World Without End

by Ken Follett

  Ralph felt as if the middle of his face were swelling like an inflated bladder. His vision was blurred, his speech was a nasal honk, and he was in pain. "I'm fine," he said. "Never better."

  "Let's get a monk to look at your nose."

  "No." Ralph was not afraid of fights, but he hated the things physicians did: bleeding and cupping and lancing boils. "All I need is a bottle of strong wine. Take me to the nearest tavern."

  "All right," Merthin said, but he did not move. He was giving Ralph a queer look.

  Ralph said: "What's the matter with you?" "You don't change, do you?"

  Ralph shrugged. "Does anyone?"

  9

  Godwyn was completely fascinated by Timothy's Book. It was a history of Kingsbridge Priory and, like most such histories, it began with the creation by God of Heaven and Earth. But mostly it recounted the era of Prior Philip, two centuries ago, when the cathedral was built--a time now regarded by the monks as a golden age. The author, Brother Timothy, claimed that the legendary Philip had been a stern disciplinarian as well as a man of compassion. Godwyn was not sure how you could be both.

  On the Wednesday of Fleece Fair week, in the study hour before the service of Sext, Godwyn sat on a high stool in the monastery library, the book open on a lectern before him. This was his favorite place in the priory: a spacious room, well lit by high windows, with almost a hundred books in a locked cupboard. It was normally hushed, but today he could hear, from the far side of the cathedral, the muffled roar of the fair--a thousand people buying and selling, haggling and quarreling, calling their wares and shouting encouragement at cockfighting and bear-baiting.

  At the back of the book, later authors had tracked the descendants of the cathedral builders down to the present day. Godwyn was pleased--and frankly surprised--to find confirmation of his mother's theory that she was descended from Tom Builder through Tom's daughter Martha. He wondered what family traits might have come down from Tom. A mason needed to be a shrewd businessman, he supposed, and Godwyn's grandfather and his uncle Edmund had that quality. His cousin Caris also showed signs of the same flair. Perhaps Tom had also had the green eyes flecked with yellow that they all shared.

  Godwyn also read about Tom Builder's stepson, Jack, the architect of Kingsbridge Cathedral, who had married the Lady Aliena and fathered a dynasty of earls of Shiring. He was the ancestor of Caris's sweetheart, Merthin Fitzgerald. That made sense: young Merthin was already showing unparalleled ability as a carpenter. Timothy's Book even mentioned Jack's red hair, which had been inherited by Sir Gerald and Merthin, though not Ralph.

  What interested him most was the book's chapter on women. It seemed there had been no nuns at Kingsbridge in Prior Philip's day. Women had been strictly forbidden to enter the monastery buildings. The author, quoting Philip, said that if possible a monk should never look at a female, for his own peace of mind. Philip disapproved of combined monastery-nunneries, saying the advantages of shared facilities were outweighed by the opportunities for the devil to introduce temptation. Where there was a double house, the separation of monks and nuns should be as rigid as possible, he added.

  Godwyn felt the thrill of finding authoritative support for a preexisting conviction. At Oxford he had enjoyed the all-male environment of Kingsbridge College. The university teachers were men, as were the students, without exception. He had hardly spoken to a female for seven years and, if he kept his eyes on the ground as he walked through the city, he could even avoid looking at them. On his return to the priory, he had found it disturbing to see nuns so frequently. Although they had their own cloisters, refectory, kitchen, and other buildings, he met them constantly in the church, the hospital, and other communal areas. At this moment there was a pretty young nun called Mair just a few feet away, consulting an illustrated book on medicinal herbs. It was even worse to encounter girls from the town, with their close-fitting clothes and alluring hairstyles, casually walking through the priory grounds on everyday errands, bringing supplies to the kitchen or visiting the hospital.

  Clearly, he thought, the priory had fallen from Philip's high standards--another example of the slackness that had crept in under the rule of Anthony, Godwyn's uncle. But perhaps there was something he could do about this.

  The bell rang for Sext, and he closed the book. Sister Mair did the same, and smiled at him, her red lips forming a sweet curve as she did so. He looked away and hurried out of the room.

  The weather was improving, the sun shining fitfully between showers of rain. In the church, the stained-glass windows brightened and faded as patchy clouds blew across the sky. Godwyn's mind was equally restless, distracted from his prayers by thoughts of how he could best use Timothy's Book to inspire a revival in the priory. He decided he would raise the subject at chapter, the daily meeting of all the monks.

  The builders were getting on quickly with the repairs to the chancel after last Sunday's collapse, he noted. The rubble had been cleared away and the area had been roped off. There was a growing stack of thin, lightweight stones in the transept. The men did not stop work when the monks began to sing--there were so many services during the course of a normal day that the repairs would have been severely delayed. Merthin Fitzgerald, who had temporarily abandoned his work on the new door, was in the south aisle, constructing an elaborate spiderweb of ropes, branches, and hurdles on which the masons would stand as they rebuilt the vaulted ceiling. Thomas Langley, whose job it was to supervise the builders, was standing in the south transept with Elfric, pointing with his one arm at the collapsed vault, obviously discussing Merthin's work.

  Thomas was effective as matricularius: he was decisive, and he never let things slip. Any morning the builders failed to show up--a frequent irritation--Thomas would go and find them and demand to know why. If he had a fault, it was that he was too independent: he rarely reported progress or asked Godwyn's opinion, but got on with the work as if he were his own master rather than Godwyn's subordinate. Godwyn had an annoying suspicion that Thomas doubted his ability. Godwyn was younger, but only slightly: he was thirty-one, Thomas thirty-four. Perhaps Thomas thought that Godwyn had been promoted by Anthony under pressure from Petranilla. However, he showed no other sign of resentment. He just did things his own way.

  As Godwyn watched, murmuring the responses of the service automatically, Thomas's conversation with Elfric was interrupted. Lord William of Caster came striding into the church. He was a tall, black-bearded figure very like his father, and equally harsh, though people said he was sometimes softened by his wife, Philippa. He approached Thomas and waved Elfric away. Thomas turned to William, and something in his stance reminded Godwyn that Thomas had once been a knight, and had first arrived at the priory bleeding from the sword wound that had eventually necessitated the amputation of his left arm at the elbow.

  Godwyn wished he could hear what Lord William was saying. William was leaning forward, speaking aggressively, pointing a finger. Thomas, unafraid, answered with equal vigor. Godwyn suddenly remembered Thomas having just such an intense, combative conversation ten years ago, on the day he arrived here. On that occasion, he had been arguing with William's younger brother, Richard--then a priest, now the bishop of Kingsbridge. Perhaps it was fanciful, but Godwyn imagined they were quarreling about the same thing today. What could it be? Could there really be an issue between a monk and a noble family that was still a cause of anger after ten years?

  Lord William stamped off, evidently unsatisfied, and Thomas turned back to Elfric.

  The argument ten years ago had resulted in Thomas's joining the priory. Godwyn recalled that Richard had promised a donation to secure Thomas's admittance. Godwyn had never heard any more about that donation. He wondered if it had ever been paid.

  In all that time, no one at the priory seemed to have learned much about Thomas's former life. That was curious: monks gossiped constantly. Living closely together in a small group--there were twenty-six at present--they tended to know almost everything about one another. What
lord had Thomas served? Where had he lived? Most knights ruled over a few villages, receiving rents that enabled them to pay for horses, armor, and weapons. Had Thomas had a wife and children? If so, what had become of them? No one knew.

  Apart from the mystery of his background, Thomas was a good monk, devout and hardworking. It seemed as if this existence suited him better than his life as a knight. Despite his former career of violence, there was something of the woman about him, as there was about many monks. He was very close to Brother Matthias, a sweet-natured man a few years younger than he. But, if they were committing sins of impurity, they were very discreet about it, for no accusation had ever been made.

  Toward the end of the service Godwyn glanced into the deep gloom of the nave and saw his mother, Petranilla, standing as still as one of the pillars, a shaft of sunlight illuminating her proud gray head. She was alone. He wondered how long she had been there, watching. Laypeople were not encouraged to attend the weekday services, and Godwyn guessed she was here to see him. He felt the familiar mixture of pleasure and apprehension. She would do anything for him, he knew. She had sold her house and become her brother Edmund's housekeeper just so that he could study at Oxford; and when he thought of the sacrifice that entailed for his proud mother, he wanted to weep with gratitude. Yet her presence always made him anxious, as if he were going to be reprimanded for some transgression.

  As the monks and nuns filed out, Godwyn peeled off from the procession and approached her. "Good morning, Mama."

  She kissed his forehead. "You look thin," she said with maternal anxiety. "Aren't you getting enough to eat?"

  "Salt fish and porridge, but there's plenty of it," he said.

  "What are you so excited about?" She could always read his mood.

  He told her about Timothy's Book. "I could read the passage during chapter," he said.

  "Would others support you?"

  "Theodoric and the younger monks would. A lot of them find it disturbing to see women all the time. After all, they have all chosen to live in an all-male community."

  She nodded approvingly. "This casts you in the role of leader. Excellent."

  "Besides, they like me because of the hot stones."

  "Hot stones?"

  "I introduced a new rule in the winter. On frosty nights, when we go into church for Matins, each monk is given a hot stone wrapped in a rag. It prevents them getting chilblains in their feet."

  "Very clever. All the same, check your support before you make your move."

  "Of course. But it fits in with what the masters teach at Oxford."

  "Which is?"

  "Mankind is fallible, so we should not rely on our own reasoning. We cannot hope to understand the world--all we can do is stand amazed at God's creation. True knowledge comes only from revelation. We should not question received wisdom."

  Mother looked skeptical, as laypeople often did when educated men tried to explain high philosophy. "And this is what bishops and cardinals believe?"

  "Yes. The University of Paris has actually banned the works of Aristotle and Aquinas because they are based on rationality rather than faith."

  "Will this way of thinking help you find favor with your superiors?"

  That was all she really cared about. She wanted her son to be prior, bishop, archbishop, even cardinal. He wanted the same, but he hoped he was not as cynical as she. "I'm sure of it," he replied.

  "Good. But that's not why I came to see you. Your uncle Edmund has suffered a blow. The Italians are threatening to take their custom to Shiring."

  Godwyn was shocked. "That will ruin his business." But he was not sure why she had made a special visit to tell him.

  "Edmund thinks he can win them back if we improve the Fleece Fair, and in particular if we tear down the old bridge and build a new, wider one."

  "Let me guess: Uncle Anthony refused."

  "But Edmund has not given up."

  "You want me to talk to Anthony?"

  She shook her head. "You can't persuade him. But, if the subject comes up in chapter, you should support the proposal."

  "And go against Uncle Anthony?"

  "Whenever a sensible proposal is opposed by the old guard, you must be identified as leader of the reformers."

  Godwyn smiled admiringly. "Mama, how do you know so much about politics?"

  "I'll tell you." She looked away, her eyes focusing on the great rose window at the east end, her mind in the past. "When my father started to trade with the Italians, he was treated as an upstart by the leading citizens of Kingsbridge. They turned up their noses at him and his family, and did everything they could to prevent him implementing his new ideas. My mother was dead by then, and I was an adolescent, so I became his confidante, and he told me everything." Her face, normally fixed in an expression of frozen calm, twisted now into a mask of bitterness and resentment: her eyes narrowed, her lip curled, and her cheek flushed with remembered shame. "He decided he would never be free of them until he took control of the parish guild. So that's what he set out to do, and I helped him." She drew a deep breath, as if once again gathering her strength for a long war. "We divided the ruling group, set one faction against the other, made alliances then shifted them, ruthlessly undermined our opponents, and used our supporters until it suited us to discard them. It took us ten years, and at the end of it, he was alderman of the guild and the richest man in town."

  She had told him the story of his grandfather before, but never in quite such bluntly honest terms. "So you were his aide, as Caris is to Edmund?"

  She gave a short, harsh laugh. "Yes. Except that, by the time Edmund took over, we were the leading citizens. My father and I climbed the mountain, and Edmund just had to walk down the other side."

  They were interrupted by Philemon. He came into the church from the cloisters, a tall, scrawny-necked man of twenty-two, walking like a bird, with short, pigeon-toed steps. He carried a broom: he was employed by the priory as a cleaner. He seemed excited. "I've been looking for you, Brother Godwyn."

  Petranilla ignored his obvious hurry. "Hello, Philemon, haven't they made you a monk yet?"

  "I can't raise the necessary donation, Mistress Petranilla. I come from a humble family."

  "But it's not unknown for the priory to waive the donation in the case of an applicant who shows devotion. And you've been a servant of the priory, paid and unpaid, for years."

  "Brother Godwyn has proposed me, but some of the older monks argued against me."

  Godwyn put in: "Blind Carlus hates Philemon--I don't know why."

  Petranilla said: "I'll speak to my brother Anthony. He should overrule Carlus. You're a good friend to my son--I'd like to see you get on."

  "Thank you, Mistress."

  "Well, you're obviously bursting to tell Godwyn something that can't be said in front of me, so I'll take my leave." She kissed Godwyn. "Remember what I said."

  "I will, Mama."

  Godwyn felt relieved, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead and gone on to drench some other town.

  As soon as Petranilla was out of earshot, Philemon said: "It's Bishop Richard!"

  Godwyn raised his eyebrows. Philemon had a way of learning people's secrets. "What have you found out?"

  "He's in the hospital, right now, in one of the private rooms upstairs--with his cousin Margery!"

  Margery was a pretty girl of sixteen. Her parents--a younger brother of Earl Roland and a sister of the countess of Marr--were both dead, and she was Roland's ward. He had arranged for her to marry a son of the earl of Monmouth, in a political alliance that would greatly strengthen Roland's position as the leading nobleman of southwest England. "What are they doing?" Godwyn said, though he could guess.

  Philemon lowered his voice. "Kissing!"

  "How do you know?"

  "I'll show you."

  Philemon led the way out of the church via the south transept, through the monks' cloisters, and up a flight of steps to the dormitory. It was a plain room with two rows of simple
wooden bedsteads, each having a straw mattress. It shared a party wall with the hospital. Philemon went to a large cupboard that contained blankets. With an effort, he pulled it forward. In the wall behind it there was a loose stone. Momentarily Godwyn wondered how Philemon had come across this peephole, and guessed he might have hidden something in the gap. Philemon lifted the stone out, careful to make no noise, and whispered: "Look, quick!"

  Godwyn hesitated. In a low voice he said: "How many other guests have you observed from here?"

  "All of them," Philemon replied, as if that should have been obvious.

  Godwyn thought he knew what he was going to see, and he did not relish it. Peeping at a misbehaving bishop might be all right for Philemon, but it seemed shamefully underhand. However, his curiosity urged him on. In the end he asked himself what his mother would advise, and knew immediately that she would tell him to look.

  The hole in the wall was a little below eye level. He stooped and peeked through.

  He was looking into one of the two private guest rooms upstairs at the hospital. In one corner stood a prie-dieu facing a wall painting of the crucifixion. There were two comfortable chairs and a couple of stools. When there was a crowd of important guests, the men took one room and the women the other; and this was clearly the women's room, for on a small table were several distinctly feminine articles: combs, ribbons, and mysterious small jars and vials.

  On the floor were two straw mattresses. Richard and Margery lay on one of them. They were doing more than kissing.

  Bishop Richard was an attractive man with wavy mid-brown hair and regular features. Margery was not much more than half his age, a slender girl with white skin and dark eyebrows. They lay side by side. Richard was kissing her face and speaking into her ear. A smile of pleasure played upon his fleshy lips. Margery's dress was pushed up around her waist. She had beautiful long white legs. His hand was between her thighs, moving with a practised, regular motion: although Godwyn had no experience of women, somehow he knew what Richard was doing. Margery looked at Richard adoringly, her mouth half-open, panting with excitement, her face flushed with passion. Perhaps it was mere prejudice, but Godwyn sensed intuitively that Richard saw Margery as a plaything of the moment, whereas Margery believed Richard was the love of her life.