The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

On the wall behind the altar hung a superb gold cross decorated with rubies, emeralds and pearls that stood a full four feet high.

It was worth a small fortune.

Thomas suddenly felt very cold.

“What brings you to these distant parts?” Simon said. Behind him Paul and Fulke were bustling about the kitchen area, pouring out water into cups and bowls, and spreading out bread and cheese on platters.

Thomas was certain now that his trip had been in vain. “I seek a casket belonging to a brother who originally came from this friary,” he said. “It belonged to Wynkyn de Worde.”

Simon’s face fell, and Paul and Fulke stopped their bustling and stared at Thomas.

“My lord,” Simon stammered, “I am so sorry, but it has gone.”

Thomas had not believed he could get this cold and still remain able to think and speak. “When? And by whom?”

“But a bare seven or eight weeks ago, my lord. I do so apologize … After all these years that the casket had remained forgotten in our store cellar, and now to have two lords ask after it in such a short space of time—”

” Who took it?”

Simon looked to the other two brothers for help, but they were having none of it, and had faded back to the far wall.

“Why… he was a mighty lord, much as yourself—”

“Wo?”

“Why, ah, I believe he said his name was Robert… or was it Edward? No, I am wrong I think… it may have been—”

“My lord,” Paul now stood forth. “We cannot remember his name, but we recognized the emblem on his tunic, and on the clothing of his escort.”

Thomas stared, waiting.

“It was the emblem of Lancaster, my lord.”

TIME HALTED for a while, but finally Thomas overcame his anger and bitter frustration and collected himself enough to ask the brothers to tell their tale in detail.

None of the brothers were over the age of thirty: Bramham Moor was a harsh place, and men, whether friar or shepherd, tended to wither and die not long after middle age. Until so very recently the name Wynkyn de Worde had been unknown to them. The four brothers were hard put to remember the names of the brothers who had inhabited the friary immediately prior to them.

But, almost two months ago, a young lord had ridden to their door and, a charming smile about his mouth and politenesses tumbling from his tongue, had asked them of this Wynkyn de Worde.

They had professed ignorance.

The young lord—so fair of hair and face!—had not been angry, but had told them of what he sought: a casket, of oak wood, bound about with bands of iron and probably locked. The brothers had sat silent, blinking slowly in a state of perplexity.

The fair young lord had waited.

The brothers fell to whispering among themselves, chasing this thought and that, until Paul had remembered that there was an old casket of some description, lying almost hidden behind a jumble of rubble and rubbish in their cellar.

There was excitement—could this be it?

The young lord had smiled, and nodded, and asked if perhaps they could look.

After some heaving and ho-ing, and some barely muffled curses, the brothers had pulled the surprisingly heavy casket out from the detritus of generations of incurious brothers and had hefted it into the ground level room.

They had never looked inside? asked the young lord.

Well, no, the brothers had answered, and had blinked in confusion when the young lord had insisted that perhaps they had been curious, and surely they had wondered …

No. The casket had merely been there, covered with dust, and they had never wondered at all…

Listening to this tale, Thomas could understand why this “young lord” had accepted their professions of incuriosity: these brothers lived in a world of almost

total mental dullness. They were local men who had joined the friary as a means of subsistence when they had failed in their careers as shepherds. The friary gave them shelter and some food. They asked no more of it, and certainly did not investigate its secrets.

So the young lord had smiled all the more, and had praised their efforts, and had told them that the casket had been left at the friary many years previous by his father, who had always meant to return for it.

The brothers had murmured, doubt penetrating their murky minds.

The young lord reassured them, saying that his father was most assuredly grateful for the brothers’ care of the casket, and would pay accordingly.

The brothers’ doubts fell away. The young lord motioned to his servants, who bought in the gold now displayed about the altar, and then he packed up the casket, said his farewells, and departed.

“And you cannot remember his name?” Thomas asked, bitterly.

“No,” Simon said. “It is here,” he tapped his head, “but refuses to come forth.”

Well, Thomas thought, no doubt the demons have left spells to addle his mind.

And so, in his turn, he stood, made his farewells, and departed.

When Wat Tyler, waiting with the horses outside, asked where they went now, Thomas merely snapped, “London,” and, mounting his horse, turned it back to the track they had only just ridden down.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Vespers on the Feast of St. Mathias

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(early evening Wednesday 24th February 1379)

— II —

MARGARET SET HER NEEDLEWORK TO ONE SIDE and surreptitiously eased her back—it had begun to ache abominably in the past few hours. Her pregnancy was becoming ever more uncomfortable, and she hardly slept at night with the child squirming and kicking as if it, like its mother, loathed the Rivers’ household so much it wanted to leave as soon as possible.

Jacquetta sent her daughter-in-law a cold glance. Neither she nor her husband had quite decided what to do with the woman. It was tempting to believe that her child was Roger’s … but they weren’t that guileless! Nay, the whore had got herself thick with another man’s babe, and then, no doubt, sought to murder their Roger in order to pretend it was his. There was a convent close by… perhaps they could sequester her there until the child was born, and even after, for a life spent under the veil would do the harlot no harm at all.

“Madam,” Margaret said, finally becoming so uncomfortable she had to move or scream, but got no further, for just then came the sound of horses in the courtyard, and voices as Sir Egdon greeted the newcomers.

Jacquetta looked to the door, and held up a hand to Margaret. “Stay where you are.” Margaret squirmed, one hand on her belly, and would have spoken save that just then Sir Egdon entered with a Dominican friar of short height but great presence.

Margaret stilled completely, her dark eyes watchful.

“Madam,” Sir Egdon said to his wife, “we have a most distinguished visitor. This is Father Richard Thorseby, Prior General of the Dominican Order in England.”

Thorseby bowed elegantly to Jacquetta, then fixed Margaret with his eyes.

“There is no need to speak of this one,” he said, “for I know her well. I fear you harbor a Jezebel within your midst, good sir and madam.”

Margaret stared at him, but he held her gaze easily. Thorseby was short and stocky, but his face was all sharp angles and hooked nose, and his brown eyes as sharp and cunning as those of a fox.

Jacquetta drew in a sharp breath and glanced triumphantly at her husband before speaking to Thorseby. “Father, we suspected she was wicked, but we did not know the true nature of it. Will you sit, and take refreshment?”

“Gladly, madam.” Thorseby sat, and Margaret had to endure an uncomfortable few minutes as a servant brought wine—she refused—and then withdrew. She knew what the next hour or so would bring, but that did not lessen the dread.

Eventually, Thorseby set his goblet aside, and, turning slightly in his chair, addressed himself to Margaret.

“Whatever you say now will be said before God, do you understand, woman?”

She nodded, her eyes lidded so he could not see their expression.

“What have you told your hosts regarding your child?”

Margaret hesitated, then spoke softly. “That it is the child of my late husband and their son, Roger.”

“She lies,” Thorseby said, not taking his eyes from Margaret.

The only sign of her distress was a slight tightening of her hands on the arms of her chair.

“We thought her a harlot the first day we saw her,” Sir Egdon remarked.

“I was never a harlot to your son!” Margaret said, bright spots of pink in her cheeks. She was now staring defiantly at the other three.

“But you were to his memory,” Thorseby said. “Woman, if you do not want to burn in hell eternal, name the true father of your child now!”