Pillars of the Earth, book 2 57 страница

“But we have to accept the likelihood that the monks will not return soon. And in connection with that, the lord bishop has an announcement.” She wanted the words to come from him, not her.

Henri cleared his throat and said: “I have confirmed the election of Caris as prioress, and I have appointed her acting prior. You will all please treat her as my representative and your overlord in all matters, excepting only those reserved to ordained priests.”

Caris watched the faces. Elfric was furious. Merthin smiled faintly, guessing that she had manoeuvred herself into this position, pleased for her and for the town, the rueful twist to his mouth showing that he knew this would keep her out of his arms. Everyone else seemed glad. They knew and trusted her, and she had won even more loyalty by staying while Godwyn fled.

She would make the most of it. “Three matters I want to take care of urgently on my first day as acting prior,” she said. “First, drunkenness. Today I saw Duncan Dyer unconscious in the street before dinner time. I believe this contributes to an atmosphere of debauchery in the town, which is the last thing we need during this dreadful crisis.”

There were loud sounds of approval. The parish guild was dominated by the older and more conservative of the town merchants. If they ever got drunk in the morning, they did it at home where no one could see.

Caris went on: “I want to give John Constable an extra deputy and instruct him to arrest anyone found drunk in daylight. He can put them in the jail until they sober up.”

Even Elfric was nodding.

“Second is the question of what happens to the property of people who die without heirs. This morning I found Joseph Blacksmith and Toby Peterson fighting in the street over three chickens belonging to Jack Marrow.”

There was laughter at the idea of grown men fighting over such trifles.

Caris had thought out her solution to that problem. “In principle, such property reverts to the lord of the manor, which for Kingsbridge residents means the priory. However, I don’t want the monastery buildings filled up with old clothes, so I propose to waive the rule for anyone whose possessions are worth less than two pounds. Instead, the two nearest neighbours should lock up the house, to make sure nothing is taken; then the property should be inventoried by the parish priest, who will also hear the claims of any creditors. Where there is no priest they can come to me. When any debts have been paid, the deceased’s personal possessions – clothing, furniture, food and drink – will be divided up among the neighbours, and any cash given to the parish church.”

There was widespread approval for this, too, most people nodding and murmuring agreement.

“Finally, I found a thirteen-year-old orphan girl trying to sell her body outside the White Horse. Her name is Ismay, and she did it because she had nothing to eat.” Caris looked around the room with a challenging stare. “Can anyone tell me how such a thing could possibly happen in a Christian town? All her family are dead – but did they have no friends or neighbours? Who allows a child to starve?”

Edward Butcher said in a low voice: “Ismay Taylor is a rather badly behaved child.”

Caris was not accepting excuses. “She’s thirteen!”

“I’m just saying that she might have been offered help and spurned it.”

“Since when did we allow children to make such decisions for themselves? If a child is orphaned, it is the duty of every one of us to take care of her. What does your religion mean, if not that?”

They all looked shamefaced.

“In future, whenever a child is orphaned, I want the two nearest neighbours to bring the child to me. Those who cannot be placed with a friendly family will move into the priory. The girls can live with the nuns, and we will turn the monks’ dormitory into a bedroom for boys. They can all have lessons in the morning and do suitable work in the afternoon.”

There was general approval for that, too.

Elfric spoke up. “Have you finished, Mother Caris?”

“I think so, unless anyone wants to discuss the details of what I have suggested.”

No one spoke up, and the members began to move in their seats as if the meeting was over.

Then Elfric said: “Some of the men here may remember that they elected me as alderman of the guild.”

His voice was full of resentment. Everyone fidgeted impatiently.

“We have now seen the prior of Kingsbridge accused of theft and condemned without trial,” he went on.

That went down badly. There was a rumble of dissent. No one thought Godwyn innocent.

Elfric ignored the mood of the room. “And we have sat here like slaves and let a woman dictate the laws of the city to us. By whose authority are drunks to be imprisoned? Hers. Who is the ultimate judge of inheritance? She is. Who will dispose of the city’s orphans? She will. What have you come to? Are you not men?”

Betty Baxter said: “No.”

The men laughed.

Caris decided not to intervene. It was unnecessary. She glanced at the bishop, wondering if he would assert himself against Elfric, and saw that he was sitting back, mouth clamped shut: plainly he, too, had realized that Elfric was fighting a losing battle.

Elfric raised his voice. “I say we reject a female prior, even acting prior, and we deny the right of the prioress to come to the parish guild and issue commandments!”

Several muttered mutinously. Two or three stood up, as if about to walk out in disgust. Someone called out: “Forget it, Elfric.”

He persisted. “And this is a woman who was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to death!”

All the men were standing, now. One walked out of the door.

“Come back!” Elfric shouted. “I haven’t closed the meeting!”

No one took any notice.

Caris joined the group at the door. She made way for the bishop and the archdeacon. She was the last to leave. She turned back at the exit and looked at Elfric. He sat alone at the head of the room.

She went out.

It was twelve years since Godwyn and Philemon had visited the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. Godwyn remembered being impressed by the neatness of the fields, the trimmed hedges, the cleared ditches and the apple trees in straight lines in the orchard. It was the same today. Evidently Saul Whitehead had not changed, either.

Godwyn and his caravan crossed a chequerboard of frozen fields towards the clustered buildings of the monastery. As they came closer, Godwyn saw that there had been some developments. Twelve years ago the little stone church with its cloister and dormitory had been surrounded by a scatter of small wooden structures: kitchen, stables, dairy, bakery. Now the flimsy timber outbuildings had gone, and the stone-built complex attached to the church had grown correspondingly. “The compound is more secure than it used to be,” Godwyn remarked.

“Because of the increase in outlawry by soldiers coming home from the French wars, I’d guess,” Philemon said.

Godwyn frowned. “I don’t recall being asked for my permission for the building programme.”

“You were not.”

“Hmm.” Unfortunately, he could hardly complain. Someone might ask how it was possible for Saul to have carried out such a programme without Godwyn’s knowledge, unless Godwyn had neglected his duty of supervision.

Besides, it suited his purpose now for the place to be easily closed to intruders.

The two-day journey had somewhat calmed him. The death of his mother had thrown him into a frenzy of fear. Every hour he remained in Kingsbridge, he had felt he was sure to die. He had got just enough grip on his emotions to address the meeting in the chapter house and organize the exodus. Despite his eloquence, a few of the monks had had misgivings about fleeing. Fortunately, they were all sworn to obedience, and the habit of doing as they were told had prevailed. Nevertheless, he had not begun to feel safe until his group had crossed the double bridge, torches blazing, and headed off into the night.

He still felt close to the edge. Every now and again he would be mulling something over and would decide to ask Petranilla what she thought, then he would realize he could not ask her advice ever again, and panic would rise like bile in his throat.

He was fleeing from the plague – but he should have done it three months ago, when Mark Webber died. Was he too late? He fought down terror. He would not feel safe until he was locked away from the world.

He wrenched his thoughts back to the present. There was no one in the fields at this time of year, but in a yard of beaten earth in front of the monastery he saw a handful of monks working: one shoeing a horse, another mending a plough, and a small group turning the lever of a cider press.

They all stopped what they were doing and stared, astonished, at the crowd of visitors approaching them: twenty monks, half a dozen novices, four carts and ten pack horses. Godwyn had left nobody behind but the priory servants.

One of those at the cider press detached himself from the group and came forward. Godwyn recognized him as Saul Whitehead. They had met on Saul’s annual visits to Kingsbridge, but now for the first time Godwyn noticed touches of grey in Saul’s distinctive ash-blond hair.

Twenty years ago they had been students together at Oxford. Saul had been the star pupil, quick to learn and agile in argument. He had also been the most devoutly religious of them all. He might have become prior of Kingsbridge if he had been less spiritual, and had thought strategically about his career instead of leaving such matters to God. As it was, when Prior Anthony had died and the election was held, Godwyn had easily outmanoeuvred Saul.

All the same, Saul was not weak. He had a streak of stubborn righteousness that Godwyn feared. Would he go along obediently with Godwyn’s plan today, or would he make trouble? Once again Godwyn fought down panic and struggled to remain cool.

He studied Saul’s face carefully. The prior of St John was surprised to see him, and clearly displeased. His expression was carefully composed into a look of polite welcome, but he was not smiling.

During the election campaign, Godwyn had made everyone believe that he himself did not want the job, but he had eliminated every other reasonable candidate including Saul. Did Saul suspect how he had been hoodwinked?

“Good day to you, Father Prior,” Saul said as he approached. “This is an unexpected blessing.”

So he was not going to be openly hostile. No doubt he would think that such behaviour conflicted with his vow of obedience. Godwyn was relieved. He said: “God bless you, my son. It is too long since I have visited my children at St John.”

Saul looked at the monks, the horses and the carts loaded with supplies. “This appears to be more than a simple visit.” He did not offer to help Godwyn down from his horse. It was as if he wanted an explanation before he would invite them in – which was ridiculous: he had no right to turn away his superior.

All the same, Godwyn found himself explaining. “Have you heard about the plague?”

“Rumours,” Saul said. “There are few visitors to bring us news.”

That was good. The lack of visitors was what drew Godwyn here. “The disease has killed hundreds in Kingsbridge. I feared it might wipe out the priory. That’s why I’ve brought the monks here. It may be the only way to ensure our survival.”

“You are welcome here, of course, whatever the reason for your visit.”

“It goes without saying,” Godwyn said stiffly. He felt angry that he had been nudged into justifying himself.

Saul looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure where everyone’s going to sleep…”

“I shall decide that,” Godwyn said, reasserting his authority. “You can show me around while your kitchen is preparing our supper.” He got down from his horse unaided and walked into the monastery.

Saul was obliged to follow.

The whole place had a bare, scrubbed look that expressed how serious Saul was about the monkish vow of poverty. But today Godwyn was more interested in how readily the place could be closed to outsiders. Fortunately, Saul’s belief in order and control had led him to design buildings with few entrances. There were only three ways into the priory: through the kitchen, the stable or the church. Each entrance had a stout door that could be firmly barred.

The dormitory was small, normally accommodating nine or ten monks, and there was no separate bedroom for the prior. The only way to fit twenty extra monks in was to let them sleep in the church.

Godwyn thought of taking over the dormitory for himself, but there was nowhere in the room to hide the cathedral treasures, and he wanted to keep them close. Fortunately, the little church had a small side chapel that could be closed off, and Godwyn took that for his own room. The rest of the Kingsbridge monks spread straw on the stamped-earth floor of the nave and made the best of it.

The food and wine went to the kitchen and the cellar, but Philemon brought the ornaments into Godwyn’s chapel-bedroom. Philemon had been chatting to the St John monks. “Saul has his own way of running things,” he reported. “He demands rigid obedience to God and the Rule of St Benedict, but they say he doesn’t set himself up on a pedestal. He sleeps in the dorm, eats the same food as the others, and in general takes no privileges. Needless to say, they like him for that. But there’s one monk who is constantly being punished – Brother Jonquil.”

“I remember him.” Jonquil had always been in trouble while a novice at Kingsbridge – for lateness, slovenliness, laziness and greed. He was without self-control, and had probably been drawn to the monastic life as a way of getting someone else to enforce the restraint he could not impose on himself. “I doubt that he will be much help to us.”

“He will break ranks, given half a chance,” Philemon said. “But he doesn’t carry any authority. No one will follow him.”

“And they have no complaints about Saul? Doesn’t he sleep late, or dodge unpleasant chores, or take the best wine for himself?”

“Apparently not.”

“Hmm.” Saul was as upright as ever. Godwyn was disappointed, but not very surprised.

During Evensong, Godwyn noted how solemn and disciplined the St John men were. Over the years, he had always sent problem monks here: the mutinous, the mentally ill, those inclined to question the church’s teachings and take an interest in heretical ideas. Saul had never complained, never sent anyone back. It seemed he was able to turn such people into model monks.

After the service, Godwyn sent most of the Kingsbridge men to the refectory for supper, keeping only Philemon and two strong young monks behind. When they had the church to themselves, he told Philemon to guard the door that gave entrance from the cloisters, then ordered the youngsters to move the carved wooden altar and dig a hole beneath where it normally stood.

When the hole was deep enough, Godwyn brought the cathedral ornaments from his chapel, ready to be buried beneath the altar. But before he could complete the job Saul came to the door.

Godwyn heard Philemon say: “The lord prior wishes to be alone.”

Next came Saul’s voice. “Then he may tell me so himself.”

“He has asked me to say so.”

Saul’s voice rose. “I will not be shut out of my own church – least of all by you!”

“Will you offer violence to me, the sub-prior of Kingsbridge?”

“I will pick you up and throw you in the fountain, if you continue to stand in my way.”

Godwyn intervened. He would have preferred to keep Saul in ignorance, but it was not to be. “Let him in, Philemon,” he called.

Philemon stepped aside and Saul marched in. He saw the baggage and, without asking permission, opened the neck of a sack and looked inside. “My soul!” he exclaimed, drawing out a silver-gilt altar cruet. “What’s all this?”

Godwyn was tempted to tell him not to interrogate his superiors. Saul might have accepted such a reproof: he believed in humility, at least in principle. But Godwyn did not want to let suspicion ferment in Saul’s mind, so he said: “I’ve brought the cathedral treasures with me.”

Saul made a face of distaste. “I realize that such gewgaws are thought appropriate in a great cathedral, but they will seem out of place at a humble cell in the forest.”

“You won’t have to look at them. I’m going to hide them. There’s no harm in your knowing where, though I intended to spare you the burden of that knowledge.”

Saul looked suspicious. “Why bring them at all?”

“For safekeeping.”

Saul was not so easily reassured. “I’m surprised the bishop was willing to let them be taken away.”

The bishop had not been asked, of course, but Godwyn did not say that. “At the moment, things are so bad in Kingsbridge that we’re not sure the ornaments are safe even at the priory.”

“Safer than here, though, surely? We are surrounded by outlaws, you know. Thank God you didn’t meet them on the road.”

“God is watching over us.”

“And over His jewellery, I hope.”

Saul’s attitude amounted almost to insubordination, but Godwyn did not reprimand him, fearing that an overreaction would suggest guilt. However, he noted that Saul’s humility had its limits. Perhaps after all Saul did know that he had been hoodwinked twelve years ago.

Now Godwyn said: “Please ask all the monks to stay in the refectory after supper. I will address them as soon as I have finished here.”

Saul accepted this dismissal and went out. Godwyn buried the ornaments, the priory charters, the relics of the saint, and almost all the money. The monks replaced the soil in the hole, tamped it down and put the altar back in its place. There was some loose earth left over, which they took outside and scattered.

Then they went to the refectory. The little room was crowded now, with the addition of the Kingsbridge men. A monk stood at the lectern, reading a passage from Mark’s gospel, but he fell silent when Godwyn walked in.

Godwyn motioned the reader to a seat and took his place. “This is a holy retreat,” he began. “God has sent this terrible plague to punish us for our sins. We have come here to purge those sins far away from the corrupting influence of the city.”

Godwyn had not intended to open a discussion, but Saul sang out: “What sins in particular, Father Godwyn?”

Godwyn improvised. “Men have challenged the authority of God’s holy church; women have become lascivious; monks have failed to separate themselves completely from female society; nuns have turned to heresy and witchcraft.”

“And how long will it take to purge these sins?”

“We will know we have triumphed when the plague dies away.”

Another St John monk spoke up, and Godwyn recognized Jonquil, a large, uncoordinated man with a wild look in his eyes. “How will you purge yourself?”

Godwyn was surprised that the monks here felt so free to question their superiors. “By prayer, meditation and fasting.”

“The fasting is a good idea,” said Jonquil. “We haven’t got much food to spare.”

There was a little laughter at that.

Godwyn was worried that he might lose control of his audience. He banged the lectern for quiet. “From now on, anyone who comes here from the outside world is a danger to us,” he said. “I want all doors to the precinct barred from the inside day and night. No monk is to go outside without my personal permission, which will be granted only in emergency. All callers are to be turned away. We are going to lock ourselves in until this terrible plague is over.”

Jonquil said: “But what if-”

Godwyn interrupted him. “I haven’t asked for comments, brother.” He glared around the room, staring them all into silence. “You are monks, and it is your duty to obey,” he said. “And now, let us pray.”

*

The crisis came the very next day.

Godwyn sensed that his orders had been accepted by Saul and the other monks in a provisional way. Everyone was taken by surprise, and on the spur of the moment they could think of no great objections; and so, in default of a strong reason for rebellion, they instinctively obeyed their superior. But he knew the time would come when they would have to make a real decision. However, he did not expect it so soon.

They were singing the office of Prime. It was freezing cold in the little church. Godwyn was stiff and aching after an uncomfortable night. He missed his palace with its fireplaces and soft beds. The grey light of a winter dawn was beginning to appear in the windows when there was a banging on the heavy west door of the church.

Godwyn tensed. He wished he had been given an extra day or two to consolidate his position.

He signalled that the monks should ignore the knocking and continue with the service. The knocking was then augmented by shouting. Saul stood up to go to the door, but Godwyn made sit-down signs with his hands and, after a hesitation, Saul obeyed. Godwyn was determined to sit tight. If the monks did nothing, the intruders must go away.

However, Godwyn began to realize that persuading people to do nothing was extraordinarily difficult.

The monks were too distracted to concentrate on the psalm. They were all whispering to one another and looking back over their shoulders towards the west end. The singing became ragged and uncoordinated and eventually petered out until only Godwyn’s voice was left.

He felt irate. If they had followed his lead, they could have ignored the disturbance. Angered by their weakness, he at last left his place and walked down the short nave to the door, which was barred. “What is it?” he shouted.

“Let us in!” came the muffled reply.

“You can’t come in,” Godwyn shouted back. “Go away.”

Saul appeared at his side. “Are you turning them away from the church?” he said in a horrified tone.

“I told you,” Godwyn replied. “No visitors.”

The banging resumed. “Let us in!”

Saul shouted: “Who are you?”

There was a pause, then the voice said: “We are men of the forest.”

Philemon spoke up. “Outlaws,” he said.

Saul said indignantly: “Sinners like us, and God’s children too.”

“That’s no reason to let them murder us.”

“Perhaps we should find out whether that’s what they intend.” Saul went to the window on the right of the door. The church was a low building, and the window ledges were just below eye level. None of them was glazed: they were closed against the cold by shutters of translucent linen. Saul opened the shutter and stood on tiptoe to look out. “Why have you come here?” he called.

Godwyn heard the reply. “One of our number is sick.”

Godwyn said to Saul: “I will speak to them.”

Saul stared at him.

“Come away from the window,” Godwyn said.

Reluctantly, Saul obeyed.

Godwyn shouted: “We cannot let you in. Go away.”

Saul looked at him with incredulity. “Are you going to turn away a sick man?” he said. “We are monks and physicians!”

“If the man has the plague, there is nothing we can do for him. By admitting him, we will kill ourselves.”

“That is in God’s hands, surely.”

“God does not permit us to commit suicide.”

“You don’t know what is wrong with the man. He may have a broken arm.”

Godwyn opened the corresponding window on the left of the door and looked out. He saw a group of six rough-looking characters standing around a stretcher that they had put down in front of the church door. Their clothes were costly but dirty, as if they were sleeping rough in their Sunday best. This was typical of outlaws, who stole fine clothes from travellers and made them shabby very quickly. The men were heavily armed, some with good-quality swords, daggers and longbows, which suggested they might be demobilized soldiers.

On the stretcher lay a man who was perspiring heavily – even though it was a frosty January morning – and bleeding from his nose. Suddenly, without wishing it, Godwyn saw in his imagination that scene in the hospital when his mother lay dying, and the trickle of blood on her upper lip kept returning, no matter how often the nun wiped it away. The thought that he might die like that made him so distracted that he wanted to throw himself from the roof of Kingsbridge Cathedral. How much better it would be to die in one brief instant of overwhelming pain than over three, four or five days of mad delirium and agonizing thirst. “That man has the plague!” Godwyn exclaimed, and he heard in his own voice a note of hysteria.

One of the outlaws stepped forward. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the prior of Kingsbridge.”

Godwyn tried to pull himself together. He looked with fear and anger at the man who was evidently the leader. He carried himself with the arrogant assurance of a nobleman, and he had once been handsome, though his looks had been marred by years of living rough. Godwyn said: “And who are you, that comes banging on a church door while the monks are singing psalms to God?”

“Some call me Tam Hiding,” the outlaw replied.

There was a gasp from the monks: Tam Hiding was a legend. Brother Jonquil shouted: “They will kill us all!”

Saul rounded on Jonquil. “Be silent,” he said. “All of us will die when God wills it, and not before.”

“Yes, father.”

Saul returned to the window and said: “You stole our chickens last year.”

“I’m sorry, father,” said Tam. “We were starving.”

“Yet now you come to me for help?”

“Because you preach that God forgives.”

Godwyn said to Saul: “Let me deal with this!”

Saul’s internal struggle was evident on his face, which looked alternately ashamed and mutinous; but at last he bowed his head.

Godwyn said to Tam: “God forgives those who truly repent.”

“Well, this man’s name is Win Forester, and he truly repents all his many sins. He would like to come into the church to pray for healing or, failing that, to die in a holy place.”

One of the other outlaws sneezed.

Saul came away from his window and stood facing Godwyn, hands on hips. “We cannot turn him away!”

Godwyn tried to make himself calm. “You heard that sneeze – don’t you understand what it means?” He turned to the rest of the monks, to make sure they heard what he said next. “They’ve all got the plague!”

They gave a collective murmur of fear. Godwyn wanted them frightened. That way they would support him if Saul decided to defy him.

Saul said: “We must help them, even if they have got the plague. Our lives are not our own, to be protected like gold hidden under the earth. We have given ourselves to God, to use as he wishes, and he will end our lives when it suits his holy purpose.”

“To let those outlaws in would be suicide. They’ll kill us all!”

“We are men of God. For us, death is the happy reunion with Christ. What do we have to fear, Father Prior?”

Godwyn realized that he was sounding frightened, whereas Saul was speaking reasonably. He forced himself to appear calm and philosophical. “It is a sin to seek our own death.”

“But if death comes to us in the course of our holy duty, we embrace it gladly.”

Godwyn realized he could debate all day with Saul and get nowhere. This was not the way to impose his authority. He closed his shutter. “Shut your window, Brother Saul, and come here to roe,” he said. He looked at Saul, waiting.

After a hesitation, Saul did as he was told.

Godwyn said: “What are your three vows, brother?”

There was a pause. Saul knew what was happening here. Godwyn was refusing to engage with him as an equal. At first, Saul looked as if he might refuse to answer, but his training took over, and he said: “Poverty, chastity, obedience.”

“And who must you obey?”

“God, and the Rule of St Benedict, and my prior.”

“And your prior stands before you now. Do you acknowledge me?”

“Yes.”

“You may say: ‘Yes, Father Prior.’ ”

“Yes, Father Prior.”

“Now I will tell you what you must do, and you will obey.” Godwyn looked around. “All of you – return to your places.”

There was a moment of frozen silence. No one moved and no one spoke. It could go either way, Godwyn thought: compliance or mutiny, order or anarchy, victory or defeat. He held his breath.

At last, Saul moved. He bowed his head and turned away. He walked up the short aisle and resumed his position in front of the altar.

All the others did the same.

There were a few more shouts from outside, but they sounded like parting shots. Perhaps the outlaws had realized they could not force a physician to treat their sick comrade.

Godwyn returned to the altar and turned to face the monks. “We will finish the interrupted psalm,” he said, and he began singing.

Glory be to the father

And to the Son

And to the Holy Ghost

The singing was still ragged. The monks were far too excited to adopt the proper attitude. All the same, they were back in their places and following their routine. Godwyn had prevailed.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04