The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Saint Michael, aid me now! God help me, drive thoughts of this woman from my mind! Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, his hands now trembling violently as he grasped them tightly together, his body rocking slowly back and forth. He struggled for control, knowing that any moment Bertrand was going to open that door and find Thomas lost in a maddened fit of anger and remembered lust.

Thomas knew he was being watched, knew that the Prior General of England wanted an excuse to throw him from the Order… and yet still he couldn’t bring himself under control … still he couldn’t forget the laughter… the breasts bared above his head … still he couldn’t forget his humiliation, and his overweening fury …

“Please … please, Saint Michael,” he whispered between clenched teeth. Thomas.

Peace flooded Thomas’ being, and he almost wept. Thomas, do not let the thoughts of women control you.

Thomas opened his eyes a fraction. A warm clear light illuminated the dim corridor. He lifted his head slowly.

Five or six feet from him stood a pillar of fire, the form of a man dimly discernible within it. A stern face stared at Thomas from the top of the pillar.

The fire did not sear Thomas, nor did it cause him any fear. He sank to his knees, and clasped his hands in adoration. The archangel had returned.

Women have ever been weak, Thomas. They are always too willing to give in to temptation. But man is stronger, you are stronger. You could have succumbed to your lusts, but you did not. Do not berate yourself for being tempted, but praise yourself for resisting. You arc the man we need, Thomas. You.

“Saint Michael,” Thomas whispered, overwhelmed by the archangel’s forgiveness and acceptance. “You are so good to me.” You are a Beloved, Thomas. “Blessed saint, I have found a name that—”

You have found the name of the man whom you must follow, in body as well as spirit. “WynkyndeWorde.”

Yes, He worked on behalf of God and His angels until the evil pestilence swallowed him before he could properly accomplish his task.

“And I must take up where he left off?” You are his successor, although you will grow to be much greater than he.

Thomas’ heart swelled with gratitude that the archangel so blessed him. “What must I do?” Learn all you can about him, learn what he did, and why. Discover what his purpose was, then take that purpose into your own hands. Follow your instincts, for they are the instincts of the angels. “Can you not tell me what I need to know, blessed angel?” The archangel’s anger seeped across the space toward Thomas. “Forgive me! I did not think to—”

Learning is nothing unless it is experienced. If I tell you what you need to know then you will not have truly learned. Wynkyn de Worde died before he could train his successor personally, thus the successor, you, had to be bred and must now learn without the aid of the one gone before.

“I will learn, Saint Michael. I give you my oath on it.”

You will learn fast, Thomas. Wynkyn de Worde’s untimely death was a disaster.

For thirty years the minions of Satan have mingled among God’s own. Now it is almost too late to prevent the final conflagration.

“Blessed angel, my duties keep me here at the friary. I doubt that—”

The archangel roared, and Thomas cringed in terror.

You work with God’s authority! The Church is crippled and useless! Listen only to God’s authority, Thomas, not the useless babbling of priests!

“Saint Michael—”

You are God’s Beloved, Thomas. You need no other authority than that to work what you must. Already you have allowed Prior Bertrand to deflect you from God’s purpose. Do not allow him to do so again.

Thomas began to speak, the questions bubbling to his lips, but the archangel had gone, and Thomas was once more alone in the corridor.

He lowered his head over his clasped hands, overwhelmed with emotion. He had felt so lost for so long, so weak and so sinful, so full of guilt and remorse over Alice as well so many other misdeeds of his thoughtless youth, that he’d believed that his life was essentially purposeless. Worse, that it had been and ever would be a waste of a life.

He’d joined the Church in order to seek salvation, and to do penance for his sins, true, but because he also wanted desperately to find purpose. Yet he’d thought even

that a failure. There seemed so little purpose in a Church so corrupt and directionless that for years the very papacy itself had been the plaything of the French kings.

But now, to have the archangel so bless him as to believe him capable of becoming a soldier of God… suddenly Thomas felt not only as if his life had purpose, but that he had meaning. He had potential. He had the capability to make a difference.

To redeem himself.

He was weak, but he could be strong. St. Michael had said so.

And thus, Thomas resolved, it would be so.

For the first time in many, many long years, Thomas felt as if he had finally found a true friend, someone who believed in him so greatly he had entrusted him with a mission vital to God, and to all mankind.

Finally, Thomas could begin to believe in himself again.

He drew in a deep breath, steadying his emotions. He could believe in himself again!

The door opened and there was the sound of a footstep. “Brother Thomas?”

Prior Bertrand.

Thomas unclasped his hands, then slowly rose from his knees and turned to face the prior.

AS ON the other times Thomas had come to his cell, Bertrand indicated that Thomas should sit on the stool. The prior stood before him, his arms folded and his hands slipped deep into his sleeves.

“Well, Thomas, have you learned humility?”

Thomas, who had been sitting with his own hands folded in his lap and his eyes cast down, now lifted his face.

“I have learned, Prior Bertrand, that I have a greater calling than that which places me under your discipline.”

“What?” Truly shocked, Bertrand actually forgot himself enough to rock slightly on his feet.

Thomas held the prior’s gaze. “I am Wynkyn de Worde’s successor in God’s and the angels’ eternal fight against evil.”

The prior’s face completely whitened. “By whose authority?” he whispered.

“By God’s authority, and by the authority of the blessed Saint Michael who has blessed me with his presence on several occasions.”

Bertrand jerked his eyes away from Thomas, backing up a step or two. He muttered a prayer under his breath, then shook his head frantically as Thomas rose to his feet.

“Tell me what you know of Wynkyn de Worde!” Thomas said.

Bertrand shook his head more vigorously. “No. De Worde is dead. Gone. I do not have to think of him anymore.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“Brother Thomas! You overstep your place! I will not—”

“You will tell me,” Thomas said in a low voice that was, nevertheless, laced with such authority that Bertrand quivered in fear.

Thomas reached out and seized one of Bertrand’s sleeves. The prior flinched, thinking he would be struck, but Thomas only pulled him about and pushed him down on the stool.

“I speak with the archangel Saint Michael’s voice,” Thomas said. “Tell me what you know of Wynkyn de Worde!”

Bertrand, staring up at Thomas, recognized the power and anger that flooded the man’s face. So Wynkyn had also looked when Bertrand had summoned him to an accounting when the prior had first taken his office.

And, as Bertrand had capitulated then, so he capitulated now.

After all, was not St. Angelo’s dedicated to the archangel St. Michael?

Bertrand suddenly understood that he wanted Thomas out of this friary and out of Rome as soon as possible. He was an old, old man, and he’d had enough.

The prior dropped his eyes, and sighed. St. Michael’s will be done. His face was gray now, rather than pale, and the age-wrinkles in his skin had deepened until they resembled wounds.

“I came to this friary as a young man,” Bertrand began, “perhaps thirty or thirty-two— not much older than you are now—in 1345. I assumed the position of prior, although many, Brother Wynkyn among them, thought me too young for such duties.”

Thomas folded his hands and stood straight, regarding Bertrand silently.

Bertrand’s mouth twisted, remembering. “Within weeks of my arrival I realized that Brother Wynkyn was … different. As you have realized, he came and went without asking permission, and he hardly took any part in the life of the friary apart from attending prayers and meals. When he was in the friary he kept to his cell, studying an ancient book he had there.”

“Of what was it concerned?”

“I do not know.”