Ken Follett - World Without End

Richard looked panicky. “My father won’t be bullied!”

Godwyn laughed. “Small chance of that. But I hope he may be made to see reason.”

“He’ll say the wedding must go ahead anyway. I’m the bishop, I can marry the couple, I don’t need monks to help me.”

“Of course. But there will be no singing, no candles, no psalms, no incense – just you and Archdeacon Lloyd.”

“They will still be married.”

“How will the earl of Monmouth feel about such a mean wedding for his son?”

“He’ll be furious, but he’ll accept it. The alliance is the important thing.”

That was probably right, Godwyn thought, and he felt the cold draught of imminent failure.

It was time to draw his concealed knife.

“You owe me a kindness,” he said.

At first, Richard pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Do I?”

“I concealed a sin you committed. Don’t pretend to have forgotten, it was only a couple of months ago.”

“Ah, yes, that was generous of you.”

“I saw, with my own eyes, you and Margery on the bed in the guest room.”

“Hush, for pity’s sake!”

“Now is your chance to repay me that kindness. Intercede with your father. Tell him to give in. Argue that the wedding is more important. Insist on ratifying me.”

Richard’s face showed desperation. He looked crushed by opposing forces. “I can’t!” he said, and there was panic in his voice. “My father won’t be defied. You know what he’s like.”

“Try.”

“I’ve already tried! I forced him to concede that you could be sub-prior.”

Godwyn doubted that Roland had conceded any such thing. Richard had almost certainly made it up, knowing that such a promise could easily be broken. All the same, Godwyn said: “I thank you for that.” Then he added: “But it’s not enough.”

“Just think about it,” Richard pleaded. “That’s all I ask.”

“I will. And I suggest you ask your father to do the same.”

“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. “This is going to be a catastrophe.”

The wedding was scheduled for Sunday. On the Saturday, in place of the service of Sext, Godwyn ordered a rehearsal, beginning with the ceremony of inauguration of the new prior and continuing with the marriage service. Outside it was another sunless day, the sky full of low grey cloud heavy with rain, and the inside of the cathedral was gloomy. After the rehearsal, as the monks and nuns headed off for dinner and the novices began to tidy up the church, Godwyn was approached by Carlus and Simeon, both looking solemn.

“I think that went very smoothly, don’t you?” Godwyn said brightly.

Simeon said: “Is there actually going to be an inauguration for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“We hear the earl has ordered the election to be rerun.”

“Do you think he has the right to do that?”

“Indeed not,” said Simeon. “He has the power of nomination, that’s all. But he says Bishop Richard will not ratify you as prior.”

“Has Richard told you that?”

“Not himself, no.”

“I thought not. Trust me, the bishop will ratify me.” Godwyn heard his own voice sounding sincere and confident, and wished his feelings matched it.

Carlus said anxiously, “Did you tell Richard the monks would refuse to take part in the wedding?”

“I did.”

“That’s very hazardous. We’re not here to oppose the will of noblemen.”

Godwyn could have predicted that Carlus would weaken at the first sign of serious opposition. Fortunately, he was not planning to test the monks’ resolve. “We won’t have to do it, don’t worry. It’s just an empty threat. But don’t tell the bishop I said so.”

“So you’re not planning to ask the monks to boycott the wedding?”

“No.”

Simeon said: “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Perhaps – but I trust no one is in danger except me.”

“You did not even want to be prior. You would not allow your name to be put forward. You only accepted when all else failed.”

“I don’t want to be prior,” Godwyn lied. “But the earl of Shiring must not be allowed to choose for us, and that’s more important than my personal feelings.”

Simeon looked at him with respect. “You’re being very honourable.”

“Like you, brother, I’m just trying to do the will of God.”

“May He bless your efforts.”

The two old monks left him. He felt a twinge of conscience for allowing them to believe that he was acting unselfishly. They saw him as some kind of martyr. But it was true, he told himself, that he was only trying to do the will of God.

He looked around: the church was back to normal. He was about to go to the prior’s house for dinner when his cousin Caris appeared, her blue dress a startling splash of colour in the dim grey church. “Are you going to be inaugurated tomorrow?” she said.

He smiled. “Everyone’s asking the same question. The answer is yes.”

“We hear the earl is putting up a fight.”

“He’s going to lose it.”

Her shrewd green eyes gave him a penetrating stare. “I’ve known you since you were a child, and I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re pretending to be more certain than you actually feel.”

“That’s not a sin.”

“My father is worried about the bridge. Friar Murdo is even more likely to obey the earl’s will than Saul Whitehead was.”

“Murdo is not going to be prior of Kingsbridge.”

“There you go again.”

Godwyn was annoyed by her perspicacity. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he snapped. “I’ve been elected, and I mean to take the post. Earl Roland would like to stop me, but he doesn’t have the right, and I’m fighting him with all the means at my disposal. Am I scared? Yes. But I still intend to beat him.”

She grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” She punched his shoulder. “Go and see your mother. She’s in your house, waiting for you. That’s what I came to tell you.” With that she turned and left.

Godwyn went out through the north transept. Caris was clever, he thought with a mixture of admiration and irritation. She had cajoled him into giving her an assessment of the situation more candid than anything he had said to anyone else.

But he was glad of the chance to talk to his mother. Everyone else doubted his power to win this fight. She would have confidence – and perhaps some strategic ideas.

He found Petranilla in the hall, sitting at the table, which was laid for two with bread, ale and a platter of salted fish. He kissed her forehead, said grace and sat down to eat. He allowed himself a moment of triumphant pleasure. “Well,” he said. “I’m the prior-elect, at least, and here we are having dinner in the prior’s house.”

“But Roland is still fighting you,” she said.

“Harder than I expected. After all, he has the right of nomination, not selection. It’s inherent in his position that his choice will not always be elected.”

“Most earls would accept that, but not him,” Petranilla said. “He’s felt superior to everyone he’s ever met.” There was a bitterness in her tone which, Godwyn guessed, sprang from memories of their aborted engagement more than thirty years ago. She smiled vengefully. “Soon he will realize how badly he’s underestimated us.”

“He knows I’m your son.”

“Then that will be a factor. You probably remind him of the dishonourable way he behaved to me. That’s enough to make him hate you.”

“It’s a shame.” Godwyn lowered his voice in case a servant might be listening outside the door. “Until this point, your plan has worked perfectly. Withdrawing myself from the contest, then discrediting everyone else, was brilliant.”