The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

“Stay your words, Tom!” Bolingbroke leaned the distance between them and placed a cautionary hand on Thomas’ arm. “We shall find the casket eventually. Until then…”

Thomas forced himself to relax. Hal was right, and there was certainly no point in antagonizing Lancaster. To do so would see him sent as far from court as was possible … and it was only at court that he had a chance of finding the casket, Where had Richard secreted it?

“I apologize,” he said to Lancaster. “I had fought so long to reach Bramham Moor, and when I did, it was only to find the casket so recently gone.”

“Well,” Lancaster said, still watching Thomas carefully, “I can assure you it is not under Richard’s bed.”

“We know,” Hal said, and winked conspiratorially, “because we crept into his bedchamber one night last week and lifted the covers to look!”

Both Lancaster and Thomas laughed, lifting the mood.

Lancaster sat up straight, glancing at the window. “Ah, see how late we have tarried talking, and there is yet more to be said before I can join my Catherine in our bed. Thomas, is Margaret quite recovered from the journey?”

“Aye.” Thomas and Margaret, with a nurse to carry Rosalind, had rejoined Northumberland on the morning after Low Sunday, and the entire train had then made its way south to London over the next ten days. Despite her recovery, the journey had tired Margaret, and caused her to lose her milk, which had given her deep distress. She had not liked to hand Rosalind over to a wet nurse, but there was no help for it.

They had been at the Savoy now for some two days, time enough for Margaret to recover her spirits, if not her milk. Tomorrow at Vespers they would be wed in a quiet ceremony in the palace chapel. Neither wanted nor expected a grand ceremony, and even had they wanted it, London was in such a fever over the imminent coronation that their wedding would have been ignored anyway.

“Good.” Lancaster delayed a moment, lifting a honeyed fig from a platter on a nearby table. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then resumed speaking. “Once the coronation is done, and Richard has held his first court, it would be best to take Margaret and the child to Halstow Hall. You will need to inspect your new home in any case.”

Thomas bowed his head.

“Then,” Lancaster said, toying with the remaining portion of fig, “I and Hal would that you join his household, perhaps as Hal’s secretary, but also, I hope, as his friend.”

Hal broke into a broad smile. “Well?”

Thomas was truly stunned by the offer. The position of secretary to a nobleman as powerful as Hal was potentially a preferment of great influence. Thomas would control access to Hal, be his ambassador and spokesman, and supervise his estates and manors.

“I do thank you,” Thomas said, his gaze taking in both men, “and I do accept.

But—”

The other two stilled.

“—it shall be a tiresome task, running about after my Lord of Bolingbroke day and night.”

Lancaster laughed, catching and holding his son’s eye. “Bolingbroke is about to be tamed,” he said, “for this summer he is to take the Lady Mary Bohun to wife.”

Thomas turned to Hal, offering his congratulations. Lady Mary Bohun was one of the richest heiresses in England, and her lands and titles and estates would only add to Hal’s power base.

Hal pretended dismay, rolling his eyes and giving a heart-rending groan. “You are not the only one to be led ring in nose to the altar, Tom,” he said. “But at the least we can console each other.”

They talked of other things for a few minutes, then Thomas asked after news of France. He had been so long in the north that little information worthy of relating had

reached him.

Both Lancaster’s and Hal’s faces lost some of their good humor.

“Charles and Philip continue to be the best of bedmates,” Lancaster said. “I have heard reports that they have so strengthened their arms that they may well attempt to retake the south this summer.”

“Intelligence also reports that the maid Joan continues at Charles’ right hand,” Hal put in. “Apparently Charles will not even empty his bowels without her advice.”

“And us?” Thomas said. “Can we …”

Lancaster sighed heavily. “The loss of both my father and brother have crippled us for this year. As with any new and untested king, Richard must consolidate his hold on his own realm before he attempts to snatch another. I do not think we will be able to mount another aggressive campaign until… oh, perhaps spring of next year at the earliest. God has dealt us a poor hand.”

“And all we can do in the meantime,” Hal said, his face dark, “is to pray this Joan of Arc does not inspire Charles toward too many acts of heroism. France will be ours yet. It must be.”

THERE WERE few people in the chapel to witness Thomas and Margaret’s nuptials.

Lancaster and his wife, Katherine; Raby and his wife, Joan; Hal; and, surprisingly, Geoffrey Chaucer, who had said he was in town for the coronation and might as well attend a wedding as well.

Lancaster’s chaplain conducted the service with the minimum of fuss, and what dignity he did assume was totally negated by Hal, who stood to one side grinning as if Thomas’ marriage had been something he’d accomplished himself.

Margaret was quiet and pale, speaking her responses in a low voice. She wore a dress of dark green velvet, edged with scarlet at the hem and along the tippets of her sleeves. It was low cut and tight fitted, revealing that her recent pregnancy had not in the least affected her figure. She hardly looked at Thomas, and would not look at anyone else. Thomas had been concerned that she might embarrass herself with a display at Raby, but to his relief she hardly seemed aware that the baron was there.

She had said she would be the good wife and so, it appeared, she intended to be.

Thomas sighed with relief when the chaplain finally pronounced them man and wife, and bent to kiss Margaret.

As she lifted her face to his, Thomas was stunned to read fear in her eyes, and as a result the kiss he gave her was more tender than he’d actually meant.

There was a round of congratulations as the witnesses stepped forth, the women kissing her on the cheek, and the men kissing Margaret on the mouth as was the custom. Thomas watched Margaret’s reaction carefully as Raby placed his mouth over hers, and then watched with some amazement as Hal kissed Margaret with surprising tenderness. Then, just as Lancaster jovially suggested they repair to his private apartments to share a simple wedding supper, a youth stepped forward from the shadows of the aisle, clapping his hands slowly.

Richard.

He was dressed all in green from the short and tightly fitted fur-trimmed tunic that revealed the bulge of his privy members to the equally tightly fitted leggings about his thin legs.

“Well, well, Neville,” Richard said as he finally lowered his hands. “I did surely think we’d lost you to the priesthood … and yet here you be, married to a woman any man would lust to bed. May I offer my own congratulations to those of my uncle and his family?”

“Your grace,” Thomas said, bowing, but Richard paid him no attention. He caught Margaret in the midst of her curtsey, placing both his hands on her shoulders and raising her up so that he could plant a lingering kiss on her mouth.

Thomas barely restrained himself from placing his own hands on the king’s shoulders and wrenching him off his wife.

“She tastes sweet,” Richard said, finally leaning back from Margaret. “I envy you your bedding. I must take my own wife soon, methinks.”

He glanced slyly at Thomas. “After all, I could hardly take another man’s, could I?

Nay, only tragedy would lie in that action.”

He bent to kiss Margaret again, and her face wrinkled in either disgust or fear, Thomas could not tell which. At that point Thomas thought he might truly have ruined his entire life by striking Richard— how dare he sully Margaret and refer to Alice in the same moment? —but Hal stepped between them, took Margaret by the arm, and handed her over to Thomas.

“We must not keep the happy couple apart for too much longer,” he murmured.

“Your grace, perhaps you will join us for a simple wedding supper?”

“Nay,” Richard said, his eyes not leaving Thomas’ face, “I think not. The Abbot of Westminster thinks he needs to spend yet another evening with me to ensure I don’t put a foot wrong at my coronation. I merely rode here to offer Thomas my congratulations, and to tell him how pleased I am that he is to be so close to my court rather than lost in the wilds of the Dominican family. Thomas, you and your delightful wife will stay to attend my coronation court, will you not?”