Ken Follett - World Without End

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 downwards 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 upwards 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 upwards. 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 any time 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 jewelled 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 monks 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 humourless 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 prised 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-established 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.