The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

She walked in through the doorway, pulling the door closed behind her, and Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he said.

What would d’Arc think if he knew his young daughter was whiling away the night hours alone with a priest in his barn?

Jeannette sat down at Thomas’ feet, pulling a little hay about her for warmth.

“I am Jeannette,” she said, “and I am your sister in Christ.”

She paused, and in the faint light Thomas could see the gleam of her eyes as she regarded him.

“The archangel Saint Michael sent me,” she said, and Thomas went stiff in shock.

Jeannette reached out and took one of his hands between her own. “Do not fear.

Please. Evil is truly about us, but we will prevail.”

Thomas’ eyes tightened even more in suspicion. “Saint Michael has spoken to you?” he said.

She sighed sweetly.

“For the past year. He comes to me often, as do Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret.” Jeannette paused, and one of her hands touched him comfortingly. “He is a comfort, but when he speaks of the Enemy—”

Thomas knew she spoke of Satan … peasant folk often referred to him as the Enemy.

“—then I am afraid.”

Thomas leaned forward, and patted her shoulder with his free hand. “Do not fear, Jeannette. God and Saint Michael have sent me to fight the evil that—”

“But I must fight, too!” Jeannette cried, and pulled away from Thomas’ touch.

“God has also spoken to me through Saint Michael’s voice, and he has told me what to do!”

Thomas’ initial shock was rapidly being replaced with anger. How could Saint Michael have spoken to this ignorant peasant girl as well as he? “He has told you of Wynkyn de Worde?”

“Who? No, he has told me that my steps will be different to yours. I will not travel as far or on such a deadly mission.”

She paused, and Thomas had the impression that she was momentarily consumed with an infinite sadness.

“Although,” Jeannette finally continued, “my mission shall be deadly enough.

Thomas, evil stalks this precious land in the guise of an English soldier, and evil must be destroyed. The English must be pushed out of France!”

Thomas was unsettled by the girl’s attack on the English. Was this merely the French in the girl talking? The English were the invaders, and thus they must necessarily be representations of evil?

“Evil walks everywhere, Jeannette, and we must fight it wherever we meet it.

Sometimes it may walk in the guise of an English soldier, true, but oft times it might walk in the habit of a local pedlar, or—”

“There is no greater evil than the English king,” Jeannette said softly, but with such conviction that it disturbed Thomas.

As much as he didn’t want to, he had to believe that the archangel Michael had also spoken to this girl. Jeannette glowed with such a peace and such a presence that Thomas knew her to be heaven-blessed. Nevertheless, her peasant ignorances and bigotries obviously still undermined her judgment, and Thomas wondered if she would be as useful as St. Michael believed.

A war needed strong men to fight it, men of God, not unlearned peasant girls.

And how many others had the archangel spoken to? Was Thomas to lead God’s armies against the demons… or did St. Michael merely mean him to be a captain among many captains?

“The English king speaks with the voice of evil,” Jeannette said. She had let go of Thomas’ hand now, and was sitting back a little her voice taking on the singsong quality of repetition—or of such firm belief that nothing would ever sway it. “He is foul beyond knowing. His armies must be defeated and he must be burned so that his depravity cannot infect—”

“Edward is an old man,” Thomas said, his voice hard, “and unlikely to infect anyone with anything. Besides, it is not Edward who leads the English armies, but his son, Edward the Black Prince.”

“Edward?” Jeannette said. “Edward? I do not speak of Edward, either father or son, but of the young king. The blithe young man.”

Thomas’ earlier suspicions of the girl’s ignorance were now confirmed. “My dear child, the English king is Edward, and his son is Edward, and when the elder Edward dies then so the younger Edward will succeed him. Neither man is in the bloom of first youth … and certainly not ‘blithe.’There will be no ‘young’ king. Not for many

years to come.”

“You do not believe me,” Jeannette said, drawing even further back. “And yet what I have said was spoken to me by Saint Michael himself.”

“Dearest Jeannette, I do not doubt for a moment that the blessed archangel Michael has spoken to you, but perhaps you have misunderstood him. It might be better if you prayed for enlightenment and guidance. Would you like me to help you?”

Jeannette was silent, but Thomas could feel the weight of her stare.

“Jeannette, what can you hope to do in this fight against evil? You are a peasant and a girl, and your role can only ever be a small one. You should be content with your lot, and not dream of grandness.”

“I—”

Jeannette was interrupted by the opening of the barn door. She gave a small squeak of surprise, then she slipped forward onto her knees and clasped her hands before her. “Blessed saint!”

Thomas stared, wondering what she could see in this dark that he could not.

A shadow beyond the door moved, and then revealed the form of a crouch-backed man leaning heavily on a staff.

Thomas gave a sigh of relief. Not d’Arc, then, come to accuse him of fornicating with his daughter.

And surely not the archangel, either, whatever the ignorant peasant girl beside him thought.

Sweet Jesu, she must spend her time praying to the shadows of the crows that whirl overhead on a sun-filled day! And he had thought to believe that she actually—

The shadowy man stepped fully into the barn, and thumped his staff on the earthen floor.

Instantly the small barn was filled with a light so wondrous that Thomas almost fell in his haste to slip to his knees besides Jeannette.

The outward figure of a hunched, bowed aged man straightened into that of a man in the prime of his mind and body, and his face was now suffused with such power and anger that Thomas knew that it could be only one being.

“Saint Michael,” he whispered, and prostrated himself on the floor, gladdened beyond measure that St. Michael had again appeared, but even so, irritated that he must share this experience with this peasant girl.

Beside him Jeannette likewise fell to the floor, stretching out her hands so that she lightly grasped the saint about his ankles.

Thomas wondered that she dared, and then further wondered at the regard in which St. Michael must hold her, if he allowed such a simple peasant girl to take such familiarities with his heavenly flesh.

Ah, my children, as one of you is my left hand, so the other is my right hand.

Together, you shall work my will on earth.

He leaned forward, stretching out both hands—the staff mysteriously gone—and placed one on each of their heads.

Warmth and comfort and hope radiated out from his touch, and tears welled in

Thomas’ eyes. He was grateful beyond reasoning that the archangel spoke to him with such warmth and love.

And, as hands, then must you both work in tandem, whether in strength of faith, or in potency of action, for if one falls, then surely shall the other. Do not resent each other, nor strive to outdo each other in my favor. You are both equally loved and favored.

His hands lifted slightly and, as they did, so both Thomas and Jeannette rose until they knelt upright before the angel, staring with bright zealous eyes at his shining form.

“I don’t understand,” Thomas said. “I thought that I was to be the one to—”

Beware of pride, Thomas! You have your role to ply, as does Jeannette. Thomas, when truth is spoken to you, then you must listen. Jeannette spoke truly when she said that evil stalks in the form of the English king. To England you must go, Thomas, not only to retrieve de Worde’s book, but also to destroy the many demons that have permeated the English court.

Thomas lowered his forehead to the dirt, humiliated that Jeannette had witnessed St. Michael’s censure.

Your paths shall be different, and they will never be what you expect. Thomas, you will fight for God from within the English camp, for they have been befouled beyond knowing. You must stop them. Find the cancer within, and destroy it.

“Blessed Saint Michael, the demons have spoken to me, and they too know of de Worde’s book. What if they manage to destroy it?”

Again St. Michael reached out his hand, but now he cupped Thomas’ chin in it.