Pillars of the Earth, book 2 16 страница

Godwyn was not really disappointed. Rather the contrary. Either Thomas had been admitted without the usual gift – which would in itself be curious – or the charter was kept somewhere else, away from prying eyes. Either way, it seemed increasingly likely that Petranilla’s instinct was right, and Thomas had a secret.

There were not many private places in a monastery. Monks were supposed to have no personal property and no secrets. Although some wealthy monasteries had built private cells for the senior monks, at Kingsbridge they slept in one big room – all except the prior himself. Almost certainly, the charter that had secured Thomas’s admission was in the prior’s house.

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 had the contents examined 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 or the bridge collapse. The monks took their places in the chancel, and the ritual began. “O 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 draughts, 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 leather workers.

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 afterwards 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 sub-prior.”

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 sceptical. 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.

She had been looking glum since the bridge collapse, he had noticed, but today she seemed cheerful. He was glad: he had a soft spot for her. He touched her elbow. “You look happy.”

“I am.” She smiled. “A romantic knot just came untangled. But you wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course not.” You have no idea, he thought, how many romantic tangles there are among monks. But he said nothing: lay people were best left in ignorance of sins that took place in the priory. He said: “Your father should speak to Bishop Richard about rebuilding the bridge.”

“Really?” she said sceptically. As a child she had hero-worshipped him, but nowadays she was less in awe. “What’s the point? It’s not his bridge.”

“The monks’ choice for prior has to be approved by the bishop. Richard could let it be known that he won’t approve anyone who refuses to rebuild the bridge. Some monks might be defiant, but others will say there’s no point in voting for someone who isn’t going to be ratified.”

“I see. You really think my father could help?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll suggest it.”

“Thank you.”

The bell rang. Godwyn slipped out of the church and again joined the procession forming up in the cloisters. It was midday.

He had done a good morning’s work.

Wulfric and Gwenda left Kingsbridge early on Monday morning to walk the long road back to their village of Wigleigh.

Caris and Merthin watched them cross the river on Merthin’s new ferry. Merthin was pleased by how well it was working. The wooden gears would wear out quite quickly, he knew. Iron gears would be better, but-

Caris had other thoughts. “Gwenda is so much in love,” she sighed.

“She has no chance with Wulfric,” Merthin said.

“You never know. She’s a determined girl. Look how she escaped from Sim Chapman.”

“But Wulfric’s engaged to that Annet – who is much prettier.”

“Good looks aren’t everything in a romance.”

“For which I thank God every day.”

She laughed. “I love your funny face.”

“But Wulfric fought my brother over Annet. He must love her.”

“Gwenda’s got a love potion.”

Merthin gave her a disapproving look. “So you think it’s all right for a girl to manoeuvre a man into marrying her when he loves someone else?”

She was struck silent for a moment. The soft skin of her throat turned pink. “I never thought of it that way,” she said. “Is it really the same thing?”

“It’s similar.”

“But she’s not coercing him – she just wants to make him love her.”

“She should try to do that without a potion.”

“Now I feel ashamed of helping her.”

“Too late.” Wulfric and Gwenda were getting off the ferry on the far side. They turned to wave, then headed along the road through the suburbs with Skip, the dog, at their heels.

Merthin and Caris walked back up the main street. Caris said: “You haven’t spoken to Griselda yet.”

“I’m going to do it now. I don’t know whether I’m looking forward to it or dreading it.”

“You’ve got nothing to fear. She’s the one who lied.”

“That’s true.” He touched his face. The bruise had almost healed. “I just hope her father doesn’t get violent again.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

He would have been glad of her support, but he shook his head. “I made this mess, and I have to straighten it out.”

They stopped outside Elfric’s house. Caris said: “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Merthin kissed her lips briefly, resisted the temptation to kiss her again, and walked in.

Elfric was sitting at the table eating bread and cheese. A cup of ale stood in front of him. Beyond him, Merthin could see Alice and the maid in the kitchen. There was no sign of Griselda.

Elfric said: “Where have you been?”

Merthin decided that if he had nothing to fear he had better act fearlessly. He ignored Elfric’s question. “Where’s Griselda?”

“Still in bed.”

Merthin shouted up the stairs: “Griselda! I want to talk to you.”

Elfric said: “No time for that. We’ve got work to do.”

Again Merthin ignored him. “Griselda! You’d better get up now.”

“Hey!” Elfric said. “Who do you think you are, to give orders?”

“You want me to marry her, don’t you?”

“So what?”

“So she’d better get used to doing what her husband tells her.” He raised his voice again. “Get down here now, or you’ll just have to hear what I’ve got to say from someone else.”

She appeared at the top of the stairs. “I’m coming!” she said irritably. “What’s all the fuss about?”

Merthin waited for her to come down, then said: “I’ve found out who the father of the baby is.”

Fear flashed in her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, it’s you.”

“No, it’s Thurstan.”

“I never lay with Thurstan!” She looked at her father. “Honestly I didn’t.”

Elfric said: “She doesn’t lie.”

Alice came out of the kitchen. “That’s right,” she said.

Merthin said: “I lay with Griselda on the Sunday of Fleece Fair week – fifteen days ago. Griselda is three months pregnant.”

“I’m not!”

Merthin looked hard at Alice. “You knew, didn’t you?” Alice looked away. Merthin went on: “And yet you lied – even to Caris, your own sister.”

Elfric said: “You don’t know how long pregnant she is.”

“Look at her,” Merthin replied. “You can see the bulge in her belly. Not much, but it’s there.”

“What do you know of such things? You’re just a boy.”

“Yes – you were all relying on my ignorance, weren’t you? And it almost worked.”

Elfric wagged his finger. “You lay with Griselda, and now you’ll marry Griselda.”

“Oh no I won’t. She doesn’t love me. She lay with me to get a father for her baby, after Thurstan ran away. I know I did wrong, but I’m not going to punish myself for the rest of my life by marrying her.”

Elfric stood up. “You are, you know.”

“No.”

“You’ve got to.”

“No.”

Elfric’s face turned red, and he shouted: “You will marry her!”

Merthin said: “How long do you want me to keep on saying no?”

Elfric realized he was serious. “In that case, you’re dismissed,” he said. “Get out of my house and never come back.”

Merthin had been expecting this, and it came as a relief. It meant the argument was over. “All right.” He tried to step past Elfric.

Elfric blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the kitchen, to get my things.”

“Your tools, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“They’re not yours. I paid for them.”

“An apprentice is always given his tools at the end of his…” Merthin tailed off.

“You haven’t finished your apprenticeship, so you don’t get your tools.”

Merthin had not expected this. “I’ve done six and a half years!”

“You’re supposed to do seven.”

Without tools Merthin could not earn his living. “That’s unfair. I’ll appeal to the carpenters’ guild.”

“I look forward to it,” Elfric said smugly. “It will be interesting to hear you argue that an apprentice who is sacked for lying with his master’s daughter should be rewarded with a free set of tools. The carpenters in the guild have all got apprentices, and most of them have daughters.

They’ll throw you out on your arse.”

Merthin realized he was right.

Alice said: “There you are, you’re in real trouble now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Merthin said. “But whatever happens, it won’t be as bad as life with Griselda and her family.”

*

Later that morning, Merthin went to St Mark’s church for the funeral of Howell Tyler. He attended because he hoped someone there would give him a job.

Looking up at the timber ceiling – the church did not have a stone vault – Merthin could see a man-shaped hole in the painted wood, grim testament to the manner of Howell’s death. Everything up there was rotten, the builders at the funeral said knowingly; but they said it after the accident, their sagacity coming too late to save Howell. It was now clear that the roof was too weak to be repaired, but must be demolished completely and rebuilt from scratch. That meant closing the church.

St Mark’s was a poor church. It had a pitiful endowment, a single farm ten miles away that was kept by the priest’s brother and just about managed to feed the family. The priest, Father Joffroi, had to get his income from the eight or nine hundred citizens of his parish in the poorer north end of town. Those who were not actually destitute generally pretended to be, so their tithes brought in only a modest sum. He made his living by christening, marrying and burying them, charging a lot less than the monks at the cathedral. His parishioners married early, had many children and died young, so there was plenty of work for him, and in the end he did well enough. But if he closed the church his income would dry up – and he would not be able to pay the builders.

Consequently the work on the roof had stopped.

All the town’s builders came to the funeral, including Elfric. Merthin tried to look unashamed as he stood in the church, but it was difficult: most of them knew he had been dismissed. He had been unjustly treated but, unfortunately, he was not completely innocent.

Howell had had a young wife who was friendly with Caris, and now Caris walked in with the widow and the bereaved family. Merthin moved next to Caris and told her what had happened with Elfric.

Father Joffroi conducted the service dressed in an old robe. Merthin thought about the roof. It seemed to him there must be a way to dismantle it without closing the church. The standard approach, when repairs had been postponed too long and the timbers were too badly rotted to bear the weight of workmen, was to build scaffolding around the church and knock the timbers down into the nave. The building was then open to the elements until the new roof was finished and tiled. But it should be possible to build a swivelling hoist, supported by the thick side wall of the church, which would lift the roof timbers up one by one, instead of pushing them down, and swing them across the wall and down into the graveyard. That way, the wooden ceiling could be left intact, and replaced only after the roof had been rebuilt.

At the graveside, he looked at the men one by one, wondering which of them was most likely to employ him. He decided to approach Bill Watkin, the town’s second largest builder and no admirer of Elfric’s. Bill had a bald dome with a fringe of black hair, a natural version of the monkish tonsure. He did most of the house building in Kingsbridge. Like Elfric, he employed a stonemason and a carpenter, a handful of labourers and one or two apprentices.

Howell had not been prosperous, and his body was lowered into the grave in a shroud, without a coffin.

When Father Joffroi had departed, Merthin approached Bill Watkin. “Good day, Master Watkin,” he said formally.

Bill’s response was not warm. “Well, young Merthin?”

“I’ve parted company with Elfric.”

“I know that,” said Bill. “And I know why.”

“You’ve heard Elfric’s side of the story.”

“I’ve heard all I need to hear.”

Elfric had been talking to people before and during the service, Merthin realized. He was sure Elfric had left out of his account the fact that Griselda had tried to make Merthin the substitute father for Thurstan’s baby. But he felt he would do himself no good by making excuses. Better to admit his fault. “I realize I did wrong, and I’m sorry, but I’m still a good carpenter.”

Bill nodded agreement. “The new ferry testifies to that.”

Merthin was encouraged. “Will you hire me?”

“As what?”

“As a carpenter. You said I was a good one.”

“But where are your tools?”

“Elfric wouldn’t give them to me.”

“And he was right – because you haven’t finished your apprenticeship.”

“Then take me on as an apprentice for six months.”

“And give you a new set of tools for nothing at the end of it? I can’t afford that kind of generosity.” Tools were expensive because iron and steel were costly.

“I’ll work as a labourer, and save up to buy my own tools.” It would take a long time, but he was desperate.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve got a daughter too.”

This was outrageous. “I’m not a menace to maidens, you know.”

“You’re an example to apprentices. If you get away with this, what’s to stop the others trying their luck?”

“That is so unjust!”

Bill shrugged. “You might think so. But ask any other master carpenter in town. I think you’ll find they feel as I do.”

“But what am I to do?”

“I don’t know. You should have thought of that before you shagged her.”

“You don’t care about losing a good carpenter?”

Bill shrugged again. “All the more work for the rest of us.”

Merthin turned away. That was the trouble with guilds, he thought bitterly: it was in their interest to exclude people, for good or bad reasons. A shortage of carpenters would just drive up their wages. They had no incentive to be fair.

Howell’s widow left, accompanied by her mother. Caris, liberated from her duty of commiseration, came over to Merthin. “Why do you look unhappy?” she said. “You hardly knew Howell.”

“I may have to leave Kingsbridge,” he said.

She went pale. “Why on earth would you do that?”

He told her what Bill Watkin had said. “So, you see, no one in Kingsbridge will hire me, and I can’t work on my own account for I’ve no tools. I could live with my parents, but I can’t take the food from their mouths. So I’ll have to seek work some place where no one knows about Griselda. In time, perhaps I can save up enough money to buy a hammer and chisel and then move to another town and try to gain admittance to the carpenters’ guild.”

As he explained this to Caris, he began to appreciate the full misery of the situation. He saw her familiar features as if for the first time, and he was enchanted again by her sparkling green eyes, her small, neat nose and the determined set of her jaw. Her mouth, he realized, did not quite fit the rest of her face: it was too wide, and the lips were too full. It unbalanced the regularity of her physiognomy the way her sensual nature subverted her tidy mind. It was a mouth made for sex, and the thought that he might have to go away and never kiss it again filled him with despair.

Caris was furious. “This is iniquitous! They have no right.”

“That’s what I think. But there seems to be nothing I can do about it. I just have to accept it.”

“Wait a minute. Let’s think about this. You can live with your parents, and have your dinner at my house.”

“I don’t want to become a dependant, like my father.”

“Nor should you. You can buy Howell Tyler’s tools – his widow was just telling me she’s asking a pound for them.”

“I haven’t any money.”

“Ask my father for a loan. He’s always liked you, I’m sure he’ll do it.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04