The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

The face of the strange, beautiful woman had entirely vanished, both from Thomas’ eyes and from his memory.

“We shall go when my babe has finished his suck,” she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Friday before the fifth Sunday after Trinity

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

(16th July 1378)

— II —

LADY MARGARET RIVERS, recently widowed, exhausted, penniless and hungry, stood in the English encampment outside the tent of Baron Ralph Raby, her heart thumping, her hands moist with nerves.

How was it she had come to this? Prostituting herself in order to get food in her mouth, and a safe journey hack to England?

Oh, superficially the reasons were clear enough: her husband Roger had died far from home, and now she must shift for herself if she was ever to get to England safely.

But there were far deeper and darker reasons she stood here, waiting for Raby’s decision, and that reason soon enough emerged from the tent.

A tall, blithe young man, with silver gilt hair and pale gray eyes, and a face so striking and noble that most women offered themselves to him without a second thought.

Margaret stared at him, and the man nodded, and held back the tent flap for her.

“Sweet Meg,” he whispered as she brushed past him. “All will be well.”

She did not answer, and the man let the tent flap fall closed behind her.

THE INTERIOR of the tent was dim. Margaret, halting a pace or two inside the entrance, almost let her nerves get the better of her. The temptation to flee was so strong…surely they could manage without her… surely they did not need her to do this …

“You are the Lady Rivers?” said a man’s voice.

“Aye,” Margaret said, pausing to swallow and in order to get some moisture into her throat. “Aye, my lord.”

He emerged from the shadowy recesses of the tent and, now that Margaret’s eyes had adjusted to the light somewhat, she could see he had been standing beside a large bed hung about with tapestries and curtains.

The nerves fluttered anew in her belly.

“I am Ralph Neville,” he said, his voice not unkind. “My Lord Bolingbroke has told me of your troubles.” Now his voice took on an undertone of humor. “What he did not tell me was how beautiful you are. Your hair, my God … Ah, I shall have to take Bolingbroke to task for that omission.”

She looked at him, trying to find a reason to go through with this. Ralph Neville, Baron Raby, was a tall, sinewy man of some fifty or fifty-five years, dark haired and stern faced, but with warm brown eyes that now regarded her with some kindness.

Together with the humor in his voice, Margaret found that it was enough.

“I have no one, my lord,” she said. “And nowhere to go. My husband is dead, and I am penniless.”

“And you want to return to England.”

“Aye, my lord.”

He was close now, and reached out a hand to her face, holding her chin, his fingers gently caressing. “Did Bolingbroke mention to you the price?”

She was caught by his eyes, and by the soft stroking of his fingers on her chin.

“Aye, my lord,” she managed, finally, in a whisper.

His eyes became softer, and Margaret wondered if he could feel her trembling.

“Say it,” he said, as quietly as she.

“For my passage back to England in warmth and in safety I shall… I shall keep you comfortable in your bed at night.”

“You found that difficult to say,” he said, after a moment’s pause to study her.

“And so I discover that you are a virtuous woman, not used to camp whoring. Well, Margaret, you shall discover that I shall treat you well enough, and kindly enough, for such a grizzled old warrior.”

Margaret thought his fingers were going to burn through her skin to the bone of her jaw. Sweet Jesu, if I feel this when he lays but a finger to me, what shall I feel when he lays the length of his body along mine?

“I have no doubt of that, my lord.”

His only response was to lower his face to hers, and kiss her, deeply.

Oh, sweet Lord Christ! Margaret had never been kissed in passion before. All her husband Roger had ever managed was a quick, embarrassed peck to her cheek now

and again. But now Raby’s mouth was firm and demanding on hers, and, under its pressure, she opened her mouth, and felt his tongue slide between her lips, as warm and as gentle as his eyes.

When finally he lifted his mouth away from hers, she saw that Raby’s eyes now were far darker than they had been a moment ago.

“Sweet Meg,” he whispered, “I find myself disinclined to wait until this coming night to discover for myself the delightful secrets of your body. Come with me now, do, and earn your passage to England.”

Margaret felt a moment of panic— what will he say when he discovers that I am not quite as practiced as he thinks? —and then she nodded, very slightly, and let Raby lead her toward the great bed in the center of the tent in the middle of the English encampment.

Dear Christ, Hal, she thought, let this be as good as you have promised.

“MY MOTHER and father told me much about that night before Yuletide,” Odile said, leading Thomas through the village green to a small track that led into the forests. Neither husband nor child accompanied them.

“How did your village know Brother Wynkyn?”

“Asterladen fed him whenever he came through,” Odile said, branching off the main-track onto one overgrown with shrubs and wild grasses. “He paid us well.”

“And you know of the place where he … worked?”

“I know of it, as did my elder brother and sister. No one else. We found it when playing as children. There was a pile of bones there… my brother said it must have been Brother Wynkyn. There was a cross about his neck. Further on there is a place, a strange place, which my brother told me was where the friar came twice a year.”

“And your brother … where is he now?”

“I am the only one of my family left,” Odile said.

“Your brother and sister died?”

“Nay. Both left to work at crafts in Nuremberg.”

Odile stopped and turned back to Thomas. “I have never seen either again. I do not know if they live or not.”

She was obviously upset, and without thinking, Thomas gathered her to him, patting her back clumsily.

Her pregnant belly pressed firmly into his, and he thought he felt her child squirm.

He blinked, surprised, for it was a rather pleasant sensation.

Odile smiled awkwardly, and extracted herself from Thomas’ arms. “No doubt they now have families of their own,” she said. “As I have.”

And with that Odile turned and led Thomas deeper into the trees.

They walked into ever thickening forest, and eventually Thomas took the lead, pushing aside low-hanging branches and scrubby bushes so Odile could pass easily.

He was worried for her, for the woman appeared unsure, and occasionally she clasped at her belly, as if reassuring, or seeking reassurance. Thomas had suggested she go back, but Odile had shaken her head, wide-eyed, and refused.

She would be well, she said, once they had reached the path leading to the gorge.

A gorge? Is that where she was leading him?

He turned to question Odile further, but all she did was smile very gently, and say:

“It is a strange place to which I take you, but quiet, and very peaceful.”

Thomas nodded, and would have turned to resume their progress when Odile spoke again.

“My parents, as many of the older folk within the village, say that the gorge harbors demons, but I do not believe the tales. Neither I, nor my brother or sister have ever been troubled.”

“And you know not why Brother Wynkyn came twice yearly to the gorge?”

She tipped her head on her side, almost flirtatiously. “Why? Well, now, Brother Thomas, perhaps he went to the gorge to reflect, or perhaps even to talk to his God, for that surely is the kind of place it is.”

Odile pushed past Thomas, her pregnant belly bumping his arm as she went. “I will lead from here,” she said. “The way is clearer now.”

THEY WALKED for perhaps another half an hour before the track left the trees and opened out into the beginnings of a valley.

Odile called over her shoulder. “We’re almost there!”

Thomas peered ahead. The valley was narrow—sheer cliffs rose either side of a floor no wider than ten or fifteen paces. Odile was right, it was more a gorge.

“Where does the gorge lead?” he asked.

Ahead Odile shrugged her shoulders, and Thomas couldn’t help noticing the way her dress rode up over her buttocks as she did so. Thomas silently cursed himself; Odile was not the kind of woman to sully with wanton thoughts.