World Without End (32 page)

For a few years the queen and her lover, Roger Mortimer, had ruled England; but, before long, Edward III had asserted his authority, despite his youth. The new king was now twenty-four and firmly in control. Mortimer was dead, and Isabella, now forty-two, lived in opulent retirement at Castle Rising in Norfolk, not far from Lynn.

'This is it!' Godwyn said to Philemon. 'It was Queen Isabella who arranged for Thomas to become a monk.'

Philemon frowned. 'But why?'

Though uneducated, Philemon was shrewd. 'Why indeed?' Godwyn answered. 'Presumably she wanted to reward him, or silence him, or perhaps both. And this happened in the year of her coup.'

'He must have performed some service for her.'

Godwyn nodded. 'He carried a message, or opened the gates of a castle, or betrayed the king's plans to her, or secured for her the support of some important baron. But why is it a secret?'

'It's not,' said Philemon. 'The treasurer must know about it. And everyone in Lynn. The bailiff must talk to a few people when he comes here.'

'But no one knows that the whole arrangement was made for the benefit of Thomas - unless they have seen this charter.'

'So that's the secret - that Queen Isabella made this gift for Thomas's sake.'

'Exactly.' Godwyn packed up the documents, carefully interleaving the sheets of parchment with linen cloths, and replaced the wallet in the chest.

Philemon asked: 'But why is it a secret? There's nothing dishonest or shameful about such an arrangement - it happens all the time.'

'I don't know why it's a secret, and perhaps we don't need to know. The fact that people want to keep it hidden may be sufficient for our purpose. Let's get out of this house.'

Godwyn felt satisfied. Thomas had a secret and Godwyn knew about it. That gave Godwyn power. Now he felt confident enough to risk putting Thomas forward as a candidate for prior. He also felt apprehensive: Thomas was no fool.

They returned to the cathedral. The office of Terce ended a few moments later, and Godwyn began to prepare the church for the big funeral service. On his instructions, six monks lifted Anthony's coffin and placed it on a stand in front of the altar, then surrounded it with candles. Townspeople began to gather in the nave. Godwyn nodded to his cousin Caris, who had covered her everyday headgear in black silk. Then he spotted Thomas, carrying in a large, ornate chair, with the help of a novice. This was the bishop's throne, or cathedra, that gave the church its special cathedral status.

Godwyn touched Thomas's arm. 'Let Philemon do that.'

Thomas bristled, thinking that Godwyn was offering help because of his missing arm. 'I can manage.'

'I know you can. I want a word.'

Thomas was older - he was thirty-four, Godwyn thirty-one - but Godwyn was his superior in the monastic hierarchy. All the same, Godwyn was always a little afraid of Thomas. The matricularius usually showed the appropriate deference to the sacrist, but all the same Godwyn felt he was getting just as much respect as Thomas thought he merited, and no more. Though Thomas conformed in every way to the discipline of St. Benedict's Rule, nevertheless he seemed to have brought into the priory with him a quality of independence and self-sufficiency that he never lost.

It would not be easy to deceive Thomas - but that was exactly what Godwyn planned to do.

Thomas allowed Philemon to take his side of the throne, and Godwyn drew him into the aisle. 'They're talking about you as possibly the next prior,' Godwyn said.

'They're saying the same about you,' Thomas rejoined.

'I shall refuse to stand.'

Thomas raised his eyebrows. 'You surprise me, Brother.'

'Two reasons,' Godwyn said. 'One, I think you would do a better job.'

Thomas looked more surprised. He probably had not suspected Godwyn of such modesty. He was right: Godwyn was lying.

'Two,' Godwyn continued, 'you're more likely to win.' Now Godwyn was telling the truth. 'The youngsters like me, but you're popular across the range of all ages.'

Thomas's handsome face looked quizzical. He was waiting for the catch.

'I want to help you,' Godwyn said. 'I believe the only important thing is to have a prior who will reform the monastery and improve its finances.'

'I think I could do that. But what do you want in return for your support?'

Godwyn knew better than to ask for nothing. Thomas would not believe that. He invented a plausible lie. 'I'd like to be your subprior.'

Thomas nodded, but did not immediately consent. 'How would you help me?'

'First, by gaining you the support of the townspeople.'

'Just because Edmund Wooler is your uncle?'

'It's not that simple. The townspeople are worried about the bridge. Carlus won't say when he'll begin building, if ever. They're desperate to stop him becoming prior. If I tell Edmund that you'll start work on the bridge as soon as you're elected, you'll have the whole town behind you.'

'That won't win me the votes of many monks.'

'Don't be so sure. Remember, the monks' choice has to be ratified by the bishop. Most bishops are prudent enough to consult local opinion - and Richard is as keen as anyone to avoid trouble. If the townspeople come out for you, it will make a difference.'

Godwyn could see that Thomas did not trust him. The matricularius studied him, and Godwyn felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as he fought to remain expressionless under that keen gaze. But Thomas was listening to his arguments. 'There's no doubt we need a new bridge,' he said. 'Carlus is foolish to prevaricate.'

'So you would be promising something you intend to do anyway.'

'You're very persuasive.'

Godwyn held up his hands in a defensive gesture. 'I don't mean to be. You must do what you feel is God's will.'

Thomas looked skeptical. He did not believe that Godwyn was so dispassionate. But he said: 'All right.' Then he added: 'I'll pray about it.'

Godwyn sensed he would get no stronger commitment out of Thomas today, and it might be counterproductive to push any harder. 'So will I,' he said, and he turned away.

Thomas would do exactly what he had promised, and pray about it. He had little in the way of personal desires. If he thought it was God's will he would stand as prior, and if not, not. Godwyn could do no more with him, for the moment.

There was now a blaze of candles around Anthony's coffin. The nave was filling with townspeople and peasants from the surrounding villages. Godwyn raked the crowd for the face of Caris, which he had spotted a few minutes earlier. He located her in the south transept, looking at Merthin's scaffolding in the aisle. He had affectionate memories of Caris as a child, when he had been her all-knowing grown-up cousin.

She had been looking glum since the bridge collapse, he had noticed, but today she seemed cheerful. He was glad: he had a soft spot for her. He touched her elbow. 'You look happy.'

'I am.' She smiled. 'A romantic knot just came untangled. But you wouldn't understand.'

'Of course not.' You have no idea, he thought, how many romantic tangles there are among monks. But he said nothing: laypeople were best left in ignorance of sins that took place in the priory. He said: 'Your father should speak to Bishop Richard about rebuilding the bridge.'

'Really?' she said skeptically. As a child she had hero-worshipped him, but nowadays she was less in awe. 'What's the point? It's not his bridge.'

'The monks' choice for prior has to be approved by the bishop. Richard could let it be known that he won't approve anyone who refuses to rebuild the bridge. Some monks might be defiant, but others will say there's no point in voting for someone who isn't going to be ratified.'

'I see. You really think my father could help?'

'Absolutely.'

'Then I'll suggest it.'

'Thank you.'

The bell rang. Godwyn slipped out of the church and again joined the procession forming up in the cloisters. It was midday.

He had done a good morning's work.

16

Wulfric and Gwenda left Kingsbridge early on Monday morning to walk the long road back to their village of Wigleigh.

Caris and Merthin watched them cross the river on Merthin's new ferry. Merthin was pleased by how well it was working. The wooden gears would wear out quite quickly, he knew. Iron gears would be better, but...

Caris had other thoughts. 'Gwenda is so much in love,' she sighed.

'She has no chance with Wulfric,' Merthin said.

'You never know. She's a determined girl. Look how she escaped from Sim Chapman.'

'But Wulfric's engaged to that Annet - who is much prettier.'

'Good looks aren't everything in a romance.'

'For which I thank God every day.'

She laughed. 'I love your funny face.'

'But Wulfric fought my brother over Annet. He must love her.'

'Gwenda's got a love potion.'

Merthin gave her a disapproving look. 'So you think it's all right for a girl to maneuver a man into marrying her when he loves someone else?'

She was struck silent for a moment. The soft skin of her throat turned pink. 'I never thought of it that way,' she said. 'Is it really the same thing?'

'It's similar.'

'But she's not coercing him - she just wants to make him love her.'

'She should try to do that without a potion.'

'Now I feel ashamed of helping her.'

'Too late.' Wulfric and Gwenda were getting off the ferry on the far side. They turned to wave, then headed along the road through the suburbs with Skip, the dog, at their heels.

Merthin and Caris walked back up the main street. Caris said: 'You haven't spoken to Griselda yet.'

'I'm going to do it now. I don't know whether I'm looking forward to it or dreading it.'

'You've got nothing to fear. She's the one who lied.'

'That's true.' He touched his face. The bruise had almost healed. 'I just hope her father doesn't get violent again.'

'Do you want me to come with you?'

He would have been glad of her support, but he shook his head. 'I made this mess, and I have to straighten it out.'

They stopped outside Elfric's house. Caris said: 'Good luck.'

'Thanks.' Merthin kissed her lips briefly, resisted the temptation to kiss her again, and walked in.

Elfric was sitting at the table eating bread and cheese. A cup of ale stood in front of him. Beyond him, Merthin could see Alice and the maid in the kitchen. There was no sign of Griselda.

Elfric said: 'Where have you been?'

Merthin decided that if he had nothing to fear he had better act fearlessly. He ignored Elfric's question. 'Where's Griselda?'

'Still in bed.'

Merthin shouted up the stairs: 'Griselda! I want to talk to you.'

Elfric said: 'No time for that. We've got work to do.'

Again Merthin ignored him. 'Griselda! You'd better get up now.'

'Hey!' Elfric said. 'Who do you think you are, to give orders?'

'You want me to marry her, don't you?'

'So what?'

'So she'd better get used to doing what her husband tells her.' He raised his voice again. 'Get down here now, or you'll just have to hear what I've got to say from someone else.'

She appeared at the top of the stairs. 'I'm coming!' she said irritably. 'What's all the fuss about?'

Merthin waited for her to come down, then said: 'I've found out who the father of the baby is.'

Fear flashed in her eyes. 'Don't be stupid, it's you.'

'No, it's Thurstan.'

'I never lay with Thurstan!' She looked at her father. 'Honestly I didn't.'

Elfric said: 'She doesn't lie.'

Alice came out of the kitchen. 'That's right,' she said.

Merthin said: 'I lay with Griselda on the Sunday of Fleece Fair week - fifteen days ago. Griselda is three months pregnant.'

'I'm not!'

Merthin looked hard at Alice. 'You knew, didn't you?' Alice looked away. Merthin went on: 'And yet you lied - even to Caris, your own sister.'

Elfric said: 'You don't know how long pregnant she is.'

'Look at her,' Merthin replied. 'You can see the bulge in her belly. Not much, but it's there.'

'What do you know of such things? You're just a boy.'

'Yes - you were all relying on my ignorance, weren't you? And it almost worked.'

Elfric wagged his finger. 'You lay with Griselda, and now you'll marry Griselda.'

'Oh, no I won't. She doesn't love me. She lay with me to get a father for her baby, after Thurstan ran away. I know I did wrong, but I'm not going to punish myself for the rest of my life by marrying her.'

Elfric stood up. 'You are, you know.'

'No.'

'You've got to.'

'No.'

Elfric's face turned red, and he shouted: 'You will marry her!'

Merthin said: 'How long do you want me to keep on saying no?'

Elfric realized he was serious. 'In that case, you're dismissed,' he said. 'Get out of my house and never come back.'

Merthin had been expecting this, and it came as a relief. It meant the argument was over. 'All right.' He tried to step past Elfric.

Elfric blocked his way. 'Where do you think you're going?'

'To the kitchen, to get my things.'

'Your tools, you mean.'

'Yes.'

'They're not yours. I paid for them.'

'An apprentice is always given his tools at the end of his...' Merthin tailed off.

'You haven't finished your apprenticeship, so you don't get your tools.'

Merthin had not expected this. 'I've done six and a half years!'

'You're supposed to do seven.'

Without tools Merthin could not earn his living. 'That's unfair. I'll appeal to the carpenters' guild.'

'I look forward to it,' Elfric said smugly. 'It will be interesting to hear you argue that an apprentice who is sacked for lying with his master's daughter should be rewarded with a free set of tools. The carpenters in the guild have all got apprentices, and most of them have daughters. They'll throw you out on your arse.'

Merthin realized he was right.

Alice said: 'There you are, you're in real trouble now, aren't you?'