“Evil incarnate walks unhindered among mankind… isn’t that what Saint Michael has told you? Well,” the demon’s face and voice hardened, “you do not know the nature of evil, Tom. You have not even started to learn.” “I will destroy you and your kind!”
“With what, Tom? Ah, yes, of course, how very silly of me! With Wynkyn’s book, of course.”
The demon stopped, grinning at the expression on Tom’s face. “Yes, we know of the book, but you must be of good cheer, for we cannot harm it, nor even open it.”
“Why tell me that?”
The demon hesitated, thinking. Finally it raised its eyes to Thomas’. “Believe it or not, Tom, we mean you no harm. Indeed, we wish you well, for you may one day be of great benefit to us.”
“What? What do you mean?”
The demon shook its head. “There is a long road ahead of you, Tom, and no one, not even Saint Michael, can see all its twists and turns. The archangel told you that you must learn yourself, and for once I agree with the cursed angel. He cannot teach you, as I cannot. But just remember, Tom, that we’re all watching you.”
The demon turned, as if to go.
“Wait!” Thomas said. “Why bring me here today? Why trap me with Odile?”
The demon stopped, and turned its face slightly so it could speak to Thomas over its shoulder.
“To mate you with your test. Now another woman is pregnant with your child.
Don’t you realize, Tom? Don’t you? The fate of the world will twist and turn on the outcome of Tom’s test. Choose one way and God will triumph, choose another and we will overrun earth and turn it to our will.”
And then the demon walked away.
Thomas blinked, and the demon was still walking away, his gait smooth and elegant, and then Thomas blinked again and the demon had vanished and he was alone in the Cleft.
Alone, but for the memory of the vision which had sprung before his eyes while he sated his lust on Odile. The vision of the beautiful, sad woman into whom he had somehow— through some demonic sorcery—spent his essence.
A test? A woman? How could that be? Surely demons would tempt him with wealth, or power beyond imagining. Or perhaps try to deflect him from St. Michael’s quest with terror. But a woman? Thomas’ thought slowed. A woman. He
remembered how Odile had called on the memory of Alice.
The fate of the world will twist and turn on the outcome of Tom’s test.
Alice’s fate had twisted and turned on his acceptance or rejection.
What better way to drive him to despair once more than through a beautiful woman, again pregnant with his child?
Thomas dragged his mind away from Alice, and what she had done in her despair.
He had lain with Alice in love. What had happened just now, that animalistic satisfying of his lust, had been not the result of love, but of dark witchery. If a child had been conceived of that trickery, then he was surely not responsible for it.
Surely.
I will be strong, he swore silently. I will be.
Finally managing to push all thoughts of Alice, and of that other, beautiful woman from his mind, Thomas brushed off the remaining smudges of dirt on his robe and walked to the mouth of the Cleft.
There was no sign of Odile or the demon, but there was his brown gelding tied to a sapling ash, saddled and waiting.
There was a bag of food tied to the cantle of the saddle.
Thomas walked slowly over, not sure if the horse was an apparition or reality, but the beast gave a soft whicker as Thomas neared, and shook his head and mane as if to hurry him up.
Thomas gave his neck a pat, then looked at the bag of food. He laid a hand on it, hesitated, then wrenched it off the saddle and threw it away.
He didn’t need the aid and succor of demons, or of whore-witches.
He glanced about, then sighed, undid the horse’s reins and mounted. There was no point staying here. There was nothing to be discovered in this rocky gorge, this Cleft. Wynkyn de Worde had left no clue, and if the demons reappeared they would only feed him falsities.
Best to be on his way.
To England, and to Wynkyn de Worde’s ever-mysterious book.
Thomas turned the horse’s head to the path, and gave him a gentle nudge in his flanks.
Best to move while there were a few hours left of daylight.
They had a long way to go.
FAR AWAY, Ralph Neville — Baron Raby — and Lady Margaret Rivers lay in silence for a long time, side by side on their backs, staring at the ceiling of the canopied bed. Outside the gently moving walls of the tent came the quiet, yet somehow urgent, sounds of the army encampment, “I did not know you were a maiden,” Raby said finally. “A virgin . . . why did you not say?”
“I did not know how to tell you, my lord.” I was too ashamed, Margaret thought.
How could a woman ten years married tell any other man that she was still untouched?
Raby rolled over slightly, resting his head on a hand. “Why did your husband not
touch you? Was he one who preferred the harder caress of men?”
Margaret shook her head slightly. “He was too ill. We were wed when I was sixteen, and he twenty-five, but he was weak even then. He would sigh, and roll away.”
He stared at her, and Margaret knew he was reassessing the situation. What virgin would have done as Margaret just had if she didn’t want something from the man concerned?
“What we have just done is no sin,” he said. “We are both widowed, and free to choose as we will. But, Margaret,” his voice hardened, “do not think that I will marry you. I cannot do that. You know it.”
For a moment Margaret closed her eyes, knowing the lines she had to recite, knowing the part she must play. But even now, even after her painful deflowerment, Margaret found it difficult to act the whining wanton with Raby. He was a good man, and had treated her far more kindly than many another might have.
And he bad no idea of what magic had been grappling with her body beside him, this strange afternoon.
Still… if she had come this far then she must complete her task. “And if I bear a child?” she said, hating the words as they fell from her mouth.
“Do you think to trap me?”
“No, my lord! I… I…”
“If there is a child, there will be no reason it could not be your husband’s. He is only recently dead. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, my lord.”
“We have a contract, you and I. You lend me your body for my easements, and I will aid you to return to your home. There will be nothing more. I have sons enough, I do not need bastard ones.”
“I understand you, my lord.”
“Good.” Raby rolled away and got out of bed. He was lithe and battle-hardened, and his chest and arms bore the scars of many engagements. He spoke softly, and his valet stepped forward from a darkened corner with wash clothes and clothing.
Margaret closed her eyes, humiliated. Had the man been waiting there all this time, watching and listening?
Raby turned and regarded Margaret as the valet fussed about him. “I will return after dusk. Be ready for me.”
She did not reply, and neither did she attempt to slide the bed covers over her breasts as the valet slid surreptitious glances her way. She was a whore now, and need not hide herself from any man.
FRANCE
“itt is to farr for Pegg to goe with mee.”
“I will goe with thee, my loue, both night and day, and I will beare thy sword like lakyney; Lead the way!”
“but we must ride, and will you follow then
amongst a troope of vs thats armed men?”
“Ile beare thy Lance, andgrinde thy stirrup too, Ile rub thy horsse, and more then that Ile doo.”
A Jigge (for Margrett)
Medieval English ballad
CHAPTER ONE
The Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(Wednesday 8th September 1378)
FROM THE CLEFT Thomas rode northwest through golden fields where red and green clad peasants wielded scythes and through small villages where boys herded geese and old women spat down wells. After several days’ journey he arrived in the town of Bamberg. From there Thomas followed a small river west, arriving in Frankfurt during the last week in July. He stayed at a small Dominican friary in the city for five days, knowing that both he and his horse needed time to rest. He spoke only rarely to the brothers there, and they let him be. He was a quiet guest, and did not disturb the peace of the friary, and so he was welcomed and left to his own devices. Unlike his time in St. Angelo’s friary, where he’d spent so many hours of the day stretched out before the chapel altar, Thomas stayed in his own cell in Frankfurt, preferring to pray in solitude.