was better than most monastic houses—Thomas assumed this was because the monastery had been made rich from centuries of patronage by noble pilgrims—and Marcel and his companions were currently enjoying a glass of German wine and sweetmeats in the guest house refectory with their host, the hosteller.
Thomas shook his head, thinking of the accommodation: not only did every guest have his own straw mattress, every guest had his own latrine!
Wealth, indeed.
“Thinking of the difficulties of the Brenner, my friend?” said a soft voice behind him.
Thomas turned around, and grinned. “No, Johan. I was thinking only of the wealth of the monastery below us.”
“Aha!” Johan laughed. “I believe you are regretting joining the Dominicans instead of the Benedictines!”
They turned to silently study the mountains soaring before them. Johan and Thomas had become good friends in their journey north through Ferrara to Venice—at which place Marcel, Karle and Bierman had overseen the shipping of their consignments, clucking over its packing and storage in the deep holds of the cogs like mother hens—and then Verona, and from there onto the northern road to the foot of the Alps.
Johan was a likeable lad, a bit too irreligious for Thomas’ taste—but then hadn’t he been so at the same age?—but well meaning and behaved, traits which Thomas thought had obviously been taught Johan by his serious and moralistic father. Also, Thomas admitted to himself, he was flattered by Johan’s attention. The young man admired Thomas’ experience in the world, as his deep commitment to the Church, and was slightly in awe of Thomas’ family name, which, truth to tell, very occasionally annoyed Thomas.
The Nevilles he had left behind a long, long time ago.
Both Johan and his older companions constantly questioned Thomas about what was going on in Rome; about what he knew of the English plans to invade France.
Thomas was glad to hear that the Frenchmen among the group, Marcel and Karle, were just as concerned to see the papacy remain in Rome as were the others. All were appalled at the idea that the rogue cardinals had returned to Avignon and, for all anyone knew, might have elected a rival pope by this stage.
There were considerably mixed feelings about renewed war between the French and the English. The war, fought because Edward felt he was the rightful claimant to the French throne, had been going on since Edward was eighteen or nineteen. Now he was an old man. Both countries had suffered because of the hostilities, but France had suffered the more. This was a war fought entirely on French soil, although French pirates made life as difficult as possible for villagers who lived along the English south-eastern coast, and the losses of French peasants had been horrendous. Tens of thousands had been killed, and many more were unable to return to lands burned and ravaged by the roving English armies.
There had been a hiatus in hostilities over the past few years, partly because both sides were exhausted, physically and emotionally, and partly because both Edward and the French king, John, had been trying to hammer out a truce.
Evidently, Edward had become impatient and, just as evidently, had managed to raise funds from somewhere for a renewed foreign campaign.
“Not from any of my colleagues, I hope,” Marcoaldi had remarked darkly one evening when the war was being discussed over their evening meal. When he was a young man, Edward had obtained the funds for his first French campaign by raising a massive loan from the Florentine bankers Bardi and Peruzzi. When it came time to repay the debt, Edward declared he had no intention of ever doing so. Not only were the Bardi and Peruzzi families ruined, so also were many other Florentine families who relied on them.
Edward had not won himself many Italian or banking friends with that action.
Marcoaldi may have been concerned about the financial aspects of a renewed English campaign, but Marcel and Karle were horrified at the thought of what deprivations might await the French people this time.
“And Paris…Paris!” Marcel had remarked. “No doubt the English will again lay siege to it! Thomas, do you have any idea what—”
Thomas had interrupted him at that point, again declaring his allegiance to God rather than to the English king, or even his own family. “I take no part in the war,” he said.
And yet…yet…hadn’t he once been a part of those marauding English armies? Hadn’t he himself set the torch time after time to the thatched roofs of peasant homes?
Hadn’t he taken sword to husbands…before wrenching their wives to the ground for his own pleasure?
Thomas stared at the mountains, and wondered if he would ever be able to atone for his sins. The last campaign he had taken part in had been the worst, and the blood and pain and misery caused had, finally, made him pause for thought.
And yet how he still lusted for those days: the fellowship of the battle, the warm companionship of his brothers-in-arms.
“Thomas? Thomas? What’s wrong?”
“Ah, I was lost in memories. Forgive me. Johan…tell me, have you ever been through the Brenner before?”
“Yes. Three times—and once during spring! I swear to God—”
“Johan!”
“Forgive me. I mean, um, I mean it was more dangerous than you can imagine! The last day such a great gust of snow threatened to fall on us that I swear that—sorry—that my father was in fear for his life. You should have been with us then, Thomas, for my father cried out desperately for a priest to take his last confession.”
“Well,” Thomas said mildly, “I shall with be you on the morrow, should the need arise.”
For a moment or two they remained silent, watching the sun set behind one of the taller peaks.
“They are so wondrous,” Johan eventually said.
Thomas looked at him, puzzled. “Wondrous? What?”
“The mountains…their beauty…their danger…”
Thomas stared at the mountains, then turned back to Johan.
“That is not ‘beauty’, Johan. The Alps are vile things, useless accumulations of rock that serve no useful purpose to mankind. Indeed, they hinder mankind’s effort to tame this world and make it serve him, as was God’s commandment to Adam.”
Johan turned an earnest face to Thomas. “But don’t they call to you, Thomas? Don’t you feel their pull in your blood?”
“Call?”
“Sometimes,” Johan said in a low voice, “when I gaze at them, or travel through their passes, I am overcome with an inexpressible yearning.”
“A yearning for what, Johan?” Thomas was watching the younger man’s face very carefully. Were demons calling to him? Was he in the grip of the evil that St Michael had warned him about?
Johan sighed. “It is so difficult to explain, to put into mere words what I feel. The sight of these majestic peaks—”
Majestic?
“—makes
