Amadeus was not a Latinist, or not much of one, and he had no Greek at all, but he knew the tone in the questions, and hastened to silence the monks, but by then the damage was done.
One monk, Brother Michalis, I believe, spoke into near complete silence.
‘We will never submit to what you call “your authority”,’ he said in Latin. ‘You have no authority over true Christians, except as the Bishop of Rome, and even that is debatable, as you hold many unorthodox beliefs.’
Men like Brother Michalis are very dangerous. They think that their beliefs entitle them to say shocking things – to break agreements and to start wars. I will confess that, as a man who has read some of the texts, as a soldier, and as a Christian, I cannot pretend to fully understand the controversy that separates the Greek and Roman Churches. But I will say that there is nothing I have ever heard in any of the arguments from Greeks or Latins that would justify a war, or even a coldness. It still seems to me, now that any chance of union is dead and buried, that the Pope’s position rested on his insistence that the Greek Church accept his authority unconditionally, which was never a position calculated to win him any friends in the east.
It scarcely matters now. But listen, all of you: in the autumn of the year of Our Lord 1367, it seemed that we had it in our grasp: victory over the Saracens; the liberation of Jerusalem; the Union of Churches. We were going to turn back the clock, rebuild the alliance of east and west, and change the world. What had the Green Count fought for, if not that? What had we all fought for?
Urban rose from his throne, raised his hand, and denounced the monks as heretics.
I was there.
When he was done, they were marched from the Pope’s presence and held in a side chapel awaiting his pleasure. I could see and even hear them from where I was – an allegory, if you like, of the role of the Greeks in Europe. The Pope turned on the count, although not with any anger.
‘We cannot fully express our disappointment,’ the Pope said. ‘We had thought that you were bringing us representatives of an Emperor contrite in his reflections, and instead you have brought us a dozen heretics burning with the righteousness of their own error.’
‘Holy Father, I beg your indulgence, but I promise you that the Emperor of Constantinople has given me his word—’
‘Whatever he promised you, he sent these argumentative schismatics …’
‘Holy Father, I beg your forbearance.’ Now, I had never heard the count use the word ‘beg’ in any context whatsoever, and I could scarce believe my ears. ‘Holy Father, the Emperor himself will present himself here, before your eminence, to protest his conversion—’
‘We will believe this when we see it,’ the Pope said heavily. ‘We have prayed, aye, and fought – against the Visconti, against the Lords of the Marches, against the English and the routiers, and against the Saracens. The last thing we need is further division within the Church of Christ.’
‘Holy Father …’
‘No more today,’ the Pope said. He made a dismissive gesture.
‘Holy Father,’ Amadeus said, stepping forward. I could hear the unaccustomed desperation in his voice, and despite our difference, in this I was very much on his side.
The Papal camerlingo and a number of other officers froze. The Pope’s acting gonfalonier stepped between the throne and Amadeus. Hands went to sword hilts.
That’s how it was, in October of 1367.
Amadeus, Count of Savoy, was not to be silenced by some glares. He leaned around the gonfalonier. ‘Holy Father, these men may speak their minds, but they have been sent by the Emperor to arrange for the union of the Churches.’
‘Let them submit!’ Urban barked.
I had never seen him like this. Not for the first time or the last, I wished for Pierre Thomas, risen from the grave. He knew both Churches intimately. And he knew the Pope.
Amadeus also knew the Pope. He’d had several audiences, and he had, in addition, contributed directly, or so I have heard, to this Pope’s election. Despite which, the Pope turned his head away from the Count of Savoy. His eyes wandered, and then …
The Pope’s pale blue gaze rested briefly on me. I could see the recognition in his eyes; I was wearing the surcoat of the Order. I have red hair, and I’m four fingers taller than most tall men – I tend to stick out.
I could not let the hope of the East die without a word in its defence, even if the advocates of the Greek Church were a pack of fools.
‘Holy Father,’ I said, with a reverentia all the way to my knee. I was thinking furiously. Fiore says I looked like a thunderstruck fool, and he was there. ‘Holy Father, I am only a soldier of Christ and not a theologian,’ I said. ‘But I have read the Bible and I have spoken to these worthy men …’
‘Did we not first meet you as a reclaimed sinner? A routier who had been saved by our legate in the East?’ the Pope asked.
‘Holy Father, you did.’
‘Even now, your brother brigands and robbers, rapists and arsonists, are making war against us in the Kingdom of Naples. Even now, our throne totters, and mercenaries and routiers would bring down the Kingdom of Christ. And you will speak to us about the Union of Churches?’
Well. He was looking at me – in that moment, he reminded me of my sick, angry old uncle. And that is the sin of anger, friends. He was, for the most part, a good man. But he was in the grip of rage. If he had been an archer or a page, I might have slapped him.
Instead, I did my best to marshal my thoughts like a constable reviewing unruly militia. ‘Holy Father, I will speak.’ Fiore says I barked it.
The hall fell silent. Even the Count of Savoy turned and looked at me.
‘Holy Father, Eminences, gentlemen, ladies,’ I said. I remember saying all the formal things while I tried to imagine an argument that would get through his anger and his desire for pre-eminence. I could only think of one. ‘I cannot speak as a theologian,’ I said. ‘But I can speak as a soldier.’
Some men laughed.
‘Holy Father, I know what it is to have my authority questioned. To have other knights, or perhaps lesser men, ask each other if I am fit to lead them. Even to have a senior knight of my Order tell me that I cannot lead, because I have not enough quartering in my shield, or enough years in the Order. And yet, I know so much about the habits of authority, Holy Father, that I know when the proper reply is a blow, and when the proper reply is a joke, a smile, or even a discussion.’
I didn’t have him; that is, he was not convinced. But he was listening. My knees and hands were trembling.
‘Holy Father, I have fought. I have fought at Alexandria, and at Jerusalem. I have fought throughout Syria and I have fought in Morea and in Bulgaria. I have fought alongside many Greeks, men who worship as these worthy monks worship. I have faced Mamluks and Turks and Arabs with these men at my side. I have heard their piety and their prayers. In the east, where Jerusalem is lost to us, there is a single bulwark to Christendom – decayed, less than it was, but still very great. This is the Christian Empire of the East, at Constantinople. If it falls, what then? And how can it hold without our help?’
‘Let them submit to our authority,’ the Pope said.
‘Holy Father, would you submit? I ask you not as Pope, but as a man. Would you submit, if you were Patriarch of Constantinople? Can we not save the empire first, and discuss Filioque later?’
When I said Filioque, half of the heads in the hall snapped round.
‘What do you know of Filioque?’ asked one of the monks in his Greek Latin.
The Pope leaned forward. He was listening.
‘I know that if you weigh all of the arguments ever made about the nature of God in one side of a balance, and put a Turk’s arrow on the other side, the arrow, even with a shaft of cane and a head of bone, will tip the balance,’ I said.
The Pope looked at one of the cardinals w
ho sat close to him.
‘Holy Father,’ I said, almost pleading. ‘Count Amadeus has lost friends, fortune and blood to bring you these men. I beg you to hear him, and them.’
The Pope rose to his feet. ‘This interview is at an end. I have been given much to think about, much over which I will pray. Please, all of you, take counsel with each other, and we will meet again.’ He made the sign of the cross, and it appeared to be made directly over the Greek monks. For their part, they all inclined their heads, apparently accepting the blessing.
The Holy Father left the hall, sweeping out in a rustle of long wool robes. The count approached the Papal seneschal, and the two of them stepped aside together, the seneschal’s hand on the count’s arm.
Brother Michalis stopped in front of me. He planted his feet like a fighter. ‘There is only the Truth, and God,’ he said in Latin. ‘Your wars are but shadows – your kingdoms are not the Kingdom of Heaven. We do not need your soldiers to save our souls.’
I stood in dumb silence.
‘Still,’ he said with a patronising shrug, ‘it is praiseworthy that you spoke for us, and put this man in a better frame of mind. We hear that his little kingdom is threatened with war.’ He shrugged.
‘I hope that your understanding of truth and God is better than your understanding of the minds and hearts of men,’ I said, in Greek. ‘Because for the most part, you sound like an arrogant prince, a tyrant of the Word, and not like a man of God.’ I struck with the Greek words, like a carpenter pounding in a row of nails, and he flinched, as I had intended.
‘I am not arrogant!’ he insisted.
My thrust had gone deep, I could tell, and I nodded my head.
I was moving to Fiore’s side when one of the many priests intercepted me. At least, I assumed he was a priest, although he wore a sword and a short cote-hardie and might, in fact, have been any soldier or knight I knew.
‘Messire Guglielmo le Coq?’ he asked, with a civil bow.
‘Si, Excellenza. E le?’ I asked, at my most cautiously polite.
He introduced himself, one of the many soldier-priests that surrounded this Pope. He turned his back on the Greek monks. ‘I have come at the behest of a prominent man,’ he said carefully.
Just like Avignon, that mare’s nest of intrigue.
‘Yes?’ I asked. The count was leaving, with Georges Mayot and Richard at his shoulders. He glanced my way and nodded coolly. I was the captain of his escort, damn it; I didn’t want to waste my time playing spies and courtiers.
‘Are you currently in the service of Giovanni Acudo?’ he asked, giving John Hawkwood his Italian name.
I looked at him carefully. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But I may be next spring. So please, no insults.’
He bowed. ‘There are no insults intended. It is a delicate matter.’ He looked around.
The count was being bowed into the courtyard. I had perhaps a minute before our horses were brought. I did not intend to leave my lord standing, not while Camus’s assassins were still a danger.
‘I must go,’ I said.
‘My lord would speak to you,’ my priest said with a bow.
‘Send to the convent of Saint Mary Magdalene,’ I said, turning.
The priest frowned. ‘Can you not—’
‘Not right now,’ I insisted, and I bowed, turning, and all but ran for the doors.
I left it a little late. Half the College of Cardinals was in the courtyard, and the famous Count of Savoy was already mounted. Even our dozen Greek monks were on their donkeys, and Fiore was slapping the beautiful white gloves I’d bought him against his armoured thigh in impatience.
They had Gabriel by the bridle – a pair of Papal pages, probably nobly born boys from Orvieto families. Gabriel was just at the base of the steps.
It was irresistible.
I trotted down the steps like a man-at-arms in a hurry. But I didn’t pause for Marc-Antonio or the mounting stool.
I leaped.
I got one hand on the saddle-bow and vaulted onto Gabriel’s back, with scarcely a groan. I was in full harness, and while I’ve done it before and since, I’ve never done it with a thousand men watching.
Make that a thousand and one. I turned Gabriel, and I saw that the Pope was standing at the grand windows in the central apartments overlooking the yard. I had a devil in me; I made Gabriel rear, and I touched my visor to the Pope.
He laughed aloud.
I turned Gabriel and trotted to the head of the column, where the count sat in emerald splendour.
‘You do like to draw attention, do you not, Monsieur Guillaume?’ he said. He gave a slight shake of his head, and we rode out of the Papal palace.
I was just getting all my armour off, with Marc-Antonio untying my laces and points, and Stefanos stacking the larger pieces on an oiled linen sheet while Demetrios got a start on wiping it all down with an oily rag, when a blond boy appeared with an old nun. The nun was more than a little scandalised to find me in a shirt and braes and an aging arming-vest and hose – fairly naked, by convent standards. But she stood her ground.
‘I am the doorkeeper,’ she said in good Latin. ‘This young man will not state his errand but says he has a note for you, my lord.’
I bowed to her and snapped my fingers at the boy. He bowed to the floor and gave me a parchment, folded tight and sealed with a violet wax seal.
As I expected, it was from the Pope, signing under his own name, Guillaume de Grimoard.
I turned to Marc-Antonio. ‘I need clothes – simple, brown. Also, I need an audience with the count, as soon as he can spare me the time.’
Stefanos began laying out my simplest travelling clothes: a brown cote-hardie with pale yellow hose, and a clean shirt. For quality, they were new and Venetian-made and fine enough. On the other hand, without my sword belt, I’d pass for any apprentice or under-master in Viterbo – if a little more fashionable.
The real advantage of good servants is that they are fast, they do not argue, and they behave, in a social crisis, like good soldiers in a military crisis. The Greek boys had been with me long enough to know how I wanted things. Marc-Antonio, leaving aside his lechery, was growing into the kind of squire men dream of, which meant, to me, that it was probably time to make him a knight.
I was dressed, just putting my magnificent sword belt over my plain clothes, when Marc-Antonio returned from the count’s apartments.
‘Any time, my lord. Immediately, if it suits you.’ He bowed.
I nodded.
‘Purse?’ Stefanos asked. I didn’t usually wear a purse on my sword belt. In Italy and France, gentlemen usually have people carry their purses, sometimes even their swords. They don’t wear them themselves. It is different in England, I know.
Regardless, I reached for a plain purse and slipped it on my fancy belt. I didn’t know how long I would be gone or whether I might need money. A visit to the Pope, especially when he represents himself as a private person, is a little like an empris or a deed of arms: you have to be ready for anything.
I walked down the short hall that separated my cell and the second cell that Marc-Antonio and I shared for two suits of armour, and found Monsieur Mayot on duty, fully armed. After the various attacks, we were alert at all times: one of us was always on guard in full harness, and everything the count ate was tasted, first by a little hunting dog named Alice, and then by Richard Musard.
Regardless, Mayot passed me into the little hall. The count was standing at the window, reading a letter. He raised a pair of parchment envelopes.
‘Two for you,’ he said, with a casual smile that told me I was in favour.
I knelt anyway. He nodded and beckoned me to my feet with a twitch of his hand.
He nodded again, clearly dissatisfied with something. ‘Speak,’ he said.
‘My lord, I have been summoned by the Pope,’ I sa
id.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You know the Pope?’ he asked.
‘I served Pierre Thomas,’ I said. ‘I have had two audiences with the Pope.’
‘And you just speak up whenever the mood takes you?’ the count asked. Then he shrugged. ‘Never mind my temper, monsieur. You did us no harm, and you may have done us some good, by speaking.’
‘As to that, my lord,’ I said, ‘may I speak freely?’
He made a face. ‘Not too freely,’ he said with an odd smile. ‘I think I would fear it, were you to speak too freely.’
I bowed.
‘Say your piece. I won’t bite,’ the count said.
I nodded. ‘My lord, you are the Count of Savoy – a relative and an old ally of Bernabò Visconti of Milan.’
The count glanced at Richard, and then back at me. ‘I am to be lectured on diplomacy by an Englishman, I find.’ He sighed. ‘And yet, you are no doubt correct. He thinks I am some manoeuvre of Bernabò’s. Sweet Christ, for an hour of honesty and straight talk in all this …’
‘My lord, the Greek monks say he feels at threat …’
‘And yet, of the two of us, I’m the one who the Prince of Achaea is trying to kill,’ the count said. He shook his head. ‘Why do you think the Pope summoned you?’
‘My lord, the Pope cannot be seen to debate with any man, much less with Bernabò’s brother-in-law. He sends for me precisely because he cannot debate with you.’
Savoy fingered his beard. ‘We can only hope,’ he said. ‘Go, with my blessings.’
Richard walked me to the door. ‘What possessed you?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Richard, could you bear to see those monks dismissed without a hearing? After all the crap—’
‘Oh, not that. You spoke brilliantly – I admired that,’ Richard said. ‘I mean when you vaulted into the saddle and stole the show like a mountebank at a fair. My lord the count goes to a great deal of trouble to be at the centre of things …’
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