Epic Historial Collection (205 page)

“You're pretending to be more certain than you actually feel.”

“That's not a sin.”

“My father is worried about the bridge. Friar Murdo is even more likely to obey the earl's will than Saul Whitehead was.”

“Murdo is not going to be prior of Kingsbridge.”

“There you go again.”

Godwyn was annoyed by her perspicacity. “I don't know what to say to you,” he snapped. “I've been elected, and I mean to take the post. Earl Roland would like to stop me, but he doesn't have the right, and I'm fighting him with all the means at my disposal. Am I scared? Yes. But I still intend to beat him.”

She grinned. “That's what I wanted to hear.” She punched his shoulder. “Go and see your mother. She's in your house, waiting for you. That's what I came to tell you.” With that she turned and left.

Godwyn went out through the north transept. Caris was clever, he thought with a mixture of admiration and irritation. She had cajoled him into giving her an assessment of the situation more candid than anything he had said to anyone else.

But he was glad of the chance to talk to his mother. Everyone else doubted his power to win this fight. She would have confidence—and perhaps some strategic ideas.

He found Petranilla in the hall, sitting at the table, which was laid for two with bread, ale, and a platter of salted fish. He kissed her forehead, said grace, and sat down to eat. He allowed himself a moment of triumphant pleasure. “Well,” he said. “I'm the prior-elect, at least, and here we are having dinner in the prior's house.”

“But Roland is still fighting you,” she said.

“Harder than I expected. After all, he has the right of nomination, not selection. It's inherent in his position that his choice will not always be elected.”

“Most earls would accept that, but not him,” Petranilla said. “He's felt superior to everyone he's ever met.” There was a bitterness in her tone which, Godwyn guessed, sprang from memories of their aborted engagement more than thirty years ago. She smiled vengefully. “Soon he will realize how badly he's underestimated us.”

“He knows I'm your son.”

“Then that will be a factor. You probably remind him of the dishonorable way he behaved to me. That's enough to make him hate you.”

“It's a shame.” Godwyn lowered his voice in case a servant might be listening outside the door. “Until this point, your plan has worked perfectly. Withdrawing myself from the contest, then discrediting everyone else, was brilliant.”

“Perhaps. But we may be about to lose everything. Have you said any more to the bishop?”

“No. I've reminded him that we know about Margery. He was scared, but not scared enough to defy his father, it seems.”

“He should be. If this comes out, he won't be forgiven. He could end up a lowly knight on the level of Sir Gerald, wasting his days as a pensioner. Doesn't he realize that?”

“Perhaps he thinks I don't have the courage to reveal what I know.”

“Then you'll have to go to the earl with the information.”

“Heavens! He'll explode!”

“Steel your nerve.”

She always said this kind of thing. It was why he looked forward with such apprehension to meetings with her. She always wanted him to be a little more daring, and take greater risks, than was his inclination. But he could never refuse her.

She went on: “If it came out that Margery's not a virgin, the marriage would be called off. Roland doesn't want that. He'll accept the lesser evil of you as prior.”

“But he'll be my enemy for the rest of his life.”

“He'll be that whatever happens.”

Small consolation, Godwyn thought; but he did not argue, for he could see that his mother was right.

There was a tap at the door, and Lady Philippa walked in.

Godwyn and Petranilla stood up.

“I need to talk to you,” Philippa said to Godwyn.

He said: “May I present my mother, Petranilla?”

Petranilla curtsied, then said: “I'd better leave. You're obviously here to broker a deal, my lady.”

Philippa gave her an amused look. “If you know that much, you know everything of importance. Perhaps you should stay.”

As the two women stood facing one another, Godwyn noticed that they were similar: same height, same statuesque build, and the same imperious air. Philippa was younger, of course, by something like twenty years; and she had a relaxed authority, and a touch of humor, that contrasted with Petranilla's tight-wound determination—perhaps because Philippa had a husband and Petranilla had lost hers. But Philippa was a strong-willed woman who exercised power through a man—Lord William—and, Godwyn now realized, Petranilla also wielded influence through a man—himself.

“Let's sit down,” Philippa said.

Petranilla said: “Has the earl approved whatever you're about to propose?”

“No.” Philippa made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Roland is too proud to agree in advance to something that might then be rejected by the other side. If I can get Godwyn's agreement to what I'm about to suggest, then I've got a chance of persuading Roland to compromise.”

“I thought as much.”

Godwyn said: “Would you like something to eat, my lady?”

Philippa dismissed the offer with an impatient wave. “As things stand, everyone is going to lose,” she began. “The wedding will take place, but without the proper pomp and ceremony; so that Roland's alliance with the earl of Monmouth will be blighted from the start. The bishop will refuse to ratify you as prior, Godwyn, so the archbishop will be called in to resolve the dispute; and he will dismiss both you and Murdo, and nominate someone new, probably a member of his staff whom he wants to be rid of. No one will get what they want. Am I right?”

She directed the question at Petranilla, who made a noncommittal sound.

“So why not anticipate the archbishop's compromise?” Philippa went on. “Bring forward the third candidate now. Only”—she pointed a finger at Godwyn—“the candidate is chosen by you—and he promises to make you subprior.”

Godwyn considered. This would relieve him of the need to confront the earl eyeball-to-eyeball and threaten him with the revelation of his son's behavior. But the compromise would doom him to be subprior for an indefinite period—and then, when the new prior died, he would have to fight the battle all over again. He was inclined to refuse, despite his apprehension.

He glanced at his mother. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She did not like it either.

“I'm sorry,” Godwyn said to Philippa. “The monks have held an election, and the result must stand.”

Philippa stood up. “In that case, I must give you the message that is my official reason for coming here. Tomorrow morning the earl will rise from his sickbed. He wishes to inspect the cathedral and make sure all is ready in plenty of time for the wedding. You are to meet him in the church at eight o'clock. All the monks and nuns must be robed and ready, and the church dressed with the usual ornaments.”

Godwyn bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she went out.

 

At the appointed hour Godwyn stood in a bare, silent church.

He was alone: there were no monks or nuns with him. No furniture was to be seen, except for the fixed choir stalls. There were no candles, no crucifixes, no chalices, no flowers. The watery sun that had shone fitfully through rain clouds much of this summer now cast a weak, cold light into the nave. Godwyn held his hands tightly together behind his back to keep them from shaking.

On time, the earl walked in.

With him were Lord William, Lady Philippa, Bishop Richard, Richard's assistant Archdeacon Lloyd, and the earl's clerk Father Jerome. Godwyn would have liked to surround himself with an entourage, but none of the monks knew quite how risky his scheme was, and if they had known, they might not have had the nerve to back him up; so he had decided to face the earl alone.

The bandages had been removed from Roland's head. He walked slowly but steadily. He must surely feel shaky after so many weeks in bed, Godwyn thought, but he seemed determined not to show it. He looked normal apart from the paralysis of half his face. His message to the world today would be that he was fully recovered and back in charge. And Godwyn was threatening to spoil that design.

The others looked with incredulity at the empty church, but the earl showed no surprise. “You're an arrogant monk,” he said to Godwyn, speaking as always out of the left side of his mouth.

Godwyn was risking everything, and had nothing further to lose by being defiant, so he said: “You're an obstinate earl.”

Roland put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I ought to run you through for that.”

“Go ahead.” Godwyn held his arms out sideways, ready to be crucified. “Murder the prior of Kingsbridge, here in the cathedral, just as King Henry's knights murdered Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury. Send me to Heaven and yourself to eternal damnation.”

Philippa gasped with shock at Godwyn's disrespect. William moved as if to silence Godwyn. Roland restrained him with a gesture, and said to Godwyn: “Your bishop orders you to ready the church for the wedding. Don't monks take a vow of obedience?”

“The lady Margery cannot be married here.”

“Why not—because you want to be prior?”

“Because she is not a virgin.”

Philippa's hand flew to her mouth. Richard groaned. William drew his sword. Roland said: “This is treason!”

Godwyn said: “Put away your sword, Lord William—you can't restore her maidenhead with that.”

Roland said: “What do you know of such things, monk?”

“Two men of this priory witnessed the act, which took place in a private room of the hospital, the very room where you, my lord, are staying.”

“I don't believe you.”

“The earl of Monmouth will.”

“You would not dare to tell him.”

“I must explain to him why his son cannot marry Margery in Kingsbridge Cathedral—at least until she has confessed her sin and received absolution.”

“You have no proof of this slander.”

“I have two witnesses. But ask the girl. I believe she will confess. I imagine she favors the lover who took her virginity over the political match chosen by her uncle.” Once again Godwyn was going out on a limb. But he had seen Margery's face when Richard was kissing her, and at that moment he had felt sure she was in love. Having to marry the earl's son must be breaking her heart. It would be very difficult for such a young woman to lie convincingly if her emotions were as turbulent as Godwyn guessed.

The animated half of Roland's face was working with fury. “And who is this man who you claim committed this crime? For, if you can prove what you allege, the villain will hang, I swear. And, if not, you will. So let him be sent for, and we'll see what he has to say.”

“He's already here.”

Roland looked with incredulity at the four men with him—his two sons, William and Richard, plus two priests, Lloyd and Jerome.

Godwyn stared at Richard.

Roland followed the direction of Godwyn's stare. In a moment, they were all looking at Richard.

Godwyn held his breath. What would Richard say? Would he bluster? Would he accuse Godwyn of lying? Would he fly into a rage and attack his accuser?

But his face showed defeat, not anger, and after a moment he bowed his head and said: “It's no good. The damned monk is right—she will not withstand interrogation.”

Earl Roland went white. “You did this?” he said. For once he was not shouting, but that seemed to make him more terrifying. “The girl I betrothed to an earl's son—you fucked her?”

Richard made no reply, but looked down at the ground.

“You fool,” the earl said. “You traitor. You—”

Philippa interrupted him. “Who else knows?”

That stopped the tirade. They all looked at her.

“Perhaps the wedding may still take place,” she said. “Thank God, the earl of Monmouth isn't here.” She looked at Godwyn. “Who knows about this, other than the people here now, and the two men of the priory who witnessed the act?”

Godwyn tried to calm his thudding heart. He was so close to success that he seemed to taste it. “No one else knows, my lady,” he said.

“All of us on the earl's side can keep the secret,” she said. “What about your men?”

“They will obey their elected prior,” he said, with the slightest emphasis on the word “elected.”

Philippa turned to Roland. “Then the wedding can take place.”

Godwyn added: “Provided the inauguration ceremony is held first.”

Everyone looked at the earl.

He took a step forward and suddenly hit Richard in the face. It was a powerful blow struck by a soldier who knew how to put all his weight into it. Although he used his open hand, Richard was knocked to the ground.