Murdo continued like a dog with a bone. “If you don’t answer the question here in this room, it will be asked elsewhere.”

Godwyn’s calculations called for Thomas to give up at this point. But it was not a certainty. Thomas was tough. For ten years he had shown himself to be quiet, patient and resilient. When approached by Godwyn to stand as prior, he must have decided that the past could be buried. He must now realize he had been wrong. But how would he react to that realization? Would he see his mistake and back away? Or would he grit his teeth and see it through? Godwyn bit his lip and waited.

Thomas spoke at last. “I think you may be right about the question being asked elsewhere,” he said. “Or, at least, I think you will do everything in your power, no matter how unbrotherly or dangerous, to make your forecast come true.”

“I don’t know if you’re implying-”

“You need say no more!” Thomas said, rising abruptly to his feet. Murdo recoiled. Thomas’s height and soldierly physique, combined with a sharp rise in his voice, achieved the rare result of silencing the friar.

“I have never answered questions about my past,” Thomas said. His voice was quiet again, and every monk in the room was still and silent, straining to hear. “I never will.” He pointed at Murdo. “But this… slug… makes me realize that, if I became your prior, such questions would never cease. A monk may keep his past to himself, but a prior is different, I now see. A prior may have enemies, and any mystery is a weakness. And then, of course, by the leader’s vulnerability the institution itself is threatened. My brain should have led me where Friar Murdo’s malice led him – to the conclusion that a man who does not want to answer questions about his past cannot be a prior. Therefore-”

Young Theodoric said: “No!”

“Therefore I now withdraw my candidacy in the coming election.”

Godwyn breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. He had achieved his object.

Thomas sat down; Murdo looked smug; and everyone else tried to speak at the same time.

Carlus banged the table, and slowly they quietened down. He said: “Friar Murdo, as you don’t have a vote in this election, I must ask you to leave us now.”

Murdo slowly walked out, looking triumphant.

When he had gone, Carlus said: “This is a catastrophe – Murdo the only candidate!”

Theodoric said: “Thomas cannot be allowed to withdraw.”

“But he has!”

Simeon said: “There must be another candidate.”

“Yes,” said Carlus. “And I propose Simeon.”

“No!” said Theodoric.

“Let me speak,” said Simeon. “We must choose the one among us who is most certain to unite the brethren against Murdo. That is not myself. I know I don’t have enough backing among the youngsters. I think we all know who would gather most support from all sections.”

He turned and looked at Godwyn.

“Yes!” Theodoric said. “Godwyn!”

The younger monks cheered, and the older ones looked resigned. Godwyn shook his head, as if reluctant even to respond to them. They began to bang the tables and chant his name: “God-wyn! God-wyn!”

At last he stood up. His heart was full of elation, but he kept his face straight. He held up his hands for quiet. Then, when the room was silent, he said in a low, modest voice: “I shall obey the will of my brethren.”

The room erupted in cheering.

23

Godwyn delayed the election. Earl Roland was going to be angry at the result, and Godwyn wanted to give him as little time as possible to fight the decision before the wedding.

The truth was that Godwyn was frightened. He was going up against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. There were only thirteen earls. Together with about forty lesser barons, twenty-one bishops and a handful of others, they governed England. When the king summoned Parliament, they were the Lords, the aristocratic group, by contrast with the Commons, who were knights, gentry and merchants. The earl of Shiring was one of the more powerful and prominent men of his class. And yet Brother Godwyn, age thirty-one, son of the widow Petranilla, who had risen no higher than sacrist of Kingsbridge Priory, was in conflict with the earl – and, what was even more dangerous, he was winning.

So he dithered – but, six days before the wedding, Roland put his foot down and said: “Tomorrow!”

Guests were already arriving for the nuptials. The earl of Monmouth had moved into the hospital, using the private room next to Roland’s. Lord William and Lady Philippa had had to remove to the Bell inn. Bishop Richard was sharing the prior’s house with Carlus. Lesser barons and knights filled the taverns, along with their wives and children, squires and servants and horses. The town enjoyed a surge of spending, much needed after the disappointing profits from the rain-drenched Fleece Fair.

On the morning of the election, Godwyn and Simeon went to the treasury, a small windowless room behind a heavy oak door off the library. The precious ornaments used for special services were there, locked in an ironbound chest. Simeon as treasurer held the keys.

The election was a foregone conclusion, or so thought everyone except Earl Roland. No one suspected Godwyn’s hidden hand. He had suffered one tense moment, when Thomas had wondered aloud how Friar Murdo got to know about the Isabella charter. “He can’t have discovered it accidentally – he’s never been seen reading in the library, and anyway that deed isn’t kept with the others,” Thomas had said to Godwyn. “Someone must have told him about it. But who? Only Carlus and Simeon knew of it. Why would they have let the secret out? They didn’t want to help Murdo.” Godwyn had said nothing, and Thomas had remained baffled.

Godwyn and Simeon dragged the treasure chest into the light of the library. The cathedral jewels were wrapped in blue cloth and cushioned in protective sheets of leather. As they sorted through the box, Simeon unwrapped some of the items, admiring them and checking that they were undamaged. There was a plaque a few inches wide made of ivory, delicately carved, showing the crucifixion of St Adolphus, at which the saint had asked God to grant good health and long life to all those who venerated his memory. There were numerous candlesticks and crucifixes, all of gold or silver, most decorated with precious stones. In the strong light from the tall library windows the gems glittered and the gold glowed. These things had been given to the priory, over the centuries, by devout worshippers. Their combined value was awesome: there was more wealth here than most people ever saw in one place.

Godwyn had come for a ceremonial crosier, or shepherd’s crook, made of wood encased in gold, with an elaborately jewelled handle. This was ritually handed to the new prior at the end of the election process. The crook was at the bottom of the chest, not having been used for thirteen years. As Godwyn drew it out, Simeon let out an exclamation.

Godwyn looked up sharply. Simeon was holding a large crucifix on a stand, intended to be placed on an altar. “What’s the matter?” Godwyn said.

Simeon showed him the back of the cross and pointed to a shallow cup-shaped indentation just below the crosspiece. Godwyn immediately saw that a ruby was missing. “It must have fallen out,” he said. He glanced around the library: they were alone.

They were both worried. As treasurer and sacrist they shared responsibility. They would be blamed for any loss.

Together they examined every item in the chest. They unwrapped each one and shook out every blue cloth. They looked at all the leather sheets. Frantically, they scrutinized the empty box and the floor all around. The ruby was nowhere to be seen.

Simeon said: “When was the crucifix last used?”

“At the feast of St Adolphus, when Carlus fell. He knocked it off the table.”