Epic Historial Collection (167 page)

Godwyn carried the dinner back to the prior's house, feeling worried. If Cecilia decided to help Theodoric, he did not know what he would do. He had no fallback plan.

He wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge one day. He felt sure he could do the job better than Anthony. And if he was a successful prior, he might rise higher: bishop, archbishop, or perhaps a royal official or counselor. He had only a vague idea of what he would do with such power, but he felt strongly that he belonged in some elevated position in life. However, there were only two routes to such heights. One was aristocratic birth; the other, education. Godwyn came from a family of wool merchants: his only hope was the university. And for that, he was going to need Cecilia's money.

He put the dinner on the table. Cecilia was saying: “But how did the king die?”

“He suffered a fall,” Anthony said.

Godwyn carved the goose. “May I give you some of the breast, Reverend Mother?”

“Yes, please. A fall?” she said skeptically. “You make the king sound like a doddering old man. He was forty-three!”

“It's what his jailers say.” Having been deposed, the ex-king had been a prisoner at Berkeley Castle, a couple of days' ride from Kingsbridge.

“Ah, yes, his jailers,” Cecilia said. “Mortimer's men.” She disapproved of Roger Mortimer, the earl of March. Not only had he led the rebellion against Edward II, he had also seduced the king's wife, Queen Isabella.

They began to eat. Godwyn wondered whether there would be any left over.

Anthony said to Cecilia: “You sound as if you suspect something sinister.”

“Of course not—but others do. There has been talk…”

“That he was murdered? I know. But I saw the corpse, naked. There were no marks of violence on the body.”

Godwyn knew he should not interrupt, but he could not resist. “Rumor says that when the king died his screams of agony were heard by everyone in the village of Berkeley.”

Anthony looked censorious. “When a king dies, there are always rumors.”

“This king did not merely die,” Cecilia said. “He was first deposed by Parliament—something that has never happened before.”

Anthony lowered his voice. “The reasons were powerful. There were sins of impurity.”

He was being enigmatic, but Godwyn knew what he meant. Edward had had “favorites”—young men he seemed unnaturally fond of. The first, Peter Gaveston, had been given so much power and privilege that he aroused jealousy and resentment among the barons, and in the end he had been executed for treason. But then there had been others. It was no wonder, people said, that the queen took a lover.

“I cannot believe such a thing,” said Cecilia, who was a passionate royalist. “It may be true that outlaws in the forest give themselves up to such foul practices, but a man of royal blood could never sink so low. Is there any more of that goose?”

“Yes,” Godwyn said, concealing his disappointment. He cut the last of the meat from the bird and gave it to the prioress.

Anthony said: “At least there is now no challenge to the new king.” The son of Edward II and Queen Isabella had been crowned as King Edward III.

“He is fourteen years old, and he has been put on the throne by Mortimer,” said Cecilia. “Who will be the real ruler?”

“The nobles are glad to have stability.”

“Especially those of them who are Mortimer's cronies.”

“Such as Earl Roland of Shiring, you mean?”

“He seemed ebullient today.”

“You're not suggesting…”

“That he had something to do with the king's ‘fall'? Certainly not.” The prioress ate the last of the meat. “Such an idea would be dangerous to speak of, even among friends.”

“Indeed.”

There was a tap at the door, and Saul Whitehead came in. He was the same age as Godwyn. Could he be the rival? He was intelligent and capable, and he had the great advantage of being a distant relation of the earl of Shiring; but Godwyn doubted whether he had the ambition to go to Oxford. He was devout and shy, the kind of man for whom humility was no virtue because it came naturally. But anything was possible.

“A knight has come into the hospital with a sword wound,” Saul said.

“Interesting,” said Anthony, “but hardly shocking enough to justify interrupting the prior and the prioress at dinner.”

Saul looked scared. “I beg your pardon, Father Prior,” he stammered. “But there is a disagreement about the treatment.”

Anthony sighed. “Well, the goose is all gone,” he said, and he got to his feet.

Cecilia went with him, and Godwyn and Saul followed. They entered the cathedral by the north transept and walked through the crossing, out by the south transept, across the cloisters and into the hospital. The wounded knight lay on the bed nearest the altar, as befitted his rank.

Prior Anthony uttered an involuntary grunt of surprise. For a moment he showed shock and fear. But he recovered his composure quickly, and made his face expressionless.

However, Cecilia missed nothing. “Do you know this man?” she asked Anthony.

“I believe I do. He is Sir Thomas Langley, one of the earl of Monmouth's men.”

He was a handsome man in his twenties, broad-shouldered and long-legged. He was naked to the waist, showing a muscular torso crisscrossed with the scars of earlier fights. He looked pale and exhausted.

“He was attacked on the road,” Saul explained. “He managed to fight off his assailants, but then he had to drag himself a mile or more to the town. He's lost a lot of blood.”

The knight's left forearm was split from elbow to wrist, a clean cut obviously made by a sharp sword.

The monastery's senior physician, Brother Joseph, stood beside the patient. Joseph was in his thirties, a small man with a big nose and bad teeth. He said: “The wound should be kept open and treated with an ointment to bring on a pus. That way, evil humors will be expelled and the wound will heal from the inside out.”

Anthony nodded. “So where is the disagreement?”

“Matthew Barber has another idea.”

Matthew was a barber-surgeon from the town. He had been standing back deferentially, but now he stepped forward, holding the leather case that contained his expensive, sharp knives. He was a small, thin man with bright blue eyes and a solemn expression.

Anthony did not acknowledge Matthew, but said to Joseph: “What's he doing here?”

“The knight knows him and sent for him.”

Anthony spoke to Thomas. “If you want to be butchered, why did you come to the priory hospital?”

The ghost of a smile flickered across the knight's white face, but he seemed too tired to reply.

Matthew spoke up with surprising confidence, apparently undeterred by Anthony's scorn. “I've seen many wounds like this on the battlefield, Father Prior,” he said. “The best treatment is the simplest: wash the wound with warm wine, then stitch it closed and bandage it.” He was not as deferential as he looked.

Mother Cecilia interrupted. “I wonder if our two young monks have opinions on the question?” she asked.

Anthony looked impatient, but Godwyn realized what she was up to. This was a test. Perhaps Saul was the rival for her money.

The answer was easy, so Godwyn got in first. “Brother Joseph has studied the ancient masters,” he said. “He must know best. I don't suppose Matthew can even read.”

“I can, Brother Godwyn,” Matthew protested. “And I have a book.”

Anthony laughed. The idea of a barber with a book was silly, like a horse with a hat. “What book?”

“The
Canon
of Avicenna, the great Islamic physician. Translated from Arabic into Latin. I have read it all, slowly.”

“And is your remedy proposed by Avicenna?”

“No, but—”

“Well, then.”

Matthew persisted. “But I learned more about healing by traveling with armies and treating the wounded than I ever did from the book.”

Mother Cecilia said: “Saul, what's your view?”

Godwyn expected Saul to give the same answer, so that the contest would be indecisive. But, although he looked nervous and shy, Saul contradicted Godwyn. “The barber may be right,” he said. Godwyn was delighted. Saul went on arguing for the wrong side. “The treatment proposed by Brother Joseph might be more suitable for crushing or hammering injuries, such as we get on building sites, where the skin and flesh all around the cut is damaged, and to close the wound prematurely might seal evil humors inside the body. This is a clean cut, and the sooner it is closed the faster it will heal.”

“Nonsense,” said Prior Anthony. “How could a town barber be right and an educated monk be wrong?”

Godwyn smothered a triumphant grin.

The door flew open, and a young man in the robes of a priest strode in. Godwyn recognized Richard of Shiring, the younger of the two sons of Earl Roland. His nod to the prior and prioress was so perfunctory as to be impolite. He went straight to the bedside and spoke to the knight. “What the devil has happened?” he said.

Thomas lifted a weak hand and beckoned Richard closer. The young priest leaned over the patient. Thomas whispered in his ear.

Father Richard drew away as if shocked. “Absolutely not!” he said.

Thomas beckoned again, and the process was repeated: another whisper, another outraged reaction. This time, Richard said: “But why?”

Thomas did not reply.

Richard said: “You are asking for something that is not in our power to give.”

Thomas nodded firmly, as if to say:
Yes, it is.

“You're giving us no choice.”

Thomas shook his head weakly from side to side.

Richard turned to Prior Anthony. “Sir Thomas wishes to become a monk here at the priory.”

There was a moment of surprised silence. Cecilia was the first to react. “But he's a man of violence!”

“Come on, it's not unknown,” Richard said impatiently. “A fighting man sometimes decides to abandon his life of warfare and seek forgiveness for his sins.”

“In old age, perhaps,” Cecilia said. “This man is not yet twenty-five. He's fleeing some danger.” She looked hard at Richard. “Who threatens his life?”

“Curb your curiosity,” Richard said rudely. “He wants to be a monk, not a nun, so you need not inquire further.” It was a shocking way to talk to a prioress, but the sons of earls could get away with such rudeness. He turned to Anthony. “You must admit him.”

Anthony said: “The priory is too poor to take on any more monks—unless there were to be a gift that would pay the costs…”

“It will be arranged.”

“It would have to be adequate to the need—”

“It will be arranged!”

“Very well.”

Cecilia was suspicious. She said to Anthony: “Do you know more about this man than you're telling me?”

“I see no reason to turn him away.”

“What makes you think he's a genuine penitent?”

Everyone looked at Thomas. His eyes had closed.

Anthony said: “He will have to prove his sincerity during his novitiate, like anyone else.”

She was clearly dissatisfied, but for once Anthony was not asking her for the money, so there was nothing she could do. “We'd better get on with treating this wound,” she said.

Saul said: “He refused Brother Joseph's treatment. That's why we had to fetch the Father Prior.”

Anthony leaned over the patient. In a loud voice, as if speaking to someone deaf, he said: “You must have the treatment prescribed by Brother Joseph. He knows best.”

Thomas appeared unconscious.

Anthony turned to Joseph. “He is no longer objecting.”

Matthew Barber said: “He could lose his arm!”

“You'd better leave,” Anthony told him.

Looking angry, Matthew went out.

Anthony said to Richard: “Perhaps you would come to the prior's house for a cup of cider.”

“Thank you.”

As they left, Anthony said to Godwyn: “Stay here and help the Mother Prioress. Come to me before Vespers and tell me how the knight is recovering.”

Prior Anthony did not normally worry about the progress of individual patients. Clearly he had a special interest in this one.

Godwyn watched as Brother Joseph applied ointment to the arm of the now-unconscious knight. He thought he had probably ensured Cecilia's financial support by giving the correct answer to the question, but he was keen to get her explicit agreement. When Brother Joseph had done, and Cecilia was bathing Thomas's forehead with rose water, he said: “I hope you will consider my request favorably.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I might as well tell you now that I have decided to give the money to Saul.”