Thomas wandered aimlessly through the crowds, pushed this way and that, trying to sort out his thoughts.

      He had taken holy orders because he had wanted to be part of the Church, part of the great institution which spoke with Christ’s voice and guided man’s footsteps towards salvation.

      In doing so, Thomas had hoped to atone for the sins of his past and achieve his own salvation.

      But what he’d just witnessed dismayed him, although it confirmed what St Michael had said regarding the Church. How could the Church, as represented by Urban, rally to ward off the evil which the archangel told him walked freely among mankind? And what if the cardinals in Avignon went ahead and elected a new pope? Would Urban resign? No, of course not. He was too ambitious to do that.

      That would leave Christendom headed by two popes. Thomas shuddered as he thought through the consequences. Two rival popes, two rival Church organisations, two sets of Church courts, two hierarchies of clerics…Sweet Jesu! The Church would be torn in two!

      It would become the laughing stock of Europe.

      If evil walked the world, then, by all the saints, it had surely taken a stroll through the papal palace in the past few weeks.

      Well, there was nothing for it but to proceed without the papal blessing, and without the papal aid and information that he had sought.

      “Saint Michael,” Thomas whispered into the crowd, “guide my steps, I pray you!”

      A hand grabbed his sleeve, and Thomas almost fell over.

      He swore—instantly regretting the lapse—and twisted around amid the throng of close-pressed bodies to stare at the man who still had his sleeve in a tight clasp.

      “Sweet Jesu, Tom, is that you?”

      A man of about thirty-five or six stared at Thomas. He had a deeply lined and tanned face, a knife-scarred chin, bright blue eyes crowded by sun-wrinkles, and fine sandy hair that fell over his forehead.

      “Tom? I can hardly tell your face without its black beard.”

      Thomas gaped at the man. Was this a guide that Saint Michael had sent?

      “Tom, speak to me…or are you too proud to pass the time of day with your old friends now?”

      “Wat,” Thomas finally said. “Wat Tyler.”

      “Aye, Wat Tyler it is. Lord Jesus, this is no place to talk—a man couldn’t even piss in a crowd this thick! Come…there’s a place that I’ve found…”

      And Thomas found himself being dragged through the crowd and into a side street close to the market—Jesu! Had he wandered out of the Leonine City and back into the heart of Rome without knowing it?

      Wat pulled Thomas into a small one-roomed tavern, ill-lit and kept, and almost as crowded as the outside streets. A heavily pregnant and slatternly woman carrying several mugs of ale squeezed her way through the trestle tables and benches, ignoring the obscene remarks and leers that followed her.

      “Wat—” Thomas began.

      “It’s no cathedral, I grant you,” Wat said, and pushed Thomas down onto the end of a bench at a crowded table, “but it’s the best we can do for the present…unless you want to invite me back to dine at your friary.”

      The men about the table gave the priest and his companion only a cursory glance before returning to their drinking and arguing.

      Wat squeezed down on to the very end of the bench, forcing Thomas to shuffle along until he was, in turn, squeezed against a sweaty and fat labourer who shot Thomas a sour look before turning back to his companions.

      “I am not going to talk to you here,” Thomas said.

      “Nowhere else,” Wat said. “Christ above, Tom. How many years is it since we’ve seen each other? And,” he lowered his voice slightly, “from what I remember, there was a time you’d have felt at home in a drinking den like this, eh?”

      Thomas’ mouth tightened, but Wat ignored it, and called to the woman for a couple of ales. She grunted, and disappeared towards a back room.

      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, and sighed. “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.”

      Wat finally caught Thomas’ interest. “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?