THE NEXT morning, early, they set out for the Brenner Pass.
CHAPTER TWO
The Feast of St. John the Baptist
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(Thursday 24th June 1378)
— MIDSUMMER’S DAY —
THE ASCENT FOR THE final few miles to the opening of the pass was a somber one. It was still dark, and cold this high up, but that was not the reason. Thomas was distant and silent, and sat hunched in his saddle as if he thought all the imps of hell were about to descend upon him.
He’d not explained his nightmare of the previous night—even though Marcel and the hosteler had sat by his side until it was time to rise—and in fact had hardly spoken, apart from a few grudging monosyllabic replies, since they’d begun their ride toward the pass.
Thomas was afraid, deeply afraid. If the archangel himself fled before the evil, then what hope had he?
He did not doubt that what he had seen in his dream had been, if not perfect fact, then an accurate representation of the way things lay. All knew that dreams were a window between the world of man and the world of spirits, and dreams were the perfect vehicle by which demons and imps could invade the world of mankind. It was why no woman should ever sleep in a chamber alone, because, faulted with the weakness of Eve, lone women were ever likely to succumb to the blandishments of imps and demons.
In past years Thomas had seen three babies, hideously deformed, that were the progeny of weak and fragile women who’d been seduced by the minions of hell.
The babies had been exposed, the women shunned.
But this nightmare was not so easily disposed of. It lingered on the edges of Thomas’ mind, making him jump at every shadow, and wince at every glimpse of a looming mountain peak. He could feel the eyes of his companions upon him, and he knew they thought he was scared of the dangerous passage ahead.
True, but not for the reasons they believed. The danger of a footslip on a narrow path did not concern him so much as the thought that the Brenner Pass might hold more evil than he could possibly deal with.
Saint Michael aid me, Saint Michael aid me, he prayed over and over in a silent litany.
But the dream had planted the seeds of doubt in Thomas’ mind, and he feared that St. Michael might not be strong enough to aid him.
And if the great archangel was afraid and impotent against the evil, then what chance had he?
“Thomas?”
Etienne Marcel, riding close to his side.
“Thomas, do not fear too greatly—”
“You cannot know of what I fear!”
“Thomas.” Marcel leaned over and placed a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I do know. It is not the heights and the depths and the treacherous ice paths awaiting us which fret at you, but the unknowns. This is ungodly territory, and you and I both know it. Be strong, Thomas. We will prevail.”
Thomas looked up, stunned by Marcel’s perception … and equally stunned by the degree of comfort the man had imparted with his words and touch.
Thomas gave a small nod, and briefly laid his own hand over Marcel’s. “I thank you. You are truly a man of God.”
Marcel’s mouth gave a peculiar twist, and then he smiled, lifting his hand away. “I am sent to give you comfort and courage, Thomas. Do not doubt.”
Thomas stared at him. God had led him to this man. Was Marcel an angel or saint in disguise, sent to guide his steps? Thomas knew better than to question. Better to have faith, and to believe.
He took a deep breath, and threw his hood back. “Shall we chase back the demons of fear between us, Marcel?”
Marcel laughed, glad to see Thomas more himself. “Between us, my friend, we shall make the world a place of our own.”
And he kicked his horse forward, leaving Thomas to stare puzzled after him.
THEY RODE until an hour after dawn, when they entered a small encampment at the foot of the pass. There were several wooden huts, and a long building that was obviously a barn. Several team of oxen were waiting outside, yoked to surprisingly narrow carts. Marcel waved them to dismount. “From here we will go on foot,” he said.
Thomas slid to the ground, giving his gelding a grateful rub on his neck, and turned to Johan. “We don’t ride?”
Johan shook his head, and tossed the reins of his horse to a rough-dressed and as equally rough-bearded man who’d come up to them. He motioned Thomas to do the same.
“We walk,” he said. “It is too dangerous to ride. No, wait. It will be easier for you to see than for me to explain. The guides will blindfold the riding and packhorses and lead them through.”
The horses had to be blindfolded: Sweet Jesu, how fearsome was this pass?
Johan walked over to join Marcel, who was haggling with three of the men who were to be their guides through the pass. Thomas looked about him. The elder Bierman had hunched himself into his cloak, staring at the cliffs rising to either side of the opening of the pass; Marcoaldi was standing to one side of Bierman, his hands clenching nervously at his side.
As Thomas watched, Marcoaldi turned and saw him. He almost flinched, then
gathered himself and walked over.
His face was death stay, and Thomas reached out, concerned. “Master Marcoaldi, we shall surely be safe. Is this … is this your first time through the pass?”
Marcoaldi gave a jerky shake of his head. “I’ve been through once before. Some years ago.” He tried to smile, but failed badly, and gave up any pretense of nonchalance. “I went through with my elder brother, Guiseppi. He was my mentor.
He taught me all I know about banking. He was also my friend, and my rock through this often frightful existence.”
Even more concerned—he’d never seen Marcoaldi demonstrate even the slightest degree of hesitancy—Thomas tightened his hand on the banker’s arm reassuringly.
“He’s dead?”
Marcoaldi did not immediately reply. His eyes had taken on a peculiar look, as if he was staring back into the depths of his soul.
“He died in this pass, Brother Thomas.” Marcoaldi drew in a deep, shaky breath.
“He slipped on the treacherous footing, and tumbled down a ravine. Thomas,”
Marcoaldi lifted his eyes to gaze directly into Thomas’, “he was terribly injured by the fall, but not killed. We… we stood at the top of the cliff and listened to him call for hours, until night fell, and the ice moved in. He died alone in that ravine, Thomas.
Alone. I could not reach him, and I could not aid or comfort him. He died alone.”
“Giulio, he died unshriven? Unconfessed? There was no priest with you?”
Marcoaldi did not reply, but his expression hardened from pain into bitterness.
Thomas shook his head slightly, appalled that Marcoaldi’s brother had died unconfessed.
“He must surely have gone to purgatory,” Thomas said quietly, almost to himself, then he spoke up. “But do not fear, my friend. Eventually the prayers of you and your family will ensure that he—”
Marcoaldi jerked his arm away from Thomas’ hand. “I do not want your pious babbling, priest! Guiseppi died screaming for me, and for his wife. He died alone.
Alone! None of his family were with him! I care not that he went to the next life priestless, only that he died without those who loved him and could have comforted him!”
“But you should be concerned that—”
“I know my brother does not linger in your purgatory, brother. Guiseppi was a loving husband, father and brother. He dealt kindly and generously with all he met.
He has gone to a far better place than your cursed purgatory!”
And with that Marcoaldi was gone, striding across to where the guides readied the oxen teams.
Thomas watched, grieving. Marcoaldi was lost himself if he did not pay more attention to his spiritual welfare, and if he persisted in his disbelief in purgatory. He was a lost soul, indeed, if he did not take more care.
Perhaps his brother Guiseppi had gone straight to hell if he had not confessed or made suitable penance for a lifetime of luxuriating in the sin of usury. Ah . ..
these bankers. ..
Thomas sighed, and walked away. If a person filled his life with good works,
penance for his inevitable sins, and confessed on his death bed, then death should be a joyous affair, and family members should rejoice that their loved one had passed from the vale of pain into an eternity spent with God and his saints.
A death like Guiseppi’s, alone, unconfessed, and probably, if he was like his younger brother, unrepentant, was the most miserable imaginable. Thomas hoped that eventually Marcoaldi would see the error of his ways, and spend what time was left to him in repentance and the practice of good works to negate the burden of his sins.