The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

“Tom?” Wat said, and Thomas glanced at Tyler. The man was tense, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

He looked back at Thorseby. The man had at least twenty heavily armed men-at-arms with him—probably sequestered from a lord who owed Thorseby a weighty favor.

“Stand down, Wat,” he said, not shifting his eyes from Thorseby. “I will not have you waste your life on this black devil.”

Thorseby kicked his horse forward until he was but a few feet from Thomas and could look him directly in the eye.

“As you have not yet formally abandoned your vows, Brother Thomas,”

Thorseby said, “you still remain under my authority. I hereby arrest you for a variety of grievous offenses ranging from disobedience to fornication to suspicion of heresy—”

“For the love of God, Thorseby, heresy!”

” —and hereby command you to place yourself under my authority and care… if you still remember what it is to submit yourself to the authority of the Church, that is. If you do not, then, as you see, I have the means to force you to submit. Will you come?”

Thomas sat a long moment, his eyes locked into Thorseby’s, his horse fidgeting beneath him.

“Is my escort also under arrest?” he finally said.

“Of course not. Unless they have also willingly aided you in your—”

“They are innocent,”

“Then they may leave.”

Without moving his eyes from Thorseby, Thomas spoke quietly to Wat. “Ride south. Fast. Tell Lancaster that if he wants to know what I have discovered then he shall need to free me from the claws of this black bird.”

Thorseby’s mouth twisted derisively, but he said nothing.

Wat nodded, and moved his horse forward a little, the other five men of Thomas’

escort close behind.

Thorseby—still holding Thomas’ stare—signaled his men, and they parted, allowing Wat and his men free passage.

As his escort closed ranks behind him again, Thorseby said, “We shall spend the night at the friary here in Lincoln, then on the morrow we shall move south toward Oxford. There I shall have you placed on trial.”

He started to turn away, then looked back at Thomas with a strange smile on his face. “I think you shall find this evening’s company more than stimulating.”

Thorseby’s grin stretched a little wider, then he beckoned to his escort, and they

surrounded Thomas. Within a few short minutes Thomas was being escorted securely along the short stretch of road toward the Dominican friary on the outskirts of Lincoln.

DUSK SLIPPED into night, and Thorseby and Thomas discovered that the time for surprises and ambushes was not yet past. As the Prior General led Thomas and the men-at-arms down the laneway which led to the friary, he in turn found his way blocked by an even larger and better-equipped party of armed men.

Sitting their horses before these armed men—some three score, at least—were the Duke of Lancaster, the Baron of Raby, the new Baroness, Joan Beaufort, and a very smug Wat Tyler, who had run into Lancaster’s party almost the minute he’d ridden into Lincoln itself.

This was, after all, a world in which miracles were an everyday occurrence.

Thorseby reined his horse to a halt, absolutely stunned—a reaction that mirrored Thomas’.

“My lord!” Thorseby said. “I… I…”

“My man,” Lancaster said, nodding to Wat, “informs me that you hold one of my men as prisoner.”

“I was not aware that Thomas Neville was your man, my lord. Surely you know he is a Dominican friar, and thus under my authority.”

“Nevertheless,” Lancaster said, “he was under my instruction in riding north, and thus I ask that you release him into my care.”

Thorseby’s face hardened. “As a Dominican and a member of the Church, Brother Thomas is not yours to command, my lord! I beg you, step aside, and allow us to pass.”

“Thomas Neville,” Lancaster said, “is my kinsman, by virtue of the fact that his uncle is married to my daughter, and I take a hearty interest in the welfare of all my kin. I suggest, Father Thorseby, that we do not continue this discussion here in the chill air—we have ridden far this day, and are weary and hungry—but perhaps retire to the friary … where I am sure you will be happy to explain what you are doing with my kinsman in custody.”

Thomas sat silent throughout this exchange, still stunned by Lancaster’s utterly unexpected appearance.

Chance? Or design?

Raby sat his horse slightly to one side, as watchful as Thomas was … and apparently as surprised. His uncle had obviously made the most of his presence in London to secure the hand of Joan Beaufort. She sat on a pretty, dapple gray palfrey close to Raby, heavily cloaked against the chill, but with enough of her face showing to allow Thomas to glimpse her irritation at this turn of events.

Well, as Lancaster said, no doubt she was tired, and now eager to warm herself in her new husband’s bed.

And no doubt her marriage was Lancaster’s excuse for traveling north. He needed to see for himself that his beloved daughter was safely installed in Raby’s home base

of Sheriff Hut-ton castle in Yorkshire.

Thorseby gave in with some considerable ill-grace. “The friary shall be poor accommodation for those used to considerable riches—” he began.

“I have bedded down in my cloak in the battlefield,” Lancaster said. “A drafty friary shall be luxury indeed.”

“It cannot accommodate your entire escort!”

“But doubtless the inns of Lincoln can.” Lancaster twisted in his saddle and spoke to one of the nobles behind him.

The man nodded, then turned his horse and began organizing Lancaster’s escort so that the majority of them turned back into Lincoln.

“My lord!” Thorseby tried again. “I must protest vehemently against your interference in the workings of the Holy Church!”

Lancaster swung back to face the Prior General, his face flushed with anger. “And I, as regent of England, do protest on behalf of the new king that you take such a free hand with his subjects! Now, Father Thorseby, if you would care to show us the way into the friary …”

“A friary will be poor lodging indeed for my lady,” Thorseby said, indicating the Lady Joan, “and I fear the night’s events might prove distressing. Brother Thomas has been most vile in the manner of his disobediences.”

Lady Joan inclined her head, and spoke in a low and sweet voice. “Thomas is also my kinsman now, Father Thorseby, and I take as keen an interest in him as my father. Besides,” she gave Raby a tender glance, “I am as yet disinclined to part with my husband.”

Thorseby gave up, and led the way into the friary.

DESPITE WHAT Thorseby had intimated, the friary was reasonably large, situated as it was in one of the richest towns in England. Besides the church itself, there was a long line of individual cells for the brothers, two refectories, a guest house, guest refectory and hall, an infirmary, cloisters, gardens, and sundry store rooms.

Once the party—now consisting of Thorseby, Thomas, Lancaster, Raby, Joan, and some remaining twelve men-at-arms from Lancaster’s train (Thorseby’s men had ridden to quarters situated just beyond the friary itself)—had dismounted in the courtyard and been greeted by a flustered prior (not only had he to entertain the Prior General, but here was the Duke of Lancaster as well!), Thorseby led the way into the hall of the guest quarters attached to the friary.

It was relatively commodious, and a fire burned bright in the hearth.

At first, as the arrivals shook off the night dew from their cloaks and drew gloves from their hands, it was the fire that caught their attention, but as, one by one, they turned from the fire, their attention was caught by a figure sitting in a chair further back in the hall.

Lady Margaret Rivers.

Thorseby, noting with some considerable satisfaction the surprise and consternation on Thomas’ face, was nevertheless surprised himself to note similar

consternation on the faces of Lancaster and Raby.

He frowned, wondering if there were further secrets here that could be exploited.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Matins on the Thursday before the

third Sunday in Lent

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(predawn 10th March 1379)

— I —

MARGARET WAS PALE, and trembled a little as she rose, grabbing at the arm of the chair for support.

She swallowed, curtsied clumsily to Lancaster and then to Raby and his wife, then stood, one hand to her side and her eyes on Thomas.

“There stands Thomas’ whore,” Thorseby said, “her swelling belly proof enough that he has abandoned his vows.”

“What?” Raby and Lancaster said together.

Lady Joan merely averted her eyes and blushed, uncomfortable only with being in the presence of such lechery.

Thomas sighed, and averted his face slightly, rubbing his eyes. Sweet Jesu, as if be didn’t have enough mischief in his life.