The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

days.”

He roared with laughter, and Thomas, furious, pulled himself out of the man’s grip and stalked away.

Peasant!

MARCEL KEPT close to him for the day’s nightmare journey through the last part of the pass. The trail was not appreciably narrower or steeper, but what made this section so dangerous were the constant waterfalls that roared down the cliff making the footing so treacherous that the guides insisted that everyone be roped together. It saved Thomas’ life on three occasions.

Once he fell so badly he slipped entirely over the edge of the path, leaving Marcel and one of the guides to haul him back to safety.

When he finally stood on his feet again, shivering with terror, he looked up to see Marcoaldi staring at him with eyes rilled with bitterness and grief, and perhaps a little regret that Thomas had not also fallen to a lonely and unshriven death. The banker seemed unwell, as if he had caught an ague from his night spent on the cold ground.

But perhaps he was only discomforted because Marcel had so berated him for some unknown misdeed.

When Thomas finally began to move along the trail again, his hands and legs uncomfortably wobbly, he forced himself to look over the edge.

The precipice fell away with no slope at all, but occasionally a rock or two jutted out from the rock face; on these rocks hung bleached bones, sometimes held together by a strip of skin or tendon.

Thomas leaned back, shut his eyes briefly, and fought to forget what he’d seen.

ALL THE men made it safely through the pass, but four of the horses had, in that final horrific stretch, fallen screaming to their deaths. Gratefully, Thomas’ own mount was safe, but he found himself hoping ungraciously that one of the doomed horses had been the pack animal carrying Marcoaldi’s precious chests. But it was not so, and once on relatively flat ground the banker was reunited with his chests and also, it appeared, with his good temper, for he greeted Thomas cheerfully as the friar walked past.

“And now,” Marcel said as they bid the guides farewell and remounted their horses, “Nuremberg.”

CHAPTER THREE

Vigil of the Feast of St. Swithin

In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III

(Wednesday 14th July 1378)

FOR OVER TWO WEEKS they rode north from the Brenner Pass, making the best speed they could. The mood of the group had changed since the passage through the Brenner. Outwardly as cheerful as it had been previously, there was nevertheless a somber undertone to the banter of the day’s rides and the evening discussions about the campfire or tavern table. Marcel and Karle appeared preoccupied with their need to travel as fast as possible. While this suited Thomas, it nevertheless added a degree of tenseness to both travel and relations within the group.

Marcoaldi, though, had reverted to his charming, friendly self, and the Biermans were as genial as ever, although Johan actually seemed subdued now that he’d left the mountains behind him.

Thomas had no more visitations, whether of dream or actuality. He prayed constantly to St. Michael, as well as to Christ and the Holy Virgin, seeking guidance in his journey ahead, spending many hours of each night on his knees, or prostrate on the ground or inn floor.

From the Brenner the group traveled almost directly north through Innsbruck and Augs-berg. This was the road that Wynkyn de Worde would also have traveled, but Thomas found no clues on the road, nor in the faces and words of those they passed.

All he felt was a pressing urgency within him to arrive at Nuremberg, and this Thomas believed was the work of the archangel on his soul, driving him forward to find Wynkyn’s secret and the secret to negating the evil that now walked abroad.

Sweet Jesu, how could it be defeated, when already demons walked with such impunity among God’s chosen? Saint Michael, grant me strength, I pray you.

Sometimes, when such thoughts ran through Thomas’ mind, he would turn and see Marcel watching him, as if the man knew his doubts. Marcel would nod, his face grave but comforting, and Thomas would take heart.

Perhaps the archangel had chosen to walk in mortal disguise to aid him, for Thomas found Marcel a continual comfort.

On the Vigil of the Feast of St. Swithin, nearing mid-July, they rode weary and sore from the pace Marcel had set into a small town, Carlsberg, a day’s ride from Nuremberg. Here Marcel called a halt.

“There is an inn here that I know well,” he said. “The innkeeper is a good man, and hospitable, and we shall spend a comfortable night before we reach Nuremberg on the morrow.”

The others merely nodded, and followed Marcel into the bustling courtyard of a substantial inn. Here porters and grooms busied themselves with the arrivals’ horses and packs, and the men stretched stiff limbs, and pulled gloves from hands as Marcel led the way into the inn itself.

It was a large establishment, roomy, clean and warm, and the innkeeper hurried to greet Marcel. They passed some words, brief and mumbled, and Marcel turned to the others.

“There is a messenger waiting here for me,” he said, his face creased with worry.

“Please, sit down before the fire. I will return shortly.”

The innkeeper, a thin man with an innocuously round, red face, waved them toward benches set before, a fire, promising ale and bread within moments.

They all sat, except William Karle, whose eyes followed Marcel as the merchant entered a small side room.

“Forgive me,” Karle said, and hurried after Marcel. Johan raised eyebrows at his father.

Bierman shrugged, then smiled and accepted the frothing mug of ale a serving girl had brought over. “Ah, every day these past few weeks I have cursed Marcel for his uncompromising pace, but for this ale I could forgive him anything! No wonder he rushed so!”

Thomas smiled at the girl as she handed him a mug, and then turned back to the Flemish merchant, ignoring the sudden flush in the girl’s cheeks at his smile.

“There has been far more to Marcel’s haste than a desire to reach the amenities of this inn, Master Bierman,” Thomas said, and took a sip of his ale. “And now he has rushed out to meet with this messenger, and Karle with him, as if his salvation depended on it. Do trading matters always generate such disquietude?”

“It is perhaps more than trading matters, brother,” Marcoaldi answered for Bierman. “Marcel is the Provost of Paris, and as such has more to concern him than the price he might get for his bolts of Florentine silks. And,” Marcoaldi looked directly at Thomas, “with an English invasion threatening, and perhaps even at the gates of Pans itself, Marcel might well be desperate with worry. The fate of his fellow citizens concerns him deeply.”

Thomas felt an edge of hostility to Marcoaldi’s voice. “I am not responsible for the actions of the English, Master Marcoaldi.”

The banker grinned. “Of course not. But you can understand Marcel’s worry, can you not?”

Thomas inclined his head, and was about to say more, when Marcel strode over to them.

If he’d appeared concerned previously, now he was patently agitated.

“Events have moved faster than I could have imagined,” he said, glancing at Thomas. “The Black Prince and the Duke of Lancaster have indeed landed a massive invasion force in Gascony, and even now march north. King John prepares to meet them—his vassals are mobilizing to join with the king at Orleans.”

“And Paris?” Marcoaldi said.

“Is in a bad state.” Marcel had lifted his eyes, and was now staring at a blank space on the wall above the fireplace mantel. “John has levied extraordinary taxes to pay for his campaign … and he is stripping Paris of all defenses in order to meet the English in the south. My friends,” he looked back down, and put one hand on Thomas’ shoulder and the other on Bier-man’s, “I must leave … within the hour. I wait only for fresh horses to be readied, and to have a meal.”

“You’re not going to Nuremberg?” Bierman said.

“No. I cannot. My friend, may I ask you to deal with my business there. It is much to ask, but you know what needs to be done, and I cannot—”

“Of course,” Bierman said. “Your interests shall be well served.”

Marcel nodded his thanks, spoke quickly to Marcoaldi, and then turned to Thomas.

“Thomas,” he said softly. “We must talk. Will you join me in the kitchen as I eat?”

THOMAS SAT at the board table in the kitchen and watched as Marcel ate several hurried mouthfuls of food: Karle, who was also leaving with Marcel, had ladled some vegetables and grain thickened with gravy into a trencher of bread and had hurried out to the stables to oversee the packing of the fresh horses.