The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

She was silent.

Thorseby drew out a piece of folded parchment from a pocket in his robe and waved it at her. “I have proof! Witnesses who saw you disport yourself with your lover!”

Margaret’s face deepened in color, but still she did not speak.

“This ‘man,'” Thorseby said, now talking to the Rivers, “has already brought untold grief to another family through his defilement of the lady of the house. He swore to me that he had repented, but this woman’s belly is proof of his shame! I

say to you, that the father of that child is none other than Brother Thomas Neville!”

He had finally disconcerted Sir Egdon and Lady Jacquetta.

” ‘Brother’ Thomas?” said Sir Egdon. “But a Lord Thomas Neville escorted her here …”

“He was not wearing his clerical garb?” Thorseby said, finally aghast. “He has abandoned all his vows?”

Jacquetta jerked out of her chair, took the two steps between her chair and Margaret’s, and struck Margaret a great blow across the cheek.

Margaret slumped to the side, but none moved to aid her.

“Whore!” Jacquetta said. “Deceiver! Get you gone from this house!”

“Am I to be allowed no response at all?” Margaret said, managing to straighten herself with some considerable effort.

“Do you deny the child was fathered by Thomas Neville?” Thorseby said.

Margaret said nothing.

“She even fornicated with him under the Duke of Lancaster’s roof,” Thorseby said to his hosts. “There are witnesses. I would not be surprised that if Neville spent so much as one night here he spent it disporting with his wanton before the fire while you slept innocently.”

Sir Egdon’s and Lady Jacquetta’s expressions were now a curious mixture of horror and triumph. They had her… the harlot!

“Do you deny,” Thorseby asked Margaret, “that Thomas Neville fathered your child?”

“No.”

Sir Egdon and Lady Jacquetta both affected great, horrified breaths.

“I did not deceive your son,” she said to them. “Never. I loved Roger. We—”

“Hold your tongue!” Sir Egdon said. “You have no shame!”

Margaret averted her face, and wished the gloom would reach out from the corners of this chill hall and gather her in its embrace. She was tired of these people, their jaded beliefs and their shrill, useless denunciations. She wanted a warm fire and a soft bed, and someone to tell her that she was finally safe. She wanted a home, finally, after so many years keeping a sick man company on his ramblings about Christendom.

She wanted her father, but he was gone forever.

She wanted her brother, but he could not acknowledge her.

She wanted to be loved, but no one would risk it.

She closed her eyes against the tears that had suddenly formed, and wished her child was in her arms, and that she would not have to endure the agony of childbed to achieve even that small wish.

“See,” Thorseby said softly, “the whore harbors regrets. As well she might, for the fires of hell will eventually consume her, and the worms of retribution shall gnaw at her lustful privy members throughout eternity, and—”

“The fires and the worms of eternity,” Margaret said, her eyes still closed, “would be a blessed relief after enduring but an hour of your sorry prating.”

Now she had truly shocked her erstwhile parents-in-law, and they turned their heads, unable to look upon her.

Thorseby remained unruffled. He regarded Margaret a moment longer, then called for the sergeant of his escort, “You need fear her no longer,” he told Sir Egdon and Lady Jacquetta.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Wednesday before the third Sunday in Lent

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(9th March 1379)

LANCASTER … Lancaster … Lancaster.

The name tumbled over and over in Thomas’ mind as they rode south.

Lancaster.

Who had been the fair young lord, wearing the badge of Lancaster, who had spirited away the casket in the weeks after he and Lancaster and Bolingbroke had returned to England?

The casket had been safe… until he had told the Black Prince, Lancaster, Bolingbroke and Raby about its existence.

No, no, the demons already knew of its existence … but they hadn’t known of its location until he told those four!

But just because the man had worn the badge of Lancaster didn’t mean he had been one of Lancaster’s retainers or vassals—Lancaster’s badge was so well known throughout England anyone could have tricked themselves out as one of the duke’s men.

Had Lancaster told someone about the demons? Richard? God knew that the two were close. Had Richard caused the casket to be taken and, perhaps knowing that Thomas suspected Lancaster, tried to trick him into blaming the duke?

Lancaster would never have sent his men so plainly appareled… would he?

Thomas ached all over from trying to resolve this nightmare: his head, his body, his heart and his soul.

He did not doubt that Richard was the new Demon-King—he was the only one to have so profited from the obviously demonically aided deaths of Edward and the Black Prince—but Thomas did not, and could not, know if Lancaster was also a part of the demonic conspiracy.

Originally Thomas had suspected that Lancaster was the new Demon-King … but when Lancaster had made his support of Richard’s succession so apparent Thomas had believed the duke above suspicion.

But if Lancaster was not the new Demon-King, then he nevertheless could well be

one of the new king’s demonic supporters and servants. That would explain Lancaster’s championship of Richard just as easily as thinking he was merely a highly loyal, mortal subject. Ah! Whoever and whatever Lancaster was, the fact remained that Thomas was seemingly no closer to achieving his quest for the casket than he had been six months ago.

All he knew was that the casket was now in the hands of the demons … and that the demons lurked somewhere within either the Lancastrian family or among the duke’s retainers at court.

And Lancaster, being the richest and most powerful man in England, had a court as large as a king.

THEY RODE south toward Lincoln along the ancient Roman roadway still known as Ermine Street. Around them the countryside opened up to spring: birds were returning in flocks from their winter feeding grounds, trees were beginning to bud, and peasants put more and more fields to the plow.

The weather was finally warming, and winter-thin livestock were turned back into fields and fruit trees were pruned and grafted. But of none of this did Thomas take note. All he could think about was the Lancastrian household, who within it he should trust, and how, and if, he could prevent Richard taking the throne.

A demon sitting the throne of England? It -was inconceivable!

Lincoln straddled two of England’s most ancient highways, Ermine Street and the Fosse Way, and had long been an important trading and market town, particularly for the wool industry. Its magnificent Norman cathedral and castle, with the attendant needs of the attached clergy and retainers, brought wealth and influence the town’s way. Lincoln was a vibrant, colorful and still expanding community. It was not walled—townsfolk could always seek protection within the castle or cathedral—and so Thomas, Wat and their small escort approached the town along the open northern approaches. There was a small Dominican community situated on the northern outskirts of the town, but Thomas had no intention of staying there. An inn would do as well, and in an inn he would not be bothered with the tiresome bells and chants of a religious order.

It was close to dusk and they had been on the road all day, and so, as they rode tired and inattentive, they did not see the group of some score of horsemen riding toward them until it was too late.

Thomas, in fact, was so absorbed in his thoughts he did not raise his head until he heard that Tyler mutter an expletive and rein his horse in.

The next instant Thomas’ own horse slowed, and Thomas was forced to take note of his surroundings.

To either side of the road were fenced yards holding cattle and sheep for the markets. Immediately before him, sitting a dark horse and backed by a solid wall of horsed men-at-arms, was Richard Thorseby, Prior General of England.

“Well, well,” Thorseby said in a quiet voice. “If you decided to abandon the Order, Thomas, you could perhaps have informed me so that I would not have had to spend so much of my time chasing across England after you.”

Thomas could, for the moment, do nothing but stare. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts that he found it difficult to comprehend that Thorseby now sat a horse before him, blocking his way.

Thomas was by now so far from the Church and the influence of the Dominican Order that he actually found it difficult to remember why it was that Thorseby might have been chasing across England after him.