“Is there something you would like?” Cecilia asked.

There was, although Caris had not told anyone before, in fact had not fully realized it until now; but the ambition seemed fully formed, and suddenly she knew without doubt that it was her destiny. “I’m going to be a doctor,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, then they all laughed.

Caris flushed, not knowing what was so funny.

Papa took pity and said: “Only men can be doctors. Didn’t you know that, buttercup?”

Caris was bewildered. She turned to Cecilia. “But what about you?”

“I’m not a physician,” Cecilia said. “We nuns care for the sick, of course, but we follow the instructions of trained men. The monks who have studied under the masters understand the humours of the body, the way they go out of balance in sickness, and how to bring them back to their correct proportions for good health. They know which vein to bleed for migraine, leprosy or breathlessness; where to cup and cauterize; whether to poultice or bathe.”

“Couldn’t a woman learn those things?”

“Perhaps, but God has ordained it otherwise.”

Caris felt frustrated with the way adults trotted out this truism every time they were stuck for an answer. Before she could say anything, Brother Saul came downstairs with a bowl of blood, and went through the kitchen to the back yard to get rid of it. The sight made Caris feel weepy. All doctors used bloodletting as a cure, so it must be effective, she supposed; but all the same she hated to see her mother’s life force in a bowl to be thrown away.

Saul returned to the sick room, and a few moments later he and Joseph came down. “I’ve done what I can for her,” Joseph said solemnly to Papa. “And she has confessed her sins.”

Confessed her sins! Caris knew what that meant. She began to cry.

Papa took six silver pennies from his purse and gave them to the monk. “Thank you, brother,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

As the monks left, the two nuns went back upstairs.

Alice sat on Papa’s lap and buried her face in his neck. Caris cried and hugged Scrap. Petranilla ordered Tutty to clear the table. Gwenda watched everything with wide eyes. They sat around the table in silence, waiting.

Brother Godwyn was hungry. He had eaten his dinner, a stew of sliced turnips with salt fish, and it had not satisfied him. The monks nearly always had fish and weak ale for dinner, even when it was not a fast day.

Not all the monks, of course: Prior Anthony had a privileged diet. He would dine especially well today, for the prioress, Mother Cecilia, was to be his guest. She was accustomed to rich food. The nuns, who always seemed to have more money than the monks, killed a pig or a sheep every few days and washed it down with Gascon wine.

It was Godwyn’s job to supervise the dinner, a hard task when his own stomach was rumbling. He spoke to the monastery cook, and checked on the fat goose in the oven and the pot of apple sauce bubbling on the fire. He asked the cellarer for a jug of cider from the barrel, and got a loaf of rye bread from the bakery – stale, for there was no baking on Sunday. He took the silver platters and goblets from the locked chest and set them on the table of the hall in the prior’s house.

The prior and prioress dined together once a month. The monastery and the nunnery were separate institutions, with their own premises, and different sources of income. Prior and prioress were independently responsible to the bishop of Kingsbridge. Nevertheless they shared the great cathedral and several other buildings including the hospital, where monks worked as doctors and nuns as nurses. So there were always details to discuss: cathedral services, hospital guests and patients, town politics. Anthony often tried to get Cecilia to pay costs that should, strictly speaking, have been divided equally – glass windows for the chapter house, bedsteads for the hospital, the repainting of the cathedral’s interior – and she usually agreed.

Today, however, the talk was likely to centre on politics. Anthony had returned yesterday from two weeks in Gloucester, where he had assisted at the interment of King Edward II, who had lost his throne in January and his life in September. Mother Cecilia would want to hear the gossip, while pretending to be above it all.

Godwyn had something else on his mind. He wanted to talk to Anthony about his future. He had been anxiously awaiting the right moment ever since the prior returned home. He had rehearsed his speech, but had not yet found the opportunity to deliver it. He hoped to get a chance this afternoon.

Anthony entered the hall as Godwyn was putting a cheese and a bowl of pears on the sideboard. The prior looked like an older version of Godwyn. Both were tall, with regular features and light-brown hair, and like all the family they had greenish eyes with flecks of gold. Anthony stood by the fire – the room was cold and the old building let in freezing draughts. Godwyn poured him a cup of cider. “Father Prior, today is my birthday,” he said as Anthony drank. “I’m twenty-one.”

“So it is,” said Anthony. “I remember your birth very well. I was fourteen years old. My sister Petranilla screamed like a boar with an arrow in its guts as she brought you into the world.” He raised his goblet in a toast, looking fondly at Godwyn. “And now you’re a man.”

Godwyn decided that this was his moment. “I’ve been at the priory ten years,” he said.

“Is it that long?”

“Yes – as schoolboy, novice and monk.”

“My goodness.”

“I hope I’ve been a credit to my mother and to you.”

“We’re both very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Godwyn swallowed. “And now I want to go to Oxford.”

The city of Oxford had long been a centre for masters of theology, medicine and law. Priests and monks went there to study and debate with teachers and other students. In the last century the masters had been incorporated into a company, or university, that had royal permission to set examinations and award degrees. Kingsbridge Priory maintained a branch or cell in the city, known as Kingsbridge College, where eight monks could carry on their lives of worship and self-denial while they studied.

“Oxford!” said Anthony, and an expression of anxiety and distaste came over his face. “Why?”

“To study. It’s what monks are supposed to do.”

“I never went to Oxford – and I’m prior.”

It was true, but Anthony was sometimes at a disadvantage with his senior colleagues in consequence. The sacrist, the treasurer and several other monastic officials, or obedientiaries, were graduates of the university, as were all the physicians. They were quick-thinking and skilled in argument, and Anthony sometimes appeared bumbling by comparison, especially in chapter, the daily meeting of all the monks. Godwyn longed to acquire the sharp logic and confident superiority he observed in the Oxford men. He did not want to be like his uncle.

But he could not say that. “I want to learn,” he said.

“Why learn heresy?” Anthony said scornfully. “Oxford students question the teachings of the church!”

“In order to understand them better.”

“Pointless and dangerous.”

Godwyn asked himself why Anthony was making this fuss. The prior had never appeared concerned about heresy before, and Godwyn was not in the least interested in challenging accepted doctrines. He frowned. “I thought you and my mother had ambitions for me,” he said. “Don’t you want me to advance, and become an obedientiary, and perhaps one day prior?”

“Eventually, yes. But you don’t have to leave Kingsbridge to achieve that.”

You don’t want me to advance too fast, in case I outstrip you; and you don’t want me to leave town, in case you lose control of me, Godwyn thought in a flash of insight. He wished he had anticipated this resistance to his plans. “I don’t want to study theology,” he said.