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? Why?”
Thomas told Wat about the fear and intimidations that had surrounded Urban’s election, the subsequent rogue cardinals’ departure for Avignon, and their demand that Urban resign. He relaxed as he talked, falling back into the warmth and trust of a friendship that extended back many years and through many shared dangers.
“I fear,” he finally said, turning his untasted mug of ale around in endless damp circles, “that there will be a pope in Avignon, and a pope in Rome…and a divided Christendom.”
Wat shrugged. “It’s divided anyway.”
“Curse you, Wat! This will mean war!”
Wat looked Thomas directly in the eye. “There will be war in any case. The archbishop is here not only to extend Edward’s warm congratulations to Urban, but also to ask Urban’s blessing for Edward’s new—”
“Sweet Jesu! Edward’s going to re-invade France?”
Wat grinned. “Will have re-invaded by this time.”
Thomas sat back, the mug now still between his hands. Wat looked at him carefully, wondering what memories were scurrying through Thomas’ head. Was there regret that he had swapped sword for cross?
“Edward’s an old man,” Thomas said.
“Edward has stayed at home. You know who would lead such an expedition, Tom.”
“Aye,” Thomas whispered, his eyes blank, his thoughts a thousand miles away. “The Black Prince.”
“And Lancaster.”
Thomas’ eyes refocused on Wat. “The Duke of Lancaster as well?”
“As all of Lancaster’s friends and allies.”
Thomas visibly shuddered. “The war can do no good. Edward should accept that he has lost the right to the French throne.”
“The war can do no good? You have changed, Tom.”
Again Thomas’ face tightened. “As I said, Wat, Edward is an old man. He should look to the health of his soul, rather than try to win more glory and riches for himself and his sons.”
“And I suppose the Black Prince and Lancaster should scurry back home as well, and spend their remaining years on their knees before some altar!”
“Penitence does no one harm, Wat. You should look to the health of your own soul. Evil walks abroad.”
“And that I cannot disagree with,” Wat mumbled, looking away, “for evil has surely stolen your soul!”
Furious, Thomas swivelled about on the bench—causing his fat neighbour to curse at the disturbance—and grabbed Wat’s shoulder. “I have repented for my sins, Wat, and the Lord God has been merciful enough to grant me forgiveness. Has he done the same for you?”
“Don’t preach to me, Tom! Not you! You have sold your soul to Rome—”
“I have sold my soul to no one—”
“—when you should remember that you are an Englishman born and bred! What if Edward asked you for allegiance and service…would you give it to him?”
“I owe my allegiance to no one but God!” Thomas hissed. “I serve a higher Lord than Edward and his pitiful worldly ambitions—”
“I’d give a year’s pay to hear you say that to Edward’s face,” Wat mumbled, the hint of a smile about his face, but Thomas carried on without pause.
