The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass

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СКАЧАТЬ religion was most assuredly not going to make the best of conversational topics.

      Neville toyed with his wine goblet, not looking at Wycliffe, who ignored his own wine to sit stiff and straight-backed as he stared at his host.

      Margaret knew that Wycliffe, as well as his companions, John Ball and Jack Trueman, were enjoying themselves immensely.

      “So,” Wycliffe was saying in a clipped voice, “you do not disagree that those who exist in a state of sin should not be allowed to hold riches or excessive property?”

      “The idea has merit,” Neville replied, still looking at his goblet rather than his antagonist, “but who should determine if someone was existing in a state of—”

      “And you do not disagree that many of the higher clerics within the Church are the worst sinners of all?”

      Neville thought of the corruption he’d witnessed when he was in Rome, and the sordid behaviour of cardinals and popes. He did not reply, taking the time instead to refill his goblet.

      Further down the table, Courtenay exchanged glances with Tusser.

      “Over the years many men have spoken out about the corruption among the higher clergy,” Margaret said. “Why, even some of the saintlier popes have tried to reform the worst abuses of—”

      “When did you become so learned so suddenly?” Neville said.

      “It does not require learning to perceive the depravity rife among so many bishops and abbots,” Tusser said, his eyes bright, and all three priests present nodded their heads vigorously.

      Neville sent Tusser a sharp look, but the steward preferred instead to see his lady’s smile of gratitude. He nodded, satisfied that he’d made his stand known, and resolved to say no more.

      “You can be no defender of the Church, Lord Neville,” said one of the priests, John Ball, “when you have so clearly abandoned your own clerical vows to enjoy a secular lordship.”

      Neville transferred his hostile glare to Ball. He had remembered where he had met the man previously—at Chauvigny, in France, where the priest had openly mouthed treasonous policies. The man was in the company of Wat Tyler then, too.

      “Perhaps,” Ball continued, before Neville could respond, “you found your vows of poverty too difficult? Your vows of obedience too chafing? You certainly live a far more luxurious life now than you did as a Dominican friar, do you not?”

      “My husband followed his conscience,” Margaret said, hoping she could deflect Thomas’ anger before he exploded. She sent Wycliffe a warning look.

      “We cannot chastise Lord Neville for leaving a Church so riddled with corruption,” Wycliffe said mildly, catching Margaret’s glance. “We can only commend him.”

      “Then why do you not discard your robes, renegade?” Neville said.

      “I can do more good in them than out of them,” Wycliffe said, “while you do better at the Lady Margaret’s side than not.”

      Neville looked back to his goblet again, then drank deeply from it. Why did he feel as though he were being played like a hooked fish?

      “My lord,” said Jack Trueman, who had remained silent through this exchange, “may I voice a comment?” He carried on without waiting for an answer. “As many about this table have observed, the dissolution and immorality among the higher clerics must surely be addressed, and their ill-gotten wealth distributed among the needy. Jesus Himself teaches that it is better to distribute one’s wealth among the poor rather than to hoard it.”

      There were nods about the table, even, most reluctantly, from Neville, who wondered where Trueman was heading. For a Lollard, he was being far too reasonable.

      “But,” Trueman said, “perhaps there is more that we can do to alleviate the suffering of the poor, and of those who till the fields and harvest the grain.”

      “I did not realise those who tilled the fields and harvested the grain were ‘suffering’,” Neville said.

      “Yet you have never lived the life of our peasant brothers,” Trueman said gently. “You cannot know if they weep in pain in their beds at night.”

      “Perhaps,” Wat Tyler said, also speaking for the first time, “Tom thinks they work so hard in the fields that they can do nothing at night but sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

      “Our peasant brothers sleep,” Wycliffe put in before Neville could respond, “and they dream. And of what do they dream? Freedom!”

      “Freedom?” Neville said. “Freedom from what? They have land, they have homes, they have their families. They lack for nothing—”

      “But the right to choose their destiny,” Wycliffe said. “The dignity to determine their own paths in life. What can you know, Lord Neville, of the struggles and horrors that the bondsmen and women of this country endure?”

      Neville went cold. He’d heard these words before from the mouth of the Parisian rebel, Etienne Marcel. And what had those words brought but suffering and death?

      “Be careful, Master Wycliffe,” he said in a low voice, “for I will not have the words of chaos spoken in my household!”

      Courtenay, very uncomfortable, looked about the table. “The structure of society is God-ordained, surely,” he said. “How can we wish it different? How could we better it?”

      “There are murmurings,” Jack Trueman said, “that as do many within the Church enjoy their bloated wealth at the expense of the poor, so, too, do many secular lords enjoy wealth and comfort from the sufferings of their bondsmen.”

      “Do you have men bonded to the soil and lordship of Halstow Hall, Lord Neville?” Wycliffe asked. “Have you never thought to set them free from the chains of their serfdom?”

      “Enough!” Neville rose to his feet. “Wycliffe, I know you, and I know what you are. I offer you a bed for the night begrudgingly, and only because my Duke of Lancaster keeps you under his protection. But I would thank you to be gone at first light on the morrow.”

      Wycliffe also rose. “The world is changing, Thomas,” he said. “Do not stand in its way.”

      He turned to Margaret, and bowed very deeply. “Good lady,” he said, “I thank you for your hospitality. As your lord wishes, I and mine shall be gone by first light in the morning, and that will be too early for me to bid you farewell. So I must do it now.” He paused.

      “Farewell, beloved lady. Walk with Christ.”

      “And you,” Margaret said softly.

      Wycliffe nodded, held Margaret’s eyes an instant longer, then swept away, his black robes fluttering behind him.

      John Ball and Jack Trueman bowed to Margaret and Neville, then hurried after their master.

      Furious that he could not speak his mind in front of Courtenay and Tusser, Neville turned on Tyler.

      “And I suppose you walk with Wycliffe in this madness?”

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