The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass
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are an unlearned man,” Thomas said, and, rising to his feet, stepped over the bench, “but you should know better than to 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 realise 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.
Some of us may only be men and women, he thought, but some of us are otherwise.
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.”
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 grey weeks of travel. He had been harassed by beggars, pilgrims and wandering pedlars who thought a lone traveller 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 memories which had ridden 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 armour, and then the joy as he felt it crush through bone 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 armour 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.
Man’s cause no longer interested him.
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 saviour.
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 colourful, 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 towards the light of both sun and God; colourful 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.
Thomas’ overwhelming impression was of majesty and light, where his memory of Rome was of decay and chaos and violence.
Surely God was here, where He had been absent in Rome?
Gently Thomas nudged the flanks of his mule, and the patient beast began the descent into the richest and most beautiful municipality in Christendom.
Thomas had thought that his initial impression of Florence might be shattered when he entered the crowded streets, but it was not so.
Where the crowds in Rome had been oppressive, often threatening, here they were lively and inviting.
Where the faces that turned his way in Rome had been surly or suspicious, here they were open and welcoming.
Where the doors of Rome had been closed to strangers and to the always expected violence, here they were open to friend and stranger alike. And it seemed that from every second window, and every third doorway, hung the tapestries and