“Eventually, yes. But you don’t have to leave Kingsbridge to achieve that.”
You don’t want me to advance too fast, in case I outstrip you; and you don’t want me to leave town, in case you lose control of me, Godwyn thought in a flash of insight. He wished he had anticipated this resistance to his plans. “I don’t want to study theology,” he said.
“What, then?”
“Medicine. It’s such an important part of our work here.”
Anthony pursed his lips. Godwyn had seen the same disapproving expression on his mother’s face. “The monastery can’t afford to pay for you,” Anthony said. “Do you realize that just one book costs at least fourteen shillings?”
Godwyn was taken by surprise. Students could hire books by the page, he knew; but that was not the main point. “What about the students already there?” he said. “Who pays for them?”
“Two are supported by their families, and one by the nuns. The priory pays for the other three, but we can’t afford any more. In fact there are two places vacant in the college for lack of funds.”
Godwyn knew the priory was in financial difficulties. On the other hand, it had vast resources: thousands of acres of land; mills and fishponds and woodland; and the enormous income from Kingsbridge market. He could not believe his uncle was refusing him the money to go to Oxford. He felt betrayed. Anthony was his mentor as well as a relative. He had always favoured Godwyn over other young monks. But now he was trying to hold Godwyn back.
“Physicians bring money in to the priory,” he argued. “If you don’t train young men, eventually the old ones will die and the priory will be poorer.”
“God will provide.”
This infuriating platitude was always Anthony’s answer. For some years the priory’s income from the annual Fleece Fair had been declining. The townspeople had urged Anthony to invest in better facilities for the wool traders – tents, booths, latrines, even a wool exchange building – but he always refused, pleading poverty. And when his brother, Edmund, told him the fair would eventually decline to nothing, he said: “God will provide.”
Godwyn said: “Well, then, perhaps he will provide the money for me to go to Oxford.”
“Perhaps he will.”
Godwyn felt painfully disappointed. He had an urge to get away from his home town and breathe a different air. At Kingsbridge College he would be subject to the same monastic discipline, of course – but nevertheless he would be far from his uncle and his mother, and that prospect was alluring.
He was not yet ready to give up the argument. “My mother will be very disappointed if I don’t go.”
Anthony looked uneasy. He did not want to incur the wrath of his formidable sister. “Then let her pray for the money to be found.”
“I may be able to get it elsewhere,” Godwyn said, extemporizing.
“How would you do that?”
He cast about for an answer, and found inspiration. “I could do what you do, and ask Mother Cecilia.” It was possible. Cecilia made him nervous – she could be as intimidating as Petranilla – but she was more susceptible to his boyish charm. She might be persuaded to pay for a bright young monk’s education.
The suggestion took Anthony by surprise. Godwyn could see him trying to think of an objection. But he had been arguing as if money were the main consideration, and it was difficult now for him to shift his ground.
While Anthony hesitated, Cecilia came in.
She wore a heavy cloak of fine wool, her only indulgence – she hated to be cold. After greeting the prior, she turned to Godwyn. “Your Aunt Rose is gravely ill,” she said. Her voice was musically precise. “She may not last the night.”
“May God be with her.” Godwyn felt a pang of pity. In a family where everyone was a leader, Rose was the only follower. Her petals seemed the more fragile for being surrounded by brambles. “It’s not a shock,” he added. “But my cousins, Alice and Caris, will be sad.”
“Fortunately, they have your mother to console them.”
“Yes.” Consolation was not Petranilla’s strong point, Godwyn thought – she was better at stiffening your spine and preventing you from backsliding – but he did not correct the prioress. Instead he poured her a goblet of cider. “Is it a little chilly in here, Reverend Mother?”
“Freezing,” she said bluntly.
“I’ll build up the fire.”
Anthony said slyly: “My nephew Godwyn is being attentive because he wants you to pay for him to go to Oxford.”
Godwyn glared furiously at him. Godwyn would have planned a careful speech and chosen the best time to deliver it. Now Anthony had blurted out the request in the most charmless fashion.
Cecilia said: “I don’t think we can afford to finance two more.”
It was Anthony’s turn to be surprised. “Someone else has asked you for money to go to Oxford?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say,” Cecilia replied. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”
“It’s of no consequence,” Anthony said huffily; then he recollected himself and added: “We are always grateful for your generosity.”
Godwyn put more wood on the fire then went out. The prior’s house was on the north side of the cathedral. The cloisters, and all the other priory buildings, were to the south of the church. Godwyn walked shivering across the cathedral green to the monastery kitchen.
He had thought Anthony might quibble about Oxford, saying he should wait until he was older, or until one of the existing students graduated – for Anthony was a quibbler by nature. But he was Anthony’s protege, and he had been confident that in the end his uncle would support him. Anthony’s flat opposition had left him feeling shocked.
He asked himself who else had petitioned the prioress for support. Of the twenty-six monks, six were around Godwyn’s age: it could be any one of them. In the kitchen the sub-cellarer, Theodoric, was helping the cook. Could he be the rival for Cecilia’s money? Godwyn watched him put the goose on a platter with a bowl of apple sauce. Theodoric had brains enough to study. He could be a contender.
Godwyn carried the dinner back to the prior’s house, feeling worried. If Cecilia decided to help Theodoric, he did not know what he would do. He had no fall-back plan.
He wanted to be prior of Kingsbridge one day. He felt sure he could do the job better than Anthony. And if he was a successful prior, he might rise higher: bishop, archbishop, or perhaps a royal official or counsellor. He had only a vague idea of what he would do with such power, but he felt strongly that he belonged in some elevated position in life. However, there were only two routes to such heights. One was aristocratic birth; the other, education. Godwyn came from a family of wool merchants: his only hope was the university. And for that, he was going to need Cecilia’s money.
He put the dinner on the table. Cecilia was saying: “But how did the king die?”
“He suffered a fall,” Anthony said.
Godwyn carved the goose. “May I give you some of the breast, Reverend Mother?”
“Yes, please. A fall?” she said sceptically. “You make the king sound like a doddering old man. He was forty-three!”
“It’s what his jailers say.” Having been deposed, the ex-king had been a prisoner at Berkeley Castle, a couple of days’ ride from Kingsbridge.
“Ah, yes, his jailers,” Cecilia said. “Mortimer’s men.” She disapproved of Roger Mortimer, the earl of March. Not only had he led the rebellion against Edward II, he had also seduced the king’s wife, Queen Isabella.
They began to eat. Godwyn wondered whether there would be any left over.
Anthony said to Cecilia: “You sound as if you suspect something sinister.”
“Of course not – but others do. There has been talk…”
“That he was murdered? I know. But I saw the corpse, naked. There were no marks of violence on the body.”
Godwyn knew he should not interrupt, but he could not resist. “Rumour says that when the king died his screams of agony were heard by everyone in the village of Berkeley.”