The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Praying, and thinking.

Evil was loose in Christendom, and it took the form of Satan’s imps, demons, who had determined to make Christendom their own by turning mankind’s allegiance away from God. The evil had grown infinitely worse in the years since Wynkyn de Worde had died, years when no incantations had been spoken to open the gates to Hell and push the demons back from whence they’d come.

Now Thomas, Beloved of God, was here to take Wynkyn de Worde’s place and restore goodness to Christendom.

All he needed was de Worde’s book.

But was it safe? The demons knew of its existence, but had not the demon also said that they could not open it, or harm it? Could he trust a demon’s words; And why had the demon been so forthcoming with him? Not only had the demon

told Thomas that he and his kind knew of the book, but he had also informed Thomas that the friar would face a test upon which mankind’s fate would be determined: “Choose one way and God will triumph, choose another and we will overrun earth and turn it to our will.”

And this test was to be a woman. A woman now pregnant with his child, if the demon had been speaking truthfully. A woman— a whore— to whom he would hand his soul on a platter, offering her earth’s eternal damnation in return for her love.

No. Never. Whenever he thought of that Thomas shook his head. Not even the guilt he carried over Alice could make him do that. That guilt made him stronger, not weaker. More determined. St. Michael had said so. He would not sacrifice mankind’s eternal salvation for a woman’s love. He wouldn’t have done it for Alice, and he most certainly wouldn’t do it for some woman in league with demons, however beautiful she was. There was no love within him greater than the love he bore for God, no loyalty greater than that he held for God’s angels. He would not betray God for some woman got with his child through demonic trickery and sorcery. Alice he had, and still did, feel responsible for, but not this woman.

God would be triumphant, not the demons … but in the meantime what mischief were they up to?

There was one thing that particularly unsettled Thomas. He was beginning to suspect that the demons could shape-shift at will. Certainly the two he’d met had assumed appearances other than their own vile and lumped forms. He also realized that the demons had him under close observation, for they knew his plans and movements. Possibly he had even conversed with demons on one or more occasions … but he had not known it. What if the demons could blend in with mankind? Would he know demon from true believer?

Who could he ever trust?

Thomas cast his mind back over the past few months of travel. Who? Marcoaldi for certain. Thomas remembered the man’s bitterness, and apparent hatred of not only the clergy but God Himself. Yes, it must have been Marcoaldi who had shape-shifted into a different form in order to torment him in the Brenner Pass.

Who else in that party? Lord Christ Savior, it could have been anyone!

Marcel? Thomas had seen him arguing vehemently with Marcoaldi the morning after Thomas had been injured by the demon. He seemed so godly…

“I must be careful,” Thomas murmured to himself several times a day, “and trust no one.”

And certainly not the woman—this “Meg”—he’d seen in the vision when he had lain with Odile. Ha! She was the one the demons hoped to tempt him with.

Well, she was beautiful, but she was a woman who had succumbed to her weakness (was she not lying with a man at the same time as he lay with Odile?) and thus not of a chaste and noble nature. Thomas pushed to the back of his mind the fact that he had also succumbed to similar weakness—after all, he had been ensorcelled, not in possession of his will. No, this woman, Meg, was likely as much a witch as Odile had been. She would not tempt him. He would not lose his heart to such as her.

The demons had made a fatal error in telling Thomas the nature of the trap they’d

set for him. He knew he could avoid it, he knew he could resist it. His love and loyalty to God came before all.

Thomas prayed constantly to St. Michael for guidance, but the archangel did not reappear or speak to him in any manner. This did not perturb Thomas, for the archangel had made it plain that Thomas must find his own way in order to learn.

Thomas was content enough, even though he had so far yet to travel. He took each day at a time, and he watched the actions and listened to the words of those about him with closer than normal attention.

There was no one he could trust.

WHEN HE left Frankfurt, Thomas chartered a small riverboat on the Rhine to take him southwest to Strasbourg, from where he could ride directly west for Paris.

As silent as he had been in the Frankfurt friary, Thomas said very little to the boatman as they sailed down the river, sitting in the prow of the boat holding the reins of his ever-patient horse, his eyes sliding over castle upon castle that rose bleak and threatening on the cliff tops at every turn of the river.

The Rhine was the major transport system of Europe, and hundreds of barges and ships, small and large, plied their way up and down its length. Their captains and passengers called greetings to Thomas, but the friar ignored them, and left it to the boatman to greet the passing barges and ships in turn.

The boatman was glad to see the back of him, and would not have protested even had Thomas neglected to pay him.

But Thomas was careful to pay his way, and, before he mounted his horse, gave the boatman coin from his purse.

He rode directly through Strasbourg. Cities were merging one into the other now, and the walls and crowded streets of one might as well have been the walls and crowded streets of the last.

Thomas kept an eye out for demons amid the scurrying townsfolk, but he never saw one. They knew he was paying attention now, and they were being cautious.

From Strasbourg it was a direct westerly route through the outer regions of France toward Paris. There Thomas hoped to be able to sit and rest awhile. Talk with Etienne Marcel, who might—or might not—be able to ease his soul, before continuing his relentless journey west, west, west…

Just after the first week in September, on the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, Thomas found himself in the province of Lorraine. It was late afternoon, and time to find somewhere to shelter for the night. Thunderclouds were billowing in from the northwest, and Thomas knew it would be a night when demons roamed.

He needed to find shelter.

As dusk approached and Thomas despaired of finding suitable accommodation, a village loomed up out of the grayness. A well-dressed peasant stood by one of the first houses—it almost appeared as if he’d been waiting—and greeted Thomas kindly enough.

“I thank you for your greeting, good man,” Thomas said in excellent French; like

all English nobles he was as fluent in French as in English. “Can you tell me where I am? I thought to be in Saint Urbain before the night, but…”

The man laughed good-naturedly. “Ah, my friend, you still have several days’ ride ahead of you to reach Saint Urbain. You are in the village of Domremy.”

He held up a hand, and Thomas took it.

“My name is Jacques d’Arc,” the man said, and Thomas smiled, for the man’s touch imparted more comfort than he’d felt in weeks.

“And,” Jacques d’Arc added, “my daughter Jeannette told me this morning that you would arrive with the setting sun. Will you sup with us, sir?”

DOMREMY WAS a small and humble village, and d’Arc’s home was similarly humble, a small cottage that was nonetheless well maintained and clean. There was a pile of hay and a pail of water to one side of the cottage. D’Arc tied Thomas’ gelding to a post close by and indicated that a boy, already hurrying out of the twilight, would attend to him.

Inside the oneroomed home a fire crackled cheerfully, a pot of frothy grain gruel bubbling below a tripod. D’Arc’s wife turned from the fire as they entered, and d’Arc introduced her as Zabillet.

But Thomas quickly turned to the fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl who emerged from one of the dim corners. She was a typical peasant girl, dressed in rough and patched clothes, not overly tall, her thick body and limbs well muscled and sturdy from her hours of laboring to aid her mother in the house and her father in the field.