Epic Historial Collection (192 page)

Which was now occupied by Carlus.

That made things difficult. Carlus would not let Godwyn search the place. Searching might hardly be necessary; there was probably a box or satchel somewhere in plain sight containing the late Prior Anthony's personal documents: a notebook from his novice days, a friendly letter from the archbishop, some sermons. Carlus had probably examined the contents after Anthony died. But he had no reason to permit Godwyn to do the same.

Godwyn frowned, thinking. Could someone else search? Edmund or Petranilla might ask to see their late brother's possessions, and it would be hard for Carlus to deny such a request. But he might remove any priory documents beforehand. No, the search had to be clandestine.

The bell rang for Terce, the morning office. Godwyn realized that the only time he could be certain Carlus would not be in the prior's house was during a service in the cathedral.

He would have to skip Terce. He could think up a plausible excuse. It would not be easy—he was the sacrist, the one person who should never skip services. But there was no alternative.

“I want you to come to me in the church,” he said to Philemon.

“All right,” said Philemon, though he looked worried: priory employees were not supposed to enter the chancel during worship.

“Come right after the verse. Whisper in my ear. It doesn't matter what you say. Take no notice of my reaction, just continue.”

Philemon frowned anxiously, but he nodded assent. He would do anything for Godwyn.

Godwyn left the library and joined the procession into the church. There was only a handful of people standing in the nave: most of the town would come later in the day to attend the mass for the victims of the bridge collapse. The monks took their places in the chancel, and the ritual began. “Oh, God, incline unto mine aid,” Godwyn said along with the rest.

They finished the verse and began the first hymn, and Philemon appeared. All the monks stared at him, as people always did stare at anything out of the ordinary that occurred during a familiar rite. Brother Simeon frowned disapprovingly. Carlus, conducting the singing, sensed a disturbance and looked puzzled. Philemon came to Godwyn's seat and bent over. “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,” he whispered.

Godwyn pretended to be surprised, and continued to listen while Philemon recited Psalm number one. After a few moments he shook his head vigorously, as if denying a request. Then he listened some more. He was going to have to think up an elaborate story to account for this pantomime. Perhaps he would say that his mother had insisted on speaking to him immediately about the funeral of her brother, Prior Anthony, and that she was threatening to come into the chancel herself unless Philemon took a message to Godwyn. Petranilla's overbearing personality, combined with family grief, made the story just about credible. As Philemon finished the psalm, Godwyn made a resigned face and got up and followed Philemon out of the chancel.

They hurried around the cathedral to the prior's house. A young employee was sweeping the floor. He would not dare to question a monk. He might tell Carlus that Godwyn and Philemon had been here—but it would be too late then.

Godwyn thought the prior's house was a disgrace. It was smaller than Uncle Edmund's home in the main street. A prior should have a palace befitting his station, as the bishop did. There was nothing glorious about this building. A few tapestries covered the walls, depicting biblical scenes and keeping out the drafts, but overall the decor was dull and unimaginative—rather like the late Anthony.

They searched the place quickly and soon found what they were looking for. Upstairs in the bedroom, in a chest beside the prie-dieu, was a large wallet. It was made of soft ginger-brown goatskin and beautifully sewn with scarlet thread: Godwyn felt sure it had been a pious gift from one of the town's leatherworkers.

Watched intently by Philemon, he opened it.

Inside were about thirty sheets of parchment, laid flat and interleaved with protective linen cloths. Godwyn examined them quickly.

Several bore study notes on the Psalms: Anthony must at some time have contemplated writing a book of commentaries, but the work appeared to have been abandoned. The most surprising was a love poem, in Latin. Headed
Virent Oculi
, it was addressed to a man with green eyes. Uncle Anthony had green eyes flecked with gold, like all his family.

Godwyn wondered who had written it. Not many women could write Latin well enough to compose a poem. Had a nun loved Anthony? Or was the poem from a man? The parchment was old and yellowing: the love affair, if such it was, had happened in Anthony's youth. But he had kept the poem. Perhaps he had not been quite as dull as Godwyn had imagined.

Philemon said: “What is it?”

Godwyn felt guilty. He had peeped into a deeply private corner of his uncle's life, and he wished he had not. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a poem.” He picked up the next sheet—and struck gold.

It was a charter dated Christmas ten years ago. It concerned a landholding of five hundred acres near Lynn, in Norfolk. The lord had recently died. The deed assigned the vacant lordship to Kingsbridge Priory, and specified the annual dues—grain, fleeces, calves, and chickens—payable to the priory by the serfs and tenants who farmed the land. It nominated one of the peasants to be a bailiff with the responsibility of delivering the produce to the priory annually. It also assigned money payments that could be offered instead of the actual produce—a practice that was now predominant, especially where the land was many miles from the residence of the lord.

It was a typical charter. Every year, after the harvest, representatives of dozens of similar communities made the pilgrimage to the priory to deliver what they owed. Those from nearby showed up early in the autumn; others came at intervals through the winter, with a few from long distances not arriving until after Christmas.

The deed also specified that the gift was given in consideration of the priory's accepting Sir Thomas Langley as a monk. That, too, was routine.

But one feature of this document was not commonplace. It was signed by Queen Isabella.

That was interesting. Isabella was the unfaithful wife of King Edward II. She had rebelled against her royal husband and installed, in his place, their fourteen-year-old son. Shortly afterward the deposed king had died, and Prior Anthony had been present at his burial in Gloucester. Thomas had come to Kingsbridge at around the same time.

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.