Ken Follett - World Without End

Julie said: “He has his mother’s colouring.”

That was right, Caris thought. The baby had dark hair and beige skin, where Wulfric had fair skin and a mane of dark-blond hair. The baby’s face reminded her of someone, and after a moment she realized it was Merthin. A foolish thought crossed her mind, and she dismissed it immediately. All the same, the resemblance was there. “You know who he reminds me of?” she said.

Suddenly she caught a look from Gwenda. Her eyes widened, an expression of panic crossed her face, and she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was gone in an instant, but the message was unmistakable: Shut up! Caris clamped her teeth together.

“Who?” said Julie innocently.

Caris hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say. At last she was inspired. “Philemon, Gwenda’s brother,” she said.

“Of course,” said Julie. “Someone should tell him to come and see his new nephew.”

Caris was bewildered. So the baby was not Wulfric’s? Then whose? It could not be Merthin’s. He might have lain with Gwenda – he was certainly vulnerable to temptation – but he could never have kept it secret from Caris afterwards. If not Merthin…

Caris was struck by a dreadful thought. What had gone on that day when Gwenda went to plead with Ralph for Wulfric’s inheritance? Could the baby be Ralph’s? It was too grim to contemplate.

She looked at Gwenda, then at the baby, then at Wulfric. Wulfric was smiling with joy, though his face was still wet with tears. He had no suspicions.

Julie said: “Have you thought about the baby’s name?”

“Oh, yes,” said Wulfric. “I want to name him Samuel.”

Gwenda nodded, looking down at the baby’s face. “Samuel,” she said. “Sammy. Sam.”

“After my father,” Wulfric said happily.

One year after the death of Anthony, Kingsbridge Priory was a different place, Godwyn thought, with satisfaction, as he stood in the cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair.

The main difference was the separation of monks and nuns. They no longer mingled in the cloisters, the library or the scriptorium. Even here in the church, a new carved-oak screen running down the centre of the choir prevented them from looking at one another during the services. Only in the hospital were they sometimes forced to mix.

In his sermon, Prior Godwyn said the collapse of the bridge a year ago had been God’s punishment for laxity in the monks and nuns, and for sin among the townspeople. The new spirit of rigour and purity at the priory, and piety and submission in the town, would lead to a better life for all, in this world and the hereafter. He felt it went down quite well.

Afterwards he had dinner with Brother Simeon, the treasurer, in the prior’s house. Philemon served them stewed eel and cider. “I want to build a new prior’s house,” Godwyn said.

Simeon’s long, thin face seemed to get longer. “Any particular reason?”

“I’m sure I am the only prior in Christendom who lives in a house like a leather tanner’s. Think of the people who have been guests here in the last twelve months – the earl of Shiring, the bishop of Kingsbridge, the earl of Monmouth – this building isn’t appropriate for such folk. It gives a poor impression of us and of our order. We need a magnificent building to reflect the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory.”

“You want a palace,” said Simeon.

Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon’s tone of voice, as if Godwyn’s aim was to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It’s not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”

“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can’t afford it.”

Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”

“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”

Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”

Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition, and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look, and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer – and make an interesting contribution.

“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there’s no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”

Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”

“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain. Many of our serfs struggled to stay alive. It’s hard to force them to pay their rents when they’re hungry-”

“They must pay, all the same,” Godwyn said. “Monks get hungry too.”

Philemon spoke again. “If the bailiff of a village says that a serf has defaulted on his rent, or that part of the land is untenanted therefore no rent is due, you haven’t really got any way of checking that he’s telling the truth. Bailiffs can be bribed by serfs.”

Godwyn felt frustrated. He had had numerous conversations like this in the past year. He had been determined to tighten up control of the priory’s finances, but every time he tried to change things he ran into barriers. “Have you got a suggestion?” he said irritably to Philemon.

“Send an inspector on a tour of the villages. Let him speak to bailiffs, look at the land, go into the cottages of serfs who are said to be starving.”

“If the bailiff can be bribed, so can the inspector.”

“Not if he’s a monk. What use have we for money?”

Godwyn recalled Philemon’s old inclination to stealing. It was true that monks had no use for personal money, at least in theory, but that did not mean they were incorruptible. However, a visit from the prior’s inspector would certainly put bailiffs on their toes. “It’s a good idea,” Godwyn said. “Would you like to be the inspector?”

“I’d be honoured.”

“Then it’s settled.” Godwyn turned back to Simeon. “All the same, we still have a huge income.”

“And huge costs,” Simeon replied. “We pay a subvention to our bishop. We feed, clothe and house twenty-five monks, seven novices and nineteen pensioners of the priory. We employ thirty people as cleaners, cooks, stable boys and so on. We spend a fortune on candles. Monks’ robes-”

“All right, I’ve grasped your point,” Godwyn said impatiently. “But I still want to build a palace.”

“Where will you go for the money, then?”

Godwyn sighed. “Where we always go, in the end. I’ll ask Mother Cecilia.”

He saw her a few minutes later. Normally he would have asked her to come to him, as a sign of the superiority of the male within the church; but on this occasion he thought it best to flatter her.

The prioress’s house was an exact copy of the prior’s, but it had a different feel. There were cushions and rugs, flowers in a bowl on the table, embroidered samplers on the wall illustrating Bible stories and texts, and a cat asleep in front of the fireplace. Cecilia was finishing a dinner of roast lamb and dark-red wine. She put on a veil when Godwyn arrived, in accordance with a rule Godwyn had introduced, for occasions when monks had to talk to nuns.

He found Cecilia difficult to read, veiled or not. She had formally welcomed his election as prior, and had gone along unprotestingly with his stricter rules about separation of monks and nuns, making only the occasional practical point about the efficient running of the hospital. She had never opposed him, and yet he felt she was not really on his side. It seemed he was no longer able to charm her. When he was younger he had been able to make her laugh like a girl. Now she was no longer susceptible – or perhaps he had lost the knack.