have been reading through Saint Angelo’s registers, Brother Prior, and it appears to me that Brother Wynkyn must have been a considerably disruptive influence to the peace of the friary. I am curious as to why the brother was allowed to continue such behaviour for over fifty years without a single act of discipline from the prior. I—”
“Are you here to examine me, Brother Thomas?”
“Of course not, Brother Prior, but—”
“Are you here to demand explanations of me, Brother Thomas?”
“No! I merely wished to—”
“Do you think that I exist to satisfy your every curiosity, Brother Thomas?”
“Brother Prior, I apologise if I—”
“Your tone carries no nuance of apology or regret, Brother Thomas. I am deeply shocked that you think you have a right to demand explanations! Brother Thomas, you are no longer the man you once were! How dare you bludgeon your way into my—”
“I did not bludgeon!”
“—private devotions to order me to satisfy your curiosity.”
“It is not curiosity, Brother Prior,” Thomas was now leaning forward on his stool, his eyes angry, “but a desire to understand why such an extraordinary breach of discipline was allowed for so long!”
Bertrand paused. “I think Prior General Thorseby was right to be concerned about you, Thomas. Perhaps you are not suited to the rigorous discipline of the Order after all.”
Thomas sat back, shocked and bitter at the threat. About to speak a furious retort, he suddenly caught himself, and bowed his head in contrition.
“I apologise deeply, Brother Prior. My behaviour has been unpardonable. I do beg your forgiveness, and ask of you suitable penance.”
Bertrand watched the man carefully. His contrition did seem genuine—although it was a trifle hasty—and perhaps it was not surprising that such a man as Thomas should still lapse into the habits of his old life from time to time.
“You must learn more discipline, Brother Thomas.”
“Yes, Brother Prior.”
“Blessed Gregory’s funeral mass is in five days’ time. I would that until that day you spend the hours from Prime until Nones in penitential prayer in the chapel. After dinner and until Vespers you will take yourself down to the streets about the marketplace and offer to wash the feet of every whore you can find.”
Thomas’ head flew back up, his brown eyes once more furious.
Bertrand held his stare.
Thomas finally dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, Brother Prior,” he whispered.
“You must learn humility, Brother Thomas.”
“I know it, I know it.”
“Then learn it!”
Thomas’ head and shoulders jerked. “Yes, Brother Prior.”
“You will attend Gregory’s funeral mass with the rest of our community,” the prior continued, “and then you will continue your penance until the day of the conclave.”
Thomas stiffened, but did not speak.
“You may leave, Brother Thomas.”
Thomas nodded. “Thank you, Brother Prior.” He rose, and walked towards the door.
Just as he opened it, Bertrand spoke again. “Brother Thomas?”
Thomas turned back.
“Brother Thomas…it has been many a year since I spoke of Brother Wynkyn. Now I am an old man, and I should hesitate no longer. Once our new Holy Father is elected, and when you have completed your penance—and this penance you must complete—you may seek audience with me, and I will speak to you again. You may go.”
Thomas bowed, and closed the door behind him.
Later in the night, when the brothers were in their cells, either sleeping or praying, Bertrand walked quietly down to the library, lifted out all of the friary’s records from the 1290s until the time of the pestilence, and carried them one by one up to the deserted kitchens.
There, he threw them on the fire.
He stood and watched until they had burned to ash, then he lifted a poker and stirred the coals about, fearful that a single word should have survived.
Finally, bent and tired, he shuffled back to his own bed.
Wednesday in Passion Week
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(7th April 1378)
The hours Thomas spent prone before the altar in chapel were the most blessed he could imagine. The cold of the stone flooring did not perturb him: he did not even notice it. During the set hours of prayer the passing feet of his fellow brothers, as the passing of their eyes, did not bother him: he deserved such humiliation, and he revelled in it. He lay, face pressed against stone, arms extended, and prayed for sweet mercy, for greater humbleness, and for the strength which he would need to be of service to the holy St Michael, messenger of God Himself.
The hours that Thomas spent in the filthy streets of Rome washing the feet of the even filthier whores, were hours spent in hell wiping the stained skin of the Devil’s handmaidens.
He dreaded the tolling of the bells for Nones, and the inevitable hand of Prior Bertrand on his shoulder, silently asking him to rise. He would hobble after the prior, wracked with cramps after so many chill hours prone on the chapel floor, praying for God’s mercy in order to survive the afternoon.
Today would be his last day of penance: Thomas had wept when he felt the prior’s hand on his shoulder, for he would no longer be allowed to spend so long in silent penitential prayer, but his face had gone as chill and stony as the floor he had recently lain on when he thought of the afternoon’s activities before him.
Thomas loathed whores with a vehemence he knew he should probably do penance for. To have to bow before them every afternoon and take their outstretched feet between his hands…
“This will be your last day,” Bertrand said unnecessarily as Thomas rose from the refectory table. “Tomorrow the cardinals will meet in conclave…and the streets will not be safe. Once the election is concluded then I will send for you. You know of what we must speak.”
Thomas nodded, and took his leave. He could not think beyond this afternoon, and he wondered if he would be able to bear it.
In the courtyard he lifted a wooden pail and several cloths from a small alcove, then half filled the pail from a large barrel of rainwater standing to
