Marcel swallowed, took a gulp of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at Thomas sitting with expressionless face opposite him.
“My friend,” Marcel said, “I need badly to talk with you, and had hoped to do it in Nuremberg before we went our different ways. Now …”
He waved a hand helplessly, and gulped another mouthful of food. “Now there is no time, and there is a great deal that I must say to you.”
“Thomas, you have never told me the reason you needed so desperately—no, do not protest, for I have observed your desperation clearly enough—to get to Nuremberg. I most certainly do not think it to be any ordinary mission. Particularly after your experience in the Brenner.”
He fell silent, and stared at Thomas.
Thomas shifted uncomfortably. He was loathe to speak plainly, and yet he felt he deserved to give Marcel some explanation, for his hospitality and friendship, if nothing else.
But, if Marcel was indeed a mortal incarnation of St. Michael, or of some other angel or saint sent to guide him, then there was every reason he should speak.
“Etienne …” Thomas leaned forward on his arms on the tabletop. He sighed, his eyes downcast.
Marcel waited, sopping up gravies with his bread, and not shifting his eyes from Thomas’ face.
“Etienne… I travel north, even further than Nuremberg, I believe, on the gravest of missions. Many years ago, during the time of the pestilence—”
Marcel nodded. He knew the time of the pestilence very well.
“—a friar from the Saint Angelo friary in Rome departed north to Nuremberg. He carried with him a book which I must find.”
“A book of what? Tithes the good folk of Rome have neglected to pay? A record of the words Saint Peter himself uttered during his martyrdom?”
For the first time Thomas lifted his face and stared directly at Marcel. The older man was watching him carefully, his brown eyes narrowed in thought, although whether speculative or fearful, Thomas could not tell.
“It is a book of a certain Wynkyn de Worde—”
Something flittered across Marcel’s face, and Thomas understood then that Marcel knew very well of what he spoke.
“He was a friar of my Order,” Thomas continued, “who managed… ah!” Thomas
shook his head in frustration. “Who managed somehow to hold in check evil incarnate—demons— with which Satan would corrupt God’s work on this earth.
Now that de Worde is gone evil incarnate walks unhindered. Demons threaten all of Christendom.”
“And you are to set this to rights?”
Thomas was relieved to see that Marcel had not disbelieved him.
“I am to try and contain the evil again, Etienne. I am Wynkyn de Worde’s successor.”
Marcel sat back, and pushed his plate away. His face was blank, but Thomas thought it was a careful expression designed to hide inner tumult. “And on whose orders do you do this, Thomas? Your prior’s? The Holy Father’s?”
“Neither.” Again Thomas hesitated, then decided if he had trusted Marcel with this much, then he could trust him with the rest. “The archangel Saint Michael appeared to me, and said to me that evil incarnate walked abroad, and that I was to head God’s army of righteousness in order to challenge and contain the evil.”
Marcel stared at Thomas, his expression one of absolute wonder and fear combined. “The archangel Saint Michael appeared to you?” he whispered. “Aye.”
“Sweet merciful Mother of God!” Marcel said, and crossed himself. ” It has begun!” Thomas frowned. “What has begun?”
“The final battle between good and evil, Thomas. Judgment is nigh.” His words chilled Thomas, the more because he could not disbelieve them.
“I doubt myself,” Thomas said. “How can I be strong enough to persevere against the forces of evil? How can I—”
“Hush,” Marcel said and, leaning over the table, took Thomas’ arm in his firm grip.
He stared Thomas directly in the eye. “You are not alone! There are many who will help you and enable you to be strong. Many who you might not immediately suspect to be your allies.”
“You are one. I have suspected it these past weeks.”
Marcel smiled gently, and let Thomas go. “Aye. I am one. And—if all truth be told between us—your arrival at my inn in Florence was not totally unexpected.”
“How could you have known? Did Prior Bertrand—”
“I doubt that your Prior Bertrand has been of great assistance to you, Thomas.
Nor the greater hierarchy of your— our—Church. You will tread a solitary path for a while to come, until I can rally greater numbers to your aid.”
“But you have not told me how you suspected my arrival in Florence.”
Marcel grinned. “We have a mutual friend, Thomas. Wat Tyler.”
“You know Wat? How?”
“Wat is an old soldier, Thomas, and he has fought his way about much of Europe.
I met him first years ago and, since then, he has proved most useful to me.”
Thomas grunted. No doubt Wat would sell his soul to the Devil himself if the price was agreeable enough: that he should have sold it to the Provost of Paris in return for a bit of information now and again was not surprising. But…
“I’d said nothing to Wat about traveling north,” Thomas said. “Nothing.”
“Wat is an observant man. I have no doubt that he talked to many people while he
was in Rome. Besides,” Marcel grinned again, “Wat observed you leaving Rome.
Indeed, he was on the road behind you for several days, long enough to know your general direction.”
“Then why didn’t he make himself known!”
Now Marcel’s eyes were a good deal more careful. “Perhaps he thought his company might not be welcome. My friend, you do not have so many allies who will aid you that you can discard them for unwelcome familiarities.”
Sweet Jesu, Thomas thought, how much does this man know?
“And so now,” Marcel said, “you go to Nuremberg. And once there? And from there?”
Thomas shrugged a little helplessly. “All I know is that Wynkyn de Worde traveled to the friary in Nuremberg. I hope that the prior there can give me more information.
And, if God is good, perhaps the prior will even have the book that I seek.”
And indefinable expression played across Marcel’s face, but Thomas did not see it.
“And if I should need to travel from Nuremberg,” Thomas said, “then … then …
well, then I do not know where my travels will take me.”
Now it was Marcel’s turn to grunt. He leaned back, and drained the dregs of his mug. “You cannot see past Nuremberg, can you? Well… I do not think you will get much aid from your Church, or your Order. I doubt that you actually waited to receive your Prior General’s permission to leave Saint Angelo’s … did you?”
Thomas’ eyes widened. He hadn’t thought of his Prior General, by whose grace he’d been given permission to travel to St. Angelo’s in the first instance. “I’m sure Father Thorseby will understand.”
Marcel contented himself with a cynical look.
“I am sure that Father Thorseby will understand.”
“Thomas, the Church is not going to unbend itself to forgive the transgressions of a friar scurrying about Europe on celestine orders! Sweet Jesu, Thomas, they’re just as likely to set the Inquisition on you as wish you well on your way!”
“If I have to die to—”
“Oh, save me! You’ll do no one any good—save evil incarnate itself—by martyring yourself on top of a bundle of burning wood, Thomas. Be sensible!”
Thomas retreated into silence, studying the back of one of his hands.
“Then at least accept the offer of aid from your friends. Thomas. Keep the brown gelding. He’s grown attached to you, although why, I cannot know!”
Thomas’ mouth quirked at the affectionate exasperation in Marcel’s voice, but he did not look up.
There was a small thump on the table, and Thomas looked up to see Marcel had placed a small purse there.
“Gold, Thomas,” Marcel said. “Not a great deal, but enough to see you out of trouble should you encounter it.”
“I don’t—”
“Every man needs a little gold at his waist, Thomas, whether priest or merchant.
Take it. Think of it as my donation to the Church in order to save my soul.”
“And if ever you travel through France, Thomas, then seek me out, I will do what I can for you. Here—something else for you.”
Marcel slid a ring across the table. “It is a seal that I use as part of my duties as provost. If ever you are in Pans, and in need of me, give that to any guildsman. He will bring you to me.”
Thomas pocketed the ring and purse, finally meeting Marcel’s eyes. “I thank you, Eti-enne. You are right, I cannot afford to disdain the aid of true friends.”
“Humph.” But Marcel grinned, and Thomas returned it.