Pillars of the Earth, book 2 21 страница

“Nothing to be ashamed of. How would you feel about being nominated?”

“How would I feel?” Saul seemed mystified. “Why ask that? If the earl wishes, he will nominate me; and if my brethren want me, they’ll vote for me; and I will consider myself called by God. It makes no difference how I feel about it.”

This was not the answer Godwyn wanted. He needed Saul to make up his own mind. Talk of God’s will was counterproductive. “It’s not quite so simple,” he said. “You don’t have to accept the nomination. That’s why the earl sent me here.”

“It’s not like Roland to ask where he might command.”

Godwyn almost winced. Never forget how shrewd Saul is, he told himself. He backpedalled hastily. “No, indeed. However, if you think you might refuse, he needs to know as soon as possible, so that he can nominate someone else.” That was probably true, though Roland had not said it.

“I didn’t realize it was done this way.”

It was not done this way, Godwyn thought. But he said: “Last time it happened, when Prior Anthony was elected, you and I were both novices, so we didn’t know what went on.”

“True.”

“Do you feel you have the ability to fill the role of prior of Kingsbridge?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah.” Godwyn pretended disappointment, though he had been relying on Saul’s humility to produce that answer.

“However…”

“What?”

“With God’s help, who knows what might be accomplished?”

“How true.” Godwyn concealed his annoyance. The humble answer had just been a formality. The truth was that Saul thought he could do the job. “Of course, you should reflect and pray about it tonight.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of little else.” They heard distant voices. “The brothers are returning from their work.”

“We can talk again in the morning,” Godwyn said. “If you decide to be a candidate, you must come back to Kingsbridge with us.”

“Very well.”

There was a serious danger of Saul’s accepting, Godwyn feared. But he had one more arrow to shoot. “Something else you might bear in mind in your prayers,” he said. “A nobleman never offers a free gift.”

Saul looked worried. “What do you mean?”

“Earls and barons dispense titles, land, positions, monopolies – but these things always have a price.”

“And in this case?”

“If you are elected, Roland will expect you to make recompense. You are his cousin, anyway; and you’ll owe your position to him. You will be his voice in chapter, making sure the priory’s actions don’t interfere with his interests.”

“Will he make that an explicit condition of the nomination?”

“Explicit? No. But, when you return with me to Kingsbridge, he will question you, and the questions will be designed to reveal your intentions. If you insist that you will be an independent prior, showing no special favour to your cousin and sponsor, he will nominate someone else.”

“I had not thought of that.”

“Of course, you may simply give him the answers he wants to hear and then change your mind after the election.”

“But that would be dishonest.”

“Some would think so.”

“God would think so.”

“That’s something for you to pray about tonight.”

A group of young monks came into the kitchen, muddy from the fields, talking loudly; Saul got up to serve them ale, but the worried look remained on his face. It stayed there when they went into the little church, with its wall painting of the Day of Judgement over the altar, for Evensong. It was still there when at last the evening meal was served and Godwyn’s hunger was assuaged by the delicious cheese the monks made.

Godwyn lay awake that night, although he ached from two days on horseback. He had confronted Saul with an ethical dilemma. Most monks would have been willing to shade their position while talking to Roland, and speak words which promised a degree of subservience to the earl much greater than they really intended. But not Saul. He was driven by moral imperatives. Would he find a way through the dilemma, and accept the nomination? Godwyn did not see how he could.

Saul still wore the worried look when the monks got up, at first light, for the service of Lauds.

After breakfast, he told Godwyn he could not accept the nomination.

*

Godwyn could not get used to Earl Roland’s face. It was the strangest thing to look at. The earl was now wearing a hat to cover the bandages on his head; but, by making his appearance more normal, the hat emphasized the paralysis of the right side of his face. Roland also seemed even more bad-tempered than usual, and Godwyn guessed he was still suffering severe headaches.

“Where is my cousin Saul?” he said as soon as Godwyn walked into the room.

“Still at St John, my lord. I gave him your message-”

“Message? It was a command!”

Lady Philippa, standing beside the bed, said softly: “Don’t excite yourself, lord – you know it makes you feel ill.”

Godwyn said: “Brother Saul simply said that he cannot accept the nomination.”

“Why the devil not?”

“He thought and prayed-”

“Of course he prayed, that’s what monks do. What reason did he give for defying me?”

“He does not feel himself capable of such a challenging role.”

“Nonsense. What challenge? He’s not being asked to lead a thousand knights into battle – just make sure a handful of monks sing their hymns at the right times of day.”

That was rubbish, so Godwyn bowed his head and said nothing.

The earl’s tone changed suddenly. “I’ve just realized who you are. You’re the son of Petranilla, aren’t you?”

“Yes, lord.” That Petranilla whom you jilted, Godwyn thought.

“She was sly, and I’ll bet you are too. How do I know you didn’t talk Saul out of accepting? You want Thomas Langley to be prior, don’t you?”

My plan is a lot more devious than that, you fool, Godwyn thought. He said: “Saul did ask me what you might want in return for nominating him.”

“Ah, now we come to it. What did you tell him?”

“That you would expect him to listen to one who was his cousin, his sponsor and his earl.”

“And he was too pig-headed to accept that, I suppose. Right. That settles it. I shall nominate that fat friar. Now get out of my sight.”

Godwyn had to hide his elation as he bowed out of the room. The penultimate stage of his plan had worked perfectly. Earl Roland had not the least suspicion of how he had been nudged into nominating the most hopeless candidate Godwyn could think of.

Now for the final step.

He left the hospital and entered the cloisters. It was the hour of study before the midday service of Sext, and most of the monks were standing or sitting around reading, being read to or meditating. Godwyn spotted Theodoric, his young ally, and summoned him with a jerk of the head.

In a low voice, he said: “Earl Roland has nominated Friar Murdo as prior.”

Theodoric said loudly: “What?”

“Hush.”

“It’s impossible!”

“Of course it is.”

“No one will vote for him.”

“That’s why I’m pleased.”

Understanding dawned on Theodoric’s face. “Oh… I see. So it’s good for us, really.”

Godwyn wondered why he always had to explain these things, even to intelligent men. No one saw below the surface, except him and his mother. “Go around telling everyone – quietly. No need to show your outrage. They’ll get angry enough without encouragement.”

“Should I say that this is good for Thomas?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right,” said Theodoric. “I understand.”

He evidently did not, but Godwyn felt he could be trusted to follow instructions.

Godwyn left him and went in search of Philemon. He found him sweeping out the refectory. “Do you know where Murdo is?” he asked.

“Probably in the kitchen.”

“Find him and ask him to meet you in the prior’s house when all the monks are in church for Sext. I don’t want anyone to see you there with him.”

“All right. What do I tell him?”

“First of all, you say: ‘Brother Murdo, no one must ever know that I told you this.’ Is that clear?”

“No one must ever know that I told you this. All right.”

“Then show him the charter we found. You remember where it is – in the bedroom beside the prie-dieu, there’s a chest with a ginger-coloured leather wallet inside.”

“Is that all?”

“Point out that the land Thomas brought to the priory belonged originally to Queen Isabella, and that this fact has been kept secret for ten years.”

Philemon looked puzzled. “But we don’t know what Thomas is trying to hide.”

“No. But there’s always a reason for a secret.”

“Don’t you think Murdo will try to use this information against Thomas?”

“Of course.”

“What will Murdo do?”

“I don’t know but, whatever it is, it’s sure to be bad for Thomas.”

Philemon frowned. “I thought we were supposed to be helping Thomas.”

Godwyn smiled. “That’s what everyone thinks.”

The bell rang for Sext.

Philemon went off in search of Murdo, and Godwyn joined the rest of the monks in church. In unison with the others he said: “O God, incline unto mine aid.” On this occasion he prayed with unusual earnestness. Despite the confidence he had shown Philemon, he knew he was gambling. He had staked everything on Thomas’s secret, but he did not know what the face of the card would show when he turned it up.

However, it was clear he had succeeded in stirring up the monks. They were restless and talkative, and Carlus had to call for quiet twice during the psalms. They disliked friars in general, for taking an attitude of moral superiority on the question of earthly possessions while, at the same time, sponging off those they condemned. And they disliked Murdo in particular for being pompous, greedy and drunk. They would have anyone rather than him.

As they left the church after the service, Simeon spoke to Godwyn. “We cannot have the friar,” he said.

“I agree.”

“Carlus and I will not be putting forward another name. If the monks appear divided, the earl will be able to present his candidate as a necessary compromise. We must sink our differences and rally round Thomas. If we show the world a united front, it will be difficult for the earl to oppose us.”

Godwyn stopped and faced Simeon. “Thank you, brother,” he said, forcing himself to look humble and hide the exultation he felt.

“We’re doing it for the good of the priory.”

“I know. But I appreciate your generosity of spirit.”

Simeon nodded and walked away.

Godwyn smelled victory.

The monks went into the refectory for dinner. Murdo joined them. He missed services, but not meals. All monasteries had a general rule that any monk or friar was welcome at the table – though few people exploited the practice as thoroughly as Murdo. Godwyn studied his face. The friar looked excited, as if he had news he was bursting to share. However, he contained himself while dinner was served, and remained silent throughout the meal, listening to a novice read.

The passage chosen was the story of Susanna and the Elders. Godwyn disapproved: the story was too sexy to be read aloud in a celibate community. But today even the attempts of two lascivious old men to blackmail a woman into having sex with them failed to capture the monks’ attention. They kept whispering among themselves, looking sidelong at Murdo.

When the food was finished, and the prophet Daniel had saved Susanna from execution by interrogating the elders separately and showing that they told inconsistent stories, the monks got ready to leave. At that moment, Murdo spoke to Thomas.

“When you came here, Brother Thomas, you had a sword wound, I believe.”

He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the other monks stopped to listen.

Thomas looked at him stonily. “Yes.”

“The wound that eventually caused you to lose your left arm. I wonder, did you receive that wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”

Thomas turned pale. “I’ve been a monk of Kingsbridge for ten years. My previous life is forgotten.”

Murdo carried on unperturbed. “I ask because of the parcel of land that you brought with you when you joined the priory. A very productive little village in Norfolk. Five hundred acres. Near Lynn – where the queen lives.”

Godwyn interrupted, pretending to be indignant. “What does an outsider know of our property?”

“Oh, I’ve read the charter,” Murdo said. “These things aren’t secret.”

Godwyn looked at Carlus and Simeon, sitting side by side. Both men looked startled. As sub-prior and treasurer, they knew already. They must be wondering how Murdo had got sight of the deed. Simeon opened his mouth to speak.

Murdo said: “Or, at least, they’re not supposed to be secret.”

Simeon closed his mouth again. If he demanded to know how Murdo had found out, he would himself face questions about why he had kept the secret.

Murdo went on: “And the farm at Lynn was donated to the priory by…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Queen Isabella,” he finished.

Godwyn looked around. There was consternation among the monks, all but Carlus and Simeon, who both looked stone-faced.

Friar Murdo leaned across the table. Green herbs from the dinnertime stew adhered to his teeth. “I ask you again,” he said aggressively. “Did you receive your wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”

Thomas said: “Everyone knows what I did before I was a monk. I was a knight, I fought battles, I killed men. I have confessed and received absolution.”

“A monk may put his past behind him – but the prior of Kingsbridge carries a heavier burden. He may be asked who he killed, and why, and – most importantly – what reward he received.”

Thomas stared back at Murdo without speaking. Godwyn tried to read Thomas’s face. It was rigidly set in an expression of some strong emotion – but what? There was no sign of guilt, or even embarrassment: whatever the secret was, Thomas did not feel he had done something shameful. The look was not rage, either. Murdo’s sneering tone might have provoked many men to violence, but Thomas did not look as if he were about to lash out. No, what Thomas seemed to be feeling was something different, colder than embarrassment, quieter than rage. It was, Godwyn realized at last, fear. Thomas was afraid. Of Murdo? Hardly. No, he feared something that might happen because of Murdo, some consequence of Murdo’s having discovered the secret.

Murdo continued like a dog with a bone. “If you don’t answer the question here in this room, it will be asked elsewhere.”

Godwyn’s calculations called for Thomas to give up at this point. But it was not a certainty. Thomas was tough. For ten years he had shown himself to be quiet, patient and resilient. When approached by Godwyn to stand as prior, he must have decided that the past could be buried. He must now realize he had been wrong. But how would he react to that realization? Would he see his mistake and back away? Or would he grit his teeth and see it through? Godwyn bit his lip and waited.

Thomas spoke at last. “I think you may be right about the question being asked elsewhere,” he said. “Or, at least, I think you will do everything in your power, no matter how unbrotherly or dangerous, to make your forecast come true.”

“I don’t know if you’re implying-”

“You need say no more!” Thomas said, rising abruptly to his feet. Murdo recoiled. Thomas’s height and soldierly physique, combined with a sharp rise in his voice, achieved the rare result of silencing the friar.

“I have never answered questions about my past,” Thomas said. His voice was quiet again, and every monk in the room was still and silent, straining to hear. “I never will.” He pointed at Murdo. “But this… slug… makes me realize that, if I became your prior, such questions would never cease. A monk may keep his past to himself, but a prior is different, I now see. A prior may have enemies, and any mystery is a weakness. And then, of course, by the leader’s vulnerability the institution itself is threatened. My brain should have led me where Friar Murdo’s malice led him – to the conclusion that a man who does not want to answer questions about his past cannot be a prior. Therefore-”

Young Theodoric said: “No!”

“Therefore I now withdraw my candidacy in the coming election.”

Godwyn breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. He had achieved his object.

Thomas sat down; Murdo looked smug; and everyone else tried to speak at the same time.

Carlus banged the table, and slowly they quietened down. He said: “Friar Murdo, as you don’t have a vote in this election, I must ask you to leave us now.”

Murdo slowly walked out, looking triumphant.

When he had gone, Carlus said: “This is a catastrophe – Murdo the only candidate!”

Theodoric said: “Thomas cannot be allowed to withdraw.”

“But he has!”

Simeon said: “There must be another candidate.”

“Yes,” said Carlus. “And I propose Simeon.”

“No!” said Theodoric.

“Let me speak,” said Simeon. “We must choose the one among us who is most certain to unite the brethren against Murdo. That is not myself. I know I don’t have enough backing among the youngsters. I think we all know who would gather most support from all sections.”

He turned and looked at Godwyn.

“Yes!” Theodoric said. “Godwyn!”

The younger monks cheered, and the older ones looked resigned. Godwyn shook his head, as if reluctant even to respond to them. They began to bang the tables and chant his name: “God-wyn! God-wyn!”

At last he stood up. His heart was full of elation, but he kept his face straight. He held up his hands for quiet. Then, when the room was silent, he said in a low, modest voice: “I shall obey the will of my brethren.”

The room erupted in cheering.

Godwyn delayed the election. Earl Roland was going to be angry at the result, and Godwyn wanted to give him as little time as possible to fight the decision before the wedding.

The truth was that Godwyn was frightened. He was going up against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. There were only thirteen earls. Together with about forty lesser barons, twenty-one bishops and a handful of others, they governed England. When the king summoned Parliament, they were the Lords, the aristocratic group, by contrast with the Commons, who were knights, gentry and merchants. The earl of Shiring was one of the more powerful and prominent men of his class. And yet Brother Godwyn, age thirty-one, son of the widow Petranilla, who had risen no higher than sacrist of Kingsbridge Priory, was in conflict with the earl – and, what was even more dangerous, he was winning.

So he dithered – but, six days before the wedding, Roland put his foot down and said: “Tomorrow!”

Guests were already arriving for the nuptials. The earl of Monmouth had moved into the hospital, using the private room next to Roland’s. Lord William and Lady Philippa had had to remove to the Bell inn. Bishop Richard was sharing the prior’s house with Carlus. Lesser barons and knights filled the taverns, along with their wives and children, squires and servants and horses. The town enjoyed a surge of spending, much needed after the disappointing profits from the rain-drenched Fleece Fair.

On the morning of the election, Godwyn and Simeon went to the treasury, a small windowless room behind a heavy oak door off the library. The precious ornaments used for special services were there, locked in an ironbound chest. Simeon as treasurer held the keys.

The election was a foregone conclusion, or so thought everyone except Earl Roland. No one suspected Godwyn’s hidden hand. He had suffered one tense moment, when Thomas had wondered aloud how Friar Murdo got to know about the Isabella charter. “He can’t have discovered it accidentally – he’s never been seen reading in the library, and anyway that deed isn’t kept with the others,” Thomas had said to Godwyn. “Someone must have told him about it. But who? Only Carlus and Simeon knew of it. Why would they have let the secret out? They didn’t want to help Murdo.” Godwyn had said nothing, and Thomas had remained baffled.

Godwyn and Simeon dragged the treasure chest into the light of the library. The cathedral jewels were wrapped in blue cloth and cushioned in protective sheets of leather. As they sorted through the box, Simeon unwrapped some of the items, admiring them and checking that they were undamaged. There was a plaque a few inches wide made of ivory, delicately carved, showing the crucifixion of St Adolphus, at which the saint had asked God to grant good health and long life to all those who venerated his memory. There were numerous candlesticks and crucifixes, all of gold or silver, most decorated with precious stones. In the strong light from the tall library windows the gems glittered and the gold glowed. These things had been given to the priory, over the centuries, by devout worshippers. Their combined value was awesome: there was more wealth here than most people ever saw in one place.

Godwyn had come for a ceremonial crosier, or shepherd’s crook, made of wood encased in gold, with an elaborately jewelled handle. This was ritually handed to the new prior at the end of the election process. The crook was at the bottom of the chest, not having been used for thirteen years. As Godwyn drew it out, Simeon let out an exclamation.

Godwyn looked up sharply. Simeon was holding a large crucifix on a stand, intended to be placed on an altar. “What’s the matter?” Godwyn said.

Simeon showed him the back of the cross and pointed to a shallow cup-shaped indentation just below the crosspiece. Godwyn immediately saw that a ruby was missing. “It must have fallen out,” he said. He glanced around the library: they were alone.

They were both worried. As treasurer and sacrist they shared responsibility. They would be blamed for any loss.

Together they examined every item in the chest. They unwrapped each one and shook out every blue cloth. They looked at all the leather sheets. Frantically, they scrutinized the empty box and the floor all around. The ruby was nowhere to be seen.

Simeon said: “When was the crucifix last used?”

“At the feast of St Adolphus, when Carlus fell. He knocked it off the table.”

“Perhaps the ruby fell out then. But how is it possible that no one noticed?”

“The stone was on the back of the cross. But surely someone would have seen it on the floor?”

“Who picked up the crucifix?”

“I don’t remember,” Godwyn said quickly. “The situation was confused.” In fact he remembered perfectly well.

It was Philemon.

Godwyn could picture the scene. Philemon and Otho together had righted the altar, setting it squarely on its platform. Then Otho had picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the cross.

With a growing feeling of dismay, Godwyn recalled the disappearance of Lady Philippa’s bracelet. Had Philemon stolen again? He trembled to think how it might affect him. Everyone knew that Philemon was Godwyn’s unofficial acolyte. Such a dreadful sin – stealing a jewel from a sacred ornament – would bring shame on everyone associated with the perpetrator. It could easily upset the election.

Simeon obviously did not recollect the scene exactly, and he accepted without question Godwyn’s feigned inability to remember who had picked up the cross. But others among the monks would surely recall seeing it in Philemon’s hands. Godwyn had to put this right quickly, before suspicion could fall on Philemon. But first he had to get Simeon out of the way.

“We must search for the ruby in the church,” Simeon said.

“But the service was two weeks ago,” Godwyn protested. “A ruby can’t have lain on the floor unnoticed for that length of time.”

“It’s unlikely, but we must check.”

Godwyn saw that he had to go with Simeon, and wait for an opportunity to get away from him and seek out Philemon. “Of course,” he said.

They put the ornaments away and locked the treasury door. As they left the library, Godwyn said: “I suggest we say nothing about this until we’re sure the jewel has been lost. No point in bringing blame on our heads prematurely.”

“Agreed.”

They hurried around the cloisters and entered the church. They stood in the centre of the crossing and scanned the ground all around them. A month ago, the idea that a ruby could lie hidden somewhere on the church floor would have been more plausible; but recently the flagstones had been repaired, and the cracks and chips had disappeared. A ruby would have stood out.

Simeon said: “Now that I come to think of it, wasn’t it Philemon who picked up the crucifix?”

Godwyn looked at Simeon’s face. Was there accusation in the expression? He could not tell. “It may have been Philemon,” Godwyn said. Then he saw a chance to get away. “I’ll go and fetch him,” he suggested. “Perhaps he will be able to recall exactly where he was standing at the time.”

“Good idea. I’ll wait here.” Simeon got down on his knees and began to pat the floor with his hands, as if the ruby might be found by touch more easily than by sight.

Godwyn hurried out. He went first to the dormitory. The blanket cupboard was in the same place. He pulled it away from the wall, found the loose stone, and removed it. He put his hand into the hidey-hole where Philemon had stashed Lady Philippa’s bracelet.

He found nothing there.

He cursed. It was not going to be that easy.

I’ll have to dismiss Philemon from the monastery, he thought as he strode through the priory buildings looking for him. If he has stolen this ruby, I can’t cover up for him again. He’s out.

Then he realized, with a shock of dismay, that he could not dismiss Philemon – not now, perhaps not ever. It was Philemon who had told Friar Murdo about the Isabella charter. If dismissed, Philemon could confess what he had done, and reveal that he had done it at Godwyn’s instigation. And he would be believed. Godwyn recalled Thomas’s puzzling over who had told Murdo the secret, and why. Philemon’s revelation would gain conviction by answering that question.

There would be an outcry at such underhand work. Even if the disclosure were made after the election, it would undermine Godwyn’s authority and cripple his ability to lead the monks. The ominous truth dawned on him that he now had to protect Philemon in order to protect himself.

He found Philemon sweeping the hospital floor. He beckoned him outside and led him around to the back of the kitchen, where it was unlikely that anyone would see them.

He looked Philemon in the eye and said: “There’s a ruby missing.”

Philemon looked away. “How terrible.”

“It’s from the altar crucifix that was knocked to the floor when Carlus fell over.”

Philemon pretended innocence. “How could it have gone missing?”

“The ruby may have become dislodged when the crucifix hit the floor. But it’s not on the floor now – I’ve just looked. Someone found it – and kept it.”

“Surely not.”

Godwyn felt angered by Philemon’s false air of innocence. “You fool, everyone saw you pick up that crucifix!”

Philemon’s voice rose to a higher pitch. “I know nothing about it!”

“Don’t waste time lying to me! We have to put this right. I could lose the election on your account.” Godwyn pushed Philemon up against the wall of the bakehouse. “Where is it?”

To his astonishment, Philemon began to cry.

“For the love of the saints,” Godwyn said disgustedly. “Stop this nonsense – you’re a grown man!”

Philemon continued to sob. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“If you don’t stop that-” Godwyn checked himself. Nothing was to be gained by berating Philemon. The man was truly pathetic. Speaking more gently, he said: “Try to pull yourself together. Where is the ruby?”

“I hid it.”

“Yes…”

“In the refectory chimney.”

Godwyn immediately turned away, heading for the refectory. “Mary save us, it could fall into the fire!”

Philemon followed, his tears drying. “There’s no fire in August. I would have moved it before the cold weather.”

They entered the refectory. At one end of the long room was a wide fireplace. Philemon put his arm up the chimney and fumbled for a moment. Then he produced a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg, covered with soot. He wiped it clean on his sleeve.

Godwyn took it. “Now come with me,” he said.

“What are we going to do?”

“Simeon is going to find this.”

They went to the church. Simeon was still searching on hands and knees. “Now,” Godwyn said to Philemon. “Try to remember exactly where you were when you picked up the crucifix.”

Simeon looked at Philemon and, seeing signs of emotion on his face, spoke kindly to him. “Don’t be afraid, lad, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Philemon positioned himself on the east side of the crossing, close to the steps leading up to the chancel. “I think it was here,” he said.

Godwyn climbed the two steps and looked under the choir stalls, pretending to search. Surreptitiously, he placed the ruby under one of the rows of seats, close to the near end, where it was not visible to a casual glance. Then, as if changing his mind about the likeliest place to look, he moved to the south side of the chancel. “Come and search under here, Philemon,” he said.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04