Looking at his visage directly for the first time since the bridge collapse, Godwyn was shocked to see that the entire right side of his face was paralysed: the eyelid drooped, the cheek hardly moved and the mouth was slack. What made it so startling was that the left side was animated. When Roland spoke the left side of his forehead frowned, his left eye opened wide and seemed to blaze with authority, and he spoke vehemently out of the left side of his mouth. The doctor in Godwyn was fascinated. He knew that head injuries could have unpredictable effects, but he had never heard of this particular manifestation.
“Don’t gawk at me,” the earl said impatiently. “You look like a pair of cows staring over a hedge. State your business.”
Godwyn pulled himself together. He had to tread carefully over the next few minutes. He knew that Roland would reject Murdo’s application to be nominated as prior. All the same, he wanted to plant in Roland’s mind the idea of Murdo as a possible alternative to Saul Whitehead. Therefore Godwyn’s job was to strengthen Murdo’s application. He would do this, paradoxically, by objecting to Murdo, thereby showing Roland that Murdo would owe no allegiance to the monks – for Roland wanted a prior who served him alone. But, on the other hand, Godwyn must not protest too strongly, for he did not want the earl to realize what a truly hopeless candidate Murdo actually was. It was a tortuous path to walk.
Murdo spoke first, in his sonorous pulpit voice. “My lord, I come to ask you to consider me for the position of prior of Kingsbridge. I believe-”
“Not so loud, for the love of the saints,” Roland protested.
Murdo lowered his voice. “My lord, I believe that I-”
“Why do you want to be prior?” Roland said, interrupting him again. “I thought a friar was a monk without a church – by definition.” This point of view was old-fashioned. Friars originally were travellers who held no property, but nowadays some of the fraternal orders were as wealthy as traditional monks. Roland knew this, and was just being provocative.
Murdo gave the standard answer. “I believe that God accepts both forms of sacrifice.”
“So you’re willing to turn your coat.”
“I have come to think that the talents he gave me could be put to better use in a priory, so yes, I would be happy to embrace the Rule of St Benedict.”
“But why should I consider you?”
“I am also an ordained priest.”
“No shortage of those.”
“And I have a following in Kingsbridge and the surrounding countryside such that, if I may be allowed to boast, I must be the most influential man of God in the area.”
Father Jerome spoke for the first time. He was a confident young man with an intelligent face, and Godwyn sensed that he was ambitious. “It’s true,” he said. “The friar is extraordinarily popular.”
He was not popular with the monks, of course – but neither Roland nor Jerome knew that, and Godwyn was not about to enlighten them.
Nor was Murdo. He bowed his head and said unctuously: “I thank you from my heart, Father Jerome.”
Godwyn said: “He is popular with the ignorant multitude.”
“As was our Saviour,” Murdo shot back.
“Monks should lead lives of poverty and self-denial,” Godwyn said.
Roland put in: “The friar’s clothes look poor enough. And as for self-denial, it seems to me that Kingsbridge monks eat better than many peasants.”
“Friar Murdo has been seen drunk in taverns!” Godwyn protested.
Murdo said: “St Benedict’s Rule permits monks to drink wine.”
“Only if they are sick, or labouring in the fields.”
“I preach in the fields.”
Murdo was a formidable opponent in an argument, Godwyn noted. He was glad that he did not actually want to win this one. He turned to Roland. “All I can say is that as the sacrist here I strongly counsel your lordship against nominating Murdo as prior of Kingsbridge.”
“Noted,” Roland said coldly.
Philippa gave Godwyn a look of mild surprise, and he realized he had yielded a little too easily. But Roland had not noticed: he did not deal in nuances.
Murdo had not finished. “The prior of Kingsbridge must serve God, of course; but, in all things temporal, he should be guided by the king, and the king’s earls and barons.”
That was about as plain as could be, Godwyn thought. Murdo might as well have said: “I will be your man.” It was an outrageous declaration. The monks would be horrified. It would wipe out any support there might have been among them for Murdo’s candidacy.
Godwyn made no comment, but Roland looked inquiringly at him. “Anything to say to that, sacrist?”
“I’m sure the friar did not mean to say that the priory of Kingsbridge should be in subjection to the earl of Shiring in any matter, temporal or otherwise – did you, Murdo?”
“I have said what I have said,” Murdo replied in his pulpit voice.
“Enough,” said Roland, bored now with the game. “You’re wasting your time, both of you. I shall nominate Saul Whitehead. Off you go.”
St-John-in-the-Forest was a miniature version of Kingsbridge Priory. The church was small, as were the stone-built cloisters and dormitory; the rest of the buildings were simple wood-frame structures. There were eight monks and no nuns. In addition to their lives of prayer and meditation, they grew most of their own food and made a goat’s cheese that was famous throughout south-west England.
Godwyn and Philemon had been riding for two days, and it was early evening when the road emerged from the forest and they saw a wide acreage of cleared land with the church in the middle. Godwyn knew at once that his fears were true, and reports that Saul Whitehead was doing a good job as prior of this cell were, if anything, understated. There was a look of order and neatness about everything: the hedges trimmed, the ditches straight, the trees planted at measured intervals in the orchard, the fields of ripening grain free of weeds. He felt sure he would find that the services were held at the correct times and conducted reverently. He had to hope that Saul’s evident fitness for leadership had not made him ambitious.
As they rode along the path through the fields, Philemon said: “Why is the earl so keen to make his cousin prior of Kingsbridge?”
“For the same reason that he had his younger son made bishop of Kingsbridge,” Godwyn replied. “Bishops and priors are powerful. The earl wants to make sure that any influential man in his neighbourhood is an ally, not an enemy.”
“What might they quarrel about?”
Godwyn was interested to see that young Philemon was beginning to be intrigued by the chess game of power politics. “Land, taxes, rights, privileges… for example, the prior might want to build a new bridge at Kingsbridge, to bring more business to the Fleece Fair; and the earl might oppose such a scheme, on the grounds that it would take business away from his own fair at Shiring.”
“But I don’t really see how the prior could fight against the earl. A prior has no soldiers…”
“A clergyman can influence the mass of the people. If he preaches a sermon against the earl, or calls upon the saints to bring misfortune to the earl, people will begin to believe that the earl is cursed. Then they will discount his power, mistrust him, and expect all his projects to be doomed. It can be very hard for a nobleman to oppose a truly determined cleric. Look what happened to King Henry II after the murder of Thomas Becket.”
They rode into the farmyard and dismounted. The horses immediately drank from the trough. There was no one about but a monk with his robe hitched up mucking out a pigsty behind the stables. He was sure to be a youngster, doing a job like that. Godwyn called to him. “Hey, you, lad! Come and help us with our horses.”