She reached for the child and gathered him back into her arms. Then she turned and went through the abbey kitchens, leaving him to contemplate his empty Eden.
FORTY
I become thy man of such a tenement to be holden of
thee, to bear to thee faith of life and member and
earthly worship against all men … saving the faith
of my lord Henry king of England and his heirs …
—OATH OF HOMAGE FROM A 13TH-CENTURY
ENGLISH MANUAL
The king had not slept well. The day had finally come he’d been dreading for a sennight—September 23, the year of our Lord 1413. That was the date on the Royal Writ. The date by which Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, was to surrender himself to the king’s guards.
As Harry watched anxiously from the chamber window, part of him secretly hoped that his old friend would evade arrest, just as he’d circumvented the archbishop’s search warrant. But an order to surrender, signed by the king’s own hand, how could he evade that?
The Lord High Chamberlain entered the room, followed by an usher carrying a heavy tray. “A rasher of bacon and some poached pears, Your Majesty, just as you requested.” They laid the board close to the hearth, for the chill of morning still clung to the castle walls.
“There is a merchant seeking redress and that same Dominican friar and a—
“Send them all away. We are not taking petitions today,” Harry said.
He chewed halfheartedly on a piece of bacon while the chamberlain warmed his linen by the fire, and then he waved the whole away. Above the clatter of the usher’s clearing away, Harry heard the creaking of the portcullis and rushed to the window. Just a few carters with the daily delivery of goods.
“We are to be informed immediately of any noble visitors,” he said to the chamberlain.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He held out the king’s doublet. “Shall I bring your harp?”
Harry shook his head. He was not in the mood. “Some writing materials, perhaps,” he said as the chamberlain helped him lace his boots.
At midday, the chamberlain and usher returned with another tray.
Harry flung down his pen and scowled at the lines of poetry he’d crossed out. He raised the cloth on the tray and looked askance at the eel broth and fish pastie. “It is not Friday. Take this away and bring a veal pie and some pea soup.”
The chamberlain motioned for the cupbearer. “You heard the king,” he said gruffly, handing him the tray. “The Lord High Chancellor is without, Your Majesty.”
Harry sighed. “Send him in.”
Beaufort bowed his way into the room and they talked of taxes and campaigns against the French.
“Your Majesty seems distracted today,” Beaufort observed when they had finished.
“Has Lord Cobham surrendered?”
Beaufort frowned. “No, he has not. You will be informed, Your Grace.”
They shared a flagon of hippocras, then his uncle left, muttering under his breath.
Harry heard the portcullis groan again. Again he went to the window. He could see the Thames and the whole of London spread out beyond the wharf. Only a drover with a few cattle headed for the castle butchery crossed the dry moat into the castle. Their hoofbeats clattered on the wooden drawbridge. There would be a loin of beef on the morrow, he thought idly.
He sent for his lute, but the muse was still not in attendance.
When he looked again, the portcullis was open, but the entry was deserted.
In the afternoon, Beaufort came again with some papers for him to sign.
“Still no word, uncle?”
“You will be informed, Your Grace,” the chancellor repeated in his long-suffering tone. He gathered his papers and left, still muttering under his breath.
Harry considered calling for the falconer to take his peregrine hawk out on this glorious September day, but Sir John might come while he was gone. He slumped in his chair, noodling in his head how best to go after his knight if he did not surrender. The Welsh marches were the place to start, but there were a million hidey-holes where Merry Jack could hide, and he knew them all.
Dread descended on him with the encroaching afternoon shadows.
At sunset he heard a commotion from outside, the trumpeting of a herald’s horn. From the window he saw that a small crowd had gathered on the green, pointing and shouting excitedly into the distance.
Riders. Fifty or sixty, helmeted and armored, galloped in a cloud of dust across the drawbridge and through the curtain gate. A surprise attack! Surely not, with so few in number. Harry surveyed the horizon—no war machines creaking from the west, no cadre of archers descending from the east. No barges on the Thames. He was doing a quick count of his guards on duty—there should be at least six hundred, but he’d sent some to Calais— when he saw a herald carrying the familiar colors come into view.
Gules and cross argent. A silver cross emblazoned on a red background.
The pennant fluttered arrogantly in the breeze.
So. Cobham had come after all, with armed retainers, though hardly the hundred with which he had previously offered to defend his faith in trial by combat. Henry V was going down the same road as Henry IV—he was going to have to do battle with his own nobles. God’s blood! He’d known it would come to this. And of all his barons, for it to be Sir John who took up arms against him! He cursed Arundel under his breath.
“Close the portcullis!” the constable shouted as the riders thundered up. “Sound the alarm!”
A yeoman scuttled off to the bell tower.
Harry recognized the figure of Sir John in the lead, just behind the herald. The portcullis started to creak and groan, but the machinery was too slow. The mounted riders would be inside the courtyard in seconds, up the stairs and in the king’s chamber in minutes.
But just at the moment when he should have led his riders in, Sir John reined in his horse, took off his helmet, and tucked it under his arm. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun’s reflection off the curtain wall, and appeared to be searching the windows of the White Tower for the king’s apartment. Then he lifted his sword arm—and saluted.
Damn you, Jack! This is not some game. ’Tis the stake for you if you lose this time.
“Hold the portcullis. ’Tis the king’s man,” the constable shouted.
No, you fool, it’s a trick. But before he could shout a warning to the constable, Oldcastle turned and signaled his retainers to withdraw. Harry watched with grudging respect and a great measure of relief as his knight handed his sword to the constable and rode on through the portcullis alone.
Harry laughed out loud. The gesture was so like Merry Jack, proclaiming, This is a courtesy, to save you the trouble and embarrassment of coming after me. Sir John would know a challenge from one of the king’s nobles this early in his reign would be a hard draught to swallow.
But the smile soon faded. Tomorrow would be the trial. Harry had seen Arundel’s evidence, and it did not look good for Sir John.
At first light, Gabriel donned his priest’s robe for the last time and left his Lambeth quarters for Blackfriars. In the blackness that comes just before dawn, he’d prayed his Gethsemane prayer, but he knew this cup would not pass until he’d sipped from it. He only hoped he did not have to drink it up.
He steered his horse though East Cheap and was headed up High Street to Ludgate Hill when he saw the prison cart. His throat closed as he recognized its lone occupant. Sir John! Transported to his trial for heresy in an open hurdle, paraded through the streets like a common criminal. Gabriel had not expected such ignominious treatment for a nobleman. But, he reminded himself, this was how Arundel treated his enemies, and he might soon be numbered among them.
At this time of the morning, most of the churlish element were still abed. Only one, stumbling home from a tavern, yelled to nobody in particular, “ ’Twill be a hangin’ tonight.” Then he started to singsong drunkenly, “Hangin’ tonight, hangin’ tonight.” The good honest yeomen wh
o were about at this time of the morning gave the drunk a wide berth as he wove his way among the ditches, finally falling into one.
Gabriel paused to let the hurdle pass. Sir John looked directly at him, the expression on his face registering first surprise, then disappointment. Gabriel wanted to shout out some encouragement, to reassure him that the blackfrocked friar before him was no Judas. But this was not the time, not here in the public street.
The hurdle rattled past. Gabriel’s mount snorted and tossed his head, jangling the silver bells of his harness. Flinching beneath Sir John’s accusatory gaze, Gabriel looked away to avoid witnessing Sir John’s humiliation. He need not have worried. The old knight wore his humiliation like steel armor, his stance as proud and defiant as though it were he who rode the noble steed and Gabriel the prisoner’s cart. Gabriel turned his horse away, steering it to an alternate route up Ludgate Hill.
A few minutes later, he entered Blackfriars Hall and took his seat to the right of the council, opposite Sir John, who stood in the dock bound between sergeant and beadle. It was dim in the great hall after the bright September sun. Gabriel squinted as he scanned the crowd—mostly clerics and a few courtiers, curiosity seekers—for the king. Henry V had been Gabriel’s last hope. Ever since the news of Sir John’s arrest warrant, Gabriel had been trying to get to the king. But he’d been refused an audience again and again. Only Henry Beaufort, the chancellor, was present to represent the crown.
Three judges sat on a dais at one end of the hall. The one immediately on the left wore a Dominican habit. Gabriel recognized the prior of Blackfriars, who had been present at Gabriel’s own ordination. The cleric on the right, almost hidden in his elaborate dagged sleeves, he recognized as well. Commissioner Flemmynge, reveling in this plum assignment, proof of his growing favor with Arundel.
A rigged court, to be sure, but for all their ecclesiastical power, they could not stray too far from English justice if they expected the crown to carry out any sentence of execution. They could not do the burning themselves. Ecclesia non novit sanguinem. The Church does not shed blood. Easy enough to get around that little nuisance. Since Pope Lucius III in 1184, the Church courts had been handing over their condemned to the secular authorities. But they would need powerful witnesses to persuade a reluctant king. Gabriel felt the burden of his responsibility bearing down on him. Christ had not had a wife and child when he submitted to God’s will. What of Anna and their son?
In the middle sat Thomas Arundel, archbishop of Canterbury, a gloating expression on the sour face that floated like a pale oval above his furred cape and glittering pectoral cross. Arundel’s voice was as thin as his beard. “Do you know why you’ve been summoned before this ecclesiastical court, Lord Cobham?”
Sir John’s voice was deep and resonant. “I have some notion. And it’s not a charge worth answering, except that my king requested me to do so. I am a loyal subject, else I’d not have taken the time. I’ve more important matters to see to and holier meetings to attend.”
The crowd murmured, some few tittering. These would have cheered, Gabriel felt sure, had they dared.
Arundel sputtered. “Take care, sir, that you do not lean too heavily on your former association with the king. His Majesty will not hold your contempt for this court and for your Church in light regard.” He unfurled a scroll and intoned, “You are charged with disseminating the heretical sermons of John Wycliffe, holding Lollard meetings, and transporting and disseminating the banned English translations of the Bible both in England and abroad.”
“Have you any witnesses to prove this charge?” Sir John asked, looking straight at Brother Gabriel as Christ must have looked at Judas at the Last Supper.
“A profane English text of the Holy Scriptures was found in Paternoster Row. It contained a bill of sale made out to you. Do you wish to tell us where you procured such a text?”
Gabriel felt the words like a slap. He had not known of this evidence, which was enough to seal the man’s fate. It would be pure foolishness, he told himself, to sacrifice his safety and Anna’s and Finn’s for a man already condemned.
“I have no knowledge of which book you speak,” Lord Cobham answered. “I buy books from many sources. My household values books.”
Gabriel blessed the man’s courage. He was protecting the abbess, protecting Anna too.
Arundel smiled. “A recalcitrant memory sometimes may be prodded to be more … fruitful.”
More whisperings.
The archbishop continued. “There is one present in this court who will give testimony that you entertained large assemblies of Lollard heretics where Wycliffe’s sermons were read, that you further desecrated the mass by the reading of profane English Scriptures and denied publicly the miracle of the Eucharist. Brother Gabriel, please tell us what you observed at Cooling Castle.”
This was it. The telling time. Gabriel felt light-headed as he stood up and stepped forward. What manner of man was he? How far would he go in the service of truth? How much would he give up? He wasn’t sure what words would come out as he opened his mouth.
“I … I observed … both Lord and Lady Cobham to … to run a good and noble house, Your Excellency,” he said, in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Exemplary of that Christian hospitality for which Lord and Lady Cobham are well known.”
Arundel looked irritated.
“Yes, yes, Friar Gabriel. But it is not his hospitality that is in question.”
It seemed Gabriel had made his choice. If choice he’d ever had.
“I misunderstood, Your Excellency,” Gabriel said, keeping his tone even. “I thought his hospitality was exactly the question. You say he is charged with harboring Lollard priests. I never saw anyone turned away from Cooling Castle.”
“You saw Lollard priests, then?”
“I saw many priests. I myself was often entertained at Lord Cobham’s table, as I believe Your Excellency has been on occasion.”
“Do not mock this court, Friar. I warn you.” He raised his voice a notch and asked deliberately, slowly, “Have you ever witnessed a gathering of Lollard priests saying a Lollard mass and reading the English Scriptures in the presence of Lord Cobham?”
Gabriel heard the words as though they originated somewhere outside his head. All you have to do, Gabriel, is tell the truth. It is as simple as that.
He answered, surprised to hear that his voice did not waver. “I have not, Your Excellency. Any evidence that I might give in that regard would be rumor. And I’m sure the ecclesiastical court would not convict a nobleman of the realm on rumor.”
Arundel looked apoplectic.
A broad grin broke out on Sir John’s face.
“Brother Gabriel, have you ever seen a copy of a Wycliffe translation of the Bible at Cooling Castle?” Arundel asked, his high-pitched voice increasingly shrill.
Ah! Not simple after all. For here is a truth that works against justice.
Gabriel opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, wondering how to serve both truth and justice. “I—”
“Of course he has, Your Excellency,” Lord Cobham thundered. “I make no attempt to hide it. The Wycliffe Bible rests on a table in my solar, alongside a Latin Vulgate translation, so that all may read our Lord’s words. You do not need to quiz this brother. I will give you my confession of faith. I have nothing to hide.”
His answer filled Gabriel with both alarm and gratitude.
Sir John continued. “I believe that salvation comes through Christ alone without intermediaries.”
Arundel squirmed. This was good Catholic doctrine so far as it went.
“A careful answer, Sir John. But is it not true that you deny the miracle of the mass and the necessity of the confessional?”
More murmurings among the assembled onlookers.
“I do not deny the miracle of the mass.” He paused, as if weighing the cost of truth in his own scales, then thrust out his chin and said in a voice bold enough for those outside the hall to hear, “I deny that
the bread becomes the literal body of Christ in the mouth. I deny that the blood becomes the literal blood. They are symbolic of the sacrifice of our Lord. The miracle of the mass lies not in bits of flesh and blood, not in the baker’s and the vintner’s art, but in the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Arundel smiled and settled back in his chair.
“And the confessional?”
“A priest is merely a facilitator of confession. Every man and every woman can make his own confession to Jesus Christ without benefit of a priest.”
Arundel’s smile broadened. “And the Holy Father? The sacred relics? It is widely reported that you turned your back on the cross at the Easter processional.” Arundel’s whine had dropped almost to a whisper.
It was as though the whole room held its breath.
Gabriel closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.
“I believe that to put hope, faith, or trust in images is the great sin of idolatry. I declare any pope who sanctions the sale of relics and pardons to be the Antichrist. Such practices serve nothing for the granting of grace to unwitting sinners. They only serve to swell the purse of unscrupulous pardoners and the Roman treasury while duping sinners into hell.” And then he repeated loudly, lest any in the hall had not heard, “I declare any pope who sanctions the selling of Christ’s mercy to be the Antichrist.”
The onlookers gasped in one long collective intake of breath, followed by a few shouts of “Heretic, burn the heretic,” from the pardoners and friars. A few, having heard enough, began to edge toward the doors. Anxiety stirred the air in the hall, but Sir John seemed strangely calm. Gabriel envied him that calm, for he was suddenly seized with fear and the sure knowledge that his own arrest was imminent, to be followed by torture until he confessed to heresy.
He looked around the room for a way out.
Arundel was no longer smiling and was pale with rage. He banged his gavel upon the table. “Your own words condemn you as a heretic, Lord Cobham. We have no need of any other testimony.” He conferred briefly with the other two. “If you confess and submit, we shall give you absolution.”
The Mercy Seller: A Novel (v5) Page 44
