of it…”

“What?”

“A gift like that is usually trumpeted. The prior announces it in church, and calls down blessings on the head of the donor, then preaches a sermon on how people who give lands to the priory are rewarded in Heaven. But I don't remember anything like that happening at the time Thomas came to us.”

“All the more reason to seek out the charter. I think Thomas is a man with a secret. And a secret is always a weakness.”

“I'll look into it. What do you think I should say to people who want me to stand for election?”

Petranilla smiled slyly. “I think you should tell them you're not going to be a candidate.”

 

Breakfast was over by the time Godwyn left his mother. Latecomers were not allowed to eat, by a longstanding rule. But the kitchener, Brother Reynard, could always find a morsel for someone he liked. Godwyn went to the kitchen and got a slice of cheese and a heel of bread. He ate it standing up, while around him the priory servants brought the breakfast bowls back from the refectory and scrubbed out the iron pot in which the porridge had been cooked.

As he ate, he mulled over his mother's advice. The more he thought about it, the cleverer it seemed. Once he had announced he would not stand for election, everything else he said would carry the authority of a disinterested commentator. He could manipulate the election without being suspected of selfish motives. Then he could make his move at the last moment. He felt a warm glow of loving gratitude for the shrewdness of his mother's restless brain, and the loyalty of her indomitable heart.

Brother Theodoric found him there. Theodoric's fair complexion was flushed with indignation. “Brother Simeon spoke to us at breakfast about Carlus becoming prior,” he said. “It was all about continuing the wise traditions of Anthony. He's not going to change anything!”

That was sly, Godwyn thought. Simeon had taken advantage of Godwyn's absence to say, with authority, things that Godwyn would have challenged if he had been present. He said sympathetically: “That's disgraceful.”

“I asked whether the other candidates would be permitted to address the monks at breakfast in the same way.”

Godwyn grinned. “Good for you!”

“Simeon said there was no need for other candidates. ‘We're not holding an archery contest,' he said. In his view, the decision has already been made: Prior Anthony chose Carlus as his successor by making him subprior.”

“That's complete rubbish.”

“Exactly. The monks are furious.”

This was very good, Godwyn thought. Carlus had offended even his supporters by trying to take away their right to vote. He was undermining his own candidacy.

Theodoric went on: “I think we should press Carlus to withdraw himself from the contest.”

Godwyn wanted to say:
Are you mad?
He bit his tongue and tried to look as if he were mulling over what Theodoric had said. “Is that the best way to deal with it?” he asked, as if genuinely unsure.

Theodoric was surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“You say the brothers are all furious with Carlus and Simeon. If this goes on, they won't vote for Carlus. But if Carlus withdraws, the old guard will come up with another candidate. They could make a better choice the second time. It might be someone popular—Brother Joseph, for example.”

Theodoric was thunderstruck. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Perhaps we should hope that Carlus remains the choice of the old guard. Everyone knows he's against any kind of change. The reason he's a monk is that he likes to know that every day will be the same: he'll walk the same paths, sit in the same seats, eat and pray and sleep in the same places. Perhaps it's because of his blindness, though I suspect he might have been like that anyway. The cause doesn't matter. He believes that nothing here needs changing. Now, there aren't many monks who are
that
contented—which makes Carlus relatively easy to beat. A candidate who represented the old guard but advocated a few minor reforms would be much more likely to win.” Godwyn realized he had forgotten to seem tentative and had started laying down the law. Backtracking quickly, he added: “I don't know—what do you think?”

“I think you're a genius,” said Theodoric.

I'm not a genius, Godwyn thought, but I learn fast.

He went to the hospital, where he found Philemon sweeping out the private guest rooms upstairs. Lord William was still here, watching over his father, waiting for him to wake up or die. Lady Philippa was with him. Bishop Richard had returned to his palace in Shiring, but was expected back today for the big funeral service.

Godwyn took Philemon to the library. Philemon could barely read, but he would be useful for getting out the charters.

The priory had more than a hundred charters. Most were deeds to landholdings, the majority near Kingsbridge, some scattered around far parts of England and Wales. Other charters entitled the monks to establish their priory, to build a church, to take stone from a quarry on the earl of Shiring's land without payment, to parcel the land around the priory into house plots and rent them out, to hold courts, to have a weekly market, to charge a toll for crossing the bridge, to have an annual Fleece Fair, and to ship goods by river to Melcombe without paying taxes to the lords of any of the lands through which the river passed.

The documents were written with pen and ink on parchment, thin leather painstakingly cleaned and scraped and bleached and stretched to form a writing surface. Longer ones were rolled up and tied with a fine leather thong. They were kept in an ironbound chest. The chest was locked, but the key was in the library, in a small carved box.

Godwyn frowned with disapproval when he opened the chest. The charters were not lined up in neat stacks, but tumbled in the box in no apparent order. Some had small rips and frayed edges, and all were covered with dust. They should be kept in date sequence, he thought, each one numbered, and the numbered list fixed to the inside of the lid, so that any particular charter could be quickly located. If I become prior…

Philemon took the charters out one by one, blew off the dust, and laid them on a table for Godwyn. Most people disliked Philemon. One or two of the older monks mistrusted him, but Godwyn did not: it was hard to mistrust someone who treated you like a god. Most of the monks were just used to him—he had been around for so long. Godwyn remembered him as a boy, tall and awkward, always hanging around the priory, asking the monks which saint was best to pray to, and had they ever witnessed a miracle.

Most of the charters had originally been written out twice on a single sheet. The word “chirograph” had been written in large letters between the two copies, then the sheet had been cut in half with a zigzag line through the word. Each of the parties kept half the sheet, and the match between the zigzags was taken as proof that both documents were genuine.

Some of the sheets had holes, probably where the living sheep had been bitten by an insect. Others appeared to have been nibbled, at some point in their history, presumably by mice.

They were written in Latin, of course. The more recent ones were easier to read, but the older style of handwriting was sometimes hard for Godwyn to decipher. He scanned each until he came to a date. He was looking for something written soon after All Hallows Day ten years ago.

He examined every sheet and found nothing.

The nearest was a deed dated some weeks later in which Earl Roland gave permission to Sir Gerald to transfer his lands to the ownership of the priory, in exchange for which the priory would forgive Gerald's debts and support him and his wife for the rest of their lives.

Godwyn was not really disappointed. Rather the contrary. Either Thomas had been admitted without the usual gift—which would in itself be curious—or the charter was kept somewhere else, away from prying eyes. Either way, it seemed increasingly likely that Petranilla's instinct was right, and Thomas had a secret.

There were not many private places in a monastery. Monks were supposed to have no personal property and no secrets. Although some wealthy monasteries had built private cells for the senior monks, at Kingsbridge they slept in one big room—all except the prior himself. Almost certainly, the charter that had secured Thomas's admission was in the prior's house.