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“Further,” Wat continued, “Wycliffe has publicly stated that men who exist in a state of sin should not hold riches or property—”
“The old man has finally said something sensible?”
“—and, of all men who exist in sin, Wycliffe holds that the bishops, archbishops and cardinals of the Holy Church are the worst of all.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows, not sure that he could disagree with that, either.
“Consequently,” Wat continued serenely, handing another coin to the woman who’d brought him more ale, “Master Wycliffe argues that the Church should relinquish most of the worldly riches and land that it holds. After all, is not the Holy Church spiritual rather than worldly? Shouldn’t priests be more concerned with the salvation of souls rather than the accumulation of riches?”
Wat grinned wryly at the expression on Tom’s face. No doubt the man thought this was all heresy. Well, Wycliffe had many admirers, and many of those among the nobility themselves, who thought that what he said was nothing but sense. If the Church was forced to give up land…then who but the nobles would benefit?
“And can you imagine what Wycliffe has also said?” Wat said, leaning a little closer to Tom. “Why, he claims that all the masses and the sacraments and the fripperies of the Holy Church are but nothing in the quest for salvation. Instead, so Master Wycliffe claims, salvation can be gleaned from a careful study of the Scriptures without the need for the mediation of a priest. Who needs priests?”
Thomas was so shocked he could do nothing but stare. To point out the corruptions of the Church was one thing, but to suggest no one needed a Church or a priesthood in order to gain salvation was a heresy so vile it must have been promulgated by the whisperings of Satan’s demons. And here was Wat mouthing such vileness in the very heart of Christendom itself.
“After all,” Wat said, wiping away the foam left about his mouth from his draught of ale, “the Church makes itself so rich from the tithes and taxes it takes from the good folk that it would be the last to stand up and say, ‘You can do it yourself, if only you could read the Scriptures.’ I’ve heard tell that Wycliffe has his followers translating the Bible from Latin into the King’s own English, so as all us plain folk can read it.”
Put God into the plain man’s hand? “He talks filth! He attacks what God Himself has ordained!”
“And yet have you not just told me about the possibility of your beloved Church being headed by two popes? Are you trying to argue that we leave our salvation in the hands of such idiots?”
Thomas was silent.
“Beyond anything else,” Wat said softly, intently, “I am an Englishman. I owe allegiance to Edward and his sons before I owe allegiance to a corrupt foreign power that masquerades as the guardian of our souls. I like what Wycliffe says. It makes sense…his reasoning puts the common man’s destiny back into his hands rather than leave it in the hands of—”
“You are an unlearned man,” Thomas said, and, rising to his feet, stepped over the bench, “but you should know better than to spread the words of a heretic. By doing so you assure yourself a place in hell.”
“And you are a self-righteous idiot,” Wat said, looking away, “and my place in hell is far from assured.”
Thomas stared, then a muscle in his cheek twitched, and he turned and strode out the tavern.
Wat turned his head to watch him go. He snorted. “You may clothe yourself in the robes of a humble friar, m’lad,” he said to no one in particular, “but you still walk with the arrogance of a prince!”
Then he laughed shortly. “There may be a space awaiting me in hell,” he murmured, “but I have no intention of ever filling it.”
After a moment Wat returned to his ale.
“Prior Bertrand. You realise that I must leave.”
It was evening, and Thomas had waylaid Bertrand as the brothers filed out after Vespers prayers.
Finally, thought Bertrand, finally he goes! He resolved to say a special prayer of thanksgiving to St Michael that evening at Compline. Thomas should have asked permission, but Bertrand was not going to quibble about that small lack of procedure right now.
“You follow Brother Wynkyn’s steps?”
“Yes. North to Nuremberg. And then…then where the archangel Saint Michael’s steps guide me.”
Bertrand nodded. “I will write a letter of introduction for you.” Best to ensure Thomas had all help available in order to speed his steps away from St Angelo’s.
Thomas inclined his head. “I thank you, Prior Bertrand.”
Bertrand opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke. “It is said that beneath his rustic exterior, the Holy Father has only the good of the Church at heart.”
“Perhaps.”
“Thomas…do not judge any you meet too harshly. We are all only men and women, and are faulted by the burdens of our sins.”
Thomas inclined his head again, but did not reply.
Some of us may only be men and women, he thought, but some of us are otherwise.
Later, when he was alone in his cell, Bertrand sat at his writing desk in stillness a long, long time.
When the wick in his oil lamp flickered and threatened to go out Bertrand reached for a piece of parchment and, while the lamp lasted, wrote an account of events, and of Thomas’ part in them, to the Prior General of England, Richard Thorseby. True, Bertrand was gladdened that Thomas was leaving, but it was best to ensure Thomas never came back at all, and Thorseby would be just the man for that. After all, Thomas hadn’t exactly asked for permission to leave the friary, had he? Such disobedience against the rules of the order called for stern disciplinary measures…
“And I pray to God that I be with You in heaven,” Bertrand mumbled as he blotted the ink, “before another emissary of Saint Michael’s decides to stay awhile at Saint Angelo’s.”
IX (#ulink_260a39b2-bad2-57ee-b07d-b03bb3431199)
Ember Friday in Whitsuntide
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(11th June 1378)
Thomas spent the weeks on the road north from Rome in a state of troublesome melancholy, wondering at the future of the word of God in a world which seemed to be slipping ever closer to the blandishments of the Devil. These had been grey weeks of travel. He had been harassed by beggars, pilgrims and wandering pedlars who thought a lone traveller easy prey (even his obvious poverty had not lessened their threatening entreaties), while constant rain and a sweeping chill wind had added physical misery to the spiritual anguish of Thomas’ soul. Doubt had consumed him: how could he follow a trail thirty years dead? How could he, one man, rally the forces of God to destroy the evil that spread unhindered throughout Christendom?
Even worse were memories which had ridden untamed through his mind whenever he thought on Wat’s news that the Black Prince and John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, were again leading an invasion force into France.
The surge of battle, the scream of horses, and the ring of steel. The feel of the blade as it arced through the air, seeking that weakness in his opponent’s armour, and then the joy as he felt it crush through bone and sinew, and theexpression of shock, almost wonder, on a man’s face as he felt cold death slide deep into his belly.
The glimpse of a sweaty comrade’s face, his expression half of fear, half of fierce joy, across the tangled gleam of armour and wild-eyed horses of the battlefield.
The same comrade later that night, lifting a goblet to toast victory.
The brotherhood of arms and of battle.
John of Gaunt—Lancaster—was returning to France, his friends and allies at his back.
Who was with Lancaster? Who? Memories rode not far behind Lancaster’s banner.
Thomas cursed Wat daily. Not only had the man spoken heretical words which had disturbed Thomas’ soul, the man’s very appearance had recalled to Thomas a life and passions he had thought to have forgotten years before. He served God and St Michael now, not the whims of some petty prince, or the dictates of a power-hungry sovereign.
He served God, not the brotherhood he’d left behind.
Man’s cause no longer interested him.
On this morning, as Thomas approached Florence, any doubts he may have had vanished along with the cloud and wind. Just after Sext he turned a corner of the road to find Florence lay spread out before him like a saviour.
Thomas halted his mule and stared.
Warm sunshine washed over him, and to either side of the road richly-scented summer flowers bloomed in waving cornfields. But none of this registered in Thomas’ mind. He could only stare at the walled metropolis below him. A gleaming city of God, surely, for nothing else could have given it such an aura of light and strength.
He had never seen a city so beautiful. Even Rome paled into insignificance before it. Not only was it larger—Florence was the largest city in the western world—but it was infinitely more colourful, more splendidly built, more alive.
Innumerable burnished domes of church and guildhall glittered in the noon sunshine; pale stone towers topped by red terracotta roofs soared from the dark narrow streets towards the light of both sun and God; colourful banners and pennants whipped from windows and parapets; bridges arched gracefully over the winding Arno—the river silver in this light. The tops of fruit trees and the waving tendrils of vines reached from the courtyards of villas and tenement blocks.
Thomas’ overwhelming impression was of majesty and light, where his memory of Rome was of decay and chaos and violence.
Surely God was here, where He had been absent in Rome?
Gently Thomas nudged the flanks of his mule, and the patient beast began the descent into the richest and most beautiful municipality in Christendom.
Thomas had thought that his initial impression of Florence might be shattered when he entered the crowded streets, but it was not so.
Where the crowds in Rome had been oppressive, often threatening, here they were lively and inviting.
Where the faces that turned his way in Rome had been surly or suspicious, here they were open and welcoming.
Where the doors of Rome had been closed to strangers and to the always expected violence, here they were open to friend and stranger alike. And it seemed that from every second window, and every third doorway, hung the tapestries and cloths for which Florence was famous—a waterfall of ever-changing colour that rippled and glittered down every street.
Above the voices and footsteps of the streets cascaded a clarion of bells: guild bells, church bells, the bells of the standing watches on the walls and the marching watches on the streets…the bells of God.
A tear slipped down Thomas’ cheek.
When Thomas rode into the city, he did not immediately seek the friary he knew would give him shelter. It was still high morning, and he could spend the next few hours more profitably seeking out that which he needed than passing platitudes with his brothers in the Order.
Thomas understood now that God needed him on his feet, not his knees.
So Thomas rode his mule slowly through the streets towards the market square. The past weeks on the road from Rome had taught him a valuable lesson: he would travel the quicker if he travelled in a well-escorted train. A lone traveller had to travel slowly and carefully, and not only to avoid the menacements of beggars, for Thomas had heard that the northern Italian roads were troubled by bandits who regularly dispossessed people of their valuables and, if the valuables proved insufficient, often their lives as well.
So Thomas needed to find a well-escorted group which would be travelling in his direction: through the Brenner Pass in the Alps, then north through Innsbruck and Augsberg to Nuremberg. There was only one group likely to be rich enough to afford the escort to travel quickly and safely, and only one group that would be likely to take that route, and Thomas had a good idea of where he’d find it.
Thomas dismounted from his mule and led it the final few hundred yards towards the market square, finally tying the beast to a post beside a wool store that bordered the square itself. The mule was a sorry beast, and Thomas thought that no one would be likely to steal it.
He patted the mule on the shoulder—sorry beast it might be, but it had also been faithful and of good service—and turned to the square. It was large, and lined with some of the most magnificent buildings Thomas had ever seen. There were churches, a cathedral, palaces of the nobles and of prelates and several prominent guildhalls. Colourful stalls had been set up about the square, selling every sort of goods from cloth to nubile Moorish slave girls, and in the centre of the square wove acrobats and jugglers, and a bear-handler with his abject and chained source of income.
The bear-handler was tying his charge to a stake and inviting passers-by to set their dogs to the creature, and to bet on the outcome.
Already a crowd was gathering around him.
Thomas ignored all the activity and set off for the largest of the guildhalls, that of the cloth merchants.
He paused inside the doors, his eyes narrowing. This was worldliness gone rampant! The guildhall rivalled any of the cathedrals Thomas had seen, save that of St Peter’s itself: supported by ornamented hammerbeams, its roof soared several hundred feet above his head. Its walls were painted over with scenes from the Scriptures, rich with gilding and studded with gems. Its furnishings were ornate and luxurious.
And Wat thought the Church too wealthy?
“Brother?” said a soft voice at his shoulder. “May I be of some assistance?”
Thomas turned around. A middle-aged and grey-haired man dressed in velvets and silks stood there, his well-fed face set into an expression of enquiry.
“Perhaps,” Thomas said. “I need to travel north, and fast. I seek any of your number who might be leaving within the next few days.”
“You want to travel with a merchant train?”
Thomas wondered if his fixed smile looked too false to this man. “That is what I said.”
The man spread his hands. “Surely the Church can afford to share some of the burden of finding a suitable escort for you, brother, if your mission be of such importance?”
“I travel alone, and I need to travel fast. I am sure any of your brothers within the guild would be happy to accept me into their company.”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“I would reward them well for their troubles,” Thomas said.
“With coin, good brother?”
“With prayers, good man.”
The man’s face split in a cynical grin. “You shall have to take your proposition to the merchants concerned, brother. It will be their choice or not…and I am not sure if they are so low on prayers they need to haul along the burden of a friar.”
“I will not be a burden!” Thomas snapped, and the man’s grin widened.
“Of course not. Well, ’tis not for me to say aye or nay. Take yourself to the Via Ricasoli. There is an inn there, you cannot miss it, and ask for Master Etienne Marcel. He is a Frenchman, a good cloth merchant, and he is leading a party north through the Brenner in two days’ time. Perchance he may feel the need of your prayers.”
Thomas nodded, and turned away,
“And perchance not,” the man added, and Thomas strode out of the guildhall and into the sunshine, the warmth of the day ruined.
He found the inn easily enough—it was the only one on the street—and asked of the innkeeper for Master Etienne Marcel.
The man inclined his head, and motioned Thomas to follow him.
They walked through the unoccupied front room, set out with several trestle tables and benches before a great fireplace, into a narrow hallway leading to a stairwell winding up to a darkened second level. Halfway up Thomas dimly heard laughter, and the clink of pewter—or coin—on a table.
There was only one door at the head of the stairs, and the innkeeper tapped on it gently.
It opened a fraction. The innkeeper spoke softly, briefly, then stood aside and indicated Thomas.
Thomas stared at the dark crack revealed by the open door, but could discern nothing.
The door closed, and he heard fragments of a conversation.
Then the door opened wide, and a well, but not overdressed young man, with a friendly grin, bright blue eyes and hair so blond it was almost white, stood there, a hand held out in welcome.
“A friar!” he said in poor Latin, “and with a request. Well, brother, enter, if you don’t mind our den of sin.”
A rebuke sounded behind the young man and he flushed, and moderated the width of his smile. “Well, good brother. Not quite a ‘den of sin’, perhaps, but a worldly enough place for such as you. Please, enter, with our welcome.”
