“Where is my cousin Saul?” he said as soon as Godwyn walked into the room.
“Still at St John, my lord. I gave him your message-”
“Message? It was a command!”
Lady Philippa, standing beside the bed, said softly: “Don’t excite yourself, lord – you know it makes you feel ill.”
Godwyn said: “Brother Saul simply said that he cannot accept the nomination.”
“Why the devil not?”
“He thought and prayed-”
“Of course he prayed, that’s what monks do. What reason did he give for defying me?”
“He does not feel himself capable of such a challenging role.”
“Nonsense. What challenge? He’s not being asked to lead a thousand knights into battle – just make sure a handful of monks sing their hymns at the right times of day.”
That was rubbish, so Godwyn bowed his head and said nothing.
The earl’s tone changed suddenly. “I’ve just realized who you are. You’re the son of Petranilla, aren’t you?”
“Yes, lord.” That Petranilla whom you jilted, Godwyn thought.
“She was sly, and I’ll bet you are too. How do I know you didn’t talk Saul out of accepting? You want Thomas Langley to be prior, don’t you?”
My plan is a lot more devious than that, you fool, Godwyn thought. He said: “Saul did ask me what you might want in return for nominating him.”
“Ah, now we come to it. What did you tell him?”
“That you would expect him to listen to one who was his cousin, his sponsor and his earl.”
“And he was too pig-headed to accept that, I suppose. Right. That settles it. I shall nominate that fat friar. Now get out of my sight.”
Godwyn had to hide his elation as he bowed out of the room. The penultimate stage of his plan had worked perfectly. Earl Roland had not the least suspicion of how he had been nudged into nominating the most hopeless candidate Godwyn could think of.
Now for the final step.
He left the hospital and entered the cloisters. It was the hour of study before the midday service of Sext, and most of the monks were standing or sitting around reading, being read to or meditating. Godwyn spotted Theodoric, his young ally, and summoned him with a jerk of the head.
In a low voice, he said: “Earl Roland has nominated Friar Murdo as prior.”
Theodoric said loudly: “What?”
“Hush.”
“It’s impossible!”
“Of course it is.”
“No one will vote for him.”
“That’s why I’m pleased.”
Understanding dawned on Theodoric’s face. “Oh… I see. So it’s good for us, really.”
Godwyn wondered why he always had to explain these things, even to intelligent men. No one saw below the surface, except him and his mother. “Go around telling everyone – quietly. No need to show your outrage. They’ll get angry enough without encouragement.”
“Should I say that this is good for Thomas?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Right,” said Theodoric. “I understand.”
He evidently did not, but Godwyn felt he could be trusted to follow instructions.
Godwyn left him and went in search of Philemon. He found him sweeping out the refectory. “Do you know where Murdo is?” he asked.
“Probably in the kitchen.”
“Find him and ask him to meet you in the prior’s house when all the monks are in church for Sext. I don’t want anyone to see you there with him.”
“All right. What do I tell him?”
“First of all, you say: ‘Brother Murdo, no one must ever know that I told you this.’ Is that clear?”
“No one must ever know that I told you this. All right.”
“Then show him the charter we found. You remember where it is – in the bedroom beside the prie-dieu, there’s a chest with a ginger-coloured leather wallet inside.”
“Is that all?”
“Point out that the land Thomas brought to the priory belonged originally to Queen Isabella, and that this fact has been kept secret for ten years.”
Philemon looked puzzled. “But we don’t know what Thomas is trying to hide.”
“No. But there’s always a reason for a secret.”
“Don’t you think Murdo will try to use this information against Thomas?”
“Of course.”
“What will Murdo do?”
“I don’t know but, whatever it is, it’s sure to be bad for Thomas.”
Philemon frowned. “I thought we were supposed to be helping Thomas.”
Godwyn smiled. “That’s what everyone thinks.”
The bell rang for Sext.
Philemon went off in search of Murdo, and Godwyn joined the rest of the monks in church. In unison with the others he said: “O God, incline unto mine aid.” On this occasion he prayed with unusual earnestness. Despite the confidence he had shown Philemon, he knew he was gambling. He had staked everything on Thomas’s secret, but he did not know what the face of the card would show when he turned it up.
However, it was clear he had succeeded in stirring up the monks. They were restless and talkative, and Carlus had to call for quiet twice during the psalms. They disliked friars in general, for taking an attitude of moral superiority on the question of earthly possessions while, at the same time, sponging off those they condemned. And they disliked Murdo in particular for being pompous, greedy and drunk. They would have anyone rather than him.
As they left the church after the service, Simeon spoke to Godwyn. “We cannot have the friar,” he said.
“I agree.”
“Carlus and I will not be putting forward another name. If the monks appear divided, the earl will be able to present his candidate as a necessary compromise. We must sink our differences and rally round Thomas. If we show the world a united front, it will be difficult for the earl to oppose us.”
Godwyn stopped and faced Simeon. “Thank you, brother,” he said, forcing himself to look humble and hide the exultation he felt.
“We’re doing it for the good of the priory.”
“I know. But I appreciate your generosity of spirit.”
Simeon nodded and walked away.
Godwyn smelled victory.
The monks went into the refectory for dinner. Murdo joined them. He missed services, but not meals. All monasteries had a general rule that any monk or friar was welcome at the table – though few people exploited the practice as thoroughly as Murdo. Godwyn studied his face. The friar looked excited, as if he had news he was bursting to share. However, he contained himself while dinner was served, and remained silent throughout the meal, listening to a novice read.
The passage chosen was the story of Susanna and the Elders. Godwyn disapproved: the story was too sexy to be read aloud in a celibate community. But today even the attempts of two lascivious old men to blackmail a woman into having sex with them failed to capture the monks’ attention. They kept whispering among themselves, looking sidelong at Murdo.
When the food was finished, and the prophet Daniel had saved Susanna from execution by interrogating the elders separately and showing that they told inconsistent stories, the monks got ready to leave. At that moment, Murdo spoke to Thomas.
“When you came here, Brother Thomas, you had a sword wound, I believe.”
He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the other monks stopped to listen.
Thomas looked at him stonily. “Yes.”
“The wound that eventually caused you to lose your left arm. I wonder, did you receive that wound in the service of Queen Isabella?”
Thomas turned pale. “I’ve been a monk of Kingsbridge for ten years. My previous life is forgotten.”
Murdo carried on unperturbed. “I ask because of the parcel of land that you brought with you when you joined the priory. A very productive little village in Norfolk. Five hundred acres. Near Lynn – where the queen lives.”
Godwyn interrupted, pretending to be indignant. “What does an outsider know of our property?”