The Nameless Day

“Don’t think that you and your companions here,” Urban gestured towards the other two cardinals, “will be joining them. Instead I think you shall spend the next few months in sackcloth in some isolated monastery, living on bread and water and spending the hours of the day in prayer for the salvation of your souls.”

And still the expression on the cardinal’s face did not alter. “Your orders carry no weight. You can force myself and my colleagues into whatever prison you like, but know that you only stain your soul further by doing so. You are only a parody. A jest.”

Urban’s fists clenched, and Thomas could see that he was struggling for control. On the one hand, Thomas was furious that the cardinals had, indeed, been plotting to elect another Frenchman to the papal throne; on the other, he was appalled that God’s cause should be championed by this pig.

“A parody, my lord cardinal. How many of the princes of Europe will believe me a parody? How many would support another puppet of the French king taking the papal throne?”

All about the chapel men were turning to their neighbours and whispering furiously.

“Lord Christ Saviour!” Bertrand said softly. “If neither backs down, then both Urban and the rogue cardinals are going to turn this into a European war!”

The impassive cardinal suddenly lost all control. He stood up and made a foul gesture towards Urban.

“There!” he shouted, his face now red. “That’s the only kind of language you understand, isn’t it, you Italian rustic. Let me go or imprison me, I don’t care, but your day is over!”

He stared one breath longer in the pope’s face, then stalked away.

His two colleagues joined him, their faces stiff with affront.

Urban let them go.

He sat back on his throne and regarded the audience. “Those traitors will tear Europe apart,” he said, “and damn their own souls in the doing. I am the true elected pope. A Roman pope. If they go ahead with their devil-inspired election, then few but the French will support them.”

His face worked, and his hands clenched and unclenched about the armrests of his throne. “Christendom will have two popes,” he said, his voice now a near whisper. “What have we done to so earn God’s displeasure? What evil stalks among us?”

Thomas stared at the pope, trying to reconcile his disgust at the man’s revolting habits with the thought that he might be a true ally he could rely upon. Any pope elected in Avignon would be a tool of the French king…and that left only Urban who might swing the forces of the Church behind the effort to battle the forces of evil which were even now—

“Ah! Enough of them,” Urban said. “What do we have next?”

One of his secretaries handed him a piece of paper.

“What?” Urban yelled as he read. “Some half-crazed friar thinks he speaks for archangel Saint Michael? Heaven aid us all from such dimwitted asses! Where is he? Where? Lord God above, why must I be pestered with such fools! If I were to believe every man, woman and child who solemnly swears they’ve been granted an audience with this saint, or that angel, I’d have to believe half of Christendom sits down to dinner with the Virgin herself!”

Urban crumpled the paper and threw it to one side. “Lord Christ, save me from the addled,” he said. “I’ve too much to do without being bothered with the deranged as well.”

Thomas and Bertrand backed unobtrusively away, Thomas cold with anger, Bertrand with shock.

“I had no thought the man would be so…so…so…” Bertrand said as they finally gained the bustling court outside St Peter’s.

“So repellent,” Thomas finished for him. “He is unworthy to replace the meanest parish priest, let alone act as God’s mouthpiece on earth! And yet he is the rightfully elected pope.”

“That’s your English blood talking,” Bertrand said. “All the Frenchmen, Spaniards and Scots in this crowd would agree with the cardinals. Now, let us see if we can return to the friary in one piece.”

“No.” Thomas pulled away from him. “I shall not return yet. I need to consider what to do.”

“Thomas—”

But Thomas was gone, and Bertrand was left to seethe in solitude.

Lord Christ Saviour, but he would be gladdened when he could rid himself of this arrogant priest!

VIII

Wednesday in Easter Week

In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III

(21st April 1378)

—ii—

Thomas wandered aimlessly through the crowds, pushed this way and that, trying to sort out his thoughts.

He had taken holy orders because he had wanted to be part of the Church, part of the great institution which spoke with Christ’s voice and guided man’s footsteps towards salvation.

In doing so, Thomas had hoped to atone for the sins of his past and achieve his own salvation.

But what he’d just witnessed dismayed him, although it confirmed what St Michael had said regarding the Church. How could the Church, as represented by Urban, rally to ward off the evil which the archangel told him walked freely among mankind? And what if the cardinals in Avignon went ahead and elected a new pope? Would Urban resign? No, of course not. He was too ambitious to do that.

That would leave Christendom headed by two popes. Thomas shuddered as he thought through the consequences. Two rival popes, two rival Church organisations, two sets of Church courts, two hierarchies of clerics…Sweet Jesu! The Church would be torn in two!

It would become the laughing stock of Europe.

If evil walked the world, then, by all the saints, it had surely taken a stroll through the papal palace in the past few weeks.

Well, there was nothing for it but to proceed without the papal blessing, and without the papal aid and information that he had sought.

“Saint Michael,” Thomas whispered into the crowd, “guide my steps, I pray you!”

A hand grabbed his sleeve, and Thomas almost fell over.

He swore—instantly regretting the lapse—and twisted around amid the throng of close-pressed bodies to stare at the man who still had his sleeve in a tight clasp.

“Sweet Jesu, Tom, is that you?”

A man of about thirty-five or six stared at Thomas. He had a deeply lined and tanned face, a knife-scarred chin, bright blue eyes crowded by sun-wrinkles, and fine sandy hair that fell over his forehead.

“Tom? I can hardly tell your face without its black beard.”

Thomas gaped at the man. Was this a guide that Saint Michael had sent?

“Tom, speak to me…or are you too proud to pass the time of day with your old friends now?”

“Wat,” Thomas finally said. “Wat Tyler.”

“Aye, Wat Tyler it is. Lord Jesus, this is no place to talk—a man couldn’t even piss in a crowd this thick! Come…there’s a place that I’ve found…”

And Thomas found himself being dragged through the crowd and into a side street close to the market—Jesu! Had he wandered out of the Leonine City and back into the heart of Rome without knowing it?

Wat pulled Thomas into a small one-roomed tavern, ill-lit and kept, and almost as crowded as the outside streets. A heavily pregnant and slatternly woman carrying several mugs of ale squeezed her way through the trestle tables and benches, ignoring the obscene remarks and leers that followed her.

“Wat—” Thomas began.

“It’s no cathedral, I grant you,” Wat said, and pushed Thomas down onto the end of a bench at a crowded table, “but it’s the best we can do for the present…unless you want to invite me back to dine at your friary.”

The men about the table gave the priest and his companion only a cursory glance before returning to their drinking and arguing.

Wat squeezed down on to the very end of the bench, forcing Thomas to shuffle along until he was, in turn, squeezed against a sweaty and fat labourer who shot Thomas a sour look before turning back to his companions.

“I am not going to talk to you here,” Thomas said.

“Nowhere else,” Wat said. “Christ above, Tom. How many years is it since we’ve seen each other? And,” he lowered his voice slightly, “from what I remember, there was a time you’d have felt at home in a drinking den like this, eh?”

Thomas’ mouth tightened, but Wat ignored it, and called to the woman for a couple of ales. She grunted, and disappeared towards a back room.

Wat turned back to Thomas. “But now I see that this warm and companionable room is not good enough. Not for this fine priest. And perhaps I am not good enough, either.”

Thomas briefly closed his eyes, and sighed. “Rome is the last place I’d expect to see you. What do you do here?”

There was a time, Wat thought, carefully examining the subtle changes to Thomas’ face since he’d last seen it, when Rome was the last place I’d have thought to meet you, too.

“I’m here as sergeant of the escort to King Edward’s envoy.”

Wat finally caught Thomas’ interest. “Edward has sent an envoy to Rome? To Urban?”

Wat flipped a coin to the woman who slopped two overfull mugs on the stained table top before them.

“Aye.” He grinned, and swallowed a mouthful of the ale. “Edward is skittering about his throne with joy that his rival has lost the papacy back to Rome. He’s sent the Archbishop of Canterbury to extend to Urban England’s good wishes.”

“Edward may not be so joyous for much longer,” Thomas said.

“Eh? Why?”

Thomas told Wat about the fear and intimidations that had surrounded Urban’s election, the subsequent rogue cardinals’ departure for Avignon, and their demand that Urban resign. He relaxed as he talked, falling back into the warmth and trust of a friendship that extended back many years and through many shared dangers.

“I fear,” he finally said, turning his untasted mug of ale around in endless damp circles, “that there will be a pope in Avignon, and a pope in Rome…and a divided Christendom.”

Wat shrugged. “It’s divided anyway.”

“Curse you, Wat! This will mean war!”

Wat looked Thomas directly in the eye. “There will be war in any case. The archbishop is here not only to extend Edward’s warm congratulations to Urban, but also to ask Urban’s blessing for Edward’s new—”

“Sweet Jesu! Edward’s going to re-invade France?”

Wat grinned. “Will have re-invaded by this time.”

Thomas sat back, the mug now still between his hands. Wat looked at him carefully, wondering what memories were scurrying through Thomas’ head. Was there regret that he had swapped sword for cross?

“Edward’s an old man,” Thomas said.

“Edward has stayed at home. You know who would lead such an expedition, Tom.”

“Aye,” Thomas whispered, his eyes blank, his thoughts a thousand miles away. “The Black Prince.”

“And Lancaster.”

Thomas’ eyes refocused on Wat. “The Duke of Lancaster as well?”

“As all of Lancaster’s friends and allies.”

Thomas visibly shuddered. “The war can do no good. Edward should accept that he has lost the right to the French throne.”

“The war can do no good? You have changed, Tom.”

Again Thomas’ face tightened. “As I said, Wat, Edward is an old man. He should look to the health of his soul, rather than try to win more glory and riches for himself and his sons.”

“And I suppose the Black Prince and Lancaster should scurry back home as well, and spend their remaining years on their knees before some altar!”

“Penitence does no one harm, Wat. You should look to the health of your own soul. Evil walks abroad.”

“And that I cannot disagree with,” Wat mumbled, looking away, “for evil has surely stolen your soul!”

Furious, Thomas swivelled about on the bench—causing his fat neighbour to curse at the disturbance—and grabbed Wat’s shoulder. “I have repented for my sins, Wat, and the Lord God has been merciful enough to grant me forgiveness. Has he done the same for you?”

“Don’t preach to me, Tom! Not you! You have sold your soul to Rome—”

“I have sold my soul to no one—”

“—when you should remember that you are an Englishman born and bred! What if Edward asked you for allegiance and service…would you give it to him?”

“I owe my allegiance to no one but God!” Thomas hissed. “I serve a higher Lord than Edward and his pitiful worldly ambitions—”

“I’d give a year’s pay to hear you say that to Edward’s face,” Wat mumbled, the hint of a smile about his face, but Thomas carried on without pause.

“—and any who ride with Edward’s captains risk their soul on an unholy cause!”

“You are adept at cloaking yourself in holiness, Thomas, but you cannot forget who and what you once were.”

“It is obvious that you cannot forget who and what I once was, Wat. How is it you sit here and dare speak to me with such familiarity?”

Now Wat’s face was tight with fury. “I forget my place, my lord. Forgive me.”

Thomas held his stare, then looked away.

Wat took a deep breath, and spoke more moderately, trying to deflect the anger of the past minutes.

“There is a new spiritual adviser at Lancaster’s court, Tom. An old friend of yours.”

“Yes?”

Wat downed the last of his ale. “Master Wycliffe.”

“Wycliffe? But…”

“Much has happened since you’ve been gone. Your colleague at Oxford—”

“I hardly knew him. We did not agree on many matters.”

And you would agree even less now, Wat thought. “—now has the ear of the Duke of Lancaster and, through him, his father, Edward. Wycliffe says,” Wat waved his empty mug to the woman, “that the Church should content itself only with spiritual matters, and not the worldly.”

Thomas rubbed his forehead, and did not reply. He and Wycliffe had spent many hours arguing when Thomas had been studying at Oxford, and he did not want to deepen his argument with Wat now over the despicable man.

“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

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 the expression 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.