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 downward 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.
Will knelt on the ground, his knees an inch deep in blood, and began to work on the legs.
The screaming stopped suddenly: Gilbert appeared to have passed out. Godwyn was relieved. He had intended the man to suffer agony for trying to rob a church--and he had wanted others to witness the thief's torment--but, all the same, he had found it hard to listen to that screaming.
Will continued his work phlegmatically, apparently unconcerned whether his victim was conscious or not, until all the back skin--body, arms, and legs--was detached. Then he went around to the front. He cut around the ankles and wrists, then detached the skin so that it hung from the victim's shoulders and hips. He worked upward from the pelvis, and Godwyn realized he was going to try to take the entire skin off in one piece. Soon there was no skin left attached except for the head.
Gilbert was still breathing.
Will made a careful series of cuts around the skull. Then he put down his knives and wiped his hands one more time. Finally he grasped Gilbert's skin at the shoulders and gave a sudden jerk upward. The face and scalp were ripped off the head, yet remained attached to the rest of the skin.
Will held Gilbert's bloody hide up in the air like a hunting trophy, and the crowd cheered.
Caris was uneasy about sharing the new treasury with the monks. She pestered Beth with so many questions about the safety of their money that in the end Beth took her to inspect the place.
Godwyn and Philemon were in the cathedral at the time, as if by chance, and they saw the nuns and followed them.
They passed through a new arch in the south wall of the choir into a little lobby and halted in front of a formidable studded door. Sister Beth took out a big iron key. She was a humble, unassuming woman, like most nuns. "This is ours," she said to Caris. "We can enter the treasury anytime we like."
"I should think so, since we paid for it," said Caris crisply.
They entered a small, square room. It contained a counting table with a stack of parchment rolls, a couple of stools, and a big ironbound chest.
"The chest is too big to be taken out through the door," Beth pointed out.
Caris said: "So how did you it get in here?"
Godwyn answered: "In pieces. It was put together by the carpenter here in the room."
Caris gave Godwyn a cold look. This man had tried to kill her. Ever since the witchcraft trial she had looked at him with loathing and avoided speaking to him if at all possible. Now she said flatly: "The nuns will need a key to the chest."
"Not necessary," Godwyn said quickly. "It contains the jeweled cathedral ornaments, which are in the care of the sacrist, who is always a monk."
Caris said: "Show me."
She could see that he was offended by her tone, and had half a mind to refuse her, but he wanted to appear open and guileless, so he conceded. He took a key from the wallet at his belt and opened the chest. As well as the cathedral ornaments, it contained dozens of scrolls, the priory's charters.
"Not just the ornaments, then," Caris said, her suspicions vindicated.
"The records, too."
"Including the nuns' charters," she persisted
"Yes."
"In which case we will have a key."
"My idea is that we copy all our charters, and keep the copies in the library. Whenever we need to read a charter, we consult the library copy, so that the precious originals can remain under lock and key."
Beth hated conflict, and intervened nervously. "That sounds like quite a sensible idea, Sister Caris."
Caris said grudgingly: "So long as the nuns always have access to their documents in some form." The charters were a secondary issue. Addressing Beth, rather than Godwyn, she said: "More importantly, where do we keep the money?"
Beth said: "In hidden vaults in the floor. There are four of them--two for the mo
nks and two for the nuns. If you look carefully you can see the loose stones."
Caris studied the floor, and after a moment said: "I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't told me, but I can see them now. Can they be locked?"
"I suppose they could," said Godwyn. "But then it would be obvious where they were, which would defeat the purpose of hiding them under flagstones."
"But this way the monks and nuns have access to one another's money."
Philemon spoke up. He looked accusingly at Caris and said: "Why are you here? You're the guest master--nothing to do with the treasury."
Caris's attitude to Philemon was simple loathing. She felt he was not fully human. He seemed to have no sense of right and wrong, no principles or scruples. Whereas she despised Godwyn as a wicked man who knew when he was doing evil, she felt that Philemon was more like a vicious animal, a mad dog or a wild boar. "I have an eye for detail," she told him.
"You're very mistrustful," he said resentfully.
Caris gave a humorless laugh. "Coming from you, Philemon, that's ironic."
He pretended to be hurt. "I don't know what you can mean."
Beth spoke again, trying to keep the peace. "I just wanted Caris to come and look because she asks questions I don't think of."
Caris said: "For example, how can we be sure that the monks don't take the nuns' money?"
"I'll show you," said Beth. Hanging on a hook on the wall was a stout length of oak. Using it as a lever, she prized up a flagstone. Underneath was a hollow space containing an ironbound chest. "We've had a locked casket made to fit each of these vaults," she said. She reached inside and lifted out the chest.
Caris examined it. It seemed strongly made. The lid was hinged, and the clasp was secured by a barrel padlock made of iron. "Where did we get the lock?" she asked.
"Christopher Blacksmith made it."
That was good. Christopher was a well-establish Kingsbridge citizen who would not risk his reputation by selling duplicate keys to thieves.
Caris was not able to fault the arrangements. Perhaps she had worried unnecessarily. She turned to go.
Elfric appeared, accompanied by an apprentice with a sack. "Is it all right to put up the warning?" Elfric said.
Philemon replied: "Yes, please, go ahead."
Elfric's assistant took from his sack something that looked like a big piece of leather.
Beth said: "What's that?"
"Wait," said Philemon. "You'll see."
The apprentice held the object up against the door.
"I've been waiting for it to dry out," Philemon said. "It's Gilbert Hereford's skin."
Beth gave a cry of horror.
Caris said: "That's disgusting."
The skin was turning yellow, and the hair was falling out of the scalp, but you could still make out the face: the ears, two holes for the eyes, and a gash of a mouth that seemed to grin.
"That should scare thieves away," Philemon said with satisfaction.
Elfric took out a hammer and began to nail the hide to the treasury door.
The two nuns left. Godwyn and Philemon waited for Elfric to finish his gruesome task, then they went back inside the treasury.
Godwyn said: "I think we're safe."
Philemon nodded: "Caris is a suspicious woman, but all her questions were answered satisfactorily."
"In which case..."
Philemon closed the door and locked it. Then he lifted the stone slab over one of the nuns' two vaults and took out the chest.
"Sister Beth keeps a small amount of cash for everyday needs somewhere in the nuns' quarters," he explained to Godwyn. "She comes in here only to deposit or withdraw larger sums. She always goes to the other vault, which contains mostly silver pennies. She almost never opens this chest, which contains the bequest."
He turned the box around and looked at the hinge at the back. It was fixed to the wood by four nails. He took from his pocket a thin steel chisel and a pair of pliers for gripping. Godwyn wondered where he had got the tools, but did not ask. Sometimes it was best not to know too many details.
Philemon slipped the sharp blade of the chisel under the edge of the iron hinge and pushed. The hinge came away from the wood slightly, and he pushed the blade in a little farther. He worked delicately and patiently, careful to make sure that the damage would not be visible to a casual glance. Gradually the flat plate of the hinge became detached, the nails coming out with it. When he had made enough room for the pliers to grip the nailheads, he pulled them out. Then he was able to detach the hinge and lift the lid.
"Here's the money from the pious woman of Thornbury," he said.
Godwyn looked into the chest. The money was in Venetian ducats. These gold coins showed the doge of Venice kneeling before St. Mark on one side and, on the other, the Virgin Mary, surrounded by stars to indicate that she was in Heaven. Ducats were intended to be interchangeable with florins from Florence, and were the same size, weight, and purity of metal. They were worth three shillings, or thirty-six English silver pennies. England had its own gold coins now, an innovation of King Edward's--nobles, half nobles, and quarter nobles--but these had been in circulation less than two years and had not yet displaced foreign gold coins.
Godwyn took fifty ducats, worth seven pounds and ten shillings. Philemon closed the lid of the chest. He wrapped each of the nails in a thin strip of leather, to make them a tight fit, and reattached the hinge. He put the chest back in the vault and lowered the slab over the hole.
"Of course they will notice the loss, sooner or later," he said.
"It may not be for years," Godwyn said. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
They went out, and Godwyn locked the door.
Godwyn said: "Find Elfric, and meet me in the cemetery."
Philemon left. Godwyn went to the eastern end of the graveyard, just beyond the existing prior's house. It was a blowy May day, and the fresh wind made his robe flap around his legs. A loose goat was grazing among the tombstones. Godwyn watched it meditatively.
He was risking a terrible row with the nuns, he knew. He did not think they would discover their loss for a year or more, but he could not be sure. When they did find out, there would be hell to pay. But what, exactly, could they do? He was not like Gilbert Hereford, stealing money for himself. He had taken the bequest of a pious woman to use for holy purposes.
He thrust his worries aside. His mother was right: he needed to glorify his role as prior of Kingsbridge if he was going to make further progress.
When Philemon returned with Elfric, Godwyn said: "I want to build the prior's palace here, well to the east of the present building."
Elfric nodded. "A very good location, if I may say so, Lord Prior--close to the chapter house and the east end of the cathedral, but separated from the marketplace by the graveyard, so you'll have privacy and quiet."
"I want a big dining hall downstairs for banquets," Godwyn went on. "About a hundred feet long. It must be a really prestigious, impressive room, for entertaining the nobility, perhaps even royalty."
"Very good."
"And a chapel at the east end of the ground floor."
"But you'll be just a few steps from the cathedral."
"Noble guests don't always want to expose themselves to the people. They must be able to worship in private if they wish."
"And upstairs?"
"The prior's own chamber, of course, with room for an altar and a writing desk. And three large chambers for guests."
"Splendid."
"How much will it cost?"
"More than a hundred pounds--perhaps two hundred. I'll make a drawing then give you a more accurate estimate."
"Don't let it go above a hundred and fifty pounds. That's all I can afford."
If Elfric wondered where Godwyn had suddenly acquired a hundred and fifty pounds, he did not ask. "I'd better start stockpiling the stone as soon as possible," he said. "Can you give me some money to begin with?"
"How much would you like--
five pounds?"
"Ten would be better."
"I'll give you seven pounds ten shillings, in ducats," Godwyn said, and handed over the fifty gold coins he had taken from the nuns' reserves.
Three days later, as the monks and nuns were filing out of the cathedral after the dinnertime service of Nones, Sister Elizabeth spoke to Godwyn.
Nuns and monks were not supposed to talk to one another casually, so she had to contrive a pretext. As it happened, there was a dog in the nave, and it had barked during the service. Dogs were always getting into the church and making a minor nuisance of themselves, but they were generally ignored. However, on this occasion Elizabeth left the procession to shoo the dog out. She was obliged to cross the line of monks, and timed her move so that she walked in front of Godwyn. She smiled apologetically at him and said: "I beg your pardon, Father Prior." Then she lowered her voice and said: "Meet me in the library, as if by accident." She chased the dog out of the west door.
Intrigued, Godwyn made his way to the library and sat down to read the Rule of St. Benedict. Shortly afterward, Elizabeth appeared and took out the Gospel of St. Matthew. The nuns had built their own library, after Godwyn took over as prior, in order to improve the separation between males and females; but when they removed all their books from the monks' library, the place had been denuded, and Godwyn had reversed his decision. The nuns' library building was now used as a schoolroom in cold weather.
Elizabeth sat with her back to Godwyn, so that anyone coming in would not get the impression that they were conspiring, but she was close enough for him to hear her clearly. "Something I felt I should tell you," she said. "Sister Caris doesn't like the nuns' money being kept in the new treasury."
"I knew that already," Godwyn said.
"She has persuaded Sister Beth to count the money, to make sure it's all still there. I thought you might like to know that, just in case you have...borrowed from them."
Godwyn's heart missed a beat. An audit would find the reserves short by fifty ducats. And he was going to need the rest to build his palace. He had not been expecting this so soon. He cursed Caris. How had she guessed what he had done so secretly?
"When?" he said, and there was a catch in his voice.
"Today. I don't know at what hour--it could be anytime. But Caris was most emphatic that you should have no advance warning."
He was going to have to put the ducats back, and fast. "Thank you very much," he said. "I appreciate your telling me this."