World Without End

Somehow, they got through the service.

Godwyn began to tremble again as soon as he got out of the church. It had been a near-disaster, but he seemed to have got away with it.

The monks burst into excited chatter as the procession reached the cloisters and broke up. Godwyn leaned against a pillar, struggling to regain his composure. He listened to the comments of the monks. Some felt the desecration of the relics was a sign that God did not want Carlus to be prior – the reaction Godwyn had intended. But, to his dismay, most expressed compassion for Carlus. That was not what Godwyn wanted. He realized he might have given Carlus the benefit of a sympathetic backlash.

He pulled himself together and hurried to the hospital. He needed to get to Carlus while the man was still demoralized, and before he got wind of the monks’ understanding.

The sub-prior was sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head. He was pale and looked shaken, and every few moments his face would twitch nervously. Simeon was sitting beside him.

Simeon gave Godwyn a filthy look. “I suppose you’re pleased,” he said.

Godwyn ignored him. “Brother Carlus, you’ll be glad to know that the relics of the saint have been restored to their usual place with hymns and prayers. The saint will surely forgive us all for this tragic accident.”

Carlus shook his head. “There are no accidents,” he said. “Everything is ordained by God.”

Godwyn’s hopes lifted. This was promising.

Simeon’s thoughts followed the same lines, and he tried to restrain Carlus. “Don’t say anything hasty, brother.”

“It’s a sign,” Carlus said. “God is telling us he does not want me to be prior.”

This was what Godwyn had been hoping for.

Simeon said: “Nonsense.” He picked up a cup from a table beside the bed. Godwyn guessed it contained warm wine and honey, Mother Cecilia’s prescription for most ills. Simeon put the cup into Carlus’s hand. “Drink.”

Carlus drank, but he was not to be diverted from his theme. “It would be a sin to ignore such a portent.”

“Portents are not so easily interpreted,” Simeon protested.

“Perhaps not. But even if you’re right, will the brothers vote for a prior who can’t carry the relics of the saint without falling over?”

Godwyn said: “Some of them might, in fact, be drawn to you in commiseration, rather than repelled.”

Simeon shot him a puzzled look, wondering what he was up to.

Simeon was right to be suspicious. Godwyn was playing devil’s advocate because he wanted more than vague expressions of doubt from Carlus. Could he possibly extract a definite withdrawal?

As he hoped, Carlus argued with him. “A man should be made prior because the brothers respect him and believe he can lead them wisely – not out of pity.” He spoke with the bitter conviction of a lifetime of disability.

“I suppose that’s true,” Godwyn said with feigned reluctance, as if the admission had been wrung from him against his will. Taking a risk, he added: “But perhaps Simeon is right, and you should postpone any final decision until you feel more yourself.”

“I’m as well as I’m ever going to be,” Carlus retorted, refusing to admit to weakness in front of young Godwyn. “Nothing is going to change. I’ll feel tomorrow the way I feel today. I will not stand for election as prior.”

Those were the words Godwyn had been waiting for. He stood up abruptly and bowed his head as if in acknowledgement, hiding his face for fear he might reveal his sense of triumph. “You are as clear as always, Brother Carlus,” he said. “I will convey your wishes to the rest of the monks.”

Simeon opened his mouth to protest, but he was forestalled by Mother Cecilia, coming into the room from the stairwell. She looked flustered. “Earl Roland is demanding to see the sub-prior,” she said. “He’s threatening to get out of bed, but he must not move, for his skull may not yet be fully healed. But Brother Carlus should not move either.”

Godwyn looked at Simeon. “We’ll go,” he said.

They went together up the stairs.

Godwyn was feeling good. Carlus did not even know that he had been routed. Of his own accord, he had withdrawn himself from the contest, leaving only Thomas. And Godwyn could eliminate Thomas any time he liked.

The plan had been astonishingly successful – so far.

Earl Roland was lying on his back, and his head was thickly bandaged, but all the same he managed to look like a man in power. The barber must have visited him, for his face was shaved and his black hair – as much of it as was not covered by the bandage – had been neatly trimmed. He wore a short purple tunic and new hose, the two legs fashionably dyed different colours, one red and one yellow. Despite lying in bed he wore a belt with a dagger and short leather boots. His elder son, William, and William’s wife, Philippa, stood by the bed. His young secretary, Father Jerome, in priestly robes, sat at a nearby writing desk with pens and sealing wax ready.

The message was clear: the earl was back in charge.

“Is the sub-prior there?” he said in a clear, strong voice.

Godwyn was quicker-thinking than Simeon, and he replied first. “Sub-prior Carlus has suffered a fall and is himself lying here in this hospital, lord,” he said. “I am the sacrist, Godwyn, and with me is the treasurer, Simeon. We thank God for your miraculous recovery, for He guided the hands of the physician-monks who have been attending you.”

“It was the barber who mended my broken head,” said Roland. “Thank him.”

Because the earl was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Godwyn could not see his face well; but he had the impression that the earl’s expression was curiously blank, and he wondered whether the injury had done some permanent damage. He said: “Do you have everything you need to make you comfortable?”

“If I don’t, you’ll soon know. Now, listen. My niece, Margery, is to marry Monmouth’s younger son, Roger. I presume you know this.”

“Yes.” Godwyn had a sudden flash of memory: Margery lying on her back in this very room, her white legs in the air, fornicating with her cousin Richard, the bishop of Kingsbridge.

“The wedding has been unduly delayed by my injuries.”

That was not true, Godwyn reflected. The collapse of the bridge had taken place only a month ago. The truth was probably that the earl needed to prove that the injury had not diminished him, and he was still a power worthy of an alliance with the earl of Monmouth.

Roland went on: “The wedding will take place in Kingsbridge Cathedral three weeks from today.”

Strictly speaking the earl should have made a request, not issued a command, and an elected prior might have bristled at his high-handedness; but, of course, there was no prior. Anyway, Godwyn could think of no reason why Roland should not have his wish. “Very well, my lord,” he said. “I will make the necessary preparations.”

“I want the new prior installed in time for the service,” Roland went on.

Simeon grunted in surprise.

Godwyn quickly calculated that haste would suit his plans remarkably well. “Very good,” he replied. “There were two candidates, but today sub-prior Carlus withdrew his name, leaving only Brother Thomas, the matricularius. We can hold the election as soon as you like.” He could hardly believe his luck.

Simeon knew he was looking defeat in the face. “Wait a minute,” he said.

But Roland was not listening. “I don’t want Thomas,” he said.

Godwyn had not been expecting that.

Simeon gri

Shocked, Godwyn said: “But, my lord-”

Roland did not permit him to interrupt. “Summon my nephew, Saul Whitehead, from St-John-in-the-Forest,” he said.

Godwyn’s heart filled with foreboding. Saul was his contemporary. As novices, they had been friends. They had gone to Oxford together – but there they had grown apart, Saul becoming more devout and Godwyn more worldly. Saul was now the competent prior of the remote cell of St John. He took very seriously the monastic virtue of humility, and he would never have put forward his own name. But he was bright, devout, and liked by everyone.