Dai laughed. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘one more now, and a holy man at that. It’s very welcome you’d be, Brother, and who knows? You may be needed for nuptials as well as a funeral.’
‘Nuptials? Ah, you mean your two angels – the girl with pale gold hair and the boy with golden curls. Yes.’ He was smiling, remembering. ‘Two innocents together, and the boy all the better for a gentle creature to protect, perhaps?’
‘It’s not much you miss now, is it, Brother?’
‘The target was too large to miss. I would be very grateful for your company. I admit, as well, to being intrigued by you all and would like to know more of you. But before we go to our beds, come Giles, time now to hear what you have to tell me of your brother,’ said Brother Jerome. He prodded gently. ‘You promised me.’
Giles sighed and shuddered. ‘Dai, Thomas, don’t go. You should both hear this. I owe it to you both. Especially to you, Thomas.’
‘You owe us nothing,’ said Dai.
‘Then I would like you to know. Brother Jerome has asked it of me. He was a friend to my brother, and a friend to me.’ Giles the Marcher, the land of in-between; Giles the laconic, the uncommunicative, the unemotional whose language was measured and whose actions were deliberate but who was always ready for action. Only once had they seen him speak impulsively in praise of the ‘bright fiery star’, Kazan. Now, his voice was deadened and his face blank as he readied himself to tell his story.
21
Giles’ story
‘I have four brothers and two sisters, all of them older than me. The brother of whom we speak was nine years older than me. He was not the eldest and so when he begged my father to be allowed to go to London, to Greyfriars, to study theology, my father was content. We had not huge wealth. We were comfortable, that is all – as comfortable as one could be at that time, living as we did in the Marches and threatened by the armies of both Isabella and Edward. My father probably thought Simon, my brother, safe enough at Greyfriars and an uncle – my father’s brother – lived nearby. My father was persuaded as well by my brother’s account of St Francis’ conversion from the sinful rich boy glorying in wild parties and knights and battle to a saintly life of care for the poor.
‘I was ten years old when he went away and I missed him. He was a wonderful older brother. He always had time for me, and took my part when my other brothers tormented me. I was the baby of the family, you see, and they never let me forget it. I lived for the times he came home, and so did my mother, though she was careful to hide it from the rest of us.
‘But at Greyfriars Simon met with William of Ockham, newly arrived from Oxford and full of philosophies and controversy, and Simon joined in the discussions and disputes. He was a great thinker himself – always had been – but once he had come to a decision he would not be moved. And neither would William of Ockham. Before two years had passed, Ockham was called to the Franciscan chapter meeting to explain himself. It was held in Bristol that year, I remember, not so far from our home and I had hopes that Simon would spend some time with us. But he didn’t. His place, he said, was with William of Ockham because he faced a charge of teaching heresy.
‘Father was furious. He said he was not wasting good money for his son to turn heretic. He demanded that Simon return home immediately but Simon refused. Worse, when William Ockham was called to Avignon to be investigated, Simon gave up his learning and went with him.
‘At first, all seemed well. They stayed at the Franciscan convent and Simon assisted William Ockham in his work – his writings – and the investigation did not condemn his views as heretical. It even seemed as if the breach between my father and my brother might be healed but it was not to be.’
‘I remember this time very well,’ said Brother Jerome. ‘It was when I first met with your brother, when I was visiting our brothers of Avignon. You and your father came that spring, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘I remember there was a quarrel.’
Giles sighed. ‘A friend had brought my father news of the controversy raging in Avignon between the Franciscans and Pope John.’
‘Ah yes, that vexed question of property.’ Brother Jerome smiled at Dai and Thomas. ‘There are those of our calling who believe that Jesus and the Apostles owned no property at all, and lived their lives according to this principle. I myself have no money, I own nothing. I live entirely on the generosity of others – such as yourselves, and your gift of tonight’s meal. In return, I give what service I can. It was God’s will that I arrived in time to perform the rites for the little one. But these others held an absolute belief in the rule of poverty. The Pope would not accept the doctrine and matters became…difficult.’
‘My father thought Simon to be in danger and he was right, as it turned out. It came to a head when William of Ockham stated that in his considered view the Pope was himself a heretic. Simon said it took Ockham by surprise, but though he went over and over his findings, each time Ockham came to the same conclusion: Pope John was himself teaching heresy and should abdicate. My father and I visited Simon in spring; when you were visiting the friary, as you say, Brother Jerome. Simon was obdurate. He held by Ockham’s views and swore he would stand by him and, if need be, die for the truth. Father raged at him but that had never had any effect on Simon and nor did it this time. I wept, I confess it, and begged him to return home with us. I reminded him of our mother, and her grief, but he said he owed his allegiance to a higher power. He would answer to none other than God himself and his Son, our crucified Christ. Jesus was in his heart and his eyes and his ears and his mouth and his hands. He was wearing the brown robes of the Franciscans but he said he would have otherwise stripped off his clothing, as St Francis did, returning everything to his earthly father and calling only God his father, as the saint had done.
‘And I suppose you would have taken money from me as well, as your saint did from his father,’ my father said, and his words were bitter.
‘Indeed, it is my great regret that I did not do so. You have more than enough. I know a dozen families who have more need of money than you.’
‘So we left him. Father said there was no more to be done and he washed his hands of him. He would no longer look on him as his son, and I should no longer look on him as my brother. I was sixteen years old and my brother twenty-five and in the prime of his life.’
‘I remember this. Your brother was very cast down by the quarrel but he would not change his mind, though some of us tried to persuade him that he owed his earthly father obedience. I left soon after to return to Assisi. I only heard the news some months later.’
‘The news? Ockham’s escape?’
‘Yes. We heard that Ockham and his friends had escaped from Avignon one night in May.’
‘We heard this also and we thought at first that Simon had escaped with him. But this wasn’t so. A message was smuggled to us: he had been arrested and was on trial for his life.’
For the first time Giles’ voice faltered. He had spoken without emotion, recounting bare facts. Now, his voice was shaking as he continued. ‘My father was as obdurate as his son; he would not be moved from his decision. He had renounced his son and he would renounce me if I went to him. He left me with no choice; I had to go to my brother. If I could not persuade him to recant at least I would be with him to the end. It was my poor mother who secretly gave me money and items of jewellery that she said would bring a fair price. I would need money.
‘When I arrived in Avignon it was to find that Simon was cast into prison. I was allowed to see him – it was hoped I would change his mind; that he would recant. I knew my brother better than that. He was in a pitiable state. He was not allowed to sleep but was kept always awake, with the continual dripping of water from the ceiling of the prison on to his body. He was subjected to taunts and insults. He suffered. How he suffered. And all for his faith.
‘When he was taken before the magistrate he said only, “I will die for truth.” Truth! What truth? He sai
d he would die for Christ but what Christ? What is this God that allows such terrible deeds?’
‘Hush, my son. You must not say so. That is blasphemy.’
‘You have your beliefs, Brother Jerome, let me have mine. He would not choose to recant but went to his death. “I will die for Christ,” he said, but does Christ truly demand our suffering and our death? Didn’t He suffer and die that we may live? Isn’t this what the holy fathers preach, day after day?
‘I watched the procession through the meadow and the town. I heard one woman cry out, “Martyr of Christ, you shall receive your crown!” But she was not the one going to the stake.
‘And then – ah then – he was taken into the hut where he was to be burned and he was bound to the stake. He sang the Te Deum. His voice came to us standing outside. And then the fires were lit and smoke and flames engulfed all. He burned. He burned. And after, we saw his face was towards heaven and his mouth was open, still chanting praise to the Lord.
‘After that, I did not return home. I could not bear to look my father in the face without blaming him though, in truth, there was nothing he could have done – except he should never have renounced his son. Never. For that I could not forgive him. They say my brother was a martyr who died a martyr’s death and who is now a saint but I have no love for a God who would allow an innocent to die such a death. A terrible death. And Ockham escape to enjoy long life. This God shows no justice.’
‘Your brother was indeed a good man, a martyr, God’s warrior. His beliefs live on. Believe me, my son, though it is difficult to hear God’s word in these times.’
‘What did you do?’ Dai asked quietly. He thought of the bereft boy Giles had been, too young to be adrift from his family.
‘After? I went as a mercenary for some years. I’d always been proficient with sword and bow. It didn’t matter to me whose army it was, nor who was in the right of it. As if anyone cared about right! It seems to me that all any of these great men care for is wealth and power and land.’
‘There’s truth enough in that,’ Dai said, drily.
‘After that, I met another good man.’ Giles gestured towards the dark man sitting silently by him. ‘Thomas Archer. He needed a bodyguard, a man-at-arms, a squire, a man-of-all-trade.’ The look that flashed between them spoke of long friendship, of trust and loyalty. ‘He chose me. And I have been his man since that time.’
‘As Sakoura would say, lucky you were in finding a good master. And it has been my good fortune to have you both with me on this journey.’ Dai was silent a long moment. ‘I am very sorry for your brother. Very sorry. Such an end – and you no more than a boy yourself. No older than Rémi is now.’
‘Or Kazan,’ Tom added.
‘True.’ Dai sighed. ‘God grant they suffer nothing like this; their lives have been hard enough. God knows.’
‘And Pope John has been dead these past five years.’ Brother Jerome gazed into the red embers of the fire. ‘Only God and his Son know what purgatory he suffers. He has many souls on his conscience. I shall pray for yours, my son.’
Tom said, ‘I wonder what our firebrand would say to your story?’
Giles laughed bitterly. ‘No doubt share with us the good Nene’s wisdom.’
‘Perhaps so. I wonder…’ Tom was silent again. All these years and he had known nothing of this, only that the young man Giles, who had served him so loyally, was strong and skilful and unwearying. Tom thought of the black moods that dogged him, and how Giles never reproached him, was never impatient. He stirred. ‘Perhaps the good Nene would say that to deny Christ is to deny your brother’s faith? And to deny your brother’s faith is to deny him, and your love for him. “Each to his own,” remember?’
‘Is that what Kazan told us? I had forgotten.’
‘“Find gladness in your living,” That is what Kazan said. “It is in gladness that you worship and honour the life God gave you and for which you are intended.”’
Brother Jerome raised his eyebrows. ‘That was well said. And by the young boy with the golden eyes?’
‘There was a wise woman living with his tribe; these are her words.’
Brother Jerome was thoughtful. ‘And you remember these words by heart?’
Tom’s dark face reddened. ‘They are good words to remember, Brother.’
‘Indeed they are. You should take comfort from them, Giles.’
Dai had been silent. Now he asked, ‘Why did the rest escape that night and not your brother?’
‘He was with a poor family who feared their youngest would die. They had asked Simon to pray for the boy.’
‘So…he did not know of the escape?’
‘He knew but he would not leave the child.’
‘Did the child live?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your brother’s choice, then, was to give his life for the little one. As you all chose today to risk your lives for those poor wretches of slaves,’ Brother Jerome reminded them.
Giles smiled more easily. He exchanged glances with Tom. ‘It’s Dai here who would have risked all to rescue them.’
Dai grunted. ‘Put you all at risk, you mean?’ He sighed. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, slowly, ‘that it’s yourself you have to live with. Yourself and your God, if you like. Suppose your brother Simon had recanted? Had been saved from the fire? What then? What would his life have been then?’
‘Hell,’ Giles responded. ‘The burning fires of Hell while still on this earth. He would have betrayed his Christ just as surely as that other Simon did.’
Silence settled on the group by the fire and with it the noises of the huddled shapes of the sleepers sounded louder: snores and mutters; a teeth-grinder; a whistler; one who always farted in his sleep. The girl and the woman lay separately in the furthest corner. Kazan was curled next to Niko, both half hidden in a huddle of quilts.
‘Time we were abed ourselves,’ Dai said.
22
May earth and sky be my witness,
May mighty God be my witness
Let my life be sacrificed for yours.
(Book of Dede Korkut, c. 9thC)
The old men of the town were right: by morning, the storm had blown itself out. The lake was flat calm, unruffled, reflecting a sky that was clear, light blue. The air was icy and the mountain tops were white. ‘Snow,’ they said and shook their heads. It was too early in the year for snow; it was a bad omen.
Certainly, the morning brought unsettling news: messengers had risked all to travel through the savage night to bring word of a landslide in the valleys below Seydişeyhir that had blocked the road. A caravan had turned back, three of its cameleteers killed in the rush of falling earth that swept two camels away. The route was impassible and there was a risk of more slips.
‘They are saying the fates are against us, Dafydd.’
‘So I have heard. You do not believe such things but maybe, Twm, the fates are pushing us to the Eğridir route. What do you say to this?’
‘I say you are playing with me, Dafydd the Welshman.’
‘Am I now? Who knows what fate waits for us but Almighty God himself?’
Twm rolled his eyes. ‘Almighty God – and you – knows it means so many more miles, so much time lost.’
‘Careful, Twm, heresy! And the good Brother all but within earshot.’
‘The Venetian fleet will surely have sailed by the time we reach Attaleia.’
Dai sighed. ‘Maybe so. There is nothing we can do about it, Twm. Our holy man would advise us to leave it all to the good Lord.’
‘I thought you, like Giles, had ceased to believe in a good Lord.’
‘There’s always room for faith.’ Dai smiled. ‘After your words last night, I thought you had faith enough for all of us.’
Twm’s face was stiff. ‘Giles needed comfort. It seemed to me the old woman’s words might give him that.’ He stopped. Dai waited. ‘Giles asked me if he had brought shame on himself last night. Shame on himself and, because he is my man, on me. He aske
d me that!’
Dai waited.
Shame on me, thought Thomas, when I am the one who carries shame with me always. His jaw was clenched.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘He had brought no shame. His honesty and love for his brother brought only honour.’
Dai nodded. ‘That was well said now. Did it satisfy him?’
‘I think so. He seemed easier in himself for the telling of his story. And what a story! How could any man hold faith in the face of such a death? I could not. Could you?’
‘I think none of us know until we are tested.’ Dai watched Twm’s brooding face.
‘Kazan says you know all our secrets.’
‘Kazan is wrong. I know we all have secrets.’ Dai’s lips twisted. ‘By the time we’re safe bound for Venezia, maybe he’ll have all our secrets out of us.’
Twm grunted. ‘Maybe he will at that. Your Kazan has a strange influence on us all.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Is he to be trusted, do you think, Dafydd?’
‘What do you think, Twm?’
‘What do I think? Why, what I have said before; he is a strange one.’ They were standing by the horses ready to mount and he concentrated on checking his saddle-bag. ‘He tells me you know his secrets.’
‘Does he now?’
‘That is why I ask you; is he to be trusted?’
‘Do you expect me to blab his secrets?’
‘Of course not but are we all beguiled by pretty manners and a pretty face?’
‘I’m sure of it. And a too-ready tongue.’ He was laughing suddenly. ‘Enough, Twm. A promise is a promise and the boy is well enough. As for time, wel, we must take it on trust, isn’t it? Three days should see us in Attaleia.’
Blue came alongside them. ‘Attaleia and a night wenching, Dai,’ he smirked. He passed by them, discordant sounds floating back to them: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven – all Dai’s men shall go to ’eaven.”
‘May God and His Son and Allah and His Prophet protect us all,’ Twm murmured.
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