The Nameless Day
The friar had arrived at St Angelo’s in late 1295.
Scattering more rolls, Thomas searched forward until he found the last reference to the friar.
1348. The man had presumably died in the pestilence which had swept Christendom that year.
Thomas sat back, thinking over what he’d learned.
For some fifty-three years this friar had come and gone from St Angelo’s twice yearly with no explanation and no permission from his prior.
During those fifty-three years five priors had died, and each incoming prior—the last being Prior Bertrand in 1345—had called the friar into their private cell to ask for explanations and, presumably, to mete out discipline.
In all five cases the results of the interview were much the same: the friar was to be allowed to come and go as he pleased, no matter the inconvenience to the friary.
Thomas wondered what threats had been made in those five meetings.
Eventually, after carefully rolling up the parchments and placing them back in their slots, Thomas went to see Prior Bertrand.
He felt both curious and nauseous in equal degrees, and Thomas knew that he’d stumbled upon something of great import.
Prior Bertrand was again sinking down to his knees before the cross in his cell when the tap sounded at the door.
Sighing, Bertrand rose stiffly, one hand on his bed for support. “Come.”
Brother Thomas entered, bowing slightly as he caught Bertrand’s eye.
“Brother Thomas, what can I do for you this late at night?”
“I have come to ask a favour of you, Brother Prior.”
“Yes?”
“I would like to ask about Brother Wynkyn de Worde.”
Bertrand stared, unable for the moment to act or speak.
Wynkyn de Worde! He’d prayed never to have that name spoken in his hearing again!
In return, Thomas watched the old man before him with narrowed, speculative eyes.
“Brother Prior? Are you well?”
“Yes…yes. Ah, Brother Thomas, perhaps you will sit down.”
Thomas took the stool, as he had on the night of his arrival, and Bertrand again took the bed. “May I ask, Brother Thomas, why you ask about Brother Wynkyn?”
Thomas hesitated and Bertrand shifted uncomfortably.
“I 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.
IV
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 one side. He walked to the gate, hesitated, then opened it and walked into the streets of Rome.
If there was one commodity Rome did not lack, it was whores. They catered for pilgrims, traders and the odd diplomat as well as the large number of young men who had yet to take wives. Of course, many husbands numbered among their clientele as well. Some said there were more whores in Rome than wives and, after his previous days in the streets, Thomas did not doubt it.
And, it seemed to him, they all knew he was coming.
The word had quickly spread that a humble friar had been set to do penance washing their feet, and within moments of Thomas leaving the friary there was a crowd of women about him.
Pressing about him.
They rubbed their bodies against Thomas, their hands seeking entrance under his robe. He pushed them roughly away, but they only laughed…and bared their breasts to him, squeezing them invitingly, and asking if he’d like a taste.
Thomas ignored them.
He walked as far away from the friary as he could, turning two corners, before the crowd became unmanageable, and he stopped.
He lifted his head and looked about him.
It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
“As penance for my sins,” he said softly, “I am to wash the feet of whores until the hour of Vespers. Will one of you step forward, and offer her feet to be washed?”
The women fell silent, as they always did at this point. They were hardened and bitter creatures, used to the abuse and degradation of their profession, and yet this humble friar always rendered them silent with this simple statement.
Not that they had any greater respect for friars than they had for any other men. Too many friars had pushed them up against walls and used them quickly, roughly, for them to think well of any among them.
But this one…this one…
It was his face, they thought. Not the fact that it was so well made, or so strong, or his eyes so compelling, for they had seen and been used by many handsome clerics in the past.
It was because the set of his muscles and the hardness of his eyes told them he was one of them, in the sense that he was as hard and as bitter as they were.
And this always made them falter.
For a moment.
One stepped forward, young, her face still holding traces of appeal.
“Wash my feet!” she said, and lifted her skirts.
Thomas stepped up and squatted down before her; she giggled nervously as he wrung out a cloth in the water.
Then he held out a hand, his face bowed down, and she lifted a foot and let him take it.
“For a coin I would let you hold a great deal more of my flesh,” she said softly, and Thomas whipped up his head and stared at her, his eyes blazing with anger, but at himself, rather than her.
There was a smell about this one, or perhaps it was something in her voice, or the tilt of her cheek, but memories Thomas had long thought forgotten raced out of his past.
Memories from his youth: the laughter and bawdry shared with his two best friends.
The women they had shared, all six sometimes squirming about on the same bed.
The practised moans and squeals from the whores.
Their writhing beneath his body.
Thomas trembled violently, now fighting the rising memory of lust as much as his current anger.
The girl whose foot he still held smiled, and wriggled her hips invitingly. She knew the look in this friar’s eyes and had lost any momentary awe she might have had for him.
She leaned forward, her weight on the foot in Thomas’ hand, and let the neck of her loose tunic fall away so he could see her firm, pointed breasts.
“I know what you want,” she said, watching the direction of his eyes, “and it is yours for the asking.”
Thomas raised his eyes to hers, and she felt the pressure on her foot increase slightly.
Her smiled widened. “I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered hoarsely, her hips wriggling suggestively. “Now!”
“Slut!”
Thomas’ fingers tightened about her foot until she squealed in pain, and then he threw it to one side, twisting her leg badly and causing her to fall heavily in a tangle of swirling skirts.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the shouts of the women about him.
Damn all women to the pits of hell!
“Slut!” he spat at her again. “Don’t you know your sins will earn you a place in hell for all time? Don’t you know that the red-hot pokered Devil himself will take his pleasure with you, time after time through eternity, until you scream and beg for mercy, to no avail? Don’t you realise that you and your kind are the slime of Creation? Slime you are and slime you will be, time until end, unless you embrace Christ and beg His forgiveness now. Now! Do you hear me, harlot? Get on your knees and beg Christ’s forgiveness now!”
All the whores about him were now screaming and shouting, but the young woman on the ground motioned the other women back with a quick, vicious action, then got to her knees and then to her feet, stumbling a little on her twisted leg.
“I will beg forgiveness from none of your sort, dog!” She spat at him, and Thomas flinched, but made no move to whip the spittle away from his cheek. He was still enraged, and barely holding himself back from taking her neck between his hands and throttling her.
He knew that if he’d had a sword he would have killed her.
“Dog!” she said again, wrenching the top of her tunic closed. “I curse you, Friar Thomas. One day one of my sisters will seize your soul and condemn you to hell for eternity! I damn you with the curse of the whore, Thomas!”
She stepped forward, and struck him with a surprisingly light tap against his cheek.
He raised a hand to strike her back, but stopped, stunned by the lightness of her blow.
“One day,” she whispered, her eyes staring into his, “and soon, I pray to the Virgin Mary, a whore will steal your soul…Nay! You will offer it to her on a platter! You will offer her your eternal damnation in return for her love!”
Now it was Thomas’ turn to stand silent, as stunned by the whore as the group had previously been by him.
There had been something in her face and in her voice, in her very bearing, that had rung not only with truth, but with an extraordinary nobility.
The women, still mumbling, started to turn away, two helping their younger companion to hobble down the street.
Thomas watched them go, then shook himself.
Cursed woman!
He grabbed at his pail, lying on its side on the cobbles, and looked back down the street.
Several of the whores, still lingering nearby, turned their backs to him.
Thomas sighed, and rubbed his eyes. What had he been thinking of to let go his self-control so easily? Why had he let his past intrude into his present?
What had he done?
The curse could be disregarded—the simple prating of a wretched woman—but Thomas could not disregard his own actions and words.
He had been a fool. Worse, he had been an arrogant fool. That woman had never wronged him, and her words had only been those of God, testing him.
And Thomas had failed, as he had failed so many times.
Refusing to weep, or show any outward sign of his distress, Thomas collected his rags, hefted the pail, and spent the rest of the afternoon in the almshouse washing the inmates’ feet, and speaking to them the words of kindness he should have spoken to the prostitute.
V
Thursday in Passion Week
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(8th April 1378)
On the afternoon of 8th April 1378, the feast day of the blessed Callistus, a former pope, and the Thursday within Passion Week, the cardinals met in conclave to elect their new Holy Father before the celebrations of the coming Holy Week.
It was neither a relaxed nor a certain affair.
The cardinals had been appointed by popes who’d lived in Avignon, and all were either Frenchmen themselves—the vast majority—or men closely allied with the French monarchy.
Most, as much as they may have denied it publicly, owed allegiance to the French king before the office of the pope.
What the cardinals wanted to do was to elect a man who would remove them from the swamp-ridden and disease-infested ruinous city of Rome back to the culture and civilisation of Avignon.
What they felt compelled to do was elect what the murderous Roman mob wanted: a good Italian who would keep the papacy in Rome.
Threats did not sit well with the cardinals. On the other hand, they doubted they could get out of Rome alive if they didn’t do what the mob wanted.
It was left to Jean de la Grange, bishop of Amiens, in Rome for the conclave, to suggest a possible way out of the situation. In the days before the conclave, Bishop Grange moved smoothly from chamber to chamber, dropping time after time to his knee to kiss the cardinal’s ring held out to his lips, then raising his face to talk earnestly to the man before him.
The cardinals liked what they heard.
Thursday in Passion Week dawned cool and fine, although a yellow fog rising from the swamps beyond Rome’s walls lasted until almost Nones when the cardinals were due to meet. Murmuring crowds had thronged the Leonine City since the previous night, sure that if they didn’t stake their place well before the election the cardinals would find some way to shut them out. It seemed to the cardinals, peering nervously from their apartments in the palace adjoining St Peter’s, that the entire population of Rome was crowded into the streets and the courts surrounding the Basilica.
Their mood was not festive.
The election was to be held in the Hall of Conclave, a great stone hall to the north of St Peter’s and adjoining the papal palace. In the hour before Nones, the cardinals moved cautiously through the corridors of the palace towards the hall. They were well guarded with militia, and they wrapped their cardinals’ robes tight about themselves and stalked down the corridors, their faces set resolutely to the front, their eyes darting left and right.
The distant murmur of the crowd seemed to swell through the floor beneath their jewelled slippers as much as it did through the window glass.
The cardinals, sixteen in all, filtered into the Hall of Conclave. With luck, the election would not take long. After all, the conclusion had been hammered out in previous days.
Each cardinal moved silently into a curtained-off partition; the voting would take place in seclusion to give the election the aura of secrecy. Within each partition was a chair and a desk. On each desk lay a single sheet of paper and a pen and inkwell.
Each cardinal took his place and, once all were in place and the curtains across each partition closed, a bell tolled from high in the hall’s tower.
The election was underway.
Pandemonium broke out.
The crowds outside surged against the stone walls of the hall, beating the walls with their fists, with pikes, clubs, axes, pots and pans, and any other instrument they had found within their homes that they thought might prove to be useful to aid the smooth progression of the election of an Italian to the papal throne.
“Give us an Italian or we’ll stick pikes into your well-fed bellies!”
“Give us an Italian or we’ll burn the hall down about your ears!”
The cardinals, isolated from each other, as one picked up their pens with shaking hands, dipped them into their inkwells, then hesitated over the sheet of paper.
“Give us an Italian…”
Scowls twisted the faces of the cardinals. Damn the unruly mobs! Damn Rome to hell! They’d manage their revenge on this city if it was the last thing they did.
Scowls slowly contorted into thin-lipped grins.
The revenge, as the result of the election, was already planned.
“Give us an Italian!”
Yet still the cardinals hesitated.
Outside, a locksmith, who had been working on the doors leading to the vaults beneath the hall, suddenly yelled in triumph.
The mob surged forward, pikes gripped in white-knuckled hands.
The cardinals slowly leaned towards their papers, their hands shaking as much with hatred of the mob as with fear.
Then, as they still hesitated, they felt the wooden floor beneath their feet shudder, then, horrifically, spears and pikes burst through the floor in eight of the partitions, splintering the floorboards and making seven of the cardinals yell in fright and horror as the weapons narrowly missed their feet.
One of these seven snarled, and, leaping to his feet, shouted through the now broken floorboards, “We’ll give you your damned Italian, scum, but you have no idea of what you have done this day!”
Then he yelled throughout the hall: “Do it!”
And the cardinals leaned over their papers, each scrawling the same name.
They would see the Romans damned to hell yet!
The mob was almost out of control when the doors of the balcony burst open. A red-robed cardinal strode forth, 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?
VI
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.