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Relatively.
Thomas was under no illusions as to the hazards he and his companions would face in the next few days.
They’d travelled rapidly from Florence—Thomas atop a hefty but swift brown gelding, and desperately trying not to enjoy riding a horse again. Marcel, Karle and Bierman had between them a large consignment of cloths, both Florentine wools and Far Eastern silks and tapestries, to sell in the northern European markets, but they had entrusted most of this cargo to the trusty, though ugly and slow, cog ships that plied the trading route between Venice and the northern cities of the Hanseatic League. The banker Marcoaldi travelled with nothing but a pair of well-braced, locked chests on a packhorse. He never let the chests out of his sight, and had them guarded by six heavily-weaponed and armoured men.
Thomas recognised them instantly as Swiss mercenaries, and thought that Marcoaldi must be wealthy indeed to be able to afford such expensive guards.
Wealthy…or extremely anxious.
Apart from Marcoaldi’s packhorse and mercenaries, Thomas and the merchants, the train consisted of eight packhorses laden with the merchants’ personal effects and small packages of spices to sell in Nuremberg, as well as gifts for their families, and twelve rather rough but apparently reasonably professional German mercenaries who acted as guards for the entire train. The Swiss mercenaries kept themselves to themselves, as Swiss soldiers tended to do, but the Germans were congenial, some fairly well educated, and those not on guard joined Thomas and his companions about the campfire at night when they camped out.
Generally, the merchants and Marcoaldi preferred to find an inn or a monastery guest house to stay in for the night; camping out was all very well, but they vastly favoured the comforts of a mattress above the chill and inflexible comforts of the ground.
And so they had this night. There was a Benedictine monastery at the foot of the Brenner Pass, catering for all manner of travellers, whether traders and merchants, pilgrims, footloose mercenaries, or noble diplomats moving between the Italian cities and the court of the Holy Roman Emperor. The accommodation was better than most monastic houses—Thomas assumed this was because the monastery had been made rich from centuries of patronage by noble pilgrims—and Marcel and his companions were currently enjoying a glass of German wine and sweetmeats in the guest house refectory with their host, the hosteller.
Thomas shook his head, thinking of the accommodation: not only did every guest have his own straw mattress, every guest had his own latrine!
Wealth, indeed.
“Thinking of the difficulties of the Brenner, my friend?” said a soft voice behind him.
Thomas turned around, and grinned. “No, Johan. I was thinking only of the wealth of the monastery below us.”
“Aha!” Johan laughed. “I believe you are regretting joining the Dominicans instead of the Benedictines!”
They turned to silently study the mountains soaring before them. Johan and Thomas had become good friends in their journey north through Ferrara to Venice—at which place Marcel, Karle and Bierman had overseen the shipping of their consignments, clucking over its packing and storage in the deep holds of the cogs like mother hens—and then Verona, and from there onto the northern road to the foot of the Alps.
Johan was a likeable lad, a bit too irreligious for Thomas’ taste—but then hadn’t he been so at the same age?—but well meaning and behaved, traits which Thomas thought had obviously been taught Johan by his serious and moralistic father. Also, Thomas admitted to himself, he was flattered by Johan’s attention. The young man admired Thomas’ experience in the world, as his deep commitment to the Church, and was slightly in awe of Thomas’ family name, which, truth to tell, very occasionally annoyed Thomas.
The Nevilles he had left behind a long, long time ago.
Both Johan and his older companions constantly questioned Thomas about what was going on in Rome; about what he knew of the English plans to invade France.
Thomas was glad to hear that the Frenchmen among the group, Marcel and Karle, were just as concerned to see the papacy remain in Rome as were the others. All were appalled at the idea that the rogue cardinals had returned to Avignon and, for all anyone knew, might have elected a rival pope by this stage.
There were considerably mixed feelings about renewed war between the French and the English. The war, fought because Edward felt he was the rightful claimant to the French throne, had been going on since Edward was eighteen or nineteen. Now he was an old man. Both countries had suffered because of the hostilities, but France had suffered the more. This was a war fought entirely on French soil, although French pirates made life as difficult as possible for villagers who lived along the English south-eastern coast, and the losses of French peasants had been horrendous. Tens of thousands had been killed, and many more were unable to return to lands burned and ravaged by the roving English armies.
There had been a hiatus in hostilities over the past few years, partly because both sides were exhausted, physically and emotionally, and partly because both Edward and the French king, John, had been trying to hammer out a truce.
Evidently, Edward had become impatient and, just as evidently, had managed to raise funds from somewhere for a renewed foreign campaign.
“Not from any of my colleagues, I hope,” Marcoaldi had remarked darkly one evening when the war was being discussed over their evening meal. When he was a young man, Edward had obtained the funds for his first French campaign by raising a massive loan from the Florentine bankers Bardi and Peruzzi. When it came time to repay the debt, Edward declared he had no intention of ever doing so. Not only were the Bardi and Peruzzi families ruined, so also were many other Florentine families who relied on them.
Edward had not won himself many Italian or banking friends with that action.
Marcoaldi may have been concerned about the financial aspects of a renewed English campaign, but Marcel and Karle were horrified at the thought of what deprivations might await the French people this time.
“And Paris…Paris!” Marcel had remarked. “No doubt the English will again lay siege to it! Thomas, do you have any idea what—”
Thomas had interrupted him at that point, again declaring his allegiance to God rather than to the English king, or even his own family. “I take no part in the war,” he said.
And yet…yet…hadn’t he once been a part of those marauding English armies? Hadn’t he himself set the torch time after time to the thatched roofs of peasant homes?
Hadn’t he taken sword to husbands…before wrenching their wives to the ground for his own pleasure?
Thomas stared at the mountains, and wondered if he would ever be able to atone for his sins. The last campaign he had taken part in had been the worst, and the blood and pain and misery caused had, finally, made him pause for thought.
And yet how he still lusted for those days: the fellowship of the battle, the warm companionship of his brothers-in-arms.
“Thomas? Thomas? What’s wrong?”
“Ah, I was lost in memories. Forgive me. Johan…tell me, have you ever been through the Brenner before?”
“Yes. Three times—and once during spring! I swear to God—”
“Johan!”
“Forgive me. I mean, um, I mean it was more dangerous than you can imagine! The last day such a great gust of snow threatened to fall on us that I swear that—sorry—that my father was in fear for his life. You should have been with us then, Thomas, for my father cried out desperately for a priest to take his last confession.”
“Well,” Thomas said mildly, “I shall with be you on the morrow, should the need arise.”
For a moment or two they remained silent, watching the sun set behind one of the taller peaks.
“They are so wondrous,” Johan eventually said.
Thomas looked at him, puzzled. “Wondrous? What?”
“The mountains…their beauty…their danger…”
Thomas stared at the mountains, then turned back to Johan.
“That is not ‘beauty’, Johan. The Alps are vile things, useless accumulations of rock that serve no useful purpose to mankind. Indeed, they hinder mankind’s effort to tame this world and make it serve him, as was God’s commandment to Adam.”
Johan turned an earnest face to Thomas. “But don’t they call to you, Thomas? Don’t you feel their pull in your blood?”
“Call?”
“Sometimes,” Johan said in a low voice, “when I gaze at them, or travel through their passes, I am overcome with an inexpressible yearning.”
“A yearning for what, Johan?” Thomas was watching the younger man’s face very carefully. Were demons calling to him? Was he in the grip of the evil that St Michael had warned him about?
Johan sighed. “It is so difficult to explain, to put into mere words what I feel. The sight of these majestic peaks—”
Majestic?
“—makes me yearn to leave behind my life as a merchant, and to take to the seas as a roving captain, to explore and discover the world that waits out there,” he flung an arm wide, “beyond the known waters and continents—”
“Johan, why feel this way? We have all we need within Christendom, there is no need—and surely no desire—to explore the lands of infidels.” Thomas laid a firm hand on Johan’s chest, forcing the man to meet his eyes. “Johan, better to explore your own soul to ensure your eventual salvation. It is the next world which holds all importance, not this one. This is but a wasteland full of evil, here to tempt us away from our true journey, that of the spirit towards salvation in the next life.”
Johan flushed at the reprimand. “I know that, Brother Thomas. Do forgive me. It’s just…it’s just that…” he turned his face back to the mountains, and Thomas could see their peaks reflected in his eyes, “it is just that one day…one day I wish I could summon the skill and the courage to climb to their very pinnacles and survey the entire world.”
Johan looked back to Thomas, and now there was no contrition in his face at all. “Imagine, Thomas, finding the courage within yourself to be able to conquer the greatest peaks in the world.”
And with that, he turned and walked back down the road towards the monastery, leaving Thomas to stare, disturbed, after him.
On his own return to the monastery, Thomas was even more disturbed to find that, to a man, the German mercenaries were nowhere to be found. When he inquired as to their whereabouts, Marcel had shrugged, and looked a little nonplussed.
“’Tis Midsummer’s Eve, brother. The Germans have gone to join the revels of the villagers in that little hamlet we passed through a mile before the monastery.”
At that, Thomas’ mouth thinned. Peasants made far too much of the midsummer solstice, believing that if they didn’t mark it with fire festivals and dances, then the sun would not recover from its long slide towards its winter nadir. The Church had long tried to halt the festivals, but with little success. All across Christendom, people walked up hills and to the tops of cliffs, and there rolled down the slopes burning wheels of hay and straw to mark the solstice.
Marcel watched Thomas’ face carefully, then said: “Do not judge them too harshly, Thomas. A little colour in their lives, a little fun, is hardly harmful.”
“What is harm, Marcel, is when they engage in un-Christian rites that allow demons a stronger hold among us.”
“Well,” Marcel said slowly, “the older and wiser among us are still here, and I have planned a small gathering tonight to give thanks for our continued freedom from the entrapments of evil. I,” he hesitated, “and mine always mark Midsummer in this fashion. I will be delighted and grateful if you would lead us in prayer tonight. Come, Thomas, what do you say?”
Thomas sighed, and nodded. “Of course I will. I am sorry, Marcel. Sometimes I think that mankind should all be perfect, and, of course, they are hardly so.”
“But there are many good men working within society, brother, trying day by day to bring order to chaos. You must trust in them.”
“Yes. You are right.”
That night, safe in his clean bed, Thomas dreamed of the mountains overrun with demons scampering across their peaks. He shivered, fearing, then he rejoiced, for behind the mountains appeared the glowing form of the archangel Michael. But, just as he thought St Michael would smite the demons from the mountains, the archangel put a hand to his face, as if afraid, and fled.
Thomas woke screaming, bringing the hosteller, as also Marcel and Karle, running to his side.
The next morning, early, they set out for the Brenner Pass.
II (#ulink_9c4bedd9-c078-5e91-8954-f25542fbfbd9)
The Feast of St John the Baptist
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(Thursday 24th June 1378)
—Midsummer’s Day—
The ascent for the final few miles to the opening of the pass was a sombre one. It was still dark, and cold this high up, but that was not the reason. Thomas was distant and silent, and sat hunched in his saddle as if he thought all the imps of hell were about to descend upon him.
He’d not explained his nightmare of the previous night—even though Marcel and the hosteller had sat by his side until it was time to rise—and in fact had hardly spoken, apart from a few grudging monosyllabic replies, since they’d begun their ride towards the pass.
Thomas was afraid, deeply afraid. If the archangel himself fled before the evil, then what hope had he?
He did not doubt that what he had seen in his dream had been, if not perfect fact, then an accurate representation of the way things lay. All knew that dreams were a window between the world of man and the world of spirits, and dreams were the perfect vehicle by which demons and imps could invade the world of mankind. It was why no woman should ever sleep in a chamber alone, because, faulted with the weakness of Eve, lone women were ever likely to succumb to the blandishments of imps and demons.
In past years Thomas had seen three babies, hideously deformed, that were the obvious results of women who’d allowed (perhaps even begged) the minions of hell to seduce them.
The babies had been killed, the women burned.
But this nightmare was not so easily disposed of. It lingered on the edges of Thomas’ mind, making him jump at every shadow, and wince at every glimpse of a looming mountain peak. He could feel the eyes of his companions upon him, and he knew they thought he was scared of the dangerous passage ahead.
True, but not for the reasons they believed. The danger of a footslip on a narrow path did not concern him so much as the thought that the Brenner Pass might hold more evil than he could possibly deal with.
Saint Michael aid me, Saint Michael aid me, he prayed over and over in a silent litany.
But the dream had planted the seeds of doubt in Thomas’ mind, and he feared that St Michael might not be strong enough to aid him.
And if the great archangel was afraid and impotent against the evil, then what chance had he?
“Thomas?”
Etienne Marcel, riding close to his side.
“Thomas, do not fear too greatly—”
“You cannot know of what I fear!”
“Thomas.” Marcel leaned over and placed a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I do know. It is not the heights and the depths and the treacherous ice paths awaiting us which fret at you, but the unknowns. This is ungodly territory, and you and I both know it. Be strong, Thomas. We will prevail.”
Thomas looked up, stunned by Marcel’s perception…and equally stunned by the degree of comfort the man had imparted with his words and touch.
Thomas gave a small nod, and briefly laid his own hand over Marcel’s. “I thank you. You are truly a man of God.”
Marcel’s mouth gave a peculiar twist, and then he smiled, lifting his hand away. “I am sent to give you comfort and courage, Thomas. Do not doubt.”
Thomas stared at him. God had led him to this man. Was Marcel an angel or saint in disguise, sent to guide his steps? Thomas knew better than to question. Better to have faith, and to believe.
He took a deep breath, and threw his hood back. “Shall we chase back the demons of fear between us, Marcel?”
Marcel laughed, glad to see Thomas more himself. “Between us, my friend, we shall make the world a place of our own.”
And he kicked his horse forward, leaving Thomas to stare puzzled after him.
They rode until an hour after dawn, when they entered a small encampment at the foot of the pass. There were several wooden huts, and a long building that was obviously a barn. Several team of oxen were waiting outside, yoked to surprisingly narrow carts.
Marcel waved them to dismount. “From here we will go on foot,” he said.
Thomas slid to the ground, giving his gelding a grateful rub on his neck, and turned to Johan. “We don’t ride?”
Johan shook his head, and tossed the reins of his horse to a rough-dressed and as equally rough-bearded man who’d come up to them. He motioned Thomas to do the same.
“We walk,” he said. “It is too dangerous to ride. No, wait. It will be easier for you to see than for me to explain. The guides will blindfold the riding and packhorses and lead them through.”
The horses had to be blindfolded? Sweet Jesu, how fearsome was this pass?
Johan walked over to join Marcel, who was haggling with three of the men who were to be their guides through the pass. Thomas looked about him. The elder Bierman had hunched himself into his cloak, staring at the cliffs rising to either side of the opening of the pass; Marcoaldi was standing to one side of Bierman, his hands clenching nervously at his side.
