World Without End

“The time may come, in the future, when the priory is able to build a new bridge. God will send the means, if he wishes it. And then we will still have the tolls.”

Edmund said: “God has already sent the means. He inspired my daughter to dream up a way of raising the money that has never been thought of before.”

Carlus said primly: “Please leave it to us to decide what God has done.”

“Very well.” Edmund stood up, and Caris did the same. “I’m very sorry you’re taking this attitude. It’s a catastrophe for Kingsbridge and everyone who lives here, including the monks.”

“I must be guided by God, not you.”

Edmund and Caris turned to leave.

“One more thing, if I may,” said Carlus.

Edmund turned at the door. “Of course.”

“It’s not acceptable for lay people to enter priory buildings at will. Next time you wish to see me, please come to the hospital, and send a novice or a priory servant to seek me out, in the usual way.”

“I’m alderman of the parish guild!” Edmund protested. “I’ve always had direct access to the prior.”

“No doubt the fact that Prior Anthony was your brother made him reluctant to impose the usual rules. But those days are over.”

Caris looked at her father’s face. He was repressing fury. “Very well,” he said tightly.

“God bless you.”

Edmund went out, and Caris followed.

They walked across the muddy green together, passing a pitifully small cluster of market stalls. Caris felt the weight of her father’s obligations. Most people just worried about feeding their families. Edmund worried about the entire town. She glanced at him and saw that his expression was twisted into an anxious frown. Unlike Carlus, Edmund would not throw his hands in the air and say that God’s will would be done. He was racking his brains for a solution to the problem. She felt a surge of compassion for him, straining to do the right thing with no help from the powerful priory. He never complained of the responsibility, he just took it on. It made her want to weep.

They left the precincts and crossed the main street. As they came to their front door, Caris said: “What are we going to do?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said her father. “We’ve got to make sure Carlus doesn’t get elected prior.”

15

Godwyn wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge. He longed for it with all his heart. He itched to reform the priory’s finances, tightening up the management of its lands and other assets, so that the monks no longer had to go to Mother Cecilia for money. He yearned for the stricter separation of monks from nuns, and both from townspeople, so that they might all breathe the pure air of sanctity. But as well as these irreproachable motives, there was something else. He lusted for the authority and distinction of the title. At night, in his imagination, he was already prior.

“Clean up that mess in the cloister!” he would say to a monk.

“Yes, Father Prior, right away.”

Godwyn loved the sound of Father Prior.

“Good day, Bishop Richard,” he would say, not obsequiously, but with friendly courtesy.

And Bishop Richard would reply, as one distinguished clergyman to another: “And a good day to you, too, Prior Godwyn.”

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, archbishop?” he might say, more deferentially this time, but still as a junior colleague of the great man, rather than as an underling.

“Oh, yes, Godwyn, you’ve done extraordinarily well here.”

“Your reverence is very kind.”

And perhaps, one day, strolling in the cloister side by side with a richly dressed potentate: “Your majesty does us great honour to visit our humble priory.”

“Thank you, Father Godwyn, but I come to ask your advice.”

He wanted this position – but he was not sure how to get it. He pondered the question all week, as he supervised a hundred burials, and pla

Meanwhile, he spoke to no one of his hopes. It was only ten days ago that he had learned the price of being guileless. He had gone to the chapter with Timothy’s Book and a strong argument for reform – and the old guard had turned on him with perfect coordination, as if they had rehearsed it, and squashed him like a frog under a cartwheel.

He would not let that happen again.

On Sunday morning, as the monks were filing into the refectory for breakfast, a novice whispered to Godwyn that his mother would like to see him in the north porch of the cathedral. He slipped away discreetly.

He felt apprehensive as he passed quietly through the cloisters and the church. He could guess what had happened. Something had occurred yesterday to trouble Petranilla. She had lain awake half the night worrying about it. This morning she had woken up at dawn with a plan of action – and he was part of it. She would be at her most impatient and domineering. Her plan would probably be good – but even if it was not she would insist he carried it out.

She stood in the gloom of the porch in a wet cloak – it was raining again. “My brother Edmund came to see Blind Carlus yesterday,” she said. “He tells me Carlus is acting as ii he is already prior, and the election is a mere formality.”

There was an accusing note in her voice as if this was Godwyn’s fault, and he answered defensively. “The old guard swung behind Carlus before Uncle Anthony’s body was cold. They won’t hear talk of rival candidates.”

“Hm. And the youngsters?”

“They want me to run, of course. They liked the way I stood up to Prior Anthony over Timothy’s Book – even though I was overruled. But I’ve said nothing.”

“Any other candidates?”

“Thomas Langley is the outsider. Some disapprove of him because he used to be a knight, and has killed people, by his own admission. But he’s capable, does his job with quiet efficiency, never bullies the novices…”

His mother looked thoughtful. “What’s his story? Why did he become a monk?”

Godwyn’s apprehension began to ease. It seemed she was not going to berate him for inaction. “Thomas just says he always hankered for the sanctified life and, when he came here to get a sword wound attended to, he resolved never to leave.”

“I remember that. It was ten years ago. But I never did hear how he got the wound.”

“Nor I. He doesn’t like to talk about his violent past.”

“Who paid for his admission to the priory?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t know.” Godwyn often marvelled at his mother’s ability to ask the revealing question. She might be tyra

“Find out.”

Godwyn hesitated. He would have to look through all the charters in the priory’s library. The librarian, Brother Augustine, would not presume to question the sacrist, but someone else might. Then Godwyn would have the awkwardness of inventing a plausible story to explain what he was doing. If the gift had been cash, rather than land or other property – unusual, but possible – he would have to go through the account rolls…

“What’s the matter?” his mother said sharply.

“Nothing. You’re right.” He reminded himself that her domineering attitude was a sign of her love for him, perhaps the only way she knew how to express it. “There must be a record. Come to think of it…”

“What?”

“A gift like that is usually trumpeted. The prior a