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 said 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.