The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass

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.

      “—and any who ride with Edward’s captains risk their soul on an unholy cause!”

      “You are 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