World Without End

  But she said nothing.

  He kept his gaze steadfastly away from her. "You must go to the cowshed," he said. "Go to sleep. We'll feel differently in the morning. It might be all right then."

  She ran out through the back door, not bothering to get dressed. It was moonlight, but there was no one to see her, and she would not have cared anyway. She was inside the cowshed in seconds.

  At one end of the wooden building was a raised loft where clean straw was kept. That was where she made her bed each night. She climbed the ladder and threw herself down, too miserable to care about the sharp prickle of straw on her bare skin. She wept with disappointment and shame.

  When eventually she calmed down, she stood up and put her dress on, then wrapped a blanket around her. As she did so, she thought she heard a step outside. She looked through a gap in the rough wattle-and-daub of the wall.

  The moon was almost full, and she could see clearly. Wulfric was outside. He walked toward the door of the cowshed. Gwenda's heart leaped. Perhaps it was not all over yet. But he hesitated at the door, then walked away. He returned to the house, turned at the kitchen door, came back to the cowshed, and turned again.

  She watched him pace up and down, her heart thudding, but she did not move. She had done all she could to encourage him. He had to take the last step himself.

  He stopped at the kitchen door. His body was profiled by the moonlight, a silver line running from his forelock to his boots. She saw clearly as he reached into his drawers. She knew what he was going to do: she had seen her older brother do the same thing. She heard Wulfric groan as he began to rub himself with the motion that caricatured lovemaking. She stared at him, beautiful in the moonlight, wasting his desire, and she felt as if her heart would break.

  20

  Godwyn moved against Blind Carlus on the Sunday before the birthday of St. Adolphus.

  On that Sunday every year, a special service was held in Kingsbridge Cathedral. The bones of the saint were carried around the church by the prior, followed by the monks in procession; and they prayed for good harvest weather.

  As always, it was Godwyn's job to prepare the church for the service--placing candles, getting incense ready, and moving furniture--helped by novices and employees such as Philemon. The Feast of St. Adolphus required a secondary altar, an elaborately carved wooden table set on a platform that could be moved about the church as required. Godwyn placed this altar on the eastern edge of the crossing and put on it a pair of silver-gilt candlesticks. As he did so, he anxiously mulled over his position.

  Now that he had persuaded Thomas to stand for election as prior, his next step was to eliminate the opposition. Carlus ought to be an easy target--but in a way, that was a disadvantage, for Godwyn did not want to appear callous.

  He placed in the center of the altar a reliquary cross, a bejeweled gold crucifix with a core of wood from the True Cross. This, the actual timber upon which Christ was killed, had been miraculously found a thousand years ago by Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, and pieces of it had found their way to churches all over Europe.

  As Godwyn was arranging the ornaments on the altar, he saw Mother Cecilia nearby and broke off from his work to speak to her. "I understand that Earl Roland has recovered his mind," he said. "Praise God."

  "Amen," she said. "The fever was on him so long that we feared for his life. Some evil humor must have entered his brain after his skull was fractured. Nothing he said made sense. Then, this morning, he woke up and spoke normally."

  "You cured him."

  "God cured him."

  "Still, he should be grateful to you."

  She smiled. "You're young, Brother Godwyn. You'll learn that men of power never show gratitude. Whatever we give them, they accept as their right."

  Her condescension annoyed Godwyn, but he concealed his irritation. "At any rate, we can now hold the election for prior, at last."

  "Who will win?"

  "Ten monks have promised firmly to vote for Carlus, and only seven for Thomas. With the candidates' own votes, that makes the score eleven to eight, with six uncommitted."

  "So it could go either way."

  "But Carlus is in the lead. Thomas could do with your support, Mother Cecilia."

  "I don't have a vote."

  "But you have influence. If you were to say that the monastery needs stricter control and a measure of reform, and you felt Thomas was more likely to deliver such a program, it would sway some of the waverers."

  "I ought not to take sides."

  "Perhaps not, but you could say that you will not continue to subsidize the monks unless they manage their money better. What could be wrong with that?"

  Her bright eyes glittered with amusement: she was not so easily persuaded. "That would be a coded message of support for Thomas."

  "Yes."

  "I am strictly neutral. I will happily work with whomever the monks choose. And that's my last word, Brother."

  He bowed his head deferentially. "I respect your decision, of course."

  She nodded and moved away.

  Godwyn was pleased. He had never expected her to endorse Thomas. She was conservative. Everyone assumed she favored Carlus. But Godwyn could now spread the word that she would be content with either candidate. In effect, he had undermined her implicit support for Carlus. She might even be cross when she heard what use he was making of her words, but she would not withdraw her statement of neutrality.

  I am so clever, he thought; I really deserve to be prior.

  Neutralizing Cecilia was helpful, but it would not be enough to crush Carlus. Godwyn needed to give the monks a vivid demonstration of how incompetent Carlus was to lead them. He was hoping anxiously for such an opportunity today.

  Carlus and Simeon were in the church now, rehearsing the service. Carlus was the acting prior, so he had to lead the procession, carrying the ivory-and-gold reliquary that contained the bones of the saint. Simeon, the treasurer and Carlus's crony, was walking him through it, and Godwyn could see Carlus counting his paces, so that he would be able to do it on his own. The congregation was impressed when Carlus moved around confidently despite his blindness: it seemed like a minor miracle.

  The procession always began at the east end of the church, where the relics were stored under the high altar. The prior would unlock the cupboard and remove the reliquary. He would carry it along the north aisle of the chancel, around the north transept, down the north aisle of the nave, across the west end, and back up the center of the nave and into the crossing. There he would climb two steps to place it on the second altar that Godwyn had put in position ready. The holy relics would remain there, for the congregation to stare at, throughout the service.

  Looking around the church, Godwyn's eye fell on the repairs in the south aisle of the chancel, and he stepped closer to see how they were coming along. Merthin was no longer involved, having been sacked by Elfric, but his startlingly simple method was still being operated. Instead of expensive wooden formwork supporting the new masonry while the mortar set, each stone was held in place by a simple rope, draped over the long edge of the stone and weighted with a rock. The system could not be used to build the ribs of the vault, which were composed of long, slender stones laid end to end, so formwork had to be made for those elements; but, all the same, Merthin had saved the priory a small fortune in carpentry.

  Godwyn recognized Merthin's genius, but still felt uneasy with him, and preferred to work with Elfric. Elfric could be trusted always to be a willing tool, never to make trouble; whereas Merthin was all too likely to walk his own road.

  Carlus and Simeon left. The church was ready for the service. Godwyn sent away the men who had been helping him, all but Philemon, who was sweeping the floor of the crossing.

  For a moment, the great cathedral was empty but for the two of them.

  This was Godwyn's chance. The plan he had half-formulated now appeared complete in his mind. He hesitated, for it was dreadfully risky. But he decided to
gamble.

  He beckoned to Philemon. "Now," he said. "Quickly--move the platform forward a yard."

  Much of the time, the cathedral was no more than a place of work to Godwyn. It was a space to be used, a building to be repaired, a source of income and at the same time a financial burden. But, on an occasion such as this, its majesty was renewed. The candle flames flickered, their reflections glinting on the gold of the candlesticks; the robed monks and nuns glided between the ancient stone pillars; and the voices of the choir soared to the high vault. No wonder the crowd of hundreds of townspeople was hushed as they stood watching.

  Carlus led the procession. As the monks and nuns sang, he opened the compartment under the high altar--working by touch--and took out the ivory-and-gold reliquary. Holding it high, he began to process around the church. He was the picture of a holy innocent, with his white beard and unseeing eyes.

  Would he fall into Godwyn's trap? It was so simple--it seemed too easy. Godwyn, following a few paces behind Carlus, bit his lip and tried to remain calm.

  The congregation was awestruck. Godwyn never failed to marvel at how willing they were to be manipulated. They could not see the bones and, if they had, they could not have distinguished them from any other human remains. But, because of the costly extravagance of the box, the eerie beauty of the singing, the uniform robes of the monks and nuns, and the towering architecture that dwarfed them all, they felt the presence of something holy.

  Godwyn watched Carlus carefully. As he reached the precise midpoint of the westernmost bay of the north aisle, he turned sharply left. Simeon stood ready to correct him if he misjudged, but it was not necessary. Good: the more confident Carlus was, the more likely he was to stumble at the crucial moment.

  Counting his paces, Carlus marched to the exact center of the nave then turned again, heading straight for the altar. On cue, the singing stopped, and the procession carried on in a reverent hush.

  It must be a bit like finding your way to the latrine in the middle of the night, Godwyn thought. Carlus had followed this route several times a year for most of his life. He was now doing it as leader of the procession, which must make him tense; but he appeared calm, only the slight movement of his lips betraying the fact that he was counting. But Godwyn had ensured that his count would be wrong. Would he make a fool of himself? Or would he somehow recover?

  The congregation fell back fearfully as the sacred bones went by. Touching the casket could work miracles, they knew, but they also believed that any disrespect shown to the relics would have disastrous consequences. The spirits of the dead were ever present, watching over their remains while they waited for the day of judgment; and those who had led holy lives enjoyed almost unlimited powers to reward or punish the living.

  The thought crossed Godwyn's mind that St. Adolphus might be displeased with him for what was about to happen in Kingsbridge Cathedral. He shivered with momentary terror. Then he reassured himself that he was acting for the good of the priory that housed the sacred bones, and that the all-wise saint, who could see into men's hearts, would understand that this was for the best.

  Carlus slowed as he approached the altar, but his paces were the same measured length. Godwyn stopped breathing. Carlus seemed to hesitate as he took the step that should, by his own calculations, bring him just short of the platform on which the altar stood. Godwyn watched helplessly, dreading some last-moment change of routine.

  Then, confidently, Carlus walked on.

  His foot struck the edge of the platform a yard sooner than expected. In the silence, the sound of his sandal on the hollow wood resounded loudly. He let out a cry of shock and fear. His momentum carried him forward.

  Godwyn's heart was lifted by a surge of triumph--but it lasted only an instant, then disaster struck.

  Simeon reached out to grab Carlus's arm, but he was too late. The casket flew from Carlus's hands. The congregation gave a collective gasp of horror. The precious box hit the stone floor and burst open, scattering the bones of the saint. Carlus crashed into the heavy carved-wood altar, pushing it back off the platform, sending its ornaments and candles tumbling to the floor.

  Godwyn was horrified. This was much worse than he had intended.

  The skull of the saint rolled across the floor and came to rest at Godwyn's feet.

  His plan had worked--but too well. He had wanted Carlus to fall, and appear helpless, but he had not intended the holy remains to be desecrated. He stared, horrified, at the skull on the ground, and its empty eyes seemed to look back at him accusingly. What dreadful punishment would befall him?

  Could he ever make restitution for such a crime?

  Because he had been expecting an incident, he was slightly less shocked than everyone else, and he regained his composure first. Standing over the bones, he raised both arms in the air and shouted over the hubbub: "Everyone--on your knees! We must pray!"

  Those at the front knelt down, and the rest quickly followed suit. Godwyn began a familiar prayer, and the monks and nuns joined in. As the chanting filled the church, he righted the reliquary, which seemed undamaged. Then, moving with theatrical slowness, he picked up the skull in both hands. He was shaking with superstitious dread, but he managed to hold it. Speaking the Latin words of the prayer, he carried the skull to the casket and placed it inside.

  He saw that Carlus was struggling to his feet. He pointed at two nuns. "Help the subprior to the hospital," he said. "Brother Simeon, Mother Cecilia, will you go with him?"

  He picked up another bone. He was frightened, knowing that he more than Carlus was to blame for what had happened; but his intentions had been pure, and he still hoped to mollify the saint. At the same time, he was aware that his actions must look good in the eyes of everyone present: he was taking charge in a crisis, like a true leader.

  However, this moment of awe and horror could not be allowed to last too long. He needed to gather up the bones more quickly. "Brother Thomas," he said. "Brother Theodoric. Come and help me." Philemon stepped forward, but Godwyn waved him back: he was not a monk, and only men of God should touch the bones.

  Carlus limped out of the church, helped by Simeon and Cecilia, leaving Godwyn the undisputed master of the occasion.

  Godwyn beckoned Philemon and another employee, Otho, and told them to right the altar. They set it straight on the platform. Otho picked up the candlesticks and Philemon the jeweled crucifix. They placed them reverently on the altar then retrieved the scattered candles.

  All the bones were picked up. Godwyn tried to close the lid of the reliquary, but it had buckled and did not quite fit. Making the best of it, he ceremoniously placed the casket on the altar.

  Godwyn remembered, just in time, that he was seeking to show Thomas, not himself, in the light of leader of the priory--for the present. He picked up the book Simeon had been carrying and handed it to Thomas. Thomas did not need to be told what to do. He opened the book, found the correct page, and read the verse. The monks and nuns formed lines either side of the altar, then Thomas led them in singing the psalm.

  Somehow, they got through the service.

  Godwyn began to tremble again as soon as he got out of the church. It had been a near-disaster, but he seemed to have got away with it.

  The monks burst into excited chatter as the procession reached the cloisters and broke up. Godwyn leaned against a pillar, struggling to regain his composure. He listened to the comments of the monks. Some felt the desecration of the relics was a sign that God did not want Carlus to be prior--the reaction Godwyn had intended. But, to his dismay, most expressed compassion for Carlus. That was not what Godwyn wanted. He realized he might have given Carlus the benefit of a sympathetic backlash.

  He pulled himself together and hurried to the hospital. He needed to get to Carlus while the man was still demoralized, and before he got wind of the monks' understanding.

  The subprior was sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head. He was pale and looked shaken, and every f
ew moments his face would twitch nervously. Simeon was sitting beside him.

  Simeon gave Godwyn a filthy look. "I suppose you're pleased," he said.

  Godwyn ignored him. "Brother Carlus, you'll be glad to know that the relics of the saint have been restored to their usual place with hymns and prayers. The saint will surely forgive us all for this tragic accident."

  Carlus shook his head. "There are no accidents," he said. "Everything is ordained by God."

  Godwyn's hopes lifted. This was promising.

  Simeon's thoughts followed the same lines, and he tried to restrain Carlus. "Don't say anything hasty, Brother."

  "It's a sign," Carlus said. "God is telling us he does not want me to be prior."

  This was what Godwyn had been hoping for.

  Simeon said: "Nonsense." He picked up a cup from a table beside the bed. Godwyn guessed it contained warm wine and honey, Mother Cecilia's prescription for most ills. Simeon put the cup into Carlus's hand. "Drink."

  Carlus drank, but he was not to be diverted from his theme. "It would be a sin to ignore such a portent."

  "Portents are not so easily interpreted," Simeon protested.

  "Perhaps not. But even if you're right, will the brothers vote for a prior who can't carry the relics of the saint without falling over?"

  Godwyn said: "Some of them might, in fact, be drawn to you in commiseration, rather than repelled."

  Simeon shot him a puzzled look, wondering what he was up to.

  Simeon was right to be suspicious. Godwyn was playing devil's advocate because he wanted more than vague expressions of doubt from Carlus. Could he possibly extract a definitive withdrawal?

  As he hoped, Carlus argued with him. "A man should be made prior because the brothers respect him and believe he can lead them wisely--not out of pity." He spoke with the bitter conviction of a lifetime of disability.

  "I suppose that's true," Godwyn said with feigned reluctance, as if the admission had been wrung from him against his will. Taking a risk, he added: "But perhaps Simeon is right, and you should postpone any final decision until you feel more yourself."

  "I'm as well as I'm ever going to be," Carlus retorted, refusing to admit to weakness in front of young Godwyn. "Nothing is going to change. I'll feel tomorrow the way I feel today. I will not stand for election as prior."