The Nameless Day
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 me yearn to leave behind my life as a merchant, and to take to the seas as a roving captain, to explore and discover the world that waits out there,” he flung an arm wide, “beyond the known waters and continents—”
“Johan, why feel this way? We have all we need within Christendom, there is no need—and surely no desire—to explore the lands of infidels.” Thomas laid a firm hand on Johan’s chest, forcing the man to meet his eyes. “Johan, better to explore your own soul to ensure your eventual salvation. It is the next world which holds all importance, not this one. This is but a wasteland full of evil, here to tempt us away from our true journey, that of the spirit towards salvation in the next life.”
Johan flushed at the reprimand. “I know that, Brother Thomas. Do forgive me. It’s just…it’s just that…” he turned his face back to the mountains, and Thomas could see their peaks reflected in his eyes, “it is just that one day…one day I wish I could summon the skill and the courage to climb to their very pinnacles and survey the entire world.”
Johan looked back to Thomas, and now there was no contrition in his face at all. “Imagine, Thomas, finding the courage within yourself to be able to conquer the greatest peaks in the world.”
And with that, he turned and walked back down the road towards the monastery, leaving Thomas to stare, disturbed, after him.
On his own return to the monastery, Thomas was even more disturbed to find that, to a man, the German mercenaries were nowhere to be found. When he inquired as to their whereabouts, Marcel had shrugged, and looked a little nonplussed.
“’Tis Midsummer’s Eve, brother. The Germans have gone to join the revels of the villagers in that little hamlet we passed through a mile before the monastery.”
At that, Thomas’ mouth thinned. Peasants made far too much of the midsummer solstice, believing that if they didn’t mark it with fire festivals and dances, then the sun would not recover from its long slide towards its winter nadir. The Church had long tried to halt the festivals, but with little success. All across Christendom, people walked up hills and to the tops of cliffs, and there rolled down the slopes burning wheels of hay and straw to mark the solstice.
Marcel watched Thomas’ face carefully, then said: “Do not judge them too harshly, Thomas. A little colour in their lives, a little fun, is hardly harmful.”
“What is harm, Marcel, is when they engage in un-Christian rites that allow demons a stronger hold among us.”
“Well,” Marcel said slowly, “the older and wiser among us are still here, and I have planned a small gathering tonight to give thanks for our continued freedom from the entrapments of evil. I,” he hesitated, “and mine always mark Midsummer in this fashion. I will be delighted and grateful if you would lead us in prayer tonight. Come, Thomas, what do you say?”
Thomas sighed, and nodded. “Of course I will. I am sorry, Marcel. Sometimes I think that mankind should all be perfect, and, of course, they are hardly so.”
“But there are many good men working within society, brother, trying day by day to bring order to chaos. You must trust in them.”
“Yes. You are right.”
That night, safe in his clean bed, Thomas dreamed of the mountains overrun with demons scampering across their peaks. He shivered, fearing, then he rejoiced, for behind the mountains appeared the glowing form of the archangel Michael. But, just as he thought St Michael would smite the demons from the mountains, the archangel put a hand to his face, as if afraid, and fled.
Thomas woke screaming, bringing the hosteller, as also Marcel and Karle, running to his side.
The next morning, early, they set out for the Brenner Pass.
II
The Feast of St John the Baptist
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(Thursday 24th June 1378)
—Midsummer’s Day—
The ascent for the final few miles to the opening of the pass was a sombre one. It was still dark, and cold this high up, but that was not the reason. Thomas was distant and silent, and sat hunched in his saddle as if he thought all the imps of hell were about to descend upon him.
He’d not explained his nightmare of the previous night—even though Marcel and the hosteller had sat by his side until it was time to rise—and in fact had hardly spoken, apart from a few grudging monosyllabic replies, since they’d begun their ride towards the pass.
Thomas was afraid, deeply afraid. If the archangel himself fled before the evil, then what hope had he?
He did not doubt that what he had seen in his dream had been, if not perfect fact, then an accurate representation of the way things lay. All knew that dreams were a window between the world of man and the world of spirits, and dreams were the perfect vehicle by which demons and imps could invade the world of mankind. It was why no woman should ever sleep in a chamber alone, because, faulted with the weakness of Eve, lone women were ever likely to succumb to the blandishments of imps and demons.
In past years Thomas had seen three babies, hideously deformed, that were the obvious results of women who’d allowed (perhaps even begged) the minions of hell to seduce them.
The babies had been killed, the women burned.
But this nightmare was not so easily disposed of. It lingered on the edges of Thomas’ mind, making him jump at every shadow, and wince at every glimpse of a looming mountain peak. He could feel the eyes of his companions upon him, and he knew they thought he was scared of the dangerous passage ahead.
True, but not for the reasons they believed. The danger of a footslip on a narrow path did not concern him so much as the thought that the Brenner Pass might hold more evil than he could possibly deal with.
Saint Michael aid me, Saint Michael aid me, he prayed over and over in a silent litany.
But the dream had planted the seeds of doubt in Thomas’ mind, and he feared that St Michael might not be strong enough to aid him.
And if the great archangel was afraid and impotent against the evil, then what chance had he?
“Thomas?”
Etienne Marcel, riding close to his side.
“Thomas, do not fear too greatly—”
“You cannot know of what I fear!”
“Thomas.” Marcel leaned over and placed a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I do know. It is not the heights and the depths and the treacherous ice paths awaiting us which fret at you, but the unknowns. This is ungodly territory, and you and I both know it. Be strong, Thomas. We will prevail.”
Thomas looked up, stunned by Marcel’s perception…and equally stunned by the degree of comfort the man had imparted with his words and touch.
Thomas gave a small nod, and briefly laid his own hand over Marcel’s. “I thank you. You are truly a man of God.”
Marcel’s mouth gave a peculiar twist, and then he smiled, lifting his hand away. “I am sent to give you comfort and courage, Thomas. Do not doubt.”
Thomas stared at him. God had led him to this man. Was Marcel an angel or saint in disguise, sent to guide his steps? Thomas knew better than to question. Better to have faith, and to believe.
He took a deep breath, and threw his hood back. “Shall we chase back the demons of fear between us, Marcel?”
Marcel laughed, glad to see Thomas more himself. “Between us, my friend, we shall make the world a place of our own.”
And he kicked his horse forward, leaving Thomas to stare puzzled after him.
They rode until an hour after dawn, when they entered a small encampment at the foot of the pass. There were several wooden huts, and a long building that was obviously a barn. Several team of oxen were waiting outside, yoked to surprisingly narrow carts.
Marcel waved them to dismount. “From here we will go on foot,” he said.
Thomas slid to the ground, giving his gelding a grateful rub on his neck, and turned to Johan. “We don’t ride?”
Johan shook his head, and tossed the reins of his horse to a rough-dressed and as equally rough-bearded man who’d come up to them. He motioned Thomas to do the same.
“We walk,” he said. “It is too dangerous to ride. No, wait. It will be easier for you to see than for me to explain. The guides will blindfold the riding and packhorses and lead them through.”
The horses had to be blindfolded? Sweet Jesu, how fearsome was this pass?
Johan walked over to join Marcel, who was haggling with three of the men who were to be their guides through the pass. Thomas looked about him. The elder Bierman had hunched himself into his cloak, staring at the cliffs rising to either side of the opening of the pass; Marcoaldi was standing to one side of Bierman, his hands clenching nervously at his side.
As Thomas watched, Marcoaldi turned and saw him. He almost flinched, then gathered himself and walked over.
His face was death grey, and Thomas reached out, concerned. “Master Marcoaldi, we shall surely be safe. Is this…is this your first time through the pass?”
Marcoaldi gave a jerky shake of his head. “I’ve been through once before. Some years ago.” He tried to smile, but failed badly, and gave up any pretence of nonchalance. “I went through with my elder brother, Guiseppi. He was my mentor. He taught me all I know about banking. He was also my friend, and my rock through this often frightful existence.”
Even more concerned—he’d never seen Marcoaldi demonstrate even the slightest degree of hesitancy—Thomas tightened his hand on the banker’s arm reassuringly. “He’s dead?”
Marcoaldi did not immediately reply. His eyes had taken on a peculiar look, as if he was staring back into the depths of his soul.
“He died in this pass, Brother Thomas.” Marcoaldi drew in a deep, shaky breath. “He slipped on the treacherous footing, and tumbled down a ravine. Thomas,” Marcoaldi lifted his eyes to gaze directly into Thomas’, “he was terribly injured by the fall, but not killed. We…we stood at the top of the cliff and listened to him call for hours, until night fell, and the ice moved in. He died alone in that ravine, Thomas. Alone. I could not reach him, and I could not aid or comfort him. He died alone.”
“Giulio, he died unshriven? Unconfessed? There was no priest with you?”
Marcoaldi did not reply, but his expression hardened from pain into bitterness.
Thomas shook his head slightly, appalled that Marcoaldi’s brother had died unconfessed.
“He must surely have gone to purgatory,” Thomas said quietly, almost to himself, then he spoke up. “But do not fear, my friend. Eventually the prayers of you and your family will ensure that he—”
Marcoaldi jerked his arm away from Thomas’ hand. “I do not want your pious babbling, priest! Guiseppi died screaming for me, and for his wife. He died alone. Alone! None of his family were with him! I care not that he went to the next life priestless, only that he died without those who loved him and could have comforted him!”
“But you should be concerned that—”
“I know my brother does not linger in your purgatory, brother. Guiseppi was a loving husband, father and brother. He dealt kindly and generously with all he met. He has gone to a far better place than your cursed purgatory!”
And with that Marcoaldi was gone, striding across to where the guides readied the oxen teams.
Thomas watched, grieving. Marcoaldi was lost himself if he did not pay more attention to his spiritual welfare, and if he persisted in his disbelief in purgatory. He was a lost soul, indeed, if he did not take more care.
Perhaps his brother Guiseppi had gone straight to hell if he had not confessed or made suitable penance for a lifetime of luxuriating in the sin of usury. Ah…these bankers…
Thomas sighed, and walked away. If a person filled his life with good works, penance for his inevitable sins, and confessed on his death bed, then death should be a joyous affair, and family members should rejoice that their loved one had passed from the vale of pain into an eternity spent with God and his saints.
A death like Guiseppi’s, alone, unconfessed, and probably, if he was like his younger brother, unrepentant, was the most miserable imaginable. Thomas hoped that eventually Marcoaldi would see the error of his ways, and spend what time was left to him in repentance and the practice of good works to negate the burden of his sins.
Thomas knew he would have to talk to Marcoaldi again…but best to leave it until they left the painful memories, and the harsh fears, of the Brenner Pass.
At mid-morning they set off in a single file, led by two of the guides, each leading a team of two oxen yoked to a cart.
Christoffel Bierman and Giulio Marcoaldi sat in the second of the carts, their faces resolutely looking back the way they had come, refusing to look at the chasm that fell away on the left of the trail. One of the guides had offered Thomas a ride in the cart as well, but he had refused, and the guide had walked away, a knowing smirk on his face.
Behind the carts walked Etienne Marcel, Johan Bierman, who had also refused to ride the carts, and Thomas himself. Behind them came more guides walking the blindfolded horses—Thomas could hear them snorting nervously, and occasionally heard the rattle of hooves on the trail as a horse misplaced a step and fought for its footing—and behind them came the guards, grouped in front of and behind Marcoaldi’s preciously laden packhorse, and then yet more blindfolded horses and their handlers.
For the first hour the way was not particularly treacherous, nor frightening. The trail wound about the eastern side of the pass, black rock rearing skyward into the cloud-shrouded mountaintops on each man’s right hand, and sliding into precipitous, misty depths on his left. There were small patches of snow-melt on the trail itself, but the footing was generally secure, and as long as he kept his eyes ahead, Thomas found he had no trouble.
Save for the black ill-temper of Marcoaldi’s gaze as it met his every so often.
Johan kept up a constant chatter, largely to tell Thomas just how difficult and frightening the way would become later in the day.
“And tomorrow,” he enthused at one point, “for we must spend tonight camped in the pass, you realise, a man must confront his worst fears, and conquer them, if he is to survive.”
“Then I admit I find myself more than slightly puzzled by your cheerfulness, Johan. Surely you regard the approaching dangers with dread?”
“Well, yes, but also with anticipation.” Johan threw a hand toward the mountains now emerging from the early morning mist and cloud. “I enjoy the thrill of danger, the race of my blood, and the rush of pride each time I manage to best my fear.”
Thomas was about to observe that Johan would be better served if he used this time of mortal danger to look to the health of his soul, but just at that moment he happened to lock eyes with Marcoaldi, and he closed his mouth.
Should he have better spent his time consoling the man’s lingering grief at the loss of his brother rather than preaching to him about the dangers of dying unconfessed?
And how could he castigate Johan when he had himself screamed with the joy and thrill of danger in the midst of battle?
But he was not that man now. He was Brother Thomas, and one of his duties in life was to guide the souls of the weak towards—
“Thomas,” Marcel said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “you are looking far too grim. There are dangers ahead, certainly, but there is also time enough for a smile and a jest occasionally. Hmm?”
And so Thomas wondered if he was too grim, but then he thought about the mission the archangel Michael had entrusted to him, and that made him even grimmer, and after a moment or two Marcel and Johan left him alone, and they walked forward silently into the pass.
By late morning Thomas was concentrating far more on keeping his footing than on introspection about the sins of his companions, or his doubts about his own ability to fight evil incarnate. The way had slowly, so imperceptibly that Thomas was hardly aware of it, become so treacherous that he now understood why the passage through the Brenner was regarded with so much fear by most travellers.
The path that clung to the cliff face not only became much narrower, scarcely more than an arm’s width—the carts ahead seemed to spend more time with their left wheels hanging over the precipice than on the trail—but it also began to tilt on a frightening angle towards the precipice. Thomas found himself clinging to the rock wall on his right with one hand, while keeping his left splayed out to aid his balance.
Small rivulets of ice-melt running down the cliff face made the going deadly—they not only made the footing slippery, but they had gouged out weaknesses in the path, so that rocks, and occasionally, large sections of footing, suddenly slid away, making men cry out with fear and hug the rock face, pleading to God and whatever saints they could remember to save them.
The horses, even blindfolded, were terrified. Thomas could hear their snorting and whinnies above his own harsh breathing; underlaying the sounds of the horses’ fear were the murmured reassurances of the guides. Thomas had wondered previously why the mountain guides had bothered themselves with leading the horses when the task could have been given to the guards in Marcel’s train. Now he knew. These rough mountain men were extraordinarily skilled in their manner of reassuring the horses and, without them, most of the animals would surely have been lost.
Thomas could also understand why Bierman and Marcoaldi had chosen to ride in the ox carts. The oxen appeared totally unperturbed by the abyss falling away to their left—at one point where the path had turned right following the line of the cliff face, Thomas had seen the faces of the stolid animals, placidly chewing their cud as if they were strolling through lowland meadow rather than mountain-death trail. The ox carts would surely be as safe—safer—than trusting to one’s own security of footing.
Johan appeared hardly concerned, and Thomas wondered at his words that the morrow would be worse than today.
Sweet Jesu! It got worse than this?
As if Johan had guessed his thoughts, the young man turned slightly as he clambered over a deep crack in the path, and grinned at Thomas.
“Brother Thomas! Have you seen that crag to our left?”
Johan turned enough so he could point to it. “I have been studying it this past hour. If a man was strong enough, he could surely climb that south-western face, don’t you think? Imagine the view from the top! All of Creation stretched out below—”
Now even Marcel had heard enough. “Silence, Johan! We need all our concentration to keep our feet here, not on some fanciful and totally profitless expedition to the top of a piece of rock!”