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. All the warm feelings of remembered comradeship with Wat faded.
“After all,” Wat said, wiping away the foam left about his mouth from his draft 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 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, retreating as always into the safety of his piety whenever he felt his world under threat, yet hating the words as soon as they had left his mouth. Wat might be unlearned in letters, but he was a man well versed in the trials of life. He rose, and stepped over the bench. “But even so, you should know better than the 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 realize 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.
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.”
CHAPTER NINE
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 gray weeks of travel. He had been harassed by beggars, pilgrims and wandering pedlars who thought a lone traveler 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 the memories which rode 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 armor, and then the joy as he felt it crush through hone 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 armor 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.
He served God, Thomas repeated over and over in his mind, not the brotherhood he’d left behind him.
But, no matter how Thomas tried, that brotherhood reached out again and again to touch him on that ride north, reminding him that even though his past was full of guilt and loss and pain, it had also been a time of a comradeship and friendship with men he had once loved with as much zeal as he now loved God.
Terrifyingly, in his darkest moments during his journey, Thomas wondered if he might have loved them more than he now loved God.
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 savior.
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 colorful, 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 toward the light of both sun and God; colorful 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.