by Ken Follett
He turned his brain to the problem of the nuns' election. Reaction to his sermon had been so favorable that he had thought Elizabeth's victory secure. The tide had turned with shocking rapidity, and the infuriating revival in Caris's popularity had taken him by surprise. Philemon's last-ditch intervention had been a desperate measure taken just too late. When he thought of it, Godwyn wanted to scream.
But it was not yet over. Caris had mocked Philemon, but the truth was that she could not consider her position safe until she had Bishop Henri's approval.
Unfortunately, Godwyn had not yet had a chance to ingratiate himself with Henri. The new bishop, who spoke no English, had visited Kingsbridge only once. Because he was so new, Philemon had not yet learned whether he had any fatal weaknesses. But he was a man, and a priest, so he ought to side with Godwyn against Caris.
Godwyn had written to Henri saying that Caris had bewitched the nuns into thinking she could save them from the plague. He had detailed Caris's history: the accusation of heresy, the trial and sentence eight years ago, the rescue by Cecilia. He hoped Henri would arrive in Kingsbridge with his mind firmly prejudiced against Caris.
But when would Henri come? It was extraordinary for the bishop to miss the Christmas service in the cathedral. A letter from the efficient, unimaginative Archdeacon Lloyd had explained that Henri was busy appointing clergy to replace those who had died of the plague. Lloyd might be against Godwyn: he was Earl William's man, owing his position to William's late brother Richard; and the father of William and Richard, Earl Roland, had hated Godwyn. But Lloyd would not make the decision, Henri would. It was hard to know what might happen. Godwyn felt he had lost control. His career was threatened by Caris and his life was threatened by a remorseless plague.
A light snowfall began as the ceremony of consecration came to an end. Just beyond the cleared plot, seven funeral processions were at a standstill, waiting for the cemetery to be ready. At Godwyn's signal, they moved forward. The first body was in a coffin, but the rest were in shrouds on biers. In the best of times coffins were a luxury for the prosperous, but now that timber had become expensive and coffin-makers were overworked it was only the very rich that could afford to be buried in a wooden casket.
At the head of the first procession was Merthin, with snowflakes caught in his copper-red hair and beard. He was carrying his little girl. The wealthy deceased in the coffin must be Bessie Bell, Godwyn deduced. Bessie had died without relatives and left the tavern to Merthin. Money sticks to that man like wet leaves, Godwyn thought sourly. Merthin already had Leper Island and the fortune he had made in Florence. Now he owned the busiest tavern in Kingsbridge.
Godwyn knew about Bessie's will because the priory was entitled to an inheritance tax and had taken a fat percentage of the value of the place. Merthin had paid the money in gold florins without hesitation.
The one good consequence of the plague was that the priory suddenly had plenty of cash.
Godwyn conducted one burial service for all seven bodies. This was now the norm: one funeral in the morning and one in the afternoon, regardless of the number of dead. There were not enough priests in Kingsbridge to bury each person individually.
That thought renewed Godwyn's feeling of dread. He stumbled over the words of the service, seeing himself in one of the graves; then he managed to take hold of himself and continue.
At last the service was over, and he led the procession of monks and nuns back to the cathedral. They entered the church and fell out of formation in the nave. The monks returned to their normal duties. A novice nun approached Godwyn nervously and said: "Father Prior, would you kindly come to the hospital?"
Godwyn did not like to receive bossy messages via novices. "What for?" he snapped.
"I'm sorry, Father, I don't know--I was just told to ask you."
"I'll come as soon as I can," he said irritably. He did not have anything urgent to do, but just to make the point he delayed in the cathedral, speaking to Brother Eli about the monks' robes.
A few minutes later he crossed the cloisters and entered the hospital.
Nuns were crowded around a bedstead that had been set up in front of the altar. They must have an important patient, he thought. He wondered who it was. One of the attendant nuns turned to him. She wore a linen mask over her nose and mouth, but he recognized the gold-flecked green eyes that he and all his family shared: it was Caris. Although he could see so little of her face, he read an odd expression in her look. He expected dislike and contempt, but instead he saw compassion.
He moved closer to the bed with a feeling of trepidation. When the other nuns saw him they moved aside deferentially. A moment later, he saw the patient.
It was his mother.
Petranilla's large head lay on a white pillow. She was sweating, and there was a steady trickle of blood from her nose. A nun was in the act of wiping it away, but it reappeared. Another nun offered the patient a cup of water. There was a rash of purple spots on the wrinkled skin of Petranilla's throat.
Godwyn cried out as if he had been struck. He stared in horror. His mother gazed at him with suffering eyes. There was no room for doubt: she had fallen victim to the plague. "No!" he shouted. "No! No!" He felt an unbearable pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed.
He heard Philemon, beside him, say in a frightened voice: "Try to stay calm, Father Prior," but he could not. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. He suddenly felt detached from his body, with no control over his movements. Then a black mist arose from the floor and engulfed him, gradually rising up his body until it covered his nose and mouth, so that he could not breathe, and then his eyes, so that he was blind; and at last he lost consciousness.
Godwyn was in bed for five days. He ate nothing and drank only when Philemon put a cup to his lips. He could not think straight. He could not move, for it seemed he had no way of deciding what to do. He sobbed, and slept, then woke up and sobbed again. He was vaguely aware of a monk feeling his forehead, taking a urine sample, diagnosing brain fever, and bleeding him.
Then, on the last day of December, a scared-looking Philemon brought him the news that his mother was dead.
Godwyn got up. He had himself shaved, put on a new robe, and went to the hospital.
The nuns had washed and dressed the body. Petranilla's hair was brushed and she wore a dress of costly Italian wool. Seeing her like that, with the pallor of death on her face and her eyes forever closed, Godwyn felt a resurgence of the panic that had overwhelmed him; but this time he was able to fight it down. "Take her body to the cathedral," he ordered. Normally the honor of lying in state in the cathedral was reserved for monks, nuns, senior clergymen, and the aristocracy; but Godwyn knew that no one would dare to contradict him.
When she had been moved into the church, and placed in front of the altar, he knelt beside her and prayed. Prayer helped him calm his terror, and gradually he figured out what to do. When at last he stood up, he ordered Philemon to call a meeting in the chapter house immediately.
He felt shaky, but he knew he had to pull himself together. He had always been blessed with the power of persuasion. Now he had to use it to the utmost.
When the monks had gathered, he read to them from the Book of Genesis. "And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am. And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of. And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him."
Godwyn looked up from the book. The monks were watching him intently. They all knew the story of Abraham and Isaac. They were more interested in him, Godwyn. They were alert, wary, wondering what would come next.
"What does the story of Abraham a
nd Isaac teach us?" he asked rhetorically. "God tells Abraham to kill his son--not just his eldest son, but his only son, born when he was a hundred years old. Did Abraham protest? Did he plead for mercy? Did he argue with God? Did he point out that to kill Isaac would be murder, infanticide, a terrible sin?" Godwyn let the question hang for a moment, then looked down at the book and read: "And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass..."
He looked up again. "God may tempt us, too. He may order us to perform acts which seem wrong. Perhaps he will tell us to do something that appears to be a sin. When that happens, we must remember Abraham."
Godwyn was speaking in what he knew was his most persuasive preaching style, rhythmic yet conversational. He could tell that he had their rapt attention by the quiet in the octagonal chapter house: no one fidgeted, whispered, or shuffled.
"We must not question," he said. "We must not argue. When God leads us, we must follow--no matter how foolish, sinful, or cruel his wishes may seem to our feeble human minds. We are weak and humble. Our understanding is fallible. It is not given to us to make decisions or choices. Our duty is simple. It is to obey."
Then he told them what they had to do.
The bishop arrived after dark. It was almost midnight when the entourage entered the precinct: they had ridden by torchlight. Most of the priory had been in bed for hours, but there was a group of nuns at work in the hospital, and one of them came to wake Caris. "The bishop is here," she said.
"Why does he want me?" Caris asked sleepily.
"I don't know, Mother Prior."
Of course she didn't. Caris pulled herself out of bed and put on a cloak.
She paused in the cloisters. She took a long drink of water, and for a few moments she breathed deeply of the cold night air, clearing her head of sleep. She wanted to make a good impression on the bishop, so that there would be no trouble about his ratifying her election as prioress.
Archdeacon Lloyd was in the hospital, looking tired, the pointed tip of his long nose red with cold. "Come and greet your bishop," he said crossly, as if she ought to have been up and waiting.
She followed him out. A servant stood outside the door with a burning torch. They walked across the green to where the bishop sat on his horse.
He was a small man in a big hat, and he looked thoroughly fed up.
Caris said in Norman French: "Welcome to Kingsbridge Priory, my lord bishop."
Henri said peevishly: "Who are you?"
Caris had seen him before but had never spoken to him. "I am Sister Caris, prioress-elect."
"The witch."
Her heart sank. Godwyn must have already tried to poison Henri's mind against her. She felt indignant. "No, my lord bishop, there are no witches here," she said with more acerbity than was prudent. "Just a group of ordinary nuns doing their best for a town that has been stricken by the plague."
He ignored that. "Where is Prior Godwyn?"
"In his palace."
"No, he's not!"
Archdeacon Lloyd explained: "We've been there. The building is empty."
"Really?"
"Yes," the archdeacon said irritably. "Really."
At that moment, Caris spotted Godwyn's cat, with the distinctive white tip to its tail. The novices called it Archbishop. It walked across the west front of the cathedral and looked into the spaces between the pillars, as if searching for its master.
Caris was taken aback. "How strange...Perhaps Godwyn decided to sleep in the dormitory with the other monks."
"And why would he do that? I hope there's no impropriety going on."
Caris shook her head dismissively. The bishop suspected unchastity, but Godwyn was not prone to that particular sin. "He reacted badly when his mother caught the plague. He had some kind of fit and collapsed. She died today."
"If he's been unwell I should have thought he was all the more likely to sleep in his own bed."
Anything might have happened. Godwyn was slightly unhinged by Petranilla's illness. Caris said: "Would the lord bishop like to speak to one of his deputies?"
Henri answered crossly: "If I could find one, yes!"
"Perhaps if I take Archdeacon Lloyd to the dormitory..."
"As soon as you like!"
Lloyd got a torch from a servant, and Caris led him quickly through the cathedral into the cloisters. The place was silent, as monasteries generally were at this time of night. They reached the foot of the staircase that led up to the dormitory, and Caris stopped. "You'd better go up alone," she said. "A nun should not see monks in bed."
"Of course." Lloyd went up the stairs with his torch, leaving her in darkness. She waited, curious. She heard him shout: "Hello?" There was a strange silence. Then, after a few moments, he called down to her in an odd voice: "Sister?"
"Yes?"
"You can come up."
Mystified, she climbed the stairs and entered the dormitory. She stood beside Lloyd and peered into the room by the unsteady light of the burning torch. The monks' straw mattresses lay neatly in their places along either side of the room--but not one of them was occupied. "There's no one here," Caris said.
"Not a soul," Lloyd agreed. "What on earth has happened?"
"I don't know, but I can guess," said Caris.
"Then enlighten me, please."
"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "They've run away."
PART VI
January 1349 to January 1351
63
When Godwyn left, he took with him all the valuables from the monks' treasury and all the charters. This included the nuns' charters, which they had never succeeded in retrieving from his locked chest. He also took the sacred relics, including the bones of St. Adolphus in their priceless reliquary.
Caris discovered this on the morning afterward, the first day of January, the Feast of the Circumcision of Christ. She went with Bishop Henri and Sister Elizabeth to the treasury off the south transept. Henri's attitude to her was stiffly formal, which was worrying; but he was a peevish character, so perhaps he was like that with everyone.
The flayed skin of Gilbert Hereford was still nailed to the door, slowly turning hard and yellow, and giving off a faint but distinct whiff of rottenness.
But the door was not locked.
They went in. Caris had not been inside this room since Prior Godwyn stole the nuns' one hundred and fifty pounds to build his palace. After that they had built their own treasury.
It was immediately obvious what had happened. The flagstones that disguised the vaults in the floor had been lifted and not put back, and the lid of the ironbound chest stood open. Vaults and chest were empty.
Caris felt that her contempt for Godwyn was vindicated. A trained physician, a priest and the leader of the monks, he had fled just at the moment when the people needed him most. Now, surely, everyone would realize his true nature.
Archdeacon Lloyd was outraged. "He took everything!"
Caris said to Henri: "And this is the man who wanted you to annul my election."
Bishop Henri grunted noncommittally.
Elizabeth was desperate to find an excuse for Godwyn's behavior. "I'm sure the lord prior took the valuables with him for safekeeping."
That stung the bishop into a response. "Rubbish," he said crisply. "If your servant empties your purse and disappears without warning, he's not keeping your money safe, he's stealing it."
Elizabeth tried a different tack. "I believe this was Philemon's idea."
"The subprior?" Henri looked scornful. "Godwyn is in charge, not Philemon. Godwyn is responsible."
Elizabeth shut up.
Godwyn must have recovered from the death of his mother, Caris thought, at least temporarily. It was quite an achievement to persuade every single one of the monks to follow him. She wondered where they had gone.
Bishop Henri was thinking the same thing. "Where did the wretched cowards go?"
Caris remembered Merthin trying to persuade her to leave. To Wales, or Ireland, he had said. A remote village
where they don't see a stranger from one year to the next. She said to the bishop: "They will be hiding out in some isolated place where no one ever goes."
"Find out exactly where," he said.
Caris realized that all opposition to her election had vanished with Godwyn. She felt triumphant, and made an effort not to look too pleased. "I'll make some inquiries in the town," she said. "Somebody must have seen them leave."
"Good," said the bishop. "However, I don't think they're coming back soon, so in the meantime you're going to have to manage as best you can with no men. Continue the services as normally as possible with the nuns. Get a parish priest to come into the cathedral for mass, if you can find one still alive. You cannot perform the mass, but you can hear confessions--there has been a special dispensation from the archbishop, because so many clergymen have died."
Caris was not going to let him slide past the question of her election. "Are you confirming me as prioress?" she said.
"Of course," he said irritably.
"In that case, before I accept the honor--"
"You have no decision to make, Mother Prioress," he said indignantly. "It is your duty to obey me."
She wanted the post desperately, but she resolved to pretend otherwise. She was going to drive a hard bargain. "We live in strange times, don't we?" she said. "You've given nuns authority to hear confessions. You've shortened the training for priests, but you still can't ordain them fast enough to keep up with deaths from the plague, I hear."
"Is it your intention to exploit the difficulties the church is facing for some purpose of your own?"
"No, but there is something you need to do to make it possible for me to carry out your instructions."
Henri sighed. Clearly he did not like being spoken to in this way. But, as Caris had suspected, he needed her more than she needed him. "Very well, what is it?"
"I want you to convene an ecclesiastical court and reopen my trial for witchcraft."
"For heaven's sake, why?"