a paper in his hand.
“Hear this!” he screamed, and the mob growled.
“This day we have elected our most blessed Holy Father—”
The growl deepened.
“The saintly Bartolomo Prignano, Archbishop of Bari, is our new Holy Father, Urban VI!”
The mob quietened, urgent voices whispering throughout its mass. Then a great cheer broke out. “An Italian! An Italian!”
Then the former Archbishop Prignano, the new Urban VI, stepped forward to take the crowd’s acclaim. He was a Neopolitan by birth, and enough of an Italian to sate the crowd’s anger and suspicion.
He raised his hands, and blessed the crowd, and then Urban said, “The papacy has returned to Rome, beloved countrymen, and it will never leave again! I swear this to you on the name of our beloved Lord, Jesus Christ, and his mother, the Holy Virgin. I swear to you that the papacy will not leave Rome again!”
Behind Urban, five or six of the cardinals shared concerned glances. Wasn’t Urban taking his pretence a little too seriously?
Wednesday in Holy Week
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(14th April 1378)
Thomas stood against the wall outside the closed door to Prior Bertrand’s cell. His back was straight, his hands clasped humbly before him, his head bowed. His back did not touch the stone.
Bertrand had kept him waiting six days since the election of Urban—claiming the preparations for Easter celebrations as reason enough—and Thomas was barely keeping under restraint an impatience that he knew would earn him another penance if he let it fly.
And that was one thing Thomas did not want. His previous penance had been more than humiliating, and he didn’t want to see what Bertrand could come up with next.
Since the day the whore had cursed him, Thomas had spent his time studying, or praying in the chapel and, during the long dark hours of the night, in his private cell. This prayer time Thomas spent imploring St Peter for the patience and humbleness which that saint had so admirably demonstrated in his struggle to establish Christianity.
Thomas wondered how, if he could not master humbleness, he could hope to fight the evil that St Michael told him walked the lands. But he knew that, doubts notwithstanding, he would have to do his best, so he also prayed to the archangel Michael for guidance, for a sign, for something to show him what to do, how best to fight the evil infiltrating Christendom.
But the archangel had remained silent.
Was it the whore’s fault? Thomas tried hard to forgive her, but it was difficult. All his life he’d regarded whores with contempt (although that contempt had never stopped him using them, whispered the voice of his conscience). After his humiliating penance, and the tongue-lashing by the young one, Thomas now loathed whores beyond all measure.
He prayed, but for once that did not bring peace of mind. Suddenly all he could think about was the young girl’s breasts, so firm and pointed beneath her tunic. He knew what they would feel like in his hands, and he knew how they would taste under his tongue once he had aroused the sweat of passion in her.
Saint Michael, aid me now! God help me, drive thoughts of this woman from my mind!
Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, his hands now trembling violently as he grasped them tightly together, his body rocking slowly back and forth. He struggled for control, knowing that any moment Bertrand was going to open that door and find Thomas lost in a maddened fit of anger and remembered lust.
Thomas knew he was being watched, knew that the Prior General of England wanted an excuse to throw him from the Order…and yet still he couldn’t bring himself under control…still he couldn’t forget the laughter…the breasts bared above his head…still he couldn’t forget his humiliation, and his overweening fury…
“Please…please, Saint Michael,” he whispered between clenched teeth.
Thomas.
Peace flooded Thomas’ being, and he almost wept.
Thomas, do not let the thoughts of women control you.
Thomas opened his eyes a fraction. A warm clear light illuminated the dim corridor. He lifted his head slowly.
Five or six feet from him stood a pillar of fire, the form of a man dimly discernible within it. A stern face stared at Thomas from the top of the pillar.
The fire did not sear Thomas, nor did it cause him any fear. He sank to his knees, and clasped his hands in adoration. The archangel had returned.
Women exist only for one reason, Thomas—to bear children. Otherwise they are to be used and discarded with as little thought as the daily sending of excreta on its journey into the cesspool. Use them, but do not let thoughts of them control your life. And never give your soul to one.
“Saint Michael,” Thomas whispered. “You are so good to me.”
You are a Beloved, Thomas.
“Blessed saint, I have found a name that—”
You have found the name of the man whom you must follow, in body as well as spirit.
“Wynkyn de Worde.”
Yes. He worked on behalf of God and His angels until the evil pestilence swallowed him before he could properly accomplish his task.
“And I must take up where he left off?”
You are his successor, although you will grow to be much greater than he.
Thomas’ heart swelled with pride. “What must I do?”
Learn all you can about him, learn what he did, and why. Discover what his purpose was, then take that purpose into your own hands. Follow your instincts, for they are the instincts of the angels.
“Can you not tell me what I need to know, blessed angel?”
The archangel’s anger seeped across the space towards Thomas.
“Forgive me! I did not think to—”
Learning is nothing unless it is experienced. If I tell you what you need to know then you will not have truly learned. Wynkyn de Worde died before he could train his successor personally, thus the successor, you, had to be bred and must now learn without the aid of the one gone before.
“I will learn, Saint Michael. I give you my oath on it.”
You will learn fast, Thomas. Wynkyn de Worde’s untimely death was a disaster. For thirty years the minions of Satan have mingled among God’s own. Now it is almost too late to prevent the final conflagration.
“Blessed angel, my duties keep me here
