And there, at Lammas in 1328, was the record showing the interview had taken place on the friar’s return. The only comment on the outcome of this interview was, to Thomas’ mind, an outrageous statement that the friar was to be allowed to come and go as he pleased.
No friar came and went as he pleased! His individual interests were always subordinated to those of the Order.
Thomas checked back yet further, scattering rolls of parchment about in such a haphazard manner that, had the brother librarian been present, Thomas surely would have earned an angry hiss.
The friar had arrived at St. Angelo’s in late 1295.
Scattering more rolls, Thomas searched forward until he found the last reference to the friar.
1348. The man had presumably died in the pestilence which had swept Christendom that year.
Thomas sat back, thinking over what he’d learned.
For some fifty-three years this friar had come and gone from St. Angelo’s twice yearly with no explanation and no permission from his prior.
During those fifty-three years five priors had died, and each incoming prior—the last being Prior Bertrand in 1345—had called the friar into their private cell to ask for explanations and, presumably, to mete out discipline.
In all five cases the results of the interview were much the same: the friar was to be allowed to come and go as he pleased, no matter the inconvenience to the friary.
Thomas wondered what threats had been made in those five meetings.
Eventually, after carefully rolling up the parchments and placing them back in their slots, Thomas went to see Prior Bertrand.
He felt both curious and nauseous in equal degrees, and Thomas knew that he’d stumbled upon something of great import.
PRIOR BERTRAND was again sinking down to his knees before the cross in his
cell when the tap sounded at the door.
Sighing, Bertrand rose stiffly, one hand on his bed for support. “Come.”
Brother Thomas entered, bowing slightly as he caught Bertrand’s eye.
“Brother Thomas, what can I do for you this late at night?”
“I have come to ask a favor of you, Brother Prior.”
“Yes?”
“I would like to ask about Brother Wynkyn de Worde.”
BERTRAND STARED, unable for the moment to act or speak.
Wynkyn de Worde! He’d prayed never to have that name spoken in his hearing again!
In return, Thomas watched the old man before him with narrowed, speculative eyes.
“Brother Prior? Are you well?”
“Yes … yes. Ah, Brother Thomas, perhaps you will sit down.”
Thomas took the stool, as he had on the night of his arrival, and Bertrand again took the bed. “May I ask, Brother Thomas, why you ask about Brother Wynkyn?”
Thomas hesitated and Bertrand shifted uncomfortably.
“I have been reading through Saint Angelo’s registers, Brother Prior, and it appears to me that Brother Wynkyn must have been a considerably disruptive influence to the peace of the friary. I am curious as to why the brother was allowed to continue such behavior for over fifty years without a single act of discipline from the prior.
I—”
“Are you here to examine me, Brother Thomas?”
“Of course not, Brother Prior, but—”
“Are you here to demand explanations of me, Brother Thomas?”
“No! I merely wished to—”
“Do you think that I exist to satisfy your every curiosity, Brother Thomas?”
“Brother Prior, I apologize if I—”
“Your tone carries no nuance of apology or regret, Brother Thomas. I am deeply shocked that you think you have a right to demand explanations! Brother Thomas, you are no longer the man you once were! How dare you bludgeon your way into my—”
“I did not hludge on!”
” —private devotions to order me to satisfy your curiosity.”
“It is not curiosity, Brother Prior,” Thomas was now leaning forward on his stool, his eyes angry, “but a desire to understand why such an extraordinary breach of discipline was allowed for so long!”
Bertrand paused. “I think Prior General Thorseby was right to be concerned about you, Thomas. Perhaps you are not suited to the rigorous discipline of the Order after all.”
Thomas sat back, shocked and bitter at the threat. About to speak a furious retort,
he suddenly caught himself, and bowed his head in contrition.
“I apologize deeply, Brother Prior. My behavior has been unpardonable. I do beg your forgiveness, and ask of you suitable penance.”
Bertrand watched the man carefully. His contrition did seem genuine—although it was a trifle hasty—and perhaps it was not surprising that such a man as Thomas should still lapse into the habits of his old life from time to time.
“You must learn more discipline, Brother Thomas.”
“Yes, Brother Prior.”
“Blessed Gregory’s funeral mass is in five days’ time. I would that until that day you spend the hours from Prime until Nones in penitential prayer in the chapel. After dinner and until Vespers you will take yourself down to the streets about the marketplace and offer to wash the feet of every whore you can find.”
Thomas’ head flew back up, his brown eyes shocked and with more than a hint of their former fury.
The prior knew him well enough by now to realize that it was the vestiges of the arrogant nobleman who was offended by this penance, rather than the pious friar, and he held the man’s stare easily.
Thomas finally dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, Brother Prior,” he whispered.
“You must learn humility, Brother Thomas.”
“I know it, I know it.”
“Then learn it!”
Thomas’ head and shoulders jerked. “Yes, Brother Prior.”
“You will attend Gregory’s funeral mass with the rest of our community,” the prior continued, “and then you will continue your penance until the day of the conclave.”
Thomas stiffened, but did not speak.
“You may leave, Brother Thomas.”
Thomas nodded. “Thank you, Brother Prior.” He rose, and walked toward the door.
Just as he opened it, Bertrand spoke again. “Brother Thomas?”
Thomas turned back.
“Brother Thomas … it has been many a year since I spoke of Brother Wynkyn.
Now I am an old man, and I should hesitate no longer. Once our new Holy Father is elected, and when you have completed your penance— and this penance you must complete—you may seek audience with me, and I will speak to you again. You may go.”
Thomas bowed, and closed the door behind him.
LATER IN the night, when the brothers were in their cells, either sleeping or praying, Bertrand walked quietly down to the library, lifted out all of the friary’s records from the 12905 until the time of the pestilence, and carried them one by one up to the deserted kitchens.
There, he threw them on the fire. Burning the registers went against every instinct and principle Bertrand had, both as a cleric and a scholar. But he should have done
this many years ago—remove every trace of Wynkyn de Worde from the records of the friary. Now, even though it was far, far too late, Bertrand knew he had to burn the books if only to cleanse St. Angelo’s of the memory of the crazed old man.
He stood and watched until they had burned to ash, then he lifted a poker and stirred the coals about, fearful that a single word should have survived.
Finally, bent and tired, he shuffled back to his own bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Wednesday in Passion Week
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(7th April 1378)
THE HOURS THOMAS SPENT prone before the altar in chapel were the most blessed he could imagine. The cold of the stone flooring did not perturb him: he did not even notice it. During the set hours of prayer the passing feet of his fellow brothers, as the passing of their eyes, did not bother him: he deserved such humiliation, and he reveled in it. He lay, face pressed against stone, arms extended, and prayed for sweet mercy, for greater humbleness, and for the strength which he would need to be of service to the holy St. Michael, messenger of God Himself.
The hours that Thomas spent in the filthy streets of Rome washing the feet of the even filthier whores, were hours spent in hell wiping the stained skin of the Devil’s handmaidens.
He dreaded the tolling of the bells for Nones, and the inevitable hand of Prior Bertrand on his shoulder, silently asking him to rise. He would hobble after the prior, wracked with cramps after so many chill hours prone on the chapel floor, praying for God’s mercy in order to survive the afternoon.
Today would be his last day of penance: Thomas had wept when he felt the prior’s hand on his shoulder, for he would no longer be allowed to spend so long in silent penitential prayer, but his face had gone as chill and stony as the floor he had recently lain on when he thought of the afternoon’s activities before him.
Thomas found it difficult not to detest the whores of Rome. The sin of Eve lay heavily on every woman born, and it was their choice to repent to a lifetime of virtue within marriage or chastity within Holy Orders, or to succumb to that sin, and peddle it about on every street corner. A whore was that most vile of creatures, an unrepentant sinner who embraced the great sin of Eve rather than fight against it, and who then tempted every man within sight. When Thomas thought of all the virtuous women he’d met in his life—his own mother, and the great (and now sadly deceased) Duchess of Lancaster, for example—and compared them to the harlots he encountered on the street corners of Rome then he found it difficult to keep an even
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