Ken Follett - World Without End

The bishop had not been asked, of course, but Godwyn did not say that. “At the moment, things are so bad in Kingsbridge that we’re not sure the ornaments are safe even at the priory.”

“Safer than here, though, surely? We are surrounded by outlaws, you know. Thank God you didn’t meet them on the road.”

“God is watching over us.”

“And over His jewellery, I hope.”

Saul’s attitude amounted almost to insubordination, but Godwyn did not reprimand him, fearing that an overreaction would suggest guilt. However, he noted that Saul’s humility had its limits. Perhaps after all Saul did know that he had been hoodwinked twelve years ago.

Now Godwyn said: “Please ask all the monks to stay in the refectory after supper. I will address them as soon as I have finished here.”

Saul accepted this dismissal and went out. Godwyn buried the ornaments, the priory charters, the relics of the saint, and almost all the money. The monks replaced the soil in the hole, tamped it down and put the altar back in its place. There was some loose earth left over, which they took outside and scattered.

Then they went to the refectory. The little room was crowded now, with the addition of the Kingsbridge men. A monk stood at the lectern, reading a passage from Mark’s gospel, but he fell silent when Godwyn walked in.

Godwyn motioned the reader to a seat and took his place. “This is a holy retreat,” he began. “God has sent this terrible plague to punish us for our sins. We have come here to purge those sins far away from the corrupting influence of the city.”

Godwyn had not intended to open a discussion, but Saul sang out: “What sins in particular, Father Godwyn?”

Godwyn improvised. “Men have challenged the authority of God’s holy church; women have become lascivious; monks have failed to separate themselves completely from female society; nuns have turned to heresy and witchcraft.”

“And how long will it take to purge these sins?”

“We will know we have triumphed when the plague dies away.”

Another St John monk spoke up, and Godwyn recognized Jonquil, a large, uncoordinated man with a wild look in his eyes. “How will you purge yourself?”

Godwyn was surprised that the monks here felt so free to question their superiors. “By prayer, meditation and fasting.”

“The fasting is a good idea,” said Jonquil. “We haven’t got much food to spare.”

There was a little laughter at that.

Godwyn was worried that he might lose control of his audience. He banged the lectern for quiet. “From now on, anyone who comes here from the outside world is a danger to us,” he said. “I want all doors to the precinct barred from the inside day and night. No monk is to go outside without my personal permission, which will be granted only in emergency. All callers are to be turned away. We are going to lock ourselves in until this terrible plague is over.”

Jonquil said: “But what if-”

Godwyn interrupted him. “I haven’t asked for comments, brother.” He glared around the room, staring them all into silence. “You are monks, and it is your duty to obey,” he said. “And now, let us pray.”

The crisis came the very next day.

Godwyn sensed that his orders had been accepted by Saul and the other monks in a provisional way. Everyone was taken by surprise, and on the spur of the moment they could think of no great objections; and so, in default of a strong reason for rebellion, they instinctively obeyed their superior. But he knew the time would come when they would have to make a real decision. However, he did not expect it so soon.

They were singing the office of Prime. It was freezing cold in the little church. Godwyn was stiff and aching after an uncomfortable night. He missed his palace with its fireplaces and soft beds. The grey light of a winter dawn was beginning to appear in the windows when there was a banging on the heavy west door of the church.

Godwyn tensed. He wished he had been given an extra day or two to consolidate his position.

He signalled that the monks should ignore the knocking and continue with the service. The knocking was then augmented by shouting. Saul stood up to go to the door, but Godwyn made sit-down signs with his hands and, after a hesitation, Saul obeyed. Godwyn was determined to sit tight. If the monks did nothing, the intruders must go away.

However, Godwyn began to realize that persuading people to do nothing was extraordinarily difficult.

The monks were too distracted to concentrate on the psalm. They were all whispering to one another and looking back over their shoulders towards the west end. The singing became ragged and uncoordinated and eventually petered out until only Godwyn’s voice was left.

He felt irate. If they had followed his lead, they could have ignored the disturbance. Angered by their weakness, he at last left his place and walked down the short nave to the door, which was barred. “What is it?” he shouted.

“Let us in!” came the muffled reply.

“You can’t come in,” Godwyn shouted back. “Go away.”

Saul appeared at his side. “Are you turning them away from the church?” he said in a horrified tone.

“I told you,” Godwyn replied. “No visitors.”

The banging resumed. “Let us in!”

Saul shouted: “Who are you?”

There was a pause, then the voice said: “We are men of the forest.”

Philemon spoke up. “Outlaws,” he said.

Saul said indignantly: “Sinners like us, and God’s children too.”

“That’s no reason to let them murder us.”

“Perhaps we should find out whether that’s what they intend.” Saul went to the window on the right of the door. The church was a low building, and the window ledges were just below eye level. None of them was glazed: they were closed against the cold by shutters of translucent linen. Saul opened the shutter and stood on tiptoe to look out. “Why have you come here?” he called.

Godwyn heard the reply. “One of our number is sick.”

Godwyn said to Saul: “I will speak to them.”

Saul stared at him.

“Come away from the window,” Godwyn said.

Reluctantly, Saul obeyed.

Godwyn shouted: “We cannot let you in. Go away.”

Saul looked at him with incredulity. “Are you going to turn away a sick man?” he said. “We are monks and physicians!”

“If the man has the plague, there is nothing we can do for him. By admitting him, we will kill ourselves.”

“That is in God’s hands, surely.”

“God does not permit us to commit suicide.”

“You don’t know what is wrong with the man. He may have a broken arm.”

Godwyn opened the corresponding window on the left of the door and looked out. He saw a group of six rough-looking characters standing around a stretcher that they had put down in front of the church door. Their clothes were costly but dirty, as if they were sleeping rough in their Sunday best. This was typical of outlaws, who stole fine clothes from travellers and made them shabby very quickly. The men were heavily armed, some with good-quality swords, daggers and longbows, which suggested they might be demobilized soldiers.

On the stretcher lay a man who was perspiring heavily – even though it was a frosty January morning – and bleeding from his nose. Suddenly, without wishing it, Godwyn saw in his imagination that scene in the hospital when his mother lay dying, and the trickle of blood on her upper lip kept returning, no matter how often the nun wiped it away. The thought that he might die like that made him so distracted that he wanted to throw himself from the roof of Kingsbridge Cathedral. How much better it would be to die in one brief instant of overwhelming pain than over three, four or five days of mad delirium and agonizing thirst. “That man has the plague!” Godwyn exclaimed, and he heard in his own voice a note of hysteria.