The flagellants moaned and sobbed at this dreadful news—though no doubt they had heard it before. Some of the Londoners joined into their frenzied wails. Restrained by my proximity to the prince, I made no noise, but this did not mean I was impervious to the terror of the proclamation. Fear wrapped around my throat like the coils of a snake and I found myself overcome by a sickly fascination with the flagellant’s words.
The master continued the scroll. Though our sins lay against us, the Blessed Virgin and the angels had interceded for us, begging the Son to supply mankind with one last chance. Moved by these appeals, Christ had agreed that if men abandoned their evil ways and did penance for their sin, he would postpone the fiery judgment they deserved. The land would bring forth its fruit again and the pestilence which polluted our land would vanish like the night air before the rising sun.
This was the penance that Christ had decreed. Those who wished to save the imperiled world must desert house, position, wife and family and join with the flagellant brethren. For thirty-three and a half days, they must proceed from town to town publicly performing the rites of self-flagellation in memory of the thirty-three and a half years that Christ suffered on this earth. Only through this act of contrition would Christ extend his mercy, the plague be lifted from our land, and the final judgment be averted.
“
Watch now, and see if these fanatics will gain any converts,” said the bishop of London, apparently unmoved by the awful threats of the letter from heaven. “In Strasbourg, after a performance such as this one, nearly a thousand men joined their brotherhood. But I do not think our English people are made of such craven or unnatural sentiment.”
He was right. The grand master of the flagellant order had begun to call for new recruits from the crowd, but though the spectacle had affected the Londoners, none were willing to offer their flesh to the flails of the flagellants. They shook their heads to the master’s repeated entreaties and kept their eyes uncomfortably on the ground. His vituperations grew wilder then, and he denounced them for a perverse generation who deserved the destruction that was to come. When this had no effect, the master ordered his men to resume their habiliments. Placing their white robes upon their bloody backs they returned the way they had come.
“
So much for these madmen,” said the prince. “You say that their heresy is a pernicious danger, father, but it seems that few are inclined to believe it.”
“
Aye, few in England,” said the bishop. “But their words are far more potent in the southern lands; they have turned many people against our Mother Church which—in their perverted minds—has nurtured the sin of the people within her own bosom. I hear that Pope Clement has outlawed their sect and Philip has forbidden them to practice public flagellation within French domains on pain of death.”
“
My father need make no such decree,” said the prince confidently. “Our English are too sensible a race to subscribe to such teachings.” The bishop nodded, but my countenance must have looked doubtful. The prince arched his eyebrows in concern or perhaps contempt. “How now?” he asked. “Surely, you do not believe their ravings, Potenhale?”
“
I hardly know what to believe,” I said truthfully. Behind the white hood of the flagellant master, I could feel the distorted face of my father reviling the sin of the world which had brought such judgment upon my innocent mother. A father’s grief is a more powerful demagogue than even the rites of the flagellants.
SEPT
EMBER
,
1349 – JANUARY, 1350
9
The continued virulence of the plague in our land seemed to confirm the words of the flagellant brethren. The prince retreated again to his lands near the Welsh border, and I, as usual, danced attendance on him. My duties were few. I served him at table, rode with him in hunting, and yawned in silence as he heard the complaints of his tenants. With little to distract me, I often fell into a dark and meditative mood. My father’s words hung heavily between my ears and the picture of the bloodied flails swung painfully before my eyes. If my father were right, I must forsake the world for the sake of the cloister. I must forswear my knighthood to swear the vows of a monk. I must choose between losing Margery—and every hope of bliss in this life—and losing my eternal soul in the life to come.
I confessed my fears to the prince one night—fears that our shedding of blood had caused divine justice to shed the blood of our people, and fears that a life of chivalry had unfitted me for salvation.
He stared at me curiously and fingered the new growth of his dark beard. “You are afraid then,” said he, “that I have required you to do deeds in my service that are worthy of damnation?”
I saw then that he had understood me not at all. “Nay, highness, it is not my service to you that I question, for you have always been a right honorable master. It is the service of every knight that I question, and the soul of chivalry that I doubt. Christ says He will know us by our deeds—what good can a man of the sword do?”
The prince modulated his voice patiently, like one explaining a lesson to a child. “There are three estates that men may hold in this world,” said he. “Some are men of the cloth, some are men of the field, and some are men of the sword. The man of the cloth saves all others by preaching God’s word. The man of the field saves all others by providing them with bread. And the man of the sword saves all others by warding them from the foe. Each estate is useful to the others, and each estate is honorable before God.”
I listened to his monologue with respect but with little confidence. His words were merely a mechanical recitation of arguments I had heard before. The prince was my master in many things, but in the understanding of holy things his birth gave him no advantage. “You say that my estate is honorable before God. Is it truly? I throw handfuls of guineas for a herald’s fee while the poor die hungry in the streets. I redden my sword with the blood of villeins to prevent the stain of cowardice on my scutcheon. I fight in quarrels that are not my own to gain a name for myself among men. Can God look kindly on one such as I?”
“
You are overwrought,” said the prince.
“
Better to be overwrought now then overwrought in the Day of Judgment! But while I am living, there is still hope. Until the plague has got a hold of him, a man may get a hold of heavenly grace and change who he has been for something better.”
“
Will you become a monk, then?” asked the prince in disbelief.
“
Perhaps,” said I, in a tone of misery.
The prince frowned. “Your father abbot will no doubt object to a certain crimson keepsake you carry about you; I hear tell that monks must mortify the desires of the flesh.”
“
Aye, there’s the rub,” I said, and my hand went instinctively to my bosom where I carried Margery’s favor. I sighed bitterly and hung my head. I had the words of two men to convince me—my father and the flagellant—but the prince and all the world continued to deny that the cause of judgment could be found within ourselves.
While these tormented thoughts crept through my mind like a crowd of lepers, the greater torment continued to afflict the land. The hand of the Almighty lay heavy upon us, and He proved to be no respecter of persons. Stratford, the archbishop of Canterbury, was struck down, and scarcely before a second could be raised up he also succumbed to the infection. When the monks of Canterbury met to bemoan the fallen and elect a third prelate, they chose Thomas Bradwardine, chaplain to His Majesty. The king was loath to let Bradwardine quit his side—indeed, the monks had proposed him ere now, and His Majesty had blocked the appointment—but he finally acquiesced to this nomination. Bradwardine repaired to Avignon to receive his pallium from the hands of Peter’s successor then returned to London to tend a dwindling flock. Despite fears of returning again to the unhealthy town air, the prince’s household made its way thither to receive the new archbishop’s blessing.
I, for one, was particularly glad of our journey to London. Bradwardine, of all men, would have the answer that I needed. Bradwardine could make distinctions the breadth of a hair. Bradwardine could split true from false as easily as cracking a walnut. But we had not yet reached the outskirts of the city before we heard the news. The plague had claimed its third archbishop. He was not dead yet, but a few days time would sort that.
“
Miserable Bradwardine,” said the prince, “to see the death of a beggar for the sake of a beggared see. His mind was too fine for this world, and where shall we find another like it?”
Without any further delay, the prince would have had us all return on the road we had just traveled. But I had come to see Bradwardine, and see him I would before the grave claimed him wholly. I begged the prince’s patience and besought his leave to desert his train for a day.
“
It is madness to go near him,” said the prince.
“
Then I must risk it,” said I, “for I am already half mad with uncertainty. And sick though he is, he may provide me physic.”
The streets of London were emptier than I had ever seen them, and I felt that the citizens there had succumbed to the same despair that held me in its grip. I cast about a bit, and collared a spare and threadbare journeyman striding intently past the wharf. At first, he hung his head disinclined to speak with me. But when I dropped a groat into his hand, his tongue loosened a little; he pointed out the place where the archbishop was housed.
“
But, sir,” he said, “you’ll not be wanting to go there, for the devil’s been there afore you.”
“
Then I’ll send him about his business,” said I, “for the devil’s no fit company for a cleric.”
I made for the house where Bradwardine was lodged and let myself in. The servants had all fled at the first sign of the plague, and there was no one to direct me to his room.
“
I am seeking Master Bradwardine,” I shouted. “Is anyone here?” First there was silence; then a faint rasping sound. I looked up to the top of the stairs and saw a corpulent body creeping slowly along the floor, pulling itself across the floorboards like an inchworm across the dirt. It was Bradwardine, devoid of his books, his vestments, and his dignities, as wretched as any simpleton who cannot count on his hands.
“
Water!” said his hoarse voice. “For Christ’s sake, give me water!”
There was a barrel with a dipper just outside. I filled the dipper and carried it up to him, and at arm’s length poured the water through his cracked lips.
“
God will requite you,” he said, and he gasped a little as he spoke. From here, I could see the little pustules that had formed about his neck, dark and malodorous like rotting plums. A panic seized me, and I wished to be gone before the pestilence should seize me as well. The wretched man spoke again. “I recognize your face, John de Potenhale, kind and young, and a little foolish as it always was. Why have you come here? Do you seek death? It is before you.”
“
I seek knowledge,” said I. “And if you die, it must die with you, for you of all men can most help me.”
“
I am past all help. I am past all knowledge.” He coughed a little, leaving a glaze of blood-tinged sputum on the floor beneath his face. “I go before the true and awful Judge, and what misery will be mine if my works are not approved. I have given my life to enigmas and equations, to futile argument and fruitless disputation. I have fed my philosophies but not the hungry; I have clothed my syllogisms but not the naked.
“
And you,” he continued, and his eyes grew large with terror, “are you not also in fear of the judgment? You are a man of blood, and will you approach the Almighty’s throne unwashed?”
Without my asking, he had poured out a draught of the knowledge I sought. “What must I do?” I asked, and in my fear of perdition I forgot my fear of the pestilence and gripped his plague-ridden shoulder.
“
What must you do?” he repeated, and his eyes grew wide and wild. “What
can
you do? The harvest has been gathered in and the grain must be separated from the chaff. Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand. Or repent not, for the kingdom has already passed you by.”
“
Is this the truth?” asked I, but he was raving now and I could not get him to answer me directly. “Is this the truth?” I demanded, and began to shake him in frustration. He closed his eyes and then opened them as if he had recognized me afresh.
“
What is the truth?” I asked, and I may have said it with a sob for my soul was a-prickle with terror.
“
Who can say what truth is?” he answered. “If it is true, it is false. If it is false, it is true. Have you not heard me say it? ‘This statement is a lie!’” As the insoluble rolled off his tongue, his parched mouth opened in a horrible, croaking cry. His eyes rolled back wildly into his head. He twitched suddenly, gave a little moan, and was silent. This may very well have been the end of him, but I did not stay to find out.
By fast riding, I rejoined the prince and his retinue before they had stopped for the night.
“
How is Bradwardine?” said his highness.
“
Dead, I think,” said I, and I gave a little shudder.
“
Then he did not resolve your troubles for you?” asked the prince.