“Yis.” The squire sighed. “What may ever last?” At which conventional sentiment, the three men burst out laughing.
“I have heard talk that Henry Bolingbroke may incline to Benedict. So Boniface writes to the king, ‘Age igitur,’ which is as much to say, ‘Do something.’ ” Geoffrey de Calis was alluding to the Great Schism of recent years, in which two popes had been elected by rival groups of cardinals.9 Richard II fostered the claims of Pope Boniface IX in Rome, while it was rumoured that Henry Bolingbroke would cast his allegiance with Benedict XIII of Avignon.
“I hear,” Swinderby was saying, “that Benedict wears the hair.”
“He is nothing but a hedge priest. A waterless cloud.” Oliver Boteler was a firm supporter of orthodoxy in religious matters. “Benedict’s bulls are fit only to cover mustard pots.”
“But Boniface chases our gold.” Geoffrey de Calis was less orthodox. “They say that he is a blind mole rooting about in earthly muck. The priests – saving your good self, William – bear the king’s gold out of our land and bring again dead lead.”
Swinderby graciously ignored the knight’s allusions to priests. “The mad nun has been singing a high song on the matter.”
“Oh?” The knight filled his mouth with mint. “Wherefore?”
“You must ask Dame Agnes. But I hear that Clarice fell into a fit at the time of vespers and saw in vision a beast with two heads. She prophesied that the Church would fall asunder, and that the crown of Richard would be forfeit.”
Oliver Boteler was repeating “tush” under his breath. “That nun is the devil’s left hand. Can she not be taken from Clerkenwell and walled?”
Swinderby smiled at this image of perpetual duress. “For one who thinks her a harlot, another finds her holy.”
“She is a jangler. Her wit is all away.”
“I cannot say whether it is this or that. But she moves the citizens marvellously.”
Tarts of apple and of saffron were placed upon the table, together with nuts and spices coated in sugar. The mawmenee was passed around in great jugs, a sweet wine for a sweet end. Then the archbishop rose from his central seat. He saluted them in order, “in high reverence and obedience” as he put it, and spoke of his incapacity. “Excuse me for my plain speaking,” he told them. “I never learned the arts of rhetoric, and all that I say must be bare and plain.” This was a conventional disavowal and did not at all reflect his ability, in the manner of the oratorical models, to match his voice and facial expression to his words. “The reason for which we have assembled here is a full heavy thing and a high matter, because of the wrong and the wickedness that have been done. We are troubled also because of the great damage that in the time coming may fall out in the same cause. Consider now the evil men of Lollers or Lollards, lewd and open fools fallen into blindness –” there was a general murmur of approval among the assembled Londoners, despite the known fact that the Lollard sect thrived in certain parts of the city. “These poor preachers of Lollardy do act plainly against Christ’s gospel. I can smell them in the wind. They are hypocrites and heretics who have brought fire down upon the precious places of salvation. Their lewd lust must be utterly quenched. These are black things that strike terror into us. It is well known among you that full two years ago the reverend bishops of both provinces petitioned the parliament house for a statute of burning –” again the London worthies signalled their assent. “The damnable blinding by antichrists of Christian people must cease in the flames. These devil’s jugglers who put out men’s ghostly eyes, and who lay Greek fire around our altars, should be put to the death. Now I turn to another high matter.” Archbishop Walden then surprised the company by revealing that “the nun of Clerkenwell” was being questioned by a group of learned clerks to determine whether her visitations were blessed or cursed; he prayed Almighty God to bring them wisdom. “I say no more but leave you to your dinner.”
That meal was then quickly completed, with cheese and white bread being cut and put upon the trenchers. The citizens rose in unison, bowed to the archbishop, and left in procession. The other worthies then departed according to their estate. The pieces of bread, cheese and discarded meat were put into voiders, to be distributed to the beggars who were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the stone chamber beside the hall. William Swinderby passed them with a grimace. “Do you have pepper in your nose?” one of them shouted after him.
Drago followed his master into the London air. He was a tall youth, with hair the colour of wheat; he had mild blue eyes, as if his head were filled with the sky. He was talking quietly to Swinderby as he followed one pace behind. “You have as much pity for poor men as pedlars have for cats, that would kill them for their skins if they could catch them.”
“Mea culpa.” The cleric’s pale face was suffused with sweat.
“You are purse proud. Piss proud.”
“Mea culpa.”
“You are an ape in a man’s hood.”
“Mea maxima culpa.”
“I will enshrine you in a hog’s turd.”
“Benedicite fili mi Domine.” He turned his head back, and looking imploringly at his yeoman. “Confiteor tibi.”
“You should be fettered and put in the pit.”
“Ab omni malo, libera me.”
They were walking down Cheapside towards the cathedral. A passer-by would only assume that the canon was murmuring his devotions. “A flagello, libera me.” It was clear, from the settled expression upon Drago’s face, that this was some customary ritual; in truth he had been taught his words by the canon himself. They passed through the Little Gate of St. Paul’s churchyard, in the
