The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Her thick, dark brown hair was cut in a ragged line just above her shoulders, and her face was as rough and as plain-featured as the cottage itself.

But it was her brown eyes which caught Thomas’ attention. They were so peaceful and composed, and so knowledgeable, that Thomas wondered at the soul which inhabited this peasant body.

What was she?

“This is my second daughter, and fourth child,” d’Arc said, and Thomas switched his eyes back to the father, wondering now at the very slight tone of puzzlement in the man’s voice. “Her name is Jeannette.”

D’Arc blinked as he looked at his daughter, and Thomas realized that, like himself, d’Arc was puzzled by the girl’s composure and sense of purpose.

Jeannette was not the usual adolescent peasant girl, the one moment giggly and shy, the next brash and ill-mannered, thinking only of the next day’s labor or of which village boy she could seduce into her bed and subsequently into a betrothal.

“Your father said you knew I was coming, Jeannette,” Thomas said.

She nodded slightly, and smiled, but did not speak, turning instead to help her mother with the supper as her elder sister and two brothers came in from their evening chores.

The meal was largely eaten in silence, but Thomas did not feel uncomfortable.

Instead, the d’Arc family, as their home, exuded an embracing comfortableness, even though Jeannette was so patently unusual.

Finally d’Arc spoke a little of himself and his family. He was not a native of Domremy, coming to live in the village from Ceffonds in Champagne in order to wed Zabillet. Nevertheless, d’Arc was a man of some importance in Domremy, being the doyen, or sergeant, of the village, a position which ranked only behind those of the mayor and sheriff. However, Thomas knew that d’Arc’s position was a difficult one, because as the doyen, the man would be responsible for the collection of taxes.

As Zabillet collected the platters and spoons, aided by both her daughters this time, d’Arc poured Thomas a large mug of ale, and leaned back in his chair, the only one in the cottage—everyone else sat on stools or benches—and sighed.

“These are not propitious times, Brother Thomas,” d’Arc said.

Zabillet, shy and ill at ease with the Dominican where Jeannette was not, placed a platter of apples and goat’s cheese on a stool between the two men, then bustled her daughters off to a corner of the cottage where all three busied themselves in mending. The two boys had gone back outside, presumably, Thomas thought, to bed down whatever animals the family owned. “I have heard that there is war about,”

Thomas said, hoping d’Arc had news of the English, while at the same time praying that his French did not betray his English origins.

D’Arc grunted. “Worse than just ‘about,'” he said. “Rumors consume the country.

A week ago a pedlar came through, saying that King John was driving his army toward a place called Poitiers.”

D’Arc sounded uncertain about the name, and Thomas nodded to encourage him to continue. No doubt d’Arc had never heard of Poitiers, a town far to the southwest, let alone visited it.

“Well,” d’Arc continued, “John drives his army hard for Poitiers, and the English bastard dark prince from hell drives his army as hard. It is said there will be a great battle.”

D’Arc turned his head slightly and spat into the fire. “The Devil take the English! I hope King John spits each one of them on good French pikes!”

Thomas fought the urge to sigh. The English king, Edward, should forget his pretensions to the French throne and concentrate instead on building a good and godly kingdom at home. Worse than Edward’s wayward lust for the French throne was the fact that the war would make things difficult for Thomas. More than anything else Thomas wanted to get to Wynkyn de Worde’s book before the demons forgot their fear of it and snatched it from under his nose. Any distraction, whether a half day wait for a ferry, or the threat of bloody war raged across his path, was equally unwelcome.

“At least you should not need to fear the effects of the war this far north,” Thomas said. “Bah! Already taxes have risen threefold so that John can pay for his army.

Brother Thomas—”

D’Arc leaned forward and looked Thomas in the eye.

“— I am the one charged with the responsibility of collecting taxes. And yet these taxes have now become so weighty that I fear I will be destroying my neighbors’

lives by seizing their hard-earned grain, or wool, or wine!”

“And I fear for my husband,” Zabillet put in softly, almost apologetically, from her corner, “for our neighbors now regard the taxes with such loathing, they look at my

Jacques with eyes of hatred.”

Thomas glanced her way, and was disconcerted to see Jeannette staring at him, making no pretense of attending to the holes in the worn stocking she held in her hands.

Her mouth curved in a small, knowing smile, then she bowed her head and resumed her mending.

“Ah,” d’Arc said, his voice more moderate now, “but you have your own troubles, do you not?”

Thomas’ breath caught. What? Was d’Arc a demon to know of his troubles? “As the English are at war with our king,” d’Arc continued, “so our beloved Church now divides itself into two armies.”

Thomas frowned, thinking for the first time that he should have made more effort before now to acquaint himself with the latest news. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?” d’Arc said. “Brother Thomas, where have you been?”

Thomas shrugged helplessly, wishing the man would get on with it. “Traveling, Jacques, traveling. What is happening?” Thomas asked.

D’Arc stared incredulously at his wife, then back to Thomas. “You know of Urban’s election in Rome?”

Thomas nodded. “I was there for it. What—” “Then you know that some cardinals were unhappy—” “Sweet Jesu! They haven’t—”

“The cardinals are in Avignon, and there they have elected a new man to the Holy Throne. A good Frenchman,” Thomas noted well the satisfaction on d’Arc’s face,

“who has taken the name of Clement.” “But has Urban resigned?”

D’Arc kughed dryly. “No. He has excommunicated Clement as an impostor, and Clement has excommunicated Urban as a rogue and a fool. Each now surrounds himself with cardinals, or creates new cardinals if he can’t find enough to fill his court, and threatens war on the other.”

The amusement faded from d’Arc’s face. “It is a disaster, my friend. For the Church, and for every good soul in Christendom.”

Thomas shook his head, not knowing how to comment. Even though he had expected trouble from the rogue cardinals who had departed for Avignon, now that he’d actually heard the results of their trouble-making he was horrified. Sweet Jesu, is this the work of the demons?

If they’d wanted to divide Christendom and turn it in upon itself, they couldn’t have done better. The Germans and English would back Urban, while the Spaniards and French would support the new pope, Clement. Europe would splinter into various alliances, some supporting the Roman pope, others the French pope. Still other groups would denounce both, and agitate for the election of a third, impartial pope.

And the forces of evil would revel in Christendom’s disunity.

“Jesus Lord Savior!” Thomas finally whimpered.

He had to find Wynkyn’s casket…he had to!

“Will you lead us in prayer, Brother Thomas?” Zabillet said, as she rose and gathered her daughters about her. “Evil descends about us, and I am afraid.”

HE SLEPT that night in the small lean-to barn adjoining the d’Arc cottage. The family had little spare bedding, and Thomas was content enough to wrap himself in his cloak and an ancient and well-patched blanket in the soft and sweet new meadow hay stacked up from the village’s recent haying.

“Slept” was a poor word to describe Thomas’ tossings and turnings. He drifted in and out of sleep, ever slipping into oblivion only to jerk awake within a few minutes from a dream of nameless evil striding across a darkened world.

Finally he gave up even the attempt at sleep, and sat wrapped in his cloak and blanket, staring through a chink in the rough plank wall at the darkness outside and wondering if wickedness and gloom were indeed about to consume all of mankind.

“Brother Thomas?”

Thomas jumped, surprised and frightened. He twisted about—there was a short, thick figure standing in the doorway.

“Do not fear, Thomas,” said a girl’s voice, and Thomas’ heart slowed down, for he recognized it as Jeannette’s.

“What do you here?” Thomas said, curious but also more than a little suspicious.

No young girl should be wandering about at night, and especially not to talk alone with a cleric.

What did she want? Was she another Odile?

“I am here to comfort you,” Jeannette said, and Thomas’ suspicions deepened.