“In sooth,” the tax collector said with a wry smile, “harsh, harsh words, Master Raabe. But I would say that they could be applied to yourself, since you are not without sin, either. You talk like a politician, not to say a priest, rather than doing what befits you—busying yourself with lutes and pipes, rhymes and songs.”

“Rhymes and songs, you say?” Tybald Raabe untied his lute from the pommel. “As you wish!”

The Holy Roman Popes

are Antichrists;

their power comes not from Christ,

but from the Antichrist

by Imperial order!

“A pox on that,” muttered the tax collector, glancing around. “It was better when you were talking.”

Christ, through your wounds,

give us priests

to speak the truth,

to bury the Antichrist,

to lead us to You!

Poles, Germans,

Whatever your tongue,

if you doubt your speech

and your writings,

Wycliffe will tell the truth!

Will tell the truth… Reynevan, engrossed, repeated the words mechanically in his mind. Where have I heard those words before?

“You’ll get into trouble one day for those rhymes, Master Raabe,” said the tax collector sourly. “And it surprises me that you listen to it so calmly, Brothers.”

“The truth is often hidden in songs,” said one of the Franciscans with a smile. “For the truth is the truth. It must not be distorted, it must be borne, though it hurts. And Wycliffe? Why, he went astray, but libri sunt legendi, non comburendi.”

“Wycliffe, may the Lord forgive him, was not the first,” added another. “Our great brother and patron, the Pauper of Assisi, was pained by what is discussed here. One cannot close one’s eyes and turn one’s head: evil is among us. Priests are drifting away from God, busying themselves with secular matters. Rather than living modestly, they are wealthier than dukes and barons—”

“Indeed, as the Gospel testifies,” added a third, his voice soft, “Jesus said: nolite possidere aurum neque argentum neque pecuniam in zonis vestris—”

“And the words of Jesus cannot be changed or improved by anyone, not even the Pope,” interrupted the fat sergeant, clearing his throat. “And if he does, then he’s not the Pope, but the true Antichrist.”

“Aye,” called the oldest pilgrim, rubbing his nose. “It is so!”

“Oh, by God!” said the tax collector crossly. “Be quiet, all of you! What a company I’ve ended up in! Why, this is sinful talk indeed!”

“You’ll be forgiven,” snorted the goliard, tuning his lute. “After all, you’re gathering taxes for a holy cause. Saints Adauctus and Matthew will intercede for you.”