World Without End (17 page)

Godwyn said: 'Philemon has just come back to clean your room, but Miss Margery is...,' he looked into the room, '...at prayer,' he finished. Margery was kneeling on the prie-dieu, eyes closed - begging forgiveness for her sin, Godwyn hoped. Richard stood behind her, head bowed, hands clasped, lips moving in a murmur.

Godwyn stepped aside to let Philippa enter the room. She gave her brother-in-law a suspicious look. 'Hello, Richard,' she said. 'It's not like you to pray on a weekday.'

He put his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and pointed to Margery on the prayer stool.

Philippa said briskly: 'Margery can pray as much as she likes, but this is the women's room, and I want you out.'

Richard concealed his relief and left, closing the door on the two women.

He and Godwyn stood face to face in the hallway. Godwyn could tell that Richard did not know what line to take. He might be inclined to say
How dare you burst into a room without knocking?
However, he was so badly in the wrong that he probably could not summon up the nerve to bluster. On the other hand, he could hardly beg Godwyn to keep quiet about what he had seen, for that would be to acknowledge himself in Godwyn's power. It was a moment of painful awkwardness.

While Richard hesitated, Godwyn spoke. 'No one shall hear of this from me.'

Richard looked relieved, then glanced at Philemon. 'What about him?'

'Philemon wants to be a monk. He is learning the virtue of obedience.'

'I'm in your debt.'

'A man should confess his own sins, not those of others.'

'All the same, I'm grateful, Brother...'

'Godwyn, the sacrist. I'm the nephew of Prior Anthony.' He wanted Richard to know that he was sufficiently well connected to make serious trouble. But, to take the edge off the threat, he added: 'My mother was betrothed to your father, many years ago, before your father became the earl.'

'I've heard that story.'

Godwyn wanted to add: And your father spurned my mother, just as you're planning to spurn the wretched Margery. But instead he said pleasantly: 'We might have been brothers.'

'Yes.'

The bell rang for dinner. Relieved of their embarrassment, the three men parted company: Richard to Prior Anthony's house, Godwyn to the monks' refectory, and Philemon to the kitchen to help serve.

Godwyn was thoughtful as he walked through the cloisters. He was upset by the animal scene he had witnessed, but he felt he had handled it well. At the end, Richard had seemed to trust him.

In the refectory Godwyn sat next to Theodoric, a bright monk a couple of years younger than he. Theodoric had not studied at Oxford, and in consequence he looked up to Godwyn. Godwyn treated him as an equal, which flattered Theodoric. 'I've just read something that will interest you,' Godwyn said. He summarized what he had read about the revered Prior Philip's attitude to women in general and nuns in particular. 'It's what you've always said,' he finished. In fact, Theodoric had never expressed an opinion on the subject, but he always agreed when Godwyn complained about Prior Anthony's slackness.

'Of course,' Theodoric said. He had blue eyes and fair skin, and now he flushed with excitement. 'How can we have pure thoughts when we are constantly distracted by females?'

'But what can we do about it?'

'We must confront the prior.'

'In chapter, you mean,' Godwyn said, as if it were Theodoric's idea rather than his own. 'Yes, excellent plan. But would others support us?'

'The younger monks would.'

Young men probably agreed with more or less any criticism of their elders, Godwyn thought. But he also knew that many monks shared his own preference for a life in which women were absent or, at least, invisible. 'If you talk to anyone between now and chapter, let me know what they say,' he said. That would encourage Theodoric to go around whipping up support.

The dinner arrived, a stew of salt fish and beans. Before Godwyn could begin to eat, he was prevented by Friar Murdo.

Friars were monks who lived among the people instead of secluding themselves in monasteries. They felt that their self-denial was more rigorous than that of institutional monks, whose vow of poverty was compromised by their splendid buildings and extensive landholdings. Traditionally friars had no property, not even churches - although many had slipped from this ideal after pious admirers gave them land and money. Those who still lived by the original principles scrounged their food and slept on kitchen floors. They preached in marketplaces and outside taverns, and were rewarded with pennies. They did not hesitate to sponge off ordinary monks for food and lodging anytime it suited their convenience. Not surprisingly, their assumption of superiority was resented.

Friar Murdo was a particularly unpleasant example: fat, dirty, greedy, often drunk, and sometimes seen in the company of prostitutes. But he was also a charismatic preacher who could hold a crowd of hundreds with his colorful, theologically dubious sermons.

Now he stood up, uninvited, and began to pray in a loud voice. 'Our Father, bless this food to our foul, corrupt bodies, as full of sin as a dead dog is full of maggots...'

Murdo's prayers were never short. Godwyn put down his spoon with a sigh.

There was always a reading in chapter - usually from the Rule of St. Benedict, but often from the Bible, and occasionally other religious books. As the monks were taking their places on the raked stone benches around the octagonal chapter house, Godwyn sought out the young monk who was due to read today and told him, quietly but firmly, that he, Godwyn, would be reading instead. Then, when the moment came, he read the crucial page from
Timothy's Book
.

He felt nervous. He had returned from Oxford a year ago, and he had been quietly talking to people about reforming the priory ever since; but, until this moment, he had not openly confronted Anthony. The prior was weak and lazy, and needed to be shocked out of his lethargy. Furthermore, St. Benedict had written: 'All must be called to chapter, for the Lord often reveals to a younger member what is best.' Godwyn was perfectly entitled to speak out in chapter and call for stricter compliance with monastic rules. All the same, he suddenly felt he was running a risk, and wished he had taken longer to think about his tactics in using
Timothy's Book
.

But it was too late for regrets. He closed the book and said: 'My question, to myself and my brethren, is this: Have we slipped below the standards of Prior Philip in the matter of separation between monks and females?' He had learned, in student debates, to put his argument in the form of a question whenever he could, giving his opponent as little as possible to argue against.

The first to reply was Blind Carlus, the subprior, Anthony's deputy. 'Some monasteries are located far from any center of population, on an uninhabited island, or deep in the forest, or perched on a lonely mountaintop,' he said. His slow, deliberate speech made Godwyn fidget with impatience. 'In such houses, the brothers seclude themselves from all contact with the secular world,' he went on unhurriedly. 'Kingsbridge has never been like that. We're in the heart of a great city, the home of seven thousand souls. We care for one of the most magnificent cathedrals in Christendom. Many of us are physicians, because St. Benedict said: 'Special care must be taken of the sick, so that in very deed they be looked after as if it were Christ himself.' The luxury of total isolation has not been granted to us. God has given us a different mission.'

Godwyn had expected something like this. Carlus hated furniture to be moved, for then he would stumble over it; and he opposed any other kind of change, out of a parallel anxiety about coping with the unfamiliar.

Theodoric had a quick answer to Carlus. 'All the more reason for us to be strict about the rules,' he said. 'A man who lives next door to a tavern must be extra careful to avoid drunkenness.'

There was a murmur of pleased agreement: the monks enjoyed a smart riposte. Godwyn gave a nod of approval. The fair-skinned Theodoric blushed with gratification.

Emboldened, a novice called Juley said in a loud whisper: 'Women don't bother Carlus, he can't see them.' Several monks laughed, though others shook their heads in disapproval.

Godwyn felt it was going well. He seemed to be winning the argument, so far. Then Prior Anthony said: 'Exactly what are you proposing, Brother Godwyn?' He had not been to Oxford, but he knew enough to press for his opponent's real agenda.

Reluctantly, Godwyn put his cards on the table. 'We might consider reverting to the position as it was in the time of Prior Philip.'

Anthony persisted: 'What do you mean by that, exactly? No nuns?'

'Yes.'

'But where would they go?'

'The nunnery could be removed to another location, and become a remote cell of the priory, like Kingsbridge College, or St.-John-in-the-Forest.'

That shocked them. There was a clamor of comment, which the prior suppressed with difficulty. The voice that emerged from the hubbub was that of Joseph, the senior physician. He was a clever man, but proud, and Godwyn was wary of him. 'How would we run a hospital without nuns?' he said. His bad teeth caused him to slur his sibilants, making him sound drunk, but he spoke with no less authority. 'They administer medicines, change dressings, feed the incapable, comb the hair of senile old men - '

Theodoric said: 'Monks could do all that.'

'Then what about childbirth?' Joseph said. 'We often deal with women who are having difficulty bringing a baby into the world. How could monks help them without nuns to do the actual...handling?'

Several men voiced their agreement, but Godwyn had anticipated this question, and now he said: 'Suppose the nuns removed to the old lazar house?' The leper colony - or lazar house - was on a small island in the river on the south side of the town. In the old days it had been full of sufferers, but leprosy seemed to be dying out, and now there were only two occupants, both elderly.

Brother Cuthbert, who was a wit, muttered: 'I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Mother Cecilia she's being moved to a leper colony.' There was a ripple of laughter.

'Women should be ruled by men,' said Theodoric.

Prior Anthony said: 'And Mother Cecilia is ruled by Bishop Richard. He would have to make a decision such as this.'

'Heaven forbid that he should,' said a new voice. It was Simeon, the treasurer. A thin man with a long face, he spoke against every proposal that involved spending money. 'We could not survive without the nuns,' he said.

Godwyn was taken by surprise. 'Why not?' he said.

'We don't have enough money,' Simeon said promptly. 'When the cathedral needs repair, who do you think pays the builders? Not us - we can't afford it. Mother Cecilia pays. She buys supplies for the hospital, parchment for the scriptorium, and fodder for the stables. Anything used communally by both monks and nuns is paid for by her.'

Godwyn was dismayed. 'How can this be? Why are we dependent on them?'

Simeon shrugged. 'Over the years, many devout women have given the nunnery land and other assets.'

That was not the whole story, Godwyn felt sure. The monks also had extensive resources. They collected rent and other charges from just about every citizen of Kingsbridge, and they held thousands of acres of farmland, too. The way the wealth was husbanded must be a factor. But there was no point going into that now. He had lost the argument. Even Theodoric was silent.

Anthony said complacently: 'Well, that was a most interesting discussion. Thank you, Godwyn, for asking the question. And now let us pray.'

Godwyn was too angry for prayer. He had gained nothing of what he wanted, and he was unsure where he had gone wrong.

As the monks filed out, Theodoric gave him a frightened look and said: 'I didn't know the nuns paid for so much.'

'None of us knew,' Godwyn said. He realized he was glaring at Theodoric, and made amends hastily, adding: 'But you were splendid - you debated better than many an Oxford man.'

It was just the right thing to say, and Theodoric looked happy.

This was the hour for monks to read in the library or walk in the cloisters, meditating, but Godwyn had other plans. Something had been nagging him all through dinner and chapter. He had thrust it to the back of his mind, because more important things had intervened, but now it came back. He thought he knew where Lady Philippa's bracelet might be.

There were few hiding places in a monastery. The monks lived communally: no one but the prior had a room to himself. Even in the latrine they sat side by side over a trough that was continuously flushed by a stream of piped water. They were not permitted to have personal possessions, so no one had his own cupboard or even box.

But today Godwyn had seen a hiding place.

He went upstairs to the dormitory. It was empty. He pulled the blanket cupboard away from the wall and removed the loose stone, but he did not look through the hole. Instead, he put his hand into the gap, exploring. He felt the top, bottom, and sides of the hole. To the right there was a small fissure. Godwyn eased his fingers inside and touched something that was neither stone nor mortar. Scrabbling with his fingertips, he drew the object out.

It was a carved wooden bracelet.

Godwyn held it to the light. It was made of some hard wood, probably oak. The inner surface was smoothly polished, but the outside was carved with an interlocking design of bold squares and diagonals, executed with pleasing precision: Godwyn could see why Lady Philippa was fond of it.

He put it back, restored the loose stone, and returned the cupboard to its usual position.

What did Philemon want with such a thing? He might be able to sell it for a penny or two, though that would be dangerous because it was so recognizable. But he certainly could not wear it.

Godwyn left the dormitory and went down the stairs to the cloisters. He was in no mood for study or meditation. He needed to talk over the day's events. He felt the need to see his mother.

The thought made him apprehensive. She might berate him for his failure in chapter. But she would praise him for his handling of Bishop Richard, he felt sure, and he was eager to tell her the story. He decided to go in search of her.