Ken Follett - World Without End

In all that time, no one at the priory seemed to have learned much about Thomas’s former life. That was curious: monks gossiped constantly. Living closely together in a small group – there were twenty-six at present – they tended to know almost everything about one another. What lord had Thomas served? Where had he lived? Most knights ruled over a few villages, receiving rents that enabled them to pay for horses, armour and weapons. Had Thomas had a wife and children? If so, what had become of them? No one knew.

Apart from the mystery of his background, Thomas was a good monk, devout and hard-working. It seemed as if this existence suited him better than his life as a knight. Despite his former career of violence, there was something of the woman about him, as there was about many monks. He was very close to Brother Matthias, a sweet-natured man a few years younger than he. But, if they were committing sins of impurity, they were very discreet about it, for no accusation had ever been made.

Towards the end of the service Godwyn glanced into the deep gloom of the nave and saw his mother, Petranilla, standing as still as one of the pillars, a shaft of sunlight illuminating her proud grey head. She was alone. He wondered how long she had been there, watching. Lay people were not encouraged to attend the weekday services, and Godwyn guessed she was here to see him. He felt the familiar mixture of pleasure and apprehension. She would do anything for him, he knew. She had sold her house and become her brother Edmund’s housekeeper just so that he could study at Oxford; when he thought of the sacrifice that entailed for his proud mother, he wanted to weep with gratitude. Yet her presence always made him anxious, as if he were going to be reprimanded for some transgression.

As the monks and nuns filed out, Godwyn peeled off from the procession and approached her. “Good morning, Mama.”

She kissed his forehead. “You look thin,” she said with maternal anxiety. “Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”

“Salt fish and porridge, but there’s plenty of it,” he said.

“What are you so excited about?” She could always read his mood.

He told her about Timothy’s Book. “I could read the passage during chapter,” he said.

“Would others support you?”

“Theodoric and the younger monks would. A lot of them find it disturbing to see women all the time. After all, they have all chosen to live in an all-male community.”

She nodded approvingly. “This casts you in the role of leader. Excellent.”

“Besides, they like me because of the hot stones.”

“Hot stones?”

“I introduced a new rule in the winter. On frosty nights, when we go into church for Matins, each monk is given a hot stone wrapped in a rag. It prevents them getting chilblains in their feet.”

“Very clever. All the same, check your support before you make your move.”

“Of course. But it fits in with what the masters teach at Oxford.”

“Which is?”

“Mankind is fallible, so we should not rely on our own reasoning. We cannot hope to understand the world – all we can do is stand amazed at God’s creation. True knowledge comes only from revelation. We should not question received wisdom.”

Mother looked sceptical, as lay people often did when educated men tried to explain high philosophy. “And this is what bishops and cardinals believe?”

“Yes. The University of Paris has actually banned the works of Aristotle and Aquinas because they are based on rationality rather than faith.”

“Will this way of thinking help you find favour with your superiors?”

That was all she really cared about. She wanted her son to be prior, bishop, archbishop, even cardinal. He wanted the same, but he hoped he was not as cynical as she. “I’m sure of it,” he replied.

“Good. But that’s not why I came to see you. Your uncle Edmund has suffered a blow. The Italians are threatening to take their custom to Shiring.”

Godwyn was shocked. “That will ruin his business.” But he was not sure why she had made a special visit to tell him.

“Edmund thinks he can win them back if we improve the Fleece Fair, and in particular if we tear down the old bridge and build a new, wider one.”

“Let me guess: Uncle Anthony refused.”

“But Edmund has not given up.”

“You want me to talk to Anthony?”

She shook her head. “You can’t persuade him. But, if the subject comes up in chapter, you should support the proposal.”

“And go against Uncle Anthony?”

“Whenever a sensible proposal is opposed by the old guard, you must be identified as leader of the reformers.”

Godwyn smiled admiringly. “Mama, how do you know so much about politics?”

“I’ll tell you.” She looked away, her eyes focusing on the great rose window at the east end, her mind in the past. “When my father started to trade with the Italians, he was treated as an upstart by the leading citizens of Kingsbridge. They turned up their noses at him and his family, and did everything they could to prevent him implementing his new ideas. My mother was dead by then, and I was an adolescent, so I became his confidante, and he told me everything.” Her face, normally fixed in an expression of frozen calm, twisted now into a mask of bitterness and resentment: her eyes narrowed, her lip curled, and her cheek flushed with remembered shame. “He decided he would never be free of them until he took control of the parish guild. So that’s what he set out to do, and I helped him.” She drew a deep breath, as if once again gathering her strength for a long war. “We divided the ruling group, set one faction against the other, made alliances then shifted them, ruthlessly undermined our opponents, and used our supporters until it suited us to discard them. It took us ten years and, at the end of it, he was alderman of the guild and the richest man in town.”

She had told him the story of his grandfather before, but never in quite such bluntly honest terms. “So you were his aide, as Caris is to Edmund?”

She gave a short, harsh laugh. “Yes. Except that, by the time Edmund took over, we were the leading citizens. My father and I climbed the mountain, and Edmund just had to walk down the other side.”

They were interrupted by Philemon. He came into the church from the cloisters, a tall, scrawny-necked man of twenty-two, walking like a bird with short, pigeon-toed steps. He carried a broom: he was employed by the priory as a cleaner. He seemed excited. “I’ve been looking for you, Brother Godwyn.”

Petranilla ignored his obvious hurry. “Hello, Philemon, haven’t they made you a monk yet?”

“I can’t raise the necessary donation, Mistress Petranilla. I come from a humble family.”

“But it’s not unknown for the priory to waive the donation in the case of an applicant who shows devotion. And you’ve been a servant of the priory, paid and unpaid, for years.”

“Brother Godwyn has proposed me, but some of the older monks argued against me.”

Godwyn put in: “Blind Carlus hates Philemon – I don’t know why.”

Petranilla said: “I’ll speak to my brother Anthony. He should overrule Carlus. You’re a good friend to my son – I’d like to see you get on.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“Well, you’re obviously bursting to tell Godwyn something that can’t be said in front of me, so I’ll take my leave.” She kissed Godwyn. “Remember what I said.”

“I will, Mama.”

Godwyn felt relieved, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead and gone on to drench some other town.

As soon as Petranilla was out of earshot, Philemon said: “It’s Bishop Richard!”

Godwyn raised his eyebrows. Philemon had a way of learning people’s secrets. “What have you found out?”