Ken Follett - World Without End

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 market place 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 afterwards, 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 its all still there. I thought you might like to know that, just in case you have… borrowed from them.”