Lancaster would be going through several forests in order to heat his hall… but then, who could afford it if not he?
Trestle tables were already set up for the wedding feast, for Lancaster was planning for a sizeable number of guests—at least six hundred—and Thomas knew that the kitchens and pantries would already be a flurry of activity.
Here, for the moment, it was serene, with only a few servants quietly attending to their tasks, and it was warm. Thomas slowly paced down from the western end of the hall, where he had entered, toward the dais containing the High Table at the eastern end. His eyes were half closed, his posture relaxed, as he basked in the warmth and the scent of the herbs and spices that had been scattered about the fresh rushes underfoot.
He did not hear the man approach behind him with the silence of a great black crow swooping in for a kill.
“Brother Thomas,” said a soft, whispery voice that was, nevertheless, hard with authority, “how well you stride your past haunts. Have you found the thrill of hawking and feasting hard to exchange for the rigors of serving the Lord our God?”
Thomas spun about, almost slipping in the rushes.
Behind him stood an elderly and very tall man, so thin he was almost skeletal, robed in black and wearing the cap of a Master at Oxford. His hair and long straggly beard were thin and gray, the skin of his face pallid and deeply scarred with the marks of an ancient pox, the fervent, feverish brightness of his eyes the only clue as to the fire that raged within.
Thomas stared too long before remembering his manners.
But then, did he need to demonstrate manners before a man who was almost indisputably a demon elothed in man’s form?
“Master Wycliffe,” Thomas said by way of greeting. He did not bow, nor show any other gesture of respect to a man he should otherwise have humbled himself before.
Wycliffe’s mouth stretched in a tight smile, revealing yellowed teeth. “You have no respect left for me, Thomas.”
“I had little to begin with.”
Wycliffe indicated they should continue to walk toward the top of the hall. “You were ever one of my hottest adversaries at university.”
“I remain so now.”
“Ah, Thomas, you should learn a little tolerance.”
Thomas stopped, forcing Wycliffe to do likewise.
“I do not tolerate your kind,” Thomas said.
Wycliffe raised his eyebrows, as if to ask what Thomas meant by that, but he did not speak for a moment. Instead he took a deep breath, folding his arms and slipping his hands inside the sleeves of his robe.
“My Lord of Lancaster asked me to attend you this morning,” Wycliffe eventually said, his eyes steady on Thomas’ face.
“Lancaster asked you?”
Wycliffe inclined his head. “I am spiritual adviser to my lord, as well as his household.”
“You are a heretic!”
Wycliffe showed no outward response at the charge. He was used enough to it.
“What for?” he asked softly. “For suggesting that the Church should release its wealth and secular power and again embrace the values of the Church Fathers—poverty and service?”
“I have heard that you advocate the abandonment of most Church services.
Indeed, the abandonment of the entire Church hierarchy.”
“I am glad that my poor musings have wandered so wide. But don’t you think, Thomas, that if the Scriptures contain all we need to attain salvation, then most of the stinking, corrupt flesh of the Church can be cut away and left to rot of its own
volition?”
“Priests are needed to—”
Wycliffe stopped him with a thin hand held up. “Spiritual advisers are needed, yes, but your average fat, corrupt and unlearned priest? The entire top-heavy structure of bishops and archbishops and cardinals and popes? Nay, I think both we and the Lord God Himself can do without them.”
“I cannot think why the pope—”
“Of which among the current three popes … I think it was at the last count… do you speak?”
“—has not yet ordered your trial on charges of heresy!”
“Perhaps,” Wycliffe said quietly, his eyes holding Thomas, “they are afraid of what I should say given the platform of a trial.”
“But,” Wycliffe turned and began to walk forward again, “we digress. My Lord of Lancaster asked me to interview you to determine your true nature.”
What? Thomas walked after Wycliffe. “What do you mean?”
“My lord tells me that you believe yourself to be attempting some kind of divine mission.” Wycliffe’s mouth curled. “He wants to be sure that this is truly the case, and that you are not suffering from some devilish delusion.”
“I serve my God with all my heart and soul… which is far more than you—”
“I serve the best interests of mankind, my friend, not the best interests of the Church.”
“The best interests of mankind are the best interests of the Church!”
They had almost reached the dais, and now they halted again, standing facing each other a few feet apart, Thomas white-faced and angry-eyed, Wycliffe irritatingly calm.
“Lancaster needs to know he can rely on you,” Wycliffe said.
Thomas opened his mouth to protest that Lancaster could always depend on him when he stopped, thinking.
But who was Lancaster, and to whom and to what did Lancaster owe his loyalties?
Wycliffe smiled. “There are some scholars within the academies of Florence,” he said, “who say that the world is entering a new age … the age of humanism. The age of man. An age where salvation and fulfillment can be found in this life rather than the next. Where,” he dropped his voice, “perhaps a man owes his king and country, even his wife, more loyalty and love than he does a distant, arrogant God.”
Thomas’ heart thudded. Wycliffe went beyond heresy, beyond treason to God.
“I know who you are!” he whispered.
Wycliffe shook his head, his malevolent smile stretching even further. “No. You know who no one is. I wish you well, Thomas.”
He turned, and walked away.
“Wait!” Thomas called. “What will you tell Lancaster?”
Wycliffe paused, and spoke over his shoulder. “I shall tell Lancaster that you pose no danger.”
And with that he was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
After Nones on the Vigil of the Nativity of
Our Lord Jesus Christ
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(afternoon Friday 24th December 1378)
— YULETIDE EVE —
LANCASTER’S PARTY had returned late in the evening, by horse, with a litter for the French king. As Thomas had suspected, the Thames had blown up into irritable, choppy waves, and a barge ride back from Westminster had been out of the question. Thomas had seen none of the party. He had been in the chapel praying when they returned, and had then kept to his room for the evening and night until Matins prayers the next morning.
He had not been invited to join Lancaster and his family in the evening.
The Vigil of Christ’s Nativity had dawned clear and crispy cold: yesterday’s threatening storm had moved eastward without making good its promise to ruin London’s Christmastide festivities. Thomas had attended dawn mass in the Savoy’s chapel, an imposing building that abutted the river. Katherine was there, as well as her ladies, including Margaret, several other members of Lancaster’s household, and most of the servants who were not immediately needed. Lancaster and Bolingbroke were not present, and Wycliffe seemed to have disappeared back into whatever dark pit he inhabited.
After mass Katherine invited Thomas to break his fast at her table, but he refused.
He needed time alone, and time to pray in order to prepare his soul before the morrow’s holiness, as also for the coming battle against the demons, and so he bowed politely to her, nodded to the bevy of ladies at her back (Margaret had her face averted and refused to catch his eye), and made his way back to his room and a humble meal of water and bread.
Finally, as the Savoy Palace came to life—men-at-arms tramping along hallways, men and horses moving in courtyards, servants hastening hither and thither, cooks and pantry boys overseeing preparations for Christmas feasts—Thomas sank to his knees on the cold stone floor of his chamber, and folded his hands and bowed his head in prayer.
THOMAS PRAYED three or four hours, finally rising at nones and stretching his stiff and cold limbs. He rubbed a hand across his face and scalp. Both his chin and
tonsure were bristly and needed attention. The least Thomas could do to celebrate and honor Christ’s birth was to greet the day of his nativity with shaven face and tonsure.
Just as he’d finished shaving—very carefully, with a razor that had seen too much service already—he heard footsteps approach along the corridor outside before someone used their fist to hammer on his door.
“Tom! Tom!” a man’s voice called. “I seek Tom Neville!”