Bruce Holsinger - A Burnable Book

‘The lines are being drawn, Gower. Two popes, two churches — some would say two kings.’ The bishop looked up, his eyes cold. ‘Your friend Geoffrey Chaucer, too, would do well to clarify his allegiances. Not a lover of friars, that one.’

I glanced at the two Dominicans. ‘Chaucer is a lover of the good,’ I said. ‘He loves good friars, as he loves good bishops such as your lordship. Good wine, too, and good lawyers.’

Braybrooke barked a laugh. He clipped and dug for a while, then looked up at me again. ‘This book you’re looking for has a name.’

I blinked.

‘You think I’m a fool, Gower? You make a wide-eyed request of Katherine Swynford, the yawningest mouth in the realm, and you expect her not to gossip?’

‘A fair point,’ I conceded.

‘ Liber de Mortibus Regum Anglorum .’

‘My lord?’

‘ Liber de Mortibus Regum Anglorum. That’s what this work is called.’

‘“The Book of the Deaths of English Kings”,’ I translated.

‘A book of prophecy, written by a certain Lollius during the reign of the Conqueror.’

‘That long ago? What relevance could a book three centuries old have in our day?’

‘The De Mortibus prophesies the death of every English king since William. The houses of Normandy, Plantagenet, with the circumstances of each royal death rendered in detail. The time, the place, the means.’

‘I’ve never heard of this Lollius. Are people taking this seriously?’

‘The book is being read by Wycliffe’s minions, Gower. They gather in conventicles and recite the prophecies one by one. Thirteen kings, thirteen prophecies, thirteen deaths, all foretold and retold as a goad to revolt.’

‘I loathe Wycliffe’s teachings as much as the next fellow, your lordship. But he never questioned Richard’s legitimacy.’

‘I suggest you learn a bit about this book before you dismiss it, Gower. One of my friars here has mingled with the Wycliffites during their readings. He’s got a bit of the work in his head.’ He looked over his other shoulder. ‘Brother Thomas, a taste. The death of King William, if you please.’

One of the friars stepped forward with a bow. At a nod from Braybrooke, he spoke the requested lines.

‘A bastard by birth, of Brittany bane,

A duke rendered king by Deus decree,

With fury so fierce all England will fight,

Shall matins and masses restore to all men,

Then in Mantes to muster his might shall appear.

Unhorsed by his hand this sovereign full hale

On pommel full pounded from saddle shall pitch,

And goeth to ground to giveth the ghost.

At sovereign of swords in death swoon he will,

No more to flee mors, his reign an end make.’

The friar stepped back, assuming his position, still by the tree. Something about the lines sounded familiar.

Braybrooke sat on his heels, prompting the gardener to step forward hopefully. The bishop waved him off. ‘Thus shall die the first of thirteen English kings.’ Braybrooke wiped his brow. ‘Let me correct myself: thus did die the first of thirteen English kings, this one at the great battle at Mantes, of which we read in our chronicles.’

‘Of which this Lollius read in our chronicles, unless I’m an utter fool,’ I muttered, unswayed by the bishop’s lofty tone.

He glared at me. ‘If you’re sceptical, Gower, keep listening.’ He nodded to the friar, who began a second series of lines.

‘With seven of swords to swing at their will,

To chasten with chattel, and chase their king down.

In Gloucester will he goeth, to be gutted by goodmen

With rod straight of iron, in arsebone to run.

With pallet of pullet, his breath out to press,

And sovereign unsound for Sodom be sundered.’

My hand went to my gut. ‘The second King Edward.’

‘And his disgusting execution,’ Braybrooke said. ‘Lying on a feather pallet, a poker shoved up his arse. A fitting death for a Ganymede king. And finally the more peaceful death of good King Edward.’

The friar spoke a third time. I could not hide my surprise at his opening words.

‘Full long shall he lead us, full rich shall he rule,

Through pain of pestilence, through wounds of long war.

Yet morire is matter all sovereigns must suffer.

This long-lived leader, beloved of all,

At three of thistles shall suffer his fall;

Gold bile shall him bite, with bitter wound wide,

At Sheen will be shent, last shrift there to render.’

Braybrooke scrutinized my face as I remembered where I had heard these lines before. At Holbourne cross, shouted into the drizzle by that deranged-looked preacher. The man had spoken this very verse.

‘Some say the gomoria took him,’ the bishop said, turning away with a smile, ‘though I believe the old fellow had a simple stroke.’ With the rocks removed and the ground cleared, he knelt to address the large rose bush before him. The gardener was trying not to weep.

‘The prophecies, if that’s what they are, are full of enigmas, Lord Bishop,’ I said, wondering how Braybrooke could be swayed so easily. ‘What are the “three of thistles”, the “seven of swords” in the account of Edward, or the “sovereign of swords” in William’s case? These sorts of symbols don’t appear in the chronicles, not in the ones I’ve read.’

The bishop pricked a finger, brought it to his mouth. ‘The thistle is important to the Scots, I’m told,’ he said with a smack of his lips. ‘Perhaps some new Robert de Bruce is on the rise.’ His voice sounded almost jocular now, as if he were putting me on.

I looked at his rounded back. ‘With respect, your lordship, the work your friar just recited is written in a modern fashion — its style, its rhythm. It sounds like the story of King Horne, or that vision of Piers the Ploughman that was so much in favour around the Rising. I have to say, I’m surprised so much is being made of an obvious forgery.’

He turned to look at me. ‘The thing could have been written by anyone schooled in our nation’s chronicles. Is that what you are thinking, Gower?’

Finally some sense. ‘The church is familiar with false prophets, my lord.’

With an audible crack of his long spine, Braybrooke stood, flicking dirt off his hands. ‘Your scepticism is admirable, Gower, and matches my own.’ An attendant stepped forward with a bowl. Braybrooke dipped his hands and wiped them on a cloth. He turned to the friars and canon, who robed and capped him. He waved off his mitre like a cat refusing tack.

‘We are men of the law, Gower,’ he continued as we walked to the river. ‘I serve the church now, but I still have faith in our earthly institutions. The crown, Parliament, even the courts. You know all too well how my trust was once challenged in this regard, John, and I’m still grateful for the compassion you showed.’

It was a rare moment of candour from Braybrooke, whose ambition often outstripped his memory. I murmured my thanks.

He puffed his cheeks, blew air. ‘My contempt for Lancaster is no secret.’

‘I’ve witnessed it.’

‘Heresy and war arrange us in peculiar alliances.’ He said nothing of Oxford, though I assumed he was thinking of the earl. ‘If the reports I have received are accurate, the thirteenth prophecy is known only to a few.’

‘The thirteenth prophecy?’

‘England has had thirteen kings since the conquest.’ He waited a moment, then said, ‘Thirteen, including William.’

‘Yet if William-’ I stopped walking, finally understanding, and feeling like a fool.