Epic Historial Collection (223 page)

“You want a palace,” said Simeon.

Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon's tone of voice, as if Godwyn's aim were to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It's not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”

“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can't afford it.”

Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That's ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”

“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”

Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”

Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer—and make an interesting contribution.

“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there's no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”

Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”

“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain. Many of our serfs struggled to stay alive. It's hard to force them to pay their rents when they're hungry—”

“They must pay, all the same,” Godwyn said. “Monks get hungry, too.”

Philemon spoke again. “If the bailiff of a village says that a serf has defaulted on his rent, or that part of the land is untenanted therefore no rent is due, you haven't really got any way of checking that he's telling the truth. Bailiffs can be bribed by serfs.”

Godwyn felt frustrated. He had had numerous conversations like this in the past year. He had been determined to tighten up control of the priory's finances, but every time he tried to change things he ran into barriers. “Have you got a suggestion?” he said irritably to Philemon.

“Send an inspector on a tour of the villages. Let him speak to bailiffs, look at the land, go into the cottages of serfs who are said to be starving.”

“If the bailiff can be bribed, so can the inspector.”

“Not if he's a monk. What use have we for money?”

Godwyn recalled Philemon's old inclination to stealing. It was true that monks had no use for personal money, at least in theory, but that did not mean they were incorruptible. However, a visit from the prior's inspector would certainly put bailiffs on their toes. “It's a good idea,” Godwyn said. “Would you like to be the inspector?”

“I'd be honored.”

“Then it's settled.” Godwyn turned back to Simeon. “All the same, we still have a huge income.”

“And huge costs,” Simeon replied. “We pay a subvention to our bishop. We feed, clothe, and house twenty-five monks, seven novices, and nineteen pensioners of the priory. We employ thirty people as cleaners, cooks, stable boys, and so on. We spend a
fortune
on candles. Monks' robes—”

“All right, I've grasped your point,” Godwyn said impatiently. “But I still want to build a palace.”

“Where will you go for the money, then?”

Godwyn sighed. “Where we always go, in the end. I'll ask Mother Cecilia.”

He saw her a few minutes later. Normally he would have asked her to come to him, as a sign of the superiority of the male within the church; but on this occasion he thought it best to flatter her.

The prioress's house was an exact copy of the prior's, but it had a different feel. There were cushions and rugs, flowers in a bowl on the table, embroidered samplers on the wall illustrating Bible stories and texts, and a cat asleep in front of the fireplace. Cecilia was finishing a dinner of roast lamb and dark red wine. She put on a veil when Godwyn arrived, in accordance with a rule Godwyn had introduced, for occasions when monks had to talk to nuns.

He found Cecilia difficult to read, veiled or not. She had formally welcomed his election as prior, and had gone along unprotestingly with his stricter rules about separation of monks and nuns, making only the occasional practical point about the efficient running of the hospital. She had never opposed him, and yet he felt she was not really on his side. It seemed he was no longer able to charm her. When he was younger, he had been able to make her laugh like a girl. Now she was no longer susceptible—or perhaps he had lost the knack.

Small talk was difficult with a woman in a veil, so he plunged straight into his topic. “I think we should build two new houses for entertaining noble and high-ranking guests,” he said. “One for men, one for women. They would be called the prior's house and the prioress's house, but their main purpose would be to accommodate visitors in the style to which they're accustomed.”

“That's an interesting idea,” Cecilia said. As ever, she was compliant without being enthusiastic.

“We should have impressive stone buildings,” Godwyn went on. “After all, you have been prioress here for more than a decade—you are one of the most senior nuns in the kingdom.”

“We want the guests to be impressed, not by our wealth, but by the holiness of the priory and the piety of the monks and nuns, of course,” she said.

“Indeed—but the buildings should symbolize that, as the cathedral symbolizes the majesty of God.”

“Where do you think the new buildings should be sited?”

This was good, Godwyn thought—she was already getting down to details. “Close to where the old houses are now.”

“So, yours near the east end of the church, next to the chapter house, and mine down here by the fishpond.”

It crossed Godwyn's mind that she might be mocking him. He could not see her expression. Imposing a veil on women had its disadvantages, he reflected. “You might prefer a new location,” he said.

“Yes, I might.”

There was a short silence. Godwyn was finding it hard to broach the subject of money. He was going to have to change the rule about veils—make an exception for the prioress, perhaps. It was just too difficult to negotiate like this.

He was forced to plunge again. “Unfortunately, I would not be able to make any contribution to the building costs. The monastery is very poor.”

“To the cost of the prioress's house, you mean?” she said. “I wouldn't expect it.”

“No, actually, I meant the cost of the prior's house.”

“Oh. So you want the nunnery to pay for your new house as well as mine.”

“I'm afraid I would have to ask you that, yes. I hope you don't mind.”

“Well, if it's for the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory…”

“I knew you would see it that way.”

“Let me see…Right now I'm building new cloisters for the nuns, as we no longer share with the monks.”

Godwyn made no comment. He was irritated that Cecilia had employed Merthin to design the cloisters, rather than the cheaper Elfric, which was a wasteful extravagance; but this was not the moment to say so.

Cecilia went on: “And when that's done, I need to build a nuns' library and buy some books for it, as we can't use your library anymore.”

Godwyn tapped his foot impatiently. This seemed irrelevant.

“And then we need a covered walkway to the church, as we now take a different route to that used by the monks, and we have no protection in bad weather.”

“Very reasonable,” Godwyn commented, though he wanted to say:
Stop dithering!

“So,” she said with an air of finality, “I think we could consider this proposal in three years' time.”

“Three years? I want to start now!”

“Oh, I don't think we can contemplate that.”

“Why not?”

“We have a budget for building, you see.”

“But isn't this more important?”

“We must stick to our budget.”

“Why?”

“So that we remain financially strong and independent,” she said; then she added pointedly: “I wouldn't like to go begging.”

Godwyn did not know what to say. Worse, he had a ghastly feeling that she was laughing at him behind the veil. He could not stand to be laughed at. He stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Mother Cecilia,” he said coldly. “We'll talk about this again.”

“Yes,” she said, “in three years' time. I look forward to it.”

Now he was sure she was laughing. He turned away and left as quickly as he could.

Back in his own house, he threw himself in a chair, fuming. “I hate that woman,” he said to Philemon, who was still there.

“She said no?”

“She said she would consider it in three years' time.”

“That's worse than a no,” said Philemon. “It's a three-year no.”

“We're always in her power, because she has money.”

“I listen to the talk of the older men,” Philemon said, apparently irrelevantly. “It's surprising how much you learn.”

“What are you getting at?”

“When the priory first built mills, and dug fishponds, and fenced off rabbit warrens, the priors made a law that townspeople had to use the monks' facilities, and pay for them. They weren't allowed to grind their corn at home, or full cloth by treading it, nor could they have their own ponds and warrens—they had to buy from us. The law ensured that the priory got back its costs.”

“But the law fell out of use?”

“It changed. Instead of a prohibition, people were allowed their own facilities if they paid a fine. Then
that
fell out of use, in Prior Anthony's time.”

“And now there's a hand mill in every house.”

“And all the fishmongers have ponds, there are half a dozen warrens, and dyers full their own cloth by making their wives and children tread it, instead of bringing it to the priory's fulling mill.”

Godwyn was excited. “If all those people paid a fine for the privilege of having their own facilities…”

“It could be quite a lot of money.”

“They would squeal like pigs.” Godwyn frowned. “Can we prove what we say?”

“There are plenty of people who remember the fines. But it's bound to be written in the priory records somewhere—probably in
Timothy's Book
.”

“You'd better find out exactly how much the fines were. If we're resting on the ground of precedent, we'd better get it right.”

“If I may make a suggestion…”

“Of course.”

“You could announce the new regime from the pulpit of the cathedral on Sunday morning. That would serve to emphasize that it's the will of God.”

“Good idea,” said Godwyn. “That's exactly what I'll do.”

33

“I
've got the solution,” Caris said to her father.

He sat back in the big wooden seat at the head of the table, a slight smile on his face. She knew that look. It was skeptical, but willing to listen. “Go on,” he said.

She was a little nervous. She felt sure her idea would work—saving her father's fortune and Merthin's bridge—but could she convince Edmund? “We take our surplus wool and have it woven into cloth and dyed,” she said simply. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

“Wool merchants often try that in hard times,” he said. “But tell me why you think it would work. What would it cost?”

“For cleaning, spinning, and weaving, four shillings per sack.”

“And how much cloth would that make?”

“A sack of poor-quality wool, that you bought for thirty-six shillings, and wove for four more shillings, would make forty-eight yards of cloth.”

“Which you would sell for…?”

“Undyed, brown burel sells for a shilling a yard, so forty-eight shillings—eight more than we would have paid out.”

“It's not much, considering the work we would have put in.”

“But that's not the best of it.”

“Keep going.”

“Weavers sell their brown burel because they're in a hurry to get the money. But if you spend another twenty shillings fulling the cloth, to thicken it, then dyeing and finishing it, you can get double the price—two shillings a yard, ninety-six shillings for the whole lot—thirty-six shillings more than you paid!”

Edmund looked dubious. “If it's so easy, why don't more people do it?”