adept at cloaking yourself in holiness, Thomas, but you cannot forget who and what you once were.”
“It is obvious that you cannot forget who and what I once was, Wat. How is it you sit here and dare speak to me with such familiarity?”
Now Wat’s face was tight with fury. “I forget my place, my lord. Forgive me.”
Thomas held his stare, then looked away.
Wat took a deep breath, and spoke more moderately, trying to deflect the anger of the past minutes.
“There is a new spiritual adviser at Lancaster’s court, Tom. An old friend of yours.”
“Yes?”
Wat downed the last of his ale. “Master Wycliffe.”
“Wycliffe? But…”
“Much has happened since you’ve been gone. Your colleague at Oxford—”
“I hardly knew him. We did not agree on many matters.”
And you would agree even less now, Wat thought. “—now has the ear of the Duke of Lancaster and, through him, his father, Edward. Wycliffe says,” Wat waved his empty mug to the woman, “that the Church should content itself only with spiritual matters, and not the worldly.”
Thomas rubbed his forehead, and did not reply. He and Wycliffe had spent many hours arguing when Thomas had been studying at Oxford, and he did not want to deepen his argument with Wat now over the despicable man.
“Further,” Wat continued, “Wycliffe has publicly stated that men who exist in a state of sin should not hold riches or property—”
“The old man has finally said something sensible?”
“—and, of all men who exist in sin, Wycliffe holds that the bishops, archbishops and cardinals of the Holy Church are the worst of all.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows, not sure that he could disagree with that, either.
“Consequently,” Wat continued serenely, handing another coin to the woman who’d brought him more ale, “Master Wycliffe argues that the Church should relinquish most of the worldly riches and land that it holds. After all, is not the Holy Church spiritual rather than worldly? Shouldn’t priests be more concerned with the salvation of souls rather than the accumulation of riches?”
Wat grinned wryly at the expression on Tom’s face. No doubt the man thought this was all heresy. Well, Wycliffe had many admirers, and many of those among the nobility themselves, who thought that what he said was nothing but sense. If the Church was forced to give up land…then who but the nobles would benefit?
“And can you imagine what Wycliffe has also said?” Wat said, leaning a little closer to Tom. “Why, he claims that all the masses and the sacraments and the fripperies of the Holy Church are but nothing in the quest for salvation. Instead, so Master Wycliffe claims, salvation can be gleaned from a careful study of the Scriptures without the need for the mediation of a priest. Who needs priests?”
Thomas was so shocked he could do nothing but stare. To point out the corruptions of the Church was one thing, but to suggest no one needed a Church or a priesthood in order to gain salvation was a heresy so vile it must have been promulgated by the whisperings of Satan’s demons. And here was Wat mouthing such vileness in the very heart of Christendom itself.
“After all,” Wat said, wiping away the foam left about his mouth from his draught of ale, “the Church makes itself so rich from the tithes and taxes it takes from the good folk that it would be the last to stand up and say, ‘You can do it yourself, if only you could read the Scriptures.’ I’ve heard tell that Wycliffe has his followers translating the Bible from Latin into the King’s own English, so as all us plain folk can read it.”
Put God into the plain man’s hand? “He talks filth! He attacks what God Himself has ordained!”
“And yet have you not just told me about the possibility of your beloved Church being headed by two popes? Are you trying to argue that we leave our salvation in the hands of such idiots?”
Thomas was silent.
“Beyond anything else,” Wat said softly, intently, “I am an Englishman. I owe allegiance to Edward and his sons before I owe allegiance to a corrupt foreign power that masquerades as the guardian of our souls. I like what Wycliffe says. It makes sense…his reasoning puts the common man’s destiny back into his hands rather than leave it in the hands of—”
“You 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
