"Like it or not we'll not allow you or anyone to stand in our way," retorted Henry Percy. And with that, the duke's honor guard pressed forward. Astonishingly, the crowd parted with little more than a protesting murmur.
Courtenay watched them brush past, metaphorical thunderbolts flashing from his eyes. Now he resembled a Plantagenet. It was there in the set of his mouth and in his bearing, which proclaimed quite clearly that humilité was as unfamiliar a concept to him as it was to his royal cousin.
Foot by foot, John of Gaunt's group made their way forward. Matthew stayed on the alert, looking for the glint of a weapon or an expression that appeared particularly crazed or murderous. Familiar faces, people he passed in the Strand or at Smithfield or strolling the Tower gardens—merchants, artisans, apprentices, the occasional cleric or dame. And of course yeomen, soldiers, veterans from the campaigns. He wondered suddenly whether Margery's stepbrother, Thurold, would number among them. Of course he would. Matthew was glad their residence was a safe distance away in case there was trouble, but the Shop of the Unicorn was nearby and hadn't Meg said something...
Stop!
Matthew willed all personal thoughts to go the way of his earlier images of Limoges.
Halfway there.
Almost there.
The doors of the Lady Chapel ahead.
Safe?
* * *
John of Gaunt's honor guard stood outside the Lady Chapel, pikes crossed in front of the door, barring entrance. Inside, Matthew and the duke's other retainers had formed an iron ring against the back wall with booted feet firmly planted, gauntleted hands laced in front of them, silently observing the unfolding drama.
Bishop William Courtenay had slipped away from the crowd at the entrance of St. Paul's and into the chapel via a side door. Now John Wycliffe, flanked by the Duke of Lancaster and the Marshal of England, was slowly crossing the paving stones to Courtenay, who awaited the trio at the top of a three-tiered stair leading to the altar. Trailing behind were the four mendicant friars.
Several bishops, designated to pass judgment upon Wycliffe, sat to the back of William Courtenay. The only one Matthew recognized was Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, who'd officiated at the Black Prince's funeral and often supped with John of Gaunt at the Savoy. With bushy eyebrows and an over-large forehead that caused his features to look as if they'd all slid down to rest between cheeks and chin, Sudbury could best be described as homely. No matter. Privileged position was far more important than comeliness, which was fleeting in the best of circumstances. Still, while Simon Sudbury must be uncomfortable being caught between the Bishop of London and Duke of Lancaster, he, like most of those present, was a skilled actor. Sudbury's only show of nervousness was the continual twisting of the huge bishop's ring topped by an enormous amethyst that sat upon his middle finger.
So here we are with the players all in place.
Matthew had lived long enough to be familiar with the intrigue so omnipresent in English and Bordelais courts. And, though he disdained such intrigues, he was astute enough to at least sense the resultant undercurrents now swirling around him. The posturing and words were just parts in a play, with each of the actors jockeying for dominance over the other.
How to interpret today's characters and their motives? It was obvious that William Courtenay, Bishop of London, and Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, were engaged in a power struggle, beginning with who would control these proceedings. Sudbury was a proxy for his man, the Duke of Lancaster, while Courtenay championed the Commons who had taken away so much royal power during the Good Parliament. Though Courtenay's plebian sympathies did not mean he was a friend of John Wycliffe. Far from it, for Courtenay considered the theologian to be a mortal threat to the natural order of things. While heresies were common in other parts of Europe, no Englishman had ever before attacked the Church and yet here was Wycliffe demanding that it be taxed, its monasteries dissolved, its property returned to its original secular owners and that all clerics be excluded from government office. Heretical rubbish!
The air felt far too close for Matthew, who was already sweating beneath his gambeson. He had little use for bishops in general and these in particular with their scarlet robes pooling about them like grotesque splotches of blood—Nay. Like bullfinches, with their bright red breasts and timid song, he assured himself with a mental shake.
He refused to let his mind drift to all the blood that coursed through his nightmares. What with the hostile crowd beyond the Lady Chapel's walls, the current situation could spin out of hand and 'twas his duty to protect not only his liege lord but everyone involved in this unfolding drama.
He was glad Robert Knolles stood beside him. A tougher, more battle hardened knight did not exist in all of England, perhaps even on the continent. Knolles' mercenary activities had made him a wealthy man, though he'd recently been stripped of lands and fined 10,000 marks for leaving English troops stranded on hostile shores to be picked off by the French. The shortage of rescue ships had not been Knolles' fault but he'd accepted the setback as he did his victories, with a shrug and a scowl.
Fortunes wax and wane, his attitude seemed to say, and I'll survive it all.
How? Matthew wondered, before blinking hard and forcing his attention to the two prelates, Courtenay in his miter and Sudbury in robes that made him appear the size of a pavilion. What was it about bishops, nay, most of the religious above the rank of village priest? Every bit as ambitious as their civilian counterparts, they tried to hide their lust for power behind false piety, donning their sanctimony the same way they donned their palliums and finely worked chasubles. And as easily discarding it.
Matthew had to admit that, if he were a pondering sort, some of Wycliffe's complaints were worth a ponder. Two in particular nagged him. The first dated back to 1349 and the Great Plague. Wycliffe's native county was the West Riding of Yorkshire, where two-thirds of his fellow countrymen had perished during those bleak days. Wycliffe was not the only one who had noticed that it was the clergy, in West Riding and elsewhere, who had been hit hardest by the pestilence. Harder than the peasants and their lords, the elderly, pregnant women, even infants and children. The Oxford scholar's explanation had been that the Death had been a particular punishment for the corruption of the clergy. God had thus singled them out for their wickedness.
'Twould seem so. For what other reason could there be?
The second ponder dealt with the end of the world, not a surprising subject to turn one's mind to in the aftermath of an event that had annihilated so much of England. John Wycliffe preached that the end was imminent, or at least would visit itself upon mankind before this, the fourteenth century, drew to a close.
For Edward our prince the end of the world came with his death, Matthew thought. And the end of the world will soon come for our king. And at times it does feel as if the rest of us are hurtling toward some horrific cataclysm.
Matthew was familiar enough with Wycliffe's teachings, for his liege lord often expounded upon them, to know that the theologian also preached predestination. Which made a certain amount of sense for, judging by the trajectory of Matthew's life, he figured he could chart the inevitability of his damnation from his time in his mother's womb to Limoges... and beyond.
John of Gaunt, Henry Percy, and John Wycliffe halted at the beginning of the first stair. In his plain black gown, with his white beard, ascetic face and fragile build, John Wycliffe did not look like a mortal threat to anyone.
William Courtenay slowly descended the altar steps and halted a few feet in front of the trio, still on the bottom stair so he loomed above them. Matthew wondered whether Courtenay would be oblivious enough to extend his hand for his ring to be kissed, an act that would surely set Wycliffe on fire.
"Your Grace, Lord Percy," Courtenay said, formally acknowledging them. He kept one hand at his side, the other wrapped around his crozier. "Master Wycliffe," he finished with a nod.
Sunlight streamed from tracery windo
ws upon the scarlet and white spill of the bishops on their benches, clearly etching their lined faces, all appropriately grave, and the grey or white hair rimming their zucchettos. In St. Paul's nave beyond, the humming of the crowd provided a constant reminder of potential danger. Beside Matthew, Robert Knolles shifted position and muttered something that Matthew didn't catch beyond "Bloody hell."
John of Gaunt and Henry Percy settled into a pair of nearby chairs that had been arranged for that purpose. The mendicant friars disappeared into the shadows.
John Wycliffe remained standing.
Gesturing toward a chair, Henry Percy addressed John Wycliffe. "Sit." When the scholar didn't immediately respond, the marshal favored him with a benevolent, though forced, smile. "You have much to reply to. You'll be in need of the softer seat."
"Aye, do ease yourself," chimed in Simon Sudbury, speaking for the first time. "We have many questions—which I am sure you will most ably answer." He smiled benignly though his fingers continued worrying his ring.
William Courtenay frowned. "This is impertinence. The accused must stand to give answers."
"I think not." John of Gaunt sat straight as an arrow, his gaze sharp upon Courtenay, who returned his glare. "Master Wycliffe's examination might take several days. He is old and frail. He needs his own chair."
Here was a second play of power, among Courtenay, the duke, the marshal, and the scholar. Or more accurately between two men—Bishop William Courtenay and John of Gaunt.
Ostensibly about whether a man should stand or sit.
"You have no authority in my church," said Courtenay, unaware that his possessive use of "my" perfectly illustrated one of Wycliffe's complaints. For surely St. Paul's Cathedral belonged, not to the Bishop of London, but to all God's children.
"There is no need—" Simon Sudbury began, seeking to act as peacemaker, only to be interrupted by John of Gaunt.
"I do not intend to bow to your dictates, Your Excellency," the duke said, making the customary form of address sound an insult. He then turned his head and sotto voce addressed Percy. "If needs be I might just drag Courtenay from St. Paul's by that straggling mess he calls his hair. What think ye?"
Hearing John of Gaunt's threat all too well, Courtenay's face flushed. But since holy men were not supposed to succumb to the sin of vanity and they were in the Lady Chapel to uncover Master Wycliffe's heresies, he stayed focused.
"You have proven yourself a loyal patron to Master Wycliffe, Your Grace. Does that mean you support his attacks upon our church? His call for the dissolution of monasteries? His diatribes against our monks, who he has labeled pests of society and enemies of religion?"
The drone beyond the Lady Chapel had grown to a roar, like that of the avalanches that had plagued Matthew and the rest of the duke's army during their March to Oblivion. Inwardly, he shuddered and thought once again of Margery, who he was sworn to protect—as he had been sworn to protect his dead brother. Had Meg mentioned that she was returning to the Shop of the Unicorn to go over accounts? Matthew couldn't remember. He should have paid more attention; he should have ordered her to stay off the streets.
Jesu, what is wrong with me? Can I not properly perform my duties on behalf of anyone?
Bringing the quarrel back round to its beginning, John Wycliffe finally spoke. "I do not mind standing. And I am eager to speak God's truth, no matter how long it takes. In fact, I welcome the debate."
Matthew expelled his breath on a weary sigh. If the ecclesiastical trial went forward this was bound to be a long day. Part of many long days. It was not as if the Oxford scholar had been chary in his writings or pronouncements. Why the need for further debate when Margery might be in danger and William Courtenay considered John Wycliffe a threat to the church while John of Gaunt touted him as a needed reformer?
That's the crux of it, isn't it? And whether there is any room for compromise?
Courtenay's gaze bore into the duke's. "Do you deny as Master Wycliffe does, the validity of purgatory? His contempt for pilgrimages and the granting of indulgences and his ridicule of the efficacy of prayers to our saints?"
Matthew's attention, which had once again drifted to Margery's potential whereabouts, snapped back to the present.
To the rising cacophony from outside the Lady Chapel.
To Simon Sudbury twisting, twisting his bishop's ring while his eyes shifted repeatedly from Courtenay to the duke and back again.
To William Courtenay and the bench of bishops who billowed on either side behind him so that by a trick of distance he appeared to have sprouted enormous red wings.
"Do you agree, Your Grace, with Master Wycliffe's interpretation of the doctrine of transubstantiation—"
John of Gaunt leapt to his feet. "Enough, Bishop. Let me speak!"
The shouting beyond had reached fever pitch. Matthew listened for the pounding on the doors which would signal that Gaunt's pikemen had been overcome. He looked around to see if there was an exit other than the one through which they'd entered.
Catching Robert Knolles' eye, he nodded toward a narrow door, barely noticeable in a shadowy corner at the far end of the chapel.
"Aye," breathed Knolles, then caught the attention of the knight next to him as did Matthew to the man on his right.
"I have listened long enough," shouted John of Gaunt. "You seem to be relying overmuch on your noble birth to advance your quarrel." Readying to respond, Courtenay drew himself up to his full height but the duke rushed on. "You are exactly what Master Wycliffe preaches against."
"How dare—"
Lancaster bellowed, "Do not speak!"
And then the reason for John of Gaunt's own personal anger against William Courtenay was laid bare. The Good Parliament. For nearly a year, John had nursed his grievances against those who had hurt his family. As became obvious with his next words.
"When my brother the prince lay dying, you and the rest of those traitorous Commons terrified my father by threatening him with losing his throne. You well know his history, the history of his sire and yet you dared stir up ancient ghosts—"
"We merely wished to remove King Edward's greedy harlot and his corrupt councilors—"
"How convenient for you, and how proud you must be to bully a man who has done more good in one day—even in his present unfortunate state—than you in your entire duplicitous lifetime."
Crash!
Matthew flinched for he'd thought the crowd had breached the Lady Chapel. But William Courtenay had simply slammed his crozier upon the stair.
Ignoring the bishop's attempt at regaining control, Lancaster rushed on. "I will never forget nor forgive what you did to my brother and my father."
Despite the outside din, the Lady Chapel suddenly stilled.
There it was.
Bishop Courtenay had disrespected, humiliated and terrified those who John of Gaunt held most dear.
Matthew unsheathed his sword and looked to Robert Knolles and the others, who were also in the process of removing their weapons.
With his next words, the duke took what might have begun as a personal quarrel to the next level, the level that exposed the private fears of each of the bishops who'd thought to stand in judgment of one errant scholar.
"I will make you bend," said John of Gaunt, his voice now menacingly soft. "You and all the rest of England's bishops."
A collective gasp emerged from the scarlet sea. Simon Sudbury ceased fiddling with his signet ring and gazed at the duke with open-mouthed horror. William Courtney clutched the pectoral cross around his neck, which contained a relic of the true cross, as if that might protect him from the duke's implied threat.
"By the rood," Matthew breathed, finally understanding. Here it was, the heart of a political quarrel he'd only dimly grasped. Two of England's greatest, one a member of the church, one of the nobility, were engaged in a primal struggle. One in which Thomas Becket and Henry II had also been engaged. As had many Matthew had never heard of, going back into the mists of time.
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Today's quarrel was about one thing.
Power.
Spiritual vs. temporal.
And who—church or state—would wield the ultimate power?
A howling from beyond the doors.
Matthew recalled certain intimate supper conversations when John of Gaunt, who was both knight and scholar, had felt free to expound upon his complaints. What had the duke said? That Christ had never given temporal lordship to the Pope and had certainly never granted him supremacy over the king? That it was wrong for the Pope in Avignon, a Frenchman residing in a country with which England remained at war, to receive five times more revenue than his own father, the king?
Matthew had heard all that and more, though he'd largely listened with half an ear. I should have paid attention. His fingers squeezed the grip of his sword. Another mistake.
The noise from the nave was deafening. While the mob had not breached the doors, the banging on the walls was an indication that the moment was at hand.
Matthew, Robert Knolles and the other knights stepped forward.
Our turn: to protect.
Which meant getting them all, priest and lord alike, out of the Lady Chapel alive.
* * *
So there it was. There would be no hearing against John Wycliffe, not at this time. Following Wycliffe and the other's escape, William Courtenay had lost his hold over the remaining bishops and the matter of an ecclesiastical trial was pushed into the background.
There were more immediate problems to attend to.
The day after the incident at the Lady Chapel, London's rabble ransacked Henry Percy's residence and released a prisoner whom Percy had kept in the stocks for uttering words against John of Gaunt. A black monk, also friendly to Gaunt, was labeled a traitor and murdered on the spot.
Afterward, the mob headed for the duke's Savoy Palace, where he and Percy, oblivious of the danger, were dining with a wealthy Flemish wool merchant. Hearing the mob, the trio had to hurriedly exit through the back, toward the Thames, where the duke's luxuriously appointed barge was docked. There John of Gaunt, increasingly concerned for the safety of England's heir, made for Kennington, the residence of Joan of Kent, his dead brother's widow, and where young Richard was in residence.
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