Far more malevolent than the heavy presence of the Dominicans was the figure of Sir Robert Tresilian, Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, who sat at Thorseby’s right hand. Behind Tresilian were two lay clerks, pens poised to record whatever incriminating words issued forth from Neville’s mouth.
“Thomas Neville,” Thorseby said as soon as Neville halted before the table, “you have been brought here today—”
“By whose authority?” Neville asked, pleasantly enough.
Thorseby stared at him. “By the authority of the Holy Church—”
“And which pope was it that gave you—”
“—and by the authority of your sovereign, Richard, king of England and France.”
“Ah, so I am to be one of Richard’s victims.” Neville knew he should not goad Thorseby so, and he knew that his interruptions worked only in the Prior General’s favor, but he was so infuriated by Tresilian’s presence, and by the knowledge that Richard would use him to get at Bolingbroke, that he could not help himself.
“You are here to save your body and your soul,” said Tresilian quietly. He was a gray-haired, haggard-faced, spare man with, as Neville knew by reputation, all the mercy of a swinging axe and the warmth of a week-dead snowbound carcass.
“And will I be allowed to so save my body and soul?” Neville said as quietly, holding Tresilian’s stare.
“You have been under scrutiny for well over a year,” said Thorseby, somewhat ostentatiously shuffling a pile of documents which lay on the table before him. “Your behavior as a subject has been questionable, your behavior as a friar has been abominable, your behavior as a Christian even worse.”
“I have served my God as truly as any man might,” Neville said.
“You will not speak until you are offered the chance to do so!” Tresilian said.
Neville’s face tightened, but he remained silent.
Thorseby stopped shuffling the papers about and looked steadily at Neville. “You doubtless can remember our last conversation, held in Lincoln during Lent of last year.”
Neville inclined his head.
“You may answer!” Tresilian said.
“Yes,” Neville said.
If Thorseby was irritated by Neville’s refusal to grant him his honorific of “Prior General,” or even “Father,” then he gave no sign. “And do you remember my concerns regarding your behavior at that time?”
Neville’s lips curved in a small smile. “You claimed that I had abandoned all my clerical vows and demeanor. As my most good lord, the Duke of Lancaster, summed up, I had been a Very bad boy.’ ”
Neville had finally managed to needle Thorseby. The Prior General’s cheeks mottled, and he took a deep breath.
“But,” Neville continued before Thorseby could speak, “I assume that the current charge of heresy relates to that which you accused me of last year—my claim to have been visited by the archangel Saint Michael.”
To Neville’s surprise, Thorseby smiled a little at that. “Ah, yes. Your angelic visitations. Well, Neville, I wish we could rest merely at archangels.”
He paused, and Neville kept his face as impassive as he could.
Thorseby’s expression suddenly turned into that of the vicious attacker. “Is it not true, Neville, that you have been consorting with demons?”
Neville stared in disbelief at Thorseby. “I—”
“You have been seen!” Thorseby yelled, now half standing. He picked up a sheaf of documents and then slammed them down on top of the table again. “I have sworn documents here to prove it. Neville, do you truly mean to deny that you consorted with a demon in the Brenner Pass? Would you so damn your own soul?”
Neville was so stunned he could not manage a single word. How had Thorseby managed to gain that information? Sweet Jesu, he had totally underestimated the power of Thorseby’s maliciousness.
“These statements,” Thorseby whispered, now leaning forward over the table, “together with
those from others who saw you cavorting with imps outside the village of Asterladen—”
“Lies! Thorseby, I did not ‘consort’ with that demon—”
“So you admit the demon’s presence, Neville?” Tresilian said very quietly to one side.
“—are enough to see you burn, Neville,” Thorseby finished with no regard to what either Neville or Tresilian had said. “And you can be sure that I will push the sentence through. I should never have allowed you entry into the Dominican Order. I should have seen your evil ways from the outset in your murder of your paramour—”
“You cannot accuse me of Alice’s murder, you black-hearted—”
Now Tresilian leaped to his feet. “Silence!” he roared, and both Thorseby and Neville fell quiet, staring at Tresilian.
“I have had enough talk of demons and angels,” the Chief Justice said, “and I care not for the intricacies of heresy. I accuse you of treason, Neville—”
“What?”
“It is common knowledge,” Tresilian said, sitting down, “that you had dealings with the rebel Etienne Marcel in Paris—”
“He kept me a prisoner, for God’s sake, my lord! I was not a willing conspirator.”
Thorseby retook his seat as well, noting to himself that Neville was prepared to honor Tresilian with a title if not Thorseby.
“Not a willing conspirator?” Tresilian said. “And yet surely you had dealings with him on your journey north from Florence to … where was it… Carlsberg?”
Neville did not answer, wondering what else Tresilian knew.
“Not a willing conspirator?” Tresilian said yet again, “when you so clearly were his willing comrade?”
“I was not—”
“You did not, while you were with Etienne Marcel in Carlsberg, accept from him payment and a token—a valuable signet ring?”
Again Neville chose to keep silent.
“You know as well as I,” Tresilian said, “that acceptance of both money and a valuable item, such as a ring, indicate acceptance of a contract. What was that contract, Neville? To bestir rebellion in England while Marcel tore France apart?”
“I have never agreed with Etienne Marcel,” Neville said, “and I do not bestir rebellion here.”
“Then why accept the money?” Thorseby put in. “Why take the ring? You do not deny these actions?”
“I did not think—”
“Then such lack of thought may well prove your death, Neville,” Tresilian said. “Furthermore, I think it no coincidence that the stirrings of unrest are even now being felt across the English countryside.”
For an instant, Neville held his breath in horror, thinking that Wat Tyler’s connection to both the unrest and to Lancaster’s household had become known. Then he took a breath and relaxed very slightly—Tresilian had used no names and he had spoken only in the broadest of generalities. The Chief Justice was merely trying to trap Neville into confessing knowledge of the rebellion, and into implicating members of Lancaster’s household … and he had almost succeeded.
“I put it to you, Neville,” Tresilian went on, “that for at least two years you have been surreptitiously working for the destruction of the English throne—even now peasant rebels march on the city—and that your arch-conspirator in this has been Bolingbroke!” Tresilian was standing now, stabbing his finger at Neville as he shouted. “Do you deny that the rebels march to your plan, and that they mean to murder Richard and put Bolingbroke on the throne?”
“No. You mouth only lies.” Neville suddenly realized they were going to kill him no matter what he said. The decision had been made. This was merely the playacting that would give them the excuse to sign the death warrant. Sweet Lord Christ! Neville thought of Margaret, and a desperate sadness swept over him. Then he thought of how the world would descend into bleakness and chaos if the demons were not defeated, of how all those he loved would be tormented and murdered, and a blackness so profound gripped Neville that he almost swayed on his feet.
“Do you deny that there are some who would depose Richard?”
Neville hesitated just an instant too long. “If Richard is a God-fearing man, then he has nothing to fear,” he said, but even as he spoke he knew that he’d not only said the wrong thing, but said it far, far too late.
Tresilian lowered his arm, then spoke to the scribbling clerks. “Note well, sirs, that he did not deny the last question put to him.”
He looked at Thorseby, then back at Neville. “You will be taken back to your cell and within the week moved to the dungeons in the Tower,” said Tresilian in a flat voice. “There you shall be kept at his grace’s pleasure until it is time for you to face a trial of your peers in the matter of treason.”
“And heresy,” Thorseby said.
“He’ll die one way or the other,” Tresilian said, “and a traitor’s death is far, far worse than that meted out to a heretic.”
Thorseby thought about arguing the matter, then nodded agreeably. A morning of being drawn and part-quartered, and then having your cock sliced off and forced down your throat—followed, after a lengthy interval, by your balls and bowels—was, in the end, a longer and far nastier way to slide down into hell than facing the flames.