She was often abrupt, but all the same Godwyn became edgy when she spoke like this. “What do you mean?”
“You should have a better house.”
“I know.” Eight years ago, Godwyn had tried to persuade Mother Cecilia to pay for a new palace. She had promised to give him the money three years later but, when the time came, she said she had changed her mind. He felt sure it was because of what he had done to Caris. After that heresy trial, his charm had ceased to work on Cecilia, and it had become difficult to get money out of her.
Petranilla said: “You need a palace for entertaining bishops and archbishops, barons and earls.”
“We don’t get many of those, nowadays. Earl Roland and Bishop Richard have been in France for much of the last few years.” King Edward had invaded north-east France in 1339 and spent all of 1340 there; then in 1342 he had taken his army to north-west France and fought in Brittany. In 1345 English troops had done battle in the south-western wine district of Gascony. Now Edward was back in England, but assembling another army of invasion.
“Roland and Richard aren’t the only noblemen,” Petranilla said testily.
“The others never come here.”
Her voice hardened. “Perhaps that’s because you can’t accommodate them in the style they expect. You need a banqueting hall, and a private chapel, and spacious bedchambers.”
She had been awake all night thinking about this, he guessed. That was her way: she brooded over things then shot off her ideas like arrows. He wondered what had brought on this particular complaint. “It sounds very extravagant,” he said, playing for time.
“Don’t you understand?” she snapped. “The priory is not as influential as it might be, simply because you don’t ever see the powerful men of the land. When you’ve got a palace with beautiful rooms for them, they will come.”
She was probably right. Wealthy monasteries such as Durham and St Albans even complained about the number of noble and royal visitors they were obliged to entertain.
She went on: “Yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death.” So that’s what brought this on, Godwyn thought: she’s been remembering grandfather’s glorious career. “You’ve been prior here for almost nine years,” she said. “I don’t want you to get stuck. The archbishops and the king should be considering you for a bishopric, a major abbey such as Durham, or a mission to the pope.”
Godwyn had always assumed that Kingsbridge would be his springboard to higher things but, he realized now, he had let his ambition wane. It seemed only a little while ago that he had won the election for prior. He felt he had only just got on top of the job. But she was right, it was more than eight years.
“Why aren’t they thinking of you for more important posts?” she asked rhetorically. “Because they don’t know you exist! You are prior of a great monastery, but you haven’t told anyone about it. Display your magnificence! Build a palace. Invite the archbishop of Canterbury to be your first guest. Dedicate the chapel to his favourite saint. Tell the king you have built a royal bedchamber in the hope that he will visit.”
“Wait a moment, one thing at a time,” Godwyn protested. “I’d love to build a palace, but I haven’t got the money.”
“Then get it,” she said.
He wanted to ask her how, but at that moment the two leaders of the nunnery came into the room. Petranilla and Cecilia greeted one another with wary courtesy, then Petranilla took her leave.
Mother Cecilia and Sister Natalie sat down. Cecilia was fifty-one now, with grey in her hair and poor eyesight. She still darted about the place like a busy bird, poking her beak into every room, chirping her instructions to nuns, novices and servants; but she had mellowed with the years, and would go a long way to avoid a conflict.
Cecilia was carrying a scroll. “The nunnery has received a legacy,” she said as she made herself comfortable. “From a pious woman of Thornbury.”
Godwyn said: “How much?”
“One hundred and fifty pounds in gold coins.”
Godwyn was startled. It was a huge sum. It was enough to build a modest palace. “The nunnery has received it – or the priory?”
“The nunnery,” she said firmly. “This scroll is our copy of her will.”
“Why did she leave you so much money?”
“Apparently we nursed her when she fell ill on her way home from London.”
Natalie spoke. She was a few years older than Cecilia, a round-faced woman with a mild disposition. “Our problem is, where are we going to keep the money?”
Godwyn looked at Philemon. Natalie had given them an opening for the topic they had planned to raise. “What do you do with your money at present?” he asked her.
“It’s in the prioress’s bedroom, which can be reached only by going through the dormitory.”
As though thinking of it for the first time, Godwyn said: “Perhaps we should spend a little of the bequest on a new treasury.”
“I think that’s necessary,” said Cecilia. “A simple stone building with no windows and a stout oak door.”
“It won’t take long to construct,” Godwyn said. “And shouldn’t cost more than five or ten pounds.”
“For safety, we think it should be part of the cathedral.”
“Ah.” That was why the nuns had to discuss the plan with Godwyn. They would not have needed to consult him about building within their own area of the priory, but the church was common to monks and nuns. He said: “It could go up against the cathedral wall, in the corner formed by the north transept and the choir, but be entered from inside the church.”
“Yes – that’s just the kind of thing I had in mind.”
“I’ll speak to Elfric today, if you like, and ask him to give us an estimate.”
“Please do.”
Godwyn was happy to have extracted from Cecilia a fraction of her windfall, but he was not satisfied. After the conversation with his mother, he yearned to get his hands on more of it. He would have liked to grab it all. But how?
The cathedral bell tolled, and the four of them stood up and went out.
The condemned man was outside the west end of the church. He was naked, and tied tightly by his hands and feet to an upright wooden rectangle like a door frame. A hundred or so townspeople stood waiting to watch the execution. The ordinary monks and nuns had not been invited: it was considered improper for them to see bloodshed.
The executioner was Will Tanner, a man of about fifty whose skin was brown from his trade. He wore a clean canvas apron. He stood by a small table on which he had laid out his knives. He was sharpening one of them on a stone, and the scrape of steel on granite made Godwyn shudder.
Godwyn said several prayers, ending with an extempore plea in English that the death of the thief would serve God by deterring others from the same sin. Then he nodded to Will Tanner.
Will stood behind the tethered thief. He took a small knife with a sharp point and inserted it into the middle of Gilbert’s neck, then drew it downwards in a long straight line to the base of the spine. Gilbert roared with pain, and blood welled out of the cut. Will made another slash across the man’s shoulders, forming the shape of the letter T.
Will then changed his knife, selecting one with a long, thin blade. He inserted it carefully at the point where the two cuts met, and pulled away a corner of skin. Gilbert cried out again. Then, holding the corner in the fingers of his left hand, Will began carefully to cut the skin of Gilbert’s back away from his body.
Gilbert began to scream.
Sister Natalie made a noise in her throat, turned away and ran back into the priory. Cecilia closed her eyes and began to pray. Godwyn felt nauseated. Someone in the crowd fell to the ground in a dead faint. Only Philemon seemed unmoved.
Will worked quickly, his sharp knife slicing through the subcutaneous fat to reveal the woven muscles below. Blood flowed copiously, and he stopped every few seconds to wipe his hands on his apron. Gilbert screamed in undiminished agony at every cut. Soon the skin of his back hung in two broad flaps.