A Burnable Book

by Bruce Holsinger

  Now more distant cries, the echo of metal on metal, the clatter of hooves, and everyone’s attention was drawn up Rose Alley. Joined by Agnes and Eleanor at the window, Millicent heard before she saw the opposing company bearing down hard past the Vine. The man on foot turned and sprinted back to his horse, joining his fellows in a mad dash in the opposite direction.

  For these were the Bishop of Winchester’s liberties, the unannounced intrusion by the strange company a violation of ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The bishop did not take such incursions lightly, nor did his men, a company of which had been dispatched from the palace’s main guardhouse into the stews. It was an unfair fight, for though the strangers had the advantage of surprise, Winchester’s men were greater in number. Within minutes the violators had been chased through Bishopspark and into Winchester’s Wild, where they would scatter themselves to the winds.

  Once the street had calmed there were sounds of shutters slamming along the way. Bess Waller appeared at the door, her cheeks ruddy in the candlelight. ‘You need to leave, all you, at first bell. They were here for that book, plain as the sun.’ She did a circuit of the room, shoving their few things into a basket and sack.

  ‘But where are we to go, mère?’ Agnes asked her as she pulled on her shoes. ‘We have no place, nor coin.’ Eleanor huddled at her side, watching the exchange.

  ‘Not her concern, Ag.’ Millicent was pulling on her own shoes, the once-elegant skins by now full of holes, not all of them patched. ‘Our good mother doesn’t bother herself with inconveniences like the welfare of her daughters.’

  Bess came to stand by the bed. Stooping, she pressed something into Millicent’s hand. Cold, metallic. Millicent looked down, hoping for coins. She saw a key.

  ‘Ditch Street by the Split Shill, just within Aldgate,’ said Bess, her night breath foul on Millicent’s cheek. ‘Small place there I’ve leased four years now. It’s empty, has been a good while. They won’t look for you there, that’s sure.’

  This, for Bess Waller, counted as generosity: the loan of an unused hole across the river. Millicent looked at her mother, wondering what moral world those unwavering eyes saw when they peered into a glass. Though I suppose I’m not one to judge, she thought. She closed her eyes, then her hand over the key.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Logic Lane, Oxford

  Sir John Clanvowe, standing at a trestle table, poured wine from a silvered flagon. ‘We will have an additional guest this evening.’

  I masked my displeasure with a small sip. A seventh unproductive day among Angervyle’s book chests had put me in a sour mood. ‘Delightful. The wine, I mean, though I’m sure your guest will be as well. Who is he?’

  ‘I shall let it be a surprise.’ Clanvowe spread the frayed ends of his coat across his uncushioned chair. ‘Let me hear about your week in Oxford. Have you enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said, opting for honesty. Over the first several days I had felt like a starved man at a king’s feast. So many new books to plumb with the raw excitement of a child, losing myself for hours at a time in these authors formerly known only by name and reputation. Yet the search had soon grown monotonous, as each new book failed to reveal anything about the elusive Lollius. After all that time among Bury’s books I had started to experience the dark building behind the Durham grange as a hermit’s cell.

  In airing all of this for Clanvowe, though, I stayed vague, telling him I was in Oxford to track down some texts related to my next major work. We sat in his parlour, sparsely furnished with several chairs, a writing desk, and a short shelf of dusty books against one of the whitewashed walls beneath exposed timbers. Paid well for his service as a knight of the chamber, Clanvowe had been a stalwart in Gaunt’s campaigns in Aquitaine, Castile, and France, and he was known to be quite rich. Despite his wealth, though, he lived like an Oxford student – if a well-armed one.

  His finger traced the lip of our glass. ‘There must be more to it than that, John, to pry you out of Southwark. There are plenty of books in London. What is it you hope to find among Bury’s manuscripts? What brought you here, to Oxford?’

  ‘I would ask you the same question.’ I took the wine. ‘I’d have thought you would spend every hour out of court at Radnorshire, honing your Welsh.’

  His face loosened into a smile. ‘And it’s well honed indeed by this point, what with all the diplomacy I’m performing up and down the border for the king. The marcher lords are a restive bunch. Master connivers. As to my own purpose in Oxford? Byddwch yn dysgu cyn bo hir, my friend. And I asked first.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I said. Clanvowe’s yellow whiskers were tensed, gathered in a thick bunch. ‘You won’t translate for me?’

  ‘You’ll learn soon enough,’ he said.

  ‘Learn what?’

  ‘That’s the answer to your question.’

  ‘Which question?’

  ‘Both of them, I suppose. Now,’ he said, leaning forward to refresh the glass, ‘to the purpose of your visit.’

  I looked away, thoroughly muddled, already exhausted with all the effort. I took a long drink of wine and watched the flickering shadows play on the knight’s eyes. Sir John had come to Oxford fresh from the political turmoil of London, where all the talk was of war, spies, and factions. He was also a knight of the king’s chamber, and though he was a friend, there was no question where his loyalties would go should he learn of a threat to Richard. This was precisely why I wanted to speak with him: however Clanvowe might react to the existence of the prophecy, he would do so with the king’s best interests in mind. Yet by divulging the existence of the De Mortibus, I would be bringing its dark prophecies into King Richard’s affinity for the first time, an irrevocable and potentially perilous step.

  Making a decision, I turned back to my host. ‘Do you know Horace?’

  Clanvowe’s brow dropped. ‘Slightly. Peasants, slaves, philosophizing merchants. Not to my taste.’

  ‘The odes are great achievements, though.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘But very hard to find. Angervyle’s must be one of a handful of copies in England.’

  ‘Do you have a favourite?’

  ‘The ninth ode of the fourth book.’

  ‘What is its subject?’

  I waited a moment. ‘A poet named Lollius.’

  Clanvowe flinched. I have you, I thought, pleased with myself. ‘You know it, then?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said, recovering quickly. ‘Though perhaps there’s more you want to say about it.’

  I was saved from accepting the challenge by the arrival of Clanvowe’s other guest, signalled by a soft knock at the outer door, then a quiet exchange with Sir John’s sole servant. We stood as the third man entered the parlour.

  A priest, capped and robed in russet, a simple belt at his waist. No other adornment, though the uncompromising blue of his eyes forced attention, as if roundels of lapis lazuli had been painted around his pupils. A beard, bushy and long, caped his neck. I recognized the man, had seen him on at least one occasion but couldn’t place him. Clanvowe made his hostly bow and spread his hands. ‘Master John Gower, Esquire, let me present the curate of Lutterworth, Father John Purvey.’

  I maintained enough presence of mind to reach forward and clasp hands. Purvey was a young man, his grip on my arm strong with the righteous confidence of the fanatic. Secretary to John Wycliffe himself until the master’s death the prior December, Purvey was known as a preacher and scholar of radical leanings, and if what I’d heard was true, he had had the main hand in Wycliffe’s recent translation of the Bible, a notorious work that was even now being circulated among the conventicles.

  The conversation remained superficial until a weak sop was served, at which point Purvey turned to me with a mischievous smile.

  ‘We have much in common, Master Gower.’

  ‘In what way, Father?’ The broth, light and unsalted, tasted vaguely of almonds.

  ‘We are both writers, for one.’
/>   ‘Though our respective subjects speak to our differences.’

  ‘And our commonalities. Your Mirour de l’Omme has struck a chord among the men of our persuasion.’

  Our persuasion? I swallowed. ‘How is that?’

  ‘Well, for one, you’re not shy about criticizing the church, even its most powerful sects.’ Then, to my horror, Purvey quoted my own French: ‘“The friars preach poverty to all, but they’re always stretching forth their hands for coin. They love their worldly comforts, but never do they seek employment. Instead they wander about in the habit of vagrants.”’ He sipped, smacked his lips. ‘Truer words have never been written about the friars. Not even by Master Wycliffe himself, bless his soul.’

  Clanvowe laughed gruffly. Purvey tittered, and I met their amusement with an uncomfortable smile. ‘You came prepared this evening, Father. I’m impressed.’

  The conversation moved on, the remainder of the meal consisting of overdone rabbit in a mealy pie, with old mustard on the side. I picked at my portion, imagining that every bite had to be taken carefully, as if my very teeth might grind with heresy, though Clanvowe and Purvey were now chatting amiably about the priest’s new living. ‘Now that I’m at Lutterworth, it’s difficult to get back to Oxford as often as I would like. But that may be for the good.’ He looked down at his rabbit. ‘It’s time I remain in one place for a while, tend to the souls in my care.’

  ‘A fine suggestion,’ I said. ‘After all, priests are as numerous as stars in the sky. But unlike stars, only two of a thousand know how to shine.’

  Purvey gave me a nasty look. ‘You question my sincerity, Master Gower.’

  ‘Only your memory, Father Purvey.’

  He wiped his lips. ‘Take Wykeham, your Bishop of Winchester. The man has twelve livings to his name, all going to fund his castle and his liberties in Southwark, his fishing ponds and his whores. Yet how often do you think he visits those parishes? Once a year, if it suits his schedule?’

  ‘He’s a busy man,’ I pointed out.

  ‘If the priest of the parish can’t live a virtuous life, how is he supposed to teach his parishioners to avoid sin? If gold rusts, what about iron? It’s like a shepherd smeared with shit herding a flock of sheep, trying to keep them clean.’ He pounded the table. ‘This is the problem with the higher clergy, Gower. They’ve become barons, building obscene castles for themselves, taking on concubines and mistresses and God knows what else. This is why I support their disendowment so strongly. Why should our spiritual leaders also be our wealthiest possessioners?’

  I looked at the nearest candle, amazed the man would say such a thing in my presence. ‘That position has been condemned by the pope, Father. As you well know.’

  ‘Which pope would that be?’ he responded.

  I looked at him, now truly shocked. To speak of disendowing the clergy was one thing; to question the English alliance with Rome against Avignon and France was quite another.

  ‘These are high matters, gentlemen,’ said Clanvowe, waving a hand as if to dismiss them all. ‘Matters between our king and his uncle, between parliaments and popes. If Father Purvey errs too far on the side of the crown against the church, others – Sudbury, say – err in the other direction. Yet that’s not why we’re here this evening.’

  ‘Then why are we here?’ I asked, suddenly wary.

  He hesitated. ‘I am going to be honest with you, John, and I hope you’ll forgive me for luring you to my house under false pretences.’ He took a deep breath, exhaled. ‘I’ve known all along why you were coming to Oxford.’

  I reared back.

  ‘You’re after the De Mortibus. You and half of England.’

  ‘How—’

  ‘Chaucer told me. At Windsor.’

  ‘But how did Chaucer—’

  ‘That’s unimportant,’ said Clanvowe. ‘The point is, I’ve invited our guest here this evening to refute to your face the vile rumours connecting Master Wycliffe and his teachings to these prophecies. Your word carries weight in London, John. It’s crucial that you understand the difference between honest theological disputation and open rebellion. Wycliffe had strong opinions, true. But he was hardly a traitor, and neither are his followers.’

  ‘I know what Braybrooke must have told you,’ said Purvey, leaning in. ‘That we commissioned the work’s copying, encouraged its circulation. Perhaps even wrote it ourselves, maybe to inspire rebellion against King Richard, install our ally the Duke of Lancaster on the throne. But these are lies, Gower, intended to destroy Father Wycliffe’s legacy. However strongly Ralph Strode and his ilk dispute us on matters of endowment, possession, and so on, I’d step into my own grave before promoting or even imagining the death of our king. This Liber de Mortibus has nothing to do with our teachings. Why, I believe that the king, not the pope, is the vicar of God! It’s from the king alone that the bishops derive their authority and jurisdiction.’

  Plain blasphemy. I remained silent, wishing I had a clerk’s transcription of the whole evening.

  ‘These so-called prophecies are worth less than the sheepskins they’re scribbled on,’ Purvey said, pressing on. ‘They offend me. They offend me as a Christian, as a citizen of this realm, and as a priest. Most of all, though, they offend me as an intellectual. They are utter trash, the work of a jongleur, not a prophet.’

  Clanvowe’s brow shone as he moved in the candlelight. ‘As a poetic maker like you, John, I also have a pretty low opinion of this work. Like our friend here, I regard it as tripe.’

  ‘At least there we can all agree,’ I said, sitting back. Despite my better judgment I found myself believing Purvey’s account. It was true that this outspoken priest and his ilk had the potential to do great harm in the realm, and I had long wondered what merit Lancaster saw in Wycliffe. Yet the late theologian had never shown himself disloyal to the crown. Then, just as my mind was settled on this version of things, I realized its obvious implication.

  ‘You two seem to know the Liber de Mortibus quite well,’ I said. ‘Well enough to judge the quality of its poetry, the value of its prophecies. How have you gotten so familiar with such an execrable work?’

  A church bell struck for Vespers, struck again, then another sounded in the distance, both carried on the evening air and filling Clanvowe’s hall with a low thrum. It’s always unsettling to be away from home, where you can’t name the bells. Purvey was fingering a last bit of flesh, teasing it round a circle only he could see. He looked up at Clanvowe with the faintest of nods.

  Clanvowe grunted. His tight smile broadened when he met my gaze. He said, ‘I made a copy.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Ditch Street, near Aldgate

  ‘The stews of Southwark be watched.’ Eleanor turned from the slitted window, looking down on what had to be the narrowest, filthiest alley in all London. In the bare room behind her Millicent and Agnes sat huddled beneath a blanket on an old furze pallet, the rough gorse spines crackling with their every move. It had been a chill afternoon, and for a fourth day the three women had remained inside, waiting for a constable’s pounding at the door. One of Bess Waller’s girls had been bringing food and drink to the room, which had seen its last consistent use two years before as a comfort station of sorts for travellers from Colchester on the Mile End Road. No proper beds, just a stack of old linens for warmth. Though the new ordinances had forced closure of this small venture in the flesh, Bess Waller still leased the filthy tenement on and off as a way of maintaining a foothold in this part of the city.

  ‘Gropecunt Lane’s being watched,’ Eleanor continued. ‘The parvis is being watched. Same with Paternoster Row and St Paul’s. The eyes of all London are looking about for three maudlyns and a poisonous book.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Millicent. ‘And we’ve nearly lost our chance with the one man who has interest in its purchase – thanks to you, Eleanor Rykener.’

  They glared at each other. Eleanor didn’t trust Millicent Fonteyn the width of a hen’s beak, yet here she was,
imprisoned in this cursed hole with the uppy trull, and seeing no way out. Unlike Eleanor and Agnes, who’d been living on so little for years, Millicent had plummeted from a condition of genuine wealth and comfort to this dire state. There was a wild, threatened desperation in the woman, like some caged bear on the bankside, baited with a dog, and yet she acted sullen and secretive, casting furtive glances at the book and the stair. Nor did she seem to have any concern for Agnes, who had brought her the book in the first place, put it right in her hands. She treated her sister like a servingwoman, as Eleanor saw it, giving her little commands as if she were some lady at court.

  ‘Selling this book isn’t like peddling meat-pies on the bridge,’ Eleanor said. ‘Why, I seen a man whipped in the street for selling bad herring. Constables catch us at this? We’ll be lucky if they throw us in the Tun for a month.’

  ‘We can’t hold it against Pinchbeak that he was away on king’s business when we went to Scroope’s Inn,’ Millicent disagreed, rubbing her hands together. ‘Pinchbeak has wealth beyond our reckoning, ladies, and I for one wish to give him opportunity to lavish it on us.’ The two marks were still nearly intact, and Millicent’s hope, Eleanor knew, was to multiply the sum twentyfold or more.

  Eleanor shook her head, determined to resist Millicent’s lust for riches. ‘If Pinchbeak had as much interest in this book as yourself, wouldn’t he have had something more waiting for you when you went to Scroope’s? Besides, you think it’s chance that Gropecunt Lane got broken up so soon after you met him at the parvis?’

  ‘Oh, so you think it’s my doing now, is that it? Listen to the little thief, Ag, just listen to her!’ Millicent taunted.

  ‘Oh, I’m the thief, is that it, then?’ Eleanor’s hands balled hotly into fists. ‘You two been striding about London these weeks, peddling some other man’s book, and Eleanor Rykener’s the thief is it?’