Thomas even found himself nodding once or twice when Wat spoke of the burden of taxes the ordinary man had to bear.
Perhaps it was the northern air, Thomas mused, that made him distrust Wat less.
Every day’s ride brought him closer to his home county … and perhaps even closer to the person he once had been.
Mayhap it had been a mistake to so easily agree to Lancaster’s order that he abandon his clerical garb. It had probably been another, gigantic, step in the process Margaret had pointed out to him: Thomas, while still a man of God, was becoming every day less a man of the Church.
Thomas justified his abandonment of his clerical robes, as well the virtual setting aside of his vows and the night had had spent with Margaret, because he firmly
believed he now existed beyond the jurisdiction of the Church. He was God’s soldier now, acting on the orders and direction of St. Michael only. You are God’s Beloved, Thomas. You need no other authority than that to work what you must. Wynkyn de Worde had come and gone as he wished, and so must Thomas. And if that meant acting beyond the authority of the Church, adopting secular robes, setting aside his vows to a corrupt Church (had not St. Michael told him that Satan’s imps now worked within the Church itself?), and even bedding Margaret to show the demons his soul could not be corrupted away from God, then so be it. It was a comforting litany of justification (I am St. Michael’s man, no longer the Church’s), and Thomas clung to it, and he set aside whatever doubts he briefly entertained about how well he enjoyed slipping back into secular life.
He was certainly enjoying the comfort and warmth of his linens and wools, and of the thick and well-tooled leather boots which encased his feet and calves. He had enjoyed the Rivers’ hospitality, not only for watching Margaret’s conspicuous discomfort, but because of the respect Sir Egdon and his wife had accorded him as a noble kinsman of Baron Raby.
He enjoyed the fine stallion he rode, a chestnut from Lancaster’s own stable (Marcel’s brown gelding had developed a lameness in its near hind leg, and Thomas had, with a brief sadness at losing this friend, accepted Lancaster’s replacement).
And most of all, he enjoyed the freedom of not having to live his entire life, hour by hour, day by day, year by year, in the rigid regulations and restrictions and formulations of clerical life.
Thomas had forgotten that once he had found spiritual comfort in these very regulations and restrictions and formulations.
What he did remember was that St. Michael had told him that both his and Joan’s paths would appear strange to them.
Well… maybe this is what the archangel meant.
Whatever, by the time they rode down the track leading to Bramham Moor friary, Thomas had decided not to re-garb himself as a cleric, which had been his original intention.
Somehow it just didn’t seem worthwhile ridding himself of his beard and reshaving his tonsure when both beard and hair had taken so many weeks to regrow back into their black, curly thickness.
BEFORE HE left London, Thomas had made some discreet inquiries about the friary. It had been founded some hundred years previously through the donation of money and land by a local wealthy lord who hoped thereby to ease his path to salvation. The friary was only superficially Dominican; in fact, the Dominican Order had little to do with it. The friary, it appeared, and those brothers who lived and worshipped within it, were largely left to their own ways.
In truth, no one and no chapter within the Church cared much about the friary. It was tiny, boasting no more than four brothers at any one time (and, once, only one), men who came from the local population of shepherds and farmers and who were, most likely, completely illiterate. The friary certainly wasn’t rich. The original
benefactor had given enough to establish the foundation, but little toward its daily upkeep, and the sparse population of Bramham Moor itself hardly generated enough income to keep the brothers in luxury.
Basically, Bramham Moor friary was poor, and contained no more than four illiterate brothers who had little training, no education, and who collectively could undoubtedly manage to remember no more than three commandments of the ten.
It would have been totally unremarkable but for two things: it had harbored Wynkyn de Worde (How? Thomas wondered) and it harbored Wynkyn de Worde’s casket—presuming it had actually been returned here safely.
The moor in which the friary was situated was typical for this part of Yorkshire: low rolling hills with few trees, tough grasses and heath that somehow withstood the constant blowing winds, and little in the way of human presence or cheer. What houses existed were of local stone, thick-walled, low-roofed and often windowless abodes that were as grim and dour as the landscape.
This was a land where a man planted his staff and stood, head bowed, hoping somehow to weather the elements and the loneliness.
It made Thomas understand Wynkyn de Worde a little better. If this was where he had grown to manhood, it was no wonder that his character had reflected the grimness and determination of the moors, and likewise it was no wonder that he had been the kind of man who could stare a demon in the eye and never flinch.
The friary stood five miles from the nearest village, a dreadful isolation for the brothers. Thomas had asked directions from the villagers, and had been pointed down a barely visible track—no more than an overgrown rut—winding over the moor.
Neither Thomas nor his escort had occasioned more than a few brief disinterested stares from the village folk. Thomas supposed the harsh struggle to survive had sapped them of any unnecessary emotions or curiosities.
It took less than an hour to ride down the track, and by noon of St. Mathias’ Day they approached the friary itself. It was little more than a larger version of the local hovels: a long, low, stone building with a doorway in the center of one of the long side walls, a single window in one of the end walls, a gap in the roof for the smoke from a central hearth to exit, and not even a separate chapel for the brothers to worship in.
Thomas felt a knot of excitement and fear in his belly. He was here at last.
He pushed his heels into his stallion, and the horse snorted and jumped into a canter for the last hundred yards, Wat and the rest of the escort not far behind.
As Thomas’ horse clattered to a halt before the door, it opened, and a dirty-robed brother stepped out.
His watery blue eyes opened in amazement at the visitors, and he began to shuffle from foot to foot, wringing his hands in excitement.
“Brothers!” he cried. “Brothers! We have guests!”
Two other brothers emerged from the dark interior of the building, another hurried around a corner from a latrine situated behind a dung heap—his robes were still about his thighs as he hastily tried to rearrange himself.
Thomas slid down from his horse, wondering if he had the patience to get through the necessary politenesses before he asked for the casket.
“My lord!” the first brother said. “Greetings! My name is Brother Simon, and this is Brother Fulke, and Brother Paul, and this,” he nodded to the brother who had emerged from the latrine, and had only now got his robes back down to his ankles,
“is Brother Alfred. May we offer you our hospitality? I am afraid it will be but meager, and—”
“Pray do not bother yourselves on my account,” Thomas said, “for I and my escort are but passing through. Some water for our horses will be all we require. My name is Thomas Neville—”
All four brothers oohed and aahed, for the Neville name was well known in the north.
“—and I come here on an errand that, I pray to God, will take but a few short minutes to accomplish.”
The brothers’ faces fell, and Thomas immediately regretted he had not accepted their offer of hospitality. Obviously they had few visitors, and now that a lord had ridden by, they must be beside themselves with joy.
“Well,” Thomas said, “perhaps I can stay for just a while.”
The brothers’ faces brightened as one, and Simon beckoned Thomas inside.
“Alfred will see to your men,” he said. “Please, enter.”
The interior of the friary—if it truly deserved such a name—was as poor as its exterior, save in one respect.
At one end was a hearth and the implements and dishes for cooking, together with a few small chests, a trestle table and benches, and sleeping mats for the brothers. At the other end of the building was what served as an altar: a stone platform with a crude stone altar, but bedecked with some of the most beautiful and finely-crafted gold plate and goblets that Thomas had ever seen.