There was laughter at the idea of grown men fighting over such trifles.

Caris had thought out her solution to that problem. “In principle, such property reverts to the lord of the manor, which for Kingsbridge residents means the priory. However, I don’t want the monastery buildings filled up with old clothes, so I propose to waive the rule for anyone whose possessions are worth less than two pounds. Instead, the two nearest neighbours should lock up the house, to make sure nothing is taken; then the property should be inventoried by the parish priest, who will also hear the claims of any creditors. Where there is no priest they can come to me. When any debts have been paid, the deceased’s personal possessions – clothing, furniture, food and drink – will be divided up among the neighbours, and any cash given to the parish church.”

There was widespread approval for this, too, most people nodding and murmuring agreement.

“Finally, I found a thirteen-year-old orphan girl trying to sell her body outside the White Horse. Her name is Ismay, and she did it because she had nothing to eat.” Caris looked around the room with a challenging stare. “Can anyone tell me how such a thing could possibly happen in a Christian town? All her family are dead – but did they have no friends or neighbours? Who allows a child to starve?”

Edward Butcher said in a low voice: “Ismay Taylor is a rather badly behaved child.”

Caris was not accepting excuses. “She’s thirteen!”

“I’m just saying that she might have been offered help and spurned it.”

“Since when did we allow children to make such decisions for themselves? If a child is orphaned, it is the duty of every one of us to take care of her. What does your religion mean, if not that?”

They all looked shamefaced.

“In future, whenever a child is orphaned, I want the two nearest neighbours to bring the child to me. Those who cannot be placed with a friendly family will move into the priory. The girls can live with the nuns, and we will turn the monks’ dormitory into a bedroom for boys. They can all have lessons in the morning and do suitable work in the afternoon.”

There was general approval for that, too.

Elfric spoke up. “Have you finished, Mother Caris?”

“I think so, unless anyone wants to discuss the details of what I have suggested.”

No one spoke up, and the members began to move in their seats as if the meeting was over.

Then Elfric said: “Some of the men here may remember that they elected me as alderman of the guild.”

His voice was full of resentment. Everyone fidgeted impatiently.

“We have now seen the prior of Kingsbridge accused of theft and condemned without trial,” he went on.

That went down badly. There was a rumble of dissent. No one thought Godwyn innocent.

Elfric ignored the mood of the room. “And we have sat here like slaves and let a woman dictate the laws of the city to us. By whose authority are drunks to be imprisoned? Hers. Who is the ultimate judge of inheritance? She is. Who will dispose of the city’s orphans? She will. What have you come to? Are you not men?”

Betty Baxter said: “No.”

The men laughed.

Caris decided not to intervene. It was unnecessary. She glanced at the bishop, wondering if he would assert himself against Elfric, and saw that he was sitting back, mouth clamped shut: plainly he, too, had realized that Elfric was fighting a losing battle.

Elfric raised his voice. “I say we reject a female prior, even acting prior, and we deny the right of the prioress to come to the parish guild and issue commandments!”

Several muttered mutinously. Two or three stood up, as if about to walk out in disgust. Someone called out: “Forget it, Elfric.”

He persisted. “And this is a woman who was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to death!”

All the men were standing, now. One walked out of the door.

“Come back!” Elfric shouted. “I haven’t closed the meeting!”

No one took any notice.

Caris joined the group at the door. She made way for the bishop and the archdeacon. She was the last to leave. She turned back at the exit and looked at Elfric. He sat alone at the head of the room.

She went out.

64

It was twelve years since Godwyn and Philemon had visited the cell of St-John-in-the-Forest. Godwyn remembered being impressed by the neatness of the fields, the trimmed hedges, the cleared ditches and the apple trees in straight lines in the orchard. It was the same today. Evidently Saul Whitehead had not changed, either.

Godwyn and his caravan crossed a chequerboard of frozen fields towards the clustered buildings of the monastery. As they came closer, Godwyn saw that there had been some developments. Twelve years ago the little stone church with its cloister and dormitory had been surrounded by a scatter of small wooden structures: kitchen, stables, dairy, bakery. Now the flimsy timber outbuildings had gone, and the stone-built complex attached to the church had grown correspondingly. “The compound is more secure than it used to be,” Godwyn remarked.

“Because of the increase in outlawry by soldiers coming home from the French wars, I’d guess,” Philemon said.

Godwyn frowned. “I don’t recall being asked for my permission for the building programme.”

“You were not.”

“Hmm.” Unfortunately, he could hardly complain. Someone might ask how it was possible for Saul to have carried out such a programme without Godwyn’s knowledge, unless Godwyn had neglected his duty of supervision.

Besides, it suited his purpose now for the place to be easily closed to intruders.

The two-day journey had somewhat calmed him. The death of his mother had thrown him into a frenzy of fear. Every hour he remained in Kingsbridge, he had felt he was sure to die. He had got just enough grip on his emotions to address the meeting in the chapter house and organize the exodus. Despite his eloquence, a few of the monks had had misgivings about fleeing. Fortunately, they were all sworn to obedience, and the habit of doing as they were told had prevailed. Nevertheless, he had not begun to feel safe until his group had crossed the double bridge, torches blazing, and headed off into the night.

He still felt close to the edge. Every now and again he would be mulling something over and would decide to ask Petranilla what she thought, then he would realize he could not ask her advice ever again, and panic would rise like bile in his throat.

He was fleeing from the plague – but he should have done it three months ago, when Mark Webber died. Was he too late? He fought down terror. He would not feel safe until he was locked away from the world.

He wrenched his thoughts back to the present. There was no one in the fields at this time of year, but in a yard of beaten earth in front of the monastery he saw a handful of monks working: one shoeing a horse, another mending a plough, and a small group turning the lever of a cider press.

They all stopped what they were doing and stared, astonished, at the crowd of visitors approaching them: twenty monks, half a dozen novices, four carts and ten pack horses. Godwyn had left nobody behind but the priory servants.

One of those at the cider press detached himself from the group and came forward. Godwyn recognized him as Saul Whitehead. They had met on Saul’s annual visits to Kingsbridge, but now for the first time Godwyn noticed touches of grey in Saul’s distinctive ash-blond hair.

Twenty years ago they had been students together at Oxford. Saul had been the star pupil, quick to learn and agile in argument. He had also been the most devoutly religious of them all. He might have become prior of Kingsbridge if he had been less spiritual, and had thought strategically about his career instead of leaving such matters to God. As it was, when Prior Anthony had died and the election was held, Godwyn had easily outmanoeuvred Saul.