Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [389]
It had been some time since the family had seen Martin, and his brothers and sisters could not resist stealing furtive glances at him. He was a handsome young man, with his mother’s rich brown hair and his father’s slim build and brilliant blue eyes.
He had arrived late the previous evening, and apart from a little light conversation, none of the family had talked much before retiring for the night. There was a slight tension and intensity in his manner that Cecilia noticed and it worried her; but as he got happily into bed beside her, Stephen made light of it.
“They tell me the Oxford scholars all look thin and nervous,” he told her. “Too much reading and thinking. He’ll be all right once he’s settled in the business here at Sarum.”
The mass was over. The priests were coming back through the cathedral. The Shockley family respectfully bowed.
And then they stared. For something extraordinary was happening.
Martin was stepping out into the aisle, and he was shouting. What was he saying?
“Whores and thieves!” the young man cried at the astonished priests. “Your mass is an insult to God.”
For a moment the little procession stopped, staring first in disbelief, then in fury, at Martin and his father.
“Criminals,” Martin shouted again. But now, with a cry of fear from his wife, Stephen launched himself towards his son and dragged him out of the church.
Within minutes, standing beside the belfry tower, Stephen had learned the truth; and half an hour later, when he had locked his son safely in the Shockley house, he explained to Cecilia and the other children.
“He’s become a follower of Wyclif.”
He knew about Wyclif of course: how his preachings and writings had caused a storm at Oxford, how John of Gaunt had taken him to Parliament to make trouble for the Church, and how he had been inconclusively tried by an ecclesiastical court where, thanks to his friends at court, he had only been reprimanded, so far.
“But the man’s a troublemaker and our son’s a fool to listen to such stuff,’ he announced.
“Perhaps he’s a little feverish,” his mother suggested.
But Stephen shook his head. “Give him a potion if you like,” he said, “but if he’s not careful he’ll end up in the bishop’s prison – and so will we,” he added gloomily.
His fears seemed to be justified when the next day a sallow young priest named Portehors arrived from the dean.
“Not only the dean, but Bishop Erghum himself is anxious to know about this young man,” he gave Stephen a piercing look, “who has abused the priests in the cathedral.”
And since there was nothing else to do, Stephen replied sadly:
“Then you’d better see for yourself.”
The interview which followed, in which he took part himself, left him more depressed than ever. Portehors was two inches taller than Martin, two years older and, if it was possible, two shades paler. His grandfather Le Portier had fled the city at the time of the Black Death but when he became a priest, he had reverted to the name Portehors to stress the connection with the canon of the same family name in the previous century. Like all his family, he was painfully precise, and he questioned the young man carefully.
“You are familiar, I understand, with the preachings of the heretic Wyclif?”
“I am,” Martin answered proudly.
“And you find yourself in agreement with what he says?”
“Yes. Mostly.”
“For example?”
“You priests – the canons especially. You have rich benefices. You let your lands around Sarum for huge profits. You live like noblemen.”
“Is that wrong?”
“Yes. Christ taught that his disciples should give up their worldly goods.”
“The Church does not say so.”
“The Church is wrong.”
Young Portehors winced as though he had suffered pain.
“You think Christ’s followers should give up their worldly goods?”
Martin nodded. “Of course.”
Portehors smirked.
“You are wrong. Since you read the Holy Scriptures,