Toby Clements - Kingmaker - Winter Pilgrims

‘This is Brother Thomas, my lord,’ the Prior says. His hands flutter to his pectoral cross. ‘He was beyond the priory walls this morning.’

‘Hmmm,’ Riven says. ‘Doesn’t look very fierce, does he?’

‘No, my lord, he is an illuminator. His skill is a gift from God. He is creating the most wonderful psalter.’

Riven grunts and drains his cup and puts it on the table.

‘Ought to save time and kill him now, I suppose,’ he says.

The Prior looks startled.

‘Should we not get to the truth of the matter?’ he asks.

‘See no point,’ Riven replies. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘Well. Now, Brother Thomas,’ begins the Prior, gabbling almost, ‘Sir Giles Riven has avowed that he and his men were attacked this morning by a common robber on the road beyond our walls. He says that this robber was dressed as a canon of our order and that he and his associates — of which we will talk more later — gravely injured his son, Edmund.’

His son. His boy. That is it. That was why the threat had carried such weight. Thomas stands in silence, as must a canon of St Gilbert, and the Prior dares not look at him as he speaks. Riven claps his hands together over the fire as the flames begin to pick up around the logs.

‘Well?’ the Prior asks. ‘Is there anything you have to say?’

Thomas can hardly speak.

‘It is a lie,’ he manages.

Riven smiles.

‘You accuse me of falsehood?’ he asks.

Thomas can think of no answer that will not directly insult him and make the situation graver yet.

‘Yes,’ he says at last.

‘Well, well,’ Riven says. ‘Well, well.’

The Prior opens his mouth to say something but seems unable to think of anything worthy, so closes it. The room seems to darken. Riven helps himself to more wine.

‘Let me tell you what will happen now,’ he says. ‘If my boy dies tonight then I will have Morrant — the big fellow out there — pluck out your eyes and rip out your stones at dawn tomorrow, then I shall have you burned to death, starting with your feet, and I will have this done in the very centre of your cloister for all your monks to see and smell.’

‘But, sir! He is a cleric,’ the Prior bleats, the least he can do. ‘He is in cloister. He must at least be tried in an ecclesiastic court.’

Riven flicks his wrist.

‘I have no time for your ecclesiastic courts,’ he says. ‘I am riding to join the Queen in Coventry and I will see this done by Mass tomorrow and then be gone.’

‘And if your boy lives?’ the Dean asks, sensing hope.

Riven pauses.

‘If my boy lives, well then that will be a happy occasion, and to celebrate his delivery I will have the satisfaction of a trial by combat. What do you say to that, Brother Monk? This I do to accord you the honour of dying like a man, and to prove to you, Father, that God’s justice will be done.’

The Prior opens and closes his mouth, can think of nothing to say, and turns to look at Thomas for a fraction of a moment. Then nods his head.

‘So be it,’ he whispers.

And just then the bell in the church tower rings again, a slow reassuring clap to signal all is well, and that order has been restored, but Thomas knows that in the space of less than a hundred beats of the heart, the Prior has condemned him to certain death.

‘And of course’ — Riven smiles — ‘I must keep my promise to those two sisters, mustn’t I, Brother Monk?’

The Dean escorts Thomas from the building, across the yard to a stable, the nearest room they have to a cell, and he is locked in with a mug of ale and a sorry shake of the head. Thomas spends the rest of the day on his knees in prayer. He tries to pray for the life of the boy Edmund Riven, but every time he closes his eyes he sees the Prior’s face at the moment he decided in favour of the boy’s father. He can’t stop his fists balling. How could a man sell a soul so cheaply? Without protest? Without anything?

Some time after vespers, it starts to rain. It takes him a moment to recognise it for what it is, for he has not heard its sound on the tiles since the autumn, around Martinmas, when the snows first came. Now though, just as the bell rings for compline, rainwater comes seeping in and he is forced to spend the night standing in the wet straw.

By morning his stomach is cramped for want of food and his mouth thick with thirst. He shuffles through the dirty straw and pulls himself up so that he can peer through the close-barred aperture in the eaves above. There is nothing to see, only the dawn and the rain. After a moment he drops back and resumes his pacing. The stable is three strides wide, ten long.

A while later the Dean brings a clay bowl of bean and fish soup and a leather tankard of ale balanced on a trencher of four-day-old black bread.

‘Will he live?’ Thomas asks.

‘He’ll live. Lost an eye, but the infirmarian says he’ll live.’

‘Thank the Lord,’ Thomas says.

‘Yes,’ the Dean says. ‘Praise Jesus. Now, eat.’

Thomas begins scooping the soup into his mouth. The bell in the tower begins ringing again, calling the canons to chapel. He looks up. Strange to think of life carrying on as normal.

‘Some advice, Brother Thomas,’ the Dean begins, returning and squatting next to him. He is an old man, about thirty-five perhaps, and his knees crack.

‘Thank you, Brother Stephen,’ Thomas replies, swallowing a lump of bread. ‘I would welcome it.’

‘You must flee.’

‘Flee?’

‘Flee the Priory. This morning, during the chapter meeting when no one is about.’

‘Why?’

‘You can’t fight Sir Giles Riven. He’s a soldier. Fighting — it’s all he’s ever done. God knows the man cannot hold a reed as you can. He cannot burnish gold as you can. What he can do, though, is fight. As you cannot.’

Thomas swallows.

‘But if I do not face him,’ he says, ‘then God’s justice will not be done.’

The Dean stands.

‘God’s justice,’ he says. ‘What is God’s justice?’

Thomas looks about for an answer, but the Dean carries on.

‘I know this is hard for you, Brother Thomas. I know things have gone against you, and that none of this is your doing, but these are bad times. Justice is no longer worth the candle lit to see it done. Everything is in turmoil beyond these gates and the Prior needs the protection of a man like Riven if the priory is to remain safe. He cannot afford to deny him any wish.’

‘Whatsoever it may be?’

‘Whatsoever it may be.’

‘Then there is no justice within these gates either.’

The Dean sighs.

‘If I were the Prior, Brother,’ he says, ‘I would tell you that since the Lord is on your side then there is nothing you need fear, and that you will win through this, and that justice will be done. But I am not the Prior. I lack his certainty. I lack his faith. And I know men like Giles Riven.’

Thomas chews his bread. The Dean continues.

‘So you must take a staff and some clothes and as much food as you can carry and get away from here. Take your psalter of which everybody talks. Go back to wherever it is you come from. Your family.’

‘I have no family to speak of,’ Thomas says. He thinks of his father: dead. His mother: dead. His sisters: likewise. He thinks of his brother, eking out a life on the farm in the shadow of that great granite cliff. He’d always liked his brother, but his brother’s wife had come between them, and all three knew his future was not there.

‘Then see if you cannot join another order,’ the Dean continues. ‘Any abbot would be glad to have you.’

‘They would know that I am a religious. They would suppose I was apostate.’

‘Then all that remains to you is an appeal to the Prior of All,’ the Dean says. ‘Take him your psalter. Show him your art. State your case. He will give you justice.’