Caris was not sure she wanted to be burdened with such a secret. However, the death bed seemed to overrule such scruples.

Cecilia said: “The old king did not die of a fall.”

Caris was shocked. It had happened more than twenty years ago, but she remembered the rumours. The killing of a king was the worst offence imaginable, a double outrage, combining murder with treason, both of them capital crimes. Even knowing about such a thing was dangerous. No wonder Anthony had kept it a secret.

Cecilia went on: “The queen and her lover, Mortimer, wanted Edward II out of the way. The heir to the throne was a little boy. Mortimer became king in all but name. In the upshot, it didn’t last as long as he might have hoped, of course – young Edward III grew up too fast.” She coughed again, more weakly.

“Mortimer was executed while I was an adolescent.”

“But even Edward didn’t want anyone to know what had really happened to his father. So the secret was kept.”

Caris was awestruck. Queen Isabella was still alive, living in lavish circumstances in Norfolk, the revered mother of the king. If people found out that she had her husband’s blood on her hands there would be a political earthquake. Caris felt guilty just knowing about it.

“So he was murdered?” she asked.

Cecilia made no reply. Caris looked harder. The prioress was still, her face immobile, her eyes staring upward. She was dead.

60

The day after Cecilia died, Godwyn asked Sister Elizabeth to have dinner with him.

This was a dangerous moment. Cecilia’s death unbalanced the power structure. Godwyn needed the nunnery, because the monastery on its own was not viable: he had never succeeded in improving its finances. Yet most of the nuns were now angry about the money he had taken from them, and bitterly hostile to him. If they fell under the control of a prioress bent on revenge – Caris, perhaps – it could mean the end of the monastery.

He was frightened of the plague, too. What if he caught it? What if Philemon died? Such flashes of nightmare unnerved him, but he succeeded in pushing them to the back of his mind. He was determined not to be distracted from his long-term purpose by the plague.

The election of the prioress was an immediate danger. He had visions of the monastery closing down, and himself leaving Kingsbridge in disgrace, being forced to become an ordinary monk in some other place, subordinate to a prior who would discipline and humiliate him. If that happened he thought he might kill himself.

On the other hand, this was an opportunity as well as a threat. If he handled things cleverly he might get a prioress sympathetic to him who would be content to let him take the lead. And Elizabeth was his best bet.

She would make an imperious leader, one who would stand on her dignity. But he could work with her. She was pragmatic: she had proved that, the time she had warned him that Caris was planning to audit the treasury. She would be his ally.

She walked in with her head held high. She knew she had suddenly become important, and she was enjoying it, Godwyn realized. He wondered anxiously if she would go along with the plan he was about to propose. She might need careful handling.

She looked around the grand dining hall. “You built a splendid palace,” she said, reminding him that she had helped him get the money for it.

She had never been inside the place, he realized, although it had been finished a year ago. He preferred not to have females in the monks’ part of the priory. Only Petranilla and Cecilia had been admitted here, until today. He said: “Thank you. I believe it wins us respect from the noble and powerful. Already we have entertained the archbishop of Monmouth here.”

He had used the last of the nuns’ florins to buy tapestries showing scenes from the lives of the prophets. She studied a picture of Daniel in the lions’ den. “This is very good,” she said.

“From Arras.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your cat under the sideboard?”

Godwyn tutted. “I can’t get rid of it,” he lied. He shooed it out of the room. Monks were not supposed to have pets, but he found the cat a soothing presence.

They sat at one end of the long banqueting table. He hated having a woman here, sitting down to dinner as if she were just as good as a man; but he hid his discomfort.

He had ordered an expensive dish, pork cooked with ginger and apples. Philemon poured wine from Gascony. Elizabeth tasted the pork and said: “Delicious.”

Godwyn was not very interested in food, except as a means of impressing people, but Philemon tucked in greedily.

Godwyn got down to business. “How do you plan to win this election?”

“I believe I’m a better candidate than Sister Caris,” she said.

Godwyn sensed the suppressed emotion with which she uttered the name. Clearly she was still angry that Merthin had rejected her in favour of Caris. Now she was about to enter another contest with her old rival. She would kill to win this time, he thought.

That was good.

Philemon said to her: “Why do you think you’re better?”

“I’m older than Caris,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve been a nun longer, and a priory officer longer. And I was born and brought up in a deeply religious household.”

Philemon shook his head dismissively. “None of that will make any difference.”

She raised her eyebrows, startled by his bluntness, and Godwyn hoped Philemon would not be too brutal. We need her compliant, he wanted to whisper. Don’t get her back up.

Philemon went on remorselessly. “You’ve only got one year of experience more than Caris has. And your father, the bishop – rest his soul – will count against you. After all, bishops aren’t supposed to have children.”

She flushed. “Priors aren’t supposed to have cats.”

“We’re not discussing the prior,” he said impatiently. His manner was insolent, and Godwyn winced. Godwyn was good at masking his hostility and putting on a façade of friendly charm, but Philemon had never learned that art.

However, Elizabeth took it coolly. “So, did you ask me here to tell me I can’t win?” She turned to Godwyn. “It’s not like you to cook with costly ginger just for the pleasure of it.”

“You’re quite right,” said Godwyn. “We want you to become prioress, and we’re going to do everything we can to help you.”

Philemon said: “And we’re going to start by taking a realistic look at your prospects. Caris is liked by everyone – nuns, monks, merchants and nobility. The job she does is a great advantage to her. Most of the monks and nuns, and hundreds of townspeople, have come to the hospital with ailments and been helped by her. By contrast, they rarely see you. You’re the treasurer, thought of as cold and calculating.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I should give up now.”

Godwyn could not tell whether she was being ironic.

“You can’t win,” Philemon said. “But she can lose.”

“Don’t be enigmatic, it’s tiresome,” Elizabeth snapped. “Just tell me in plain words what you’re getting at.”

I can see why she’s not popular, Godwyn thought.

Philemon pretended not to notice her tone. “Your task in the next few weeks is to destroy Caris,” he said. “You have to transform her, in the nuns’ minds, from a likeable, hard-working, compassionate sister into a monster.”

A glint of eagerness came into Elizabeth’s eye. “Is that possible?”

“With our help, yes.”

“Go on.”

“Is she still ordering nuns to wear linen masks in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And wash their hands?”

“Yes.”

“There is no basis for these practices in Galen or any other medical authority, and certainly none in the Bible. It seems a mere superstition.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Apparently the Italian doctors believe the plague spreads through the air. You catch it by looking at sick people, or touching them, or breathing their breath. I don’t see how-”