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, sighing as he reflected that Wat had ever been good at tapping into Thomas’ well of guilt whenever the need suited him. “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.”
Thomas finally forgot about trying to escape. “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. The anger, almost fright, that Thomas had initially felt during the shock of meeting Wat after so many years was now fading. Perhaps it wouldn’t be dangerous to allow himself to enjoy Wat’s company for a short while, just for a short while …
“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. ” Witt 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, his tone derisory, but his mind was swamped with the memories of those campaigns he’d fought under Edward: the thrill and the lust of the battle, the pride felt when Edward’s eyes fell on him and the king had nodded, only slightly, but just enough to impart his approval. That day had been one of the very best of his life, and Thomas had to forcibly remind himself he served God now, not Edward.
“Edward has stayed at home. You know who would lead such an expedition, Tom.” “Aye,” Thomas whispered, his eyes blank. “The Black Prince.” Lord God, now so many memories and so many emotions were filling Thomas that he had entirely forgot where he was, almost who he was. “And Lancaster.”
Thomas’ eyes refocused on Wat. “The Duke of Lancaster as well?” “As all of Lancaster’s friends and allies.”
Thomas visibly shuddered. All of Lancaster’s friends and allies. Wat Tyler meant only one name with that phrase: Hal, sweet prince Hal, Lancaster’s son, and Thomas’
boyhood friend and comrade. Hal… Thomas pushed away the memory of Hal with a mighty effort. Sweet Christ Savior, he couldn’t allow himself to fall back into such memories! Hal had been his best friend, true, but he had also been Thomas’ willing ally during some of Thomas’ worst excesses. Hal was temptation, not sweet memory, and Thomas knew he could not allow himself to forget that St. Michael had told him to be strong, and so Thomas would be strong. “The war can do no good,”
he said, his voice stiff. “Edward should accept that he has lost the right to the French throne.” “The war can do no good? You have changed, Tom.”
“Aye, I have changed, Wat, and for the better.” Desperate now to push away those memories (those temptations to sin), Thomas sought refuge in a piety that sounded pretentious even to him. “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 and ashamed both (how was it Wat could always make him feel like a miscreant child?), Thomas swiveled about on the bench—causing his fat neighbor 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 Wat’s stare, then looked away. Damn Wat for making him feel so guilty! How many times had Wat saved his life, or pulled him away from some situation before Thomas could make too large a fool of himself? “I spoke out of turn,” Thomas said softly. “I have much to occupy my mind.”
It was not quite an apology, but Wat knew it was all he would get from the man, and it was enough.
“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 bought 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?”