London - Edward Rutherfurd [251]
“Could someone have stolen the money?”
“Oh no. I don’t think so.” He seemed confused.
“Who knows where you keep the box?”
“No one except you and me. And Ducket.” He frowned. “No one stole it.”
“Then why isn’t there any money?” she demanded. But still the grocer had no answer.
Two days later, Bull took his daughter Tiffany into his confidence.
“I’ve had Dame Barnikel here,” he explained. “She came to ask me if I had ever had any indication that young Ducket might be a thief.” He looked at Tiffany seriously. “I know you used to be fond of him, but I want you to search your mind very carefully. Can you think of anything he has ever said or done that might suggest he has these tendencies?”
“No, Father.” She thought for a moment. “I really can’t.”
“Dame Barnikel thinks,” Bull went on, “that there’s been a theft and that Fleming may be protecting the boy.” He pursed his lips. “On no account must you mention this to anyone, especially Ducket. Dame Barnikel’s going to keep an eye on him. If he’s innocent, there’s no need to say anything more. Let’s hope he is.” He shook his head. “But you never know with a foundling. Bad blood. . . .”
The only other person to whom, after some thought, Bull mentioned this painful subject was Silversleeves. He trusted the young man’s discretion; but he also reasoned that, since Ducket had embarrassed the lawyer, Silversleeves might well choose to remember if there were any rumours about the apprentice. But the lawyer, after a few moments’ pause, gave an answer that, it seemed to Bull, was greatly to his credit.
“I’ve no reason to like the fellow, sir,” he said. “But I’ve never heard that said of him. He may be foolhardy, but I think he’s honest.” He looked at Bull. “Don’t you?”
But Bull could only shrug.
“I shall pray for him,” said Silversleeves.
It was the spring of 1380 when Amy noticed that Ben Carpenter had something on his mind. At first he seemed unwilling to confide in her, but when he did, she was taken aback. For it seemed that Carpenter was worried about God.
In fact, the solemn craftsman’s concern was not so strange; in the last few years, the question of religion had often been on men’s lips, not only in the religious houses but in the streets and taverns of London. The cause of this unusual interest, however, was a rather unlikely figure: a quiet, middle-aged scholar of modest attainments at the still infant university of Oxford. His name was John Wyclif.
At first Wyclif’s views had not been outrageous. If he complained about corrupt priests, so had all Church reformers for centuries. But gradually he had evolved more dangerous doctrines. “All authority,” he pointed out, “comes from God’s Grace, not from Man. If evil kings may be deposed by the Church, then why not corrupt bishops and even popes too?” And if this displeased the Church authorities, it only provoked the Oxford scholar to be more extreme. “I cannot even accept,” he declared, “that the miracle of the Mass takes place when the hands of the priest are impure.”
This was shocking. Yet it was another of his conclusions that really infuriated the Church. “It cannot be right,” he decided, “that the scriptures may only be interpreted to the faithful by often sinful priests. Hasn’t God the power to speak directly to every man? Why shouldn’t the people read the scriptures for themselves?”
This would never do. The Catholic Church had always reserved for its preachers the right to declare the Word of God to their flock. “Besides,” it was asserted, “the Bible is in Latin, and therefore beyond the comprehension of ordinary folk.” It was to this that Wyclif made his most outrageous response.
“Then I will translate it into English.”
It was not surprising that Wyclif was popular with the Londoners. Though Holy Church had dominated the medieval world for centuries, never before had her presence in the city been so pervasive. Dark old St Paul’s loomed over everything; there was a church in almost every street, whole areas of the city were given over to