“Then that is what must happen.”

“There is a complication. Sister Elizabeth has a half-brother and two half-sisters in Long Ham.”

“Ah.” Godwyn might have guessed there would be a reason for Philemon’s interest. Sister Elizabeth, formerly Elizabeth Clerk, was the nuns’ matricularius, in charge of their buildings. She was young and bright, and would rise farther up the hierarchy. She could be a valuable ally.

“They are the only family she’s got, apart from her mother, who works at the Bell,” Philemon went on. “Elizabeth is fond of her peasant relatives, and they in turn revere her as the holy one of the family. When they come to Kingsbridge they bring gifts to the nunnery – fruit, honey, eggs, that sort of thing.”

“And…?”

“John Nott is the half-brother of Sister Elizabeth.”

“Has Elizabeth asked you to intervene?”

“Yes. And she also asked that I should not tell Mother Cecilia of the request.”

Godwyn knew that this was just the kind of thing Philemon liked. He loved to be regarded as a powerful person who could use his influence to favour one side or the other in a dispute. Such things fed his ego, which was never satisfied. And he was drawn to anything clandestine. The fact that Elizabeth did not want her superior to know about this request delighted Philemon. It meant he knew her shameful secret. He would store the information away like miser’s gold.

“What do you want to do?” Godwyn asked.

“It’s for you to say, of course, but I suggest we let John Nott keep the land. Elizabeth would be in our debt, and that cannot fail to be useful at some point in the future.”

“That’s hard on the widow,” Godwyn said uneasily.

“I agree. But that must be balanced against the interests of the priory.”

“And God’s work is more important. Very well. Tell the bailiff.”

“The widow will receive her reward in the hereafter.”

“Indeed.” There had been a time when Godwyn had hesitated to authorize Philemon’s underhand schemes, but that was long ago. Philemon had proved too useful – as Godwyn’s mother, Petranilla, had forecast all those years ago.

There was a tap at the door, and Petranilla herself came in.

She now lived in a comfortable small house in Candle Court, just off the main street. Her brother Edmund had left her a generous bequest, enough to last her the rest of her life. She was fifty-eight years old, her tall figure was now stooped and frail, and she walked with a stick, but she still had a mind like a bear trap. As always, Godwyn was glad to see her but also apprehensive that he might have done something to displease her.

Petranilla was the head of the family now. Anthony had been killed in the bridge collapse and Edmund had died seven years ago, so she was the last survivor of her generation. She never hesitated to tell Godwyn what to do. She was the same with her niece Alice. Alice’s husband, Elfric, was the alderman, but she gave him orders too. Her authority even extended to her step-granddaughter Griselda, and she terrorized Griselda’s eight-year-old son, Little Merthin. Her judgement was as sound as ever, so they all obeyed her most of the time. If for some reason she did not take command, they would usually ask her opinion anyway. Godwyn was not sure how they would manage without her. And on the rare occasions when they did not do her bidding, they worked very hard to hide the fact. Only Caris stood up to her. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do,” she had said to Petranilla more than once. “You would have let them kill me.”

Petranilla sat down and looked around the room. “This is not good enough,” she said.

She was often abrupt, but all the same Godwyn became edgy when she spoke like this. “What do you mean?”

“You should have a better house.”

“I know.” Eight years ago, Godwyn had tried to persuade Mother Cecilia to pay for a new palace. She had promised to give him the money three years later but, when the time came, she said she had changed her mind. He felt sure it was because of what he had done to Caris. After that heresy trial, his charm had ceased to work on Cecilia, and it had become difficult to get money out of her.

Petranilla said: “You need a palace for entertaining bishops and archbishops, barons and earls.”

“We don’t get many of those, nowadays. Earl Roland and Bishop Richard have been in France for much of the last few years.” King Edward had invaded north-east France in 1339 and spent all of 1340 there; then in 1342 he had taken his army to north-west France and fought in Brittany. In 1345 English troops had done battle in the south-western wine district of Gascony. Now Edward was back in England, but assembling another army of invasion.

“Roland and Richard aren’t the only noblemen,” Petranilla said testily.

“The others never come here.”

Her voice hardened. “Perhaps that’s because you can’t accommodate them in the style they expect. You need a banqueting hall, and a private chapel, and spacious bedchambers.”

She had been awake all night thinking about this, he guessed. That was her way: she brooded over things then shot off her ideas like arrows. He wondered what had brought on this particular complaint. “It sounds very extravagant,” he said, playing for time.

“Don’t you understand?” she snapped. “The priory is not as influential as it might be, simply because you don’t ever see the powerful men of the land. When you’ve got a palace with beautiful rooms for them, they will come.”

She was probably right. Wealthy monasteries such as Durham and St Albans even complained about the number of noble and royal visitors they were obliged to entertain.

She went on: “Yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death.” So that’s what brought this on, Godwyn thought: she’s been remembering grandfather’s glorious career. “You’ve been prior here for almost nine years,” she said. “I don’t want you to get stuck. The archbishops and the king should be considering you for a bishopric, a major abbey such as Durham, or a mission to the pope.”

Godwyn had always assumed that Kingsbridge would be his springboard to higher things but, he realized now, he had let his ambition wane. It seemed only a little while ago that he had won the election for prior. He felt he had only just got on top of the job. But she was right, it was more than eight years.

“Why aren’t they thinking of you for more important posts?” she asked rhetorically. “Because they don’t know you exist! You are prior of a great monastery, but you haven’t told anyone about it. Display your magnificence! Build a palace. Invite the archbishop of Canterbury to be your first guest. Dedicate the chapel to his favourite saint. Tell the king you have built a royal bedchamber in the hope that he will visit.”

“Wait a moment, one thing at a time,” Godwyn protested. “I’d love to build a palace, but I haven’t got the money.”

“Then get it,” she said.

He wanted to ask her how, but at that moment the two leaders of the nunnery came into the room. Petranilla and Cecilia greeted one another with wary courtesy, then Petranilla took her leave.

Mother Cecilia and Sister Natalie sat down. Cecilia was fifty-one now, with grey in her hair and poor eyesight. She still darted about the place like a busy bird, poking her beak into every room, chirping her instructions to nuns, novices and servants; but she had mellowed with the years, and would go a long way to avoid a conflict.

Cecilia was carrying a scroll. “The nunnery has received a legacy,” she said as she made herself comfortable. “From a pious woman of Thornbury.”

Godwyn said: “How much?”

“One hundred and fifty pounds in gold coins.”

Godwyn was startled. It was a huge sum. It was enough to build a modest palace. “The nunnery has received it – or the priory?”

“The nunnery,” she said firmly. “This scroll is our copy of her will.”