The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

At last, finally, long after the bells of Compline had rung out from a distant church, Margaret heard the sound of hooves and men’s voices as groups of the Black Prince’s force filtered back into camp.

Her fear grew. Where was he?

What if he had died? What would happen then?

At last heavy hooves thudded toward the tent. A black destrier loomed out of the night, close followed by others bearing her lord’s squires and valet.

“My lord!” she cried, and hastened to his side.

Baron Raby waved her away. He was exhausted, and knew that if he fell from his horse he would crush her beneath the weight of his armor.

“Be still, Margaret,” he said. “Let my squires aid me to the ground.”

She stood to one side as the squires dismounted wearily to aid their lord, so consumed with fear that she thought she might faint, wanting to ask if he had also lived through the horror, but not daring to, knowing she had no right to ask.

Raby finally managed the ground, two squires to either side helping him walk.

“You’re wounded!” Margaret said, fluttering about the group of men as they entered the tent.

“A scratch,” he said. “For the Lord’s sake, Margaret, let me be! My squires can bathe me and staunch the bleeding.”

Margaret’s face crumpled, and she stood back as the squires undid the buckles of her lord’s armor gently lifting each piece away from his body.

Beneath the armor his tunic was gray with sweat, and, in places, stiff with blood caused as much by the chafing of the armor itself as by sword or axe wounds.

The squires unlaced the tunic, folding it away from Raby’s body while the valet brought warm water and wash cloths.

Useless and unwanted, Margaret stood in the shadows of the canopied bed, silent tears streaming down her face.

Was he alive? She would die if she did not know—

A footstep sounded outside the tent, and a man entered. He was younger than Baron Raby, and somewhat taller with fine fair hair—now matted with sweat—and piercing light gray eyes.

Under normal circumstances he was an exceptionally handsome man; now he looked gray and exhausted.

Raby turned at his entrance, and made as if to rise. “My lord Bolingbroke!” he said.

“Peace, Ralph,” Hal Bolingbroke said, and waved him down. “I have merely come to see that you are well, and well attended to.”

“Ah,” Raby said, “my squires have all survived, and are fit enough to serve me still, as you can see. And when they tire, Margaret is always here.”

At her mention, Bolingbroke turned his head to look at Margaret, although he had been keenly aware of her presence since the instant he’d entered the tent.

“My lady,” he said, and inclined his head very slightly.

Tears still coursed down Margaret’s cheeks, but now they were tears of sheer relief rather than fear. She curtsied deeply.

“My lord, I am heartily glad to see you well.” Praise Sweet Lord Christ, Hal, for I could not have gone on if you had died.

“It has been a bad day, Margaret, and we must pray that it will be the last we shall see for the present time. Many of our men have died, and many more lie screaming under the surgeons’ knives.”

Margaret rose, her gaze locking into that of Bolingbroke. “But you have won the day, my lord, and you live.”

And that is all I live for, she thought, knowing that he also knew it.

Raby moaned as his valet pressed the wash cloth too firmly against an abrasion, and both Margaret and the Bolingbroke turned their eyes back to him.

“I must leave,” said Bolingbroke. “My father will ride in soon.”

“I thank you heartily for your concern,” said Raby, and Bolingbroke nodded, and walked to the entrance of the tent.

Margaret mumbled some excuse to Raby and his still-busy squires, then hastened after Bolingbroke.

When they were outside, and the tent flap shut behind them, they embraced briefly, fiercely, and then as quickly stood apart lest any see them.

“Hal,” she said, “I am with child.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Then it has begun,” he said. “We are committed.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Thursday before the Feast of St. Michael

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

(23rd September 1378)

THE DAY WAS BURNING, almost as if Satan had opened the gates of hell to allow a little of his devilish heat through to torment the poor souls of Christendom.

Thomas rode through a shimmering landscape of corn-stubbled fields and rising dust. His horse was bathed in sweat, and Thomas was in no better condition. He had thrown off his black cloak and rode in his white tunic, its sleeves rolled up. Every so often Thomas tugged his robe’s neckline down as much as possible to let air (the hot, hot air) circulate between the thick wool cloth and his slick, scratchy skin.

Although it was early autumn, the hot day was not unusual. This was the time of year when pests thrived in the summer’s lingering heat and on the wastage of the harvest; grubs writhed through dunghills, rats scrambled through thatch, and fleas and ticks and mites bit deep on the flesh of man and beast alike.

This was the time of year for disease and pestilence, the time of annual fear, and Thomas had been regarded with both suspicion and eagerness in the villages he’d passed through these past weeks; peasants kept their distance, but needed his news.

Had he witnessed corpses by the sides of the roads? Had he seen any freshly dug graves? And had he delivered last rites to men or women with the swelling foul evidence of pestilence in their armpits or groins?

To these questions Thomas always answered no. Sometimes the peasants grudgingly gave him food (handed to him at arm’s length lest he unwittingly carried contagion about his person); less often they gave him shelter.

As Thomas traveled west from Domremy he avoided other travelers, preferring to journey in solitude. He could purchase supplies in small town markets with what remained of Marcel’s gold, and the nights were warm and pleasant and conducive to sleeping rolled in a blanket under the stars.

Thomas did not mind being left largely to his own thoughts. He knew the path ahead would be hard—and oft times confusing, according to the blessed St.

Michael—but he trusted in God and in the archangel. He, as Jeannette, would manage to drive out the filth of demonic contagion from Christendom and restore it to godliness and goodness. Thomas knew that he would without doubt become a soldier of God in this crusade, a General of either Church or secular army, but he sometimes wondered at the part Jeannette would play. The conscience of a king perhaps? Whispering encouragement and godly reassurances so that some glorious knight could ride to Thomas’ assistance … what else could a mere peasant girl do but become a blessed nun?

Thomas’ way was now clear, if thorny. Find the blessed tabernacle of Wynkyn de Worde. Use its contents to destroy the demons. Thomas was well aware that the demons would attempt to destroy him in turn, but for that Thomas was prepared. He knew how they intended to use him—tempt him with this witch-woman Meg, for Christ’s sake!—and he knew how he could counter their plans.

A simple “No,” and a turn of his back. The most destructive weapon he could use against her and her kind. The easiest word he would ever utter.

Thomas smiled, sure of himself.

BY MIDAFTERNOON the heat had become extreme. Some distance ahead of Thomas rode a company of fifty or sixty horsemen, soldiers, by the glimmer of weapons, and with at least one knight in their company. Both heat and the dust thrown up by the horsemen caused Thomas to pull his gelding back to an ambling walk; best to let the horsemen get further ahead. He supposed they were riding to join King John’s campaign against the English—but on this hot, dreamy day the battles between English and French seemed very, very far away.

Everything about this day was dreamlike: the heat shimmer across the fields, the

dust billowing gently across the road ahead of him, the stillness … the consuming silence …

In the end it was the stillness and silence that alerted Thomas to danger.

It was hot, yes, but the fields should still have had men and women working in them. There was threshing to be done, and hay to be carted, and the grape harvest to get in, and the pigs to drive to pasture to fatten for the annual autumn slaughter. And yet there was nothing.

The fields were empty; what hovels Thomas could see in the distance appeared deserted, the road was similarly empty save for the company of horsemen in the distance, and Thomas himself.