Kingsbridge Series Omnibus by Ken Follett

Author:Ken Follett [Follett, Ken]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

32

One year after the death of Anthony, Kingsbridge Priory was a different place, Godwyn thought, with satisfaction, as he stood in the cathedral on the Sunday after the Fleece Fair.

The main difference was the separation of monks and nuns. They no longer mingled in the cloisters, the library, or the scriptorium. Even here in the church, a new carved-oak screen running down the center of the choir prevented them from looking at one another during the services. Only in the hospital were they sometimes forced to mix.

In his sermon, Prior Godwyn said the collapse of the bridge a year ago had been God’s punishment for laxity in the monks and nuns, and for sin among the townspeople. The new spirit of rigor and purity at the priory, and piety and submission in the town, would lead to a better life for all, in this world and the hereafter. He felt it went down quite well.

Afterward he had dinner with Brother Simeon, the treasurer, in the prior’s house. Philemon served them stewed eel and cider. “I want to build a new prior’s house,” Godwyn said.

Simeon’s long, thin face seemed to get longer. “Any particular reason?”

“I’m sure I am the only prior in Christendom who lives in a house like a leather tanner’s. Think of the people who have been guests here in the last twelve months—the earl of Shiring, the bishop of Kingsbridge, the earl of Monmouth—this building isn’t appropriate for such folk. It gives a poor impression of us and of our order. We need a magnificent building to reflect the prestige of Kingsbridge Priory.”

“You want a palace,” said Simeon.

Godwyn detected a disapproving note in Simeon’s tone of voice, as if Godwyn’s aim were to glorify himself rather than the priory. “Call it a palace, if you wish,” he said stiffly. “Why not? Bishops and priors live in palaces. It’s not for their own comfort, but for that of their guests, and for the reputation of the institution they represent.”

“Of course,” said Simeon, giving up that line of argument. “But you can’t afford it.”

Godwyn frowned. In theory, his senior monks were encouraged to debate with him, but the truth was that he hated to be opposed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Kingsbridge is one of the richest monasteries in the land.”

“So it is always said. And we do own vast resources. But the price of wool has fallen this year, for the fifth year in succession. Our income is shrinking.”

Philemon suddenly interjected: “They say the Italian merchants are buying fleeces in Spain.”

Philemon was changing. Since achieving his ambition and becoming a novice monk, he had lost the awkward-boy look and had grown in confidence to the point where he could join in a conversation between prior and treasurer—and make an interesting contribution.

“Could be,” said Simeon. “Also, the Fleece Fair was smaller, because there’s no bridge, so we earned a lot less in duty and tolls than we usually do.”

Godwyn said: “But we hold thousands of acres of farmland.”

“In this part of the country, where most of our lands are, there was a poor harvest last year, after all that rain.

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