The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Daumier set a brisk pace, and Thomas had to work to keep up with him in the dim light of the street.

“I have heard only glimmers of news of Paris,” Thomas said. “What has happened here?”

“The people have claimed their rights,” Daumier said, somewhat unhelpfully.

“Yes, but I need to know what has actually—”

Daumier stopped abruptly and swung about to face Thomas. “If you seek Marcel then you must know what has happened!” he said.

“All I know is that Marcel befriended me some months ago,” Thomas replied. “I need to speak with him about some matters we discussed then. In the meantime—”

“There is no ‘meantime’ for you, priest!” Daumier said. “You have skinned the ordinary man as much as the lords have! Your tithes and taxes, as well as your harsh screams of hell-fire awaiting sinners, have only added to the burden imposed by the king’s taxes and demands. Well, the Parisians, at least, have had enousjh! No longer do we listen to the pratings of lord or priest.”

And with that he swung about and stalked off into the deepening dusk.

Deeply alarmed by, and even more suspicious of, the man’s extraordinary statements, Thomas hurried after him.

DAUMIER EVENTUALLY led him through five or six twisting streets to a fortified

house set against the city’s northern wall. Here Daumier spoke to the several guards outside the front door, showing them Marcel’s seal ring, before the guards stepped aside and allowed Daumier and Thomas passage inside.

The house was richly appointed: Italian tapestries and eastern silks hung from walls, while deep wool carpets—also eastern, by their exotic patterning—were scattered across the floors. Intricately carved chairs and chests stood in the hall.

Daumier gave Thomas no time for a close inspection of the furnishings, leading him straight to a closed set of double doors. Without further ado, he opened one of the doors, spoke quickly and quietly to a guard on the other side, and then stood back to allow Thomas through.

“The ring,” Thomas said as he drew level with Daumier.

With a grimace, Daumier handed it back to him, and then walked away without a word.

Thomas entered the room.

THERE WERE several guards directly inside the door—who pointedly laid hands on the swords at their sides as Thomas passed them—but Thomas had eyes only for the two men seated at a table set before a roaring fire.

They rose, silent with question, as Thomas entered.

One was Marcel, his face lined with care and lack of sleep.

But Thomas ignored him. He could only stare at Marcel’s companion, a darkly handsome man in his thirties dressed in rich velvets and brocades.

The man stared briefly at Thomas, then grinned easily.

“Why, if it isn’t Lord Thomas Neville,” he said, “all dressed up in the garb of a damned Dominican friar, and with his pate all a-shaved! What do you here, Tom?”

And then the notorious Philip the Bad, King of Navarre, Count of Evreux, and cousin to the French king, stepped forward and embraced Thomas.

CHAPTER SIX

Compline on the Vigil of the Feast of St. Michael

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

(night Tuesday 28th September 1378)

— II —

“NO, WAIT!” Philip cried, leaning back a little, although he still kept Thomas’

shoulders in a tight grip.

The king’s face was alive with mischief.

“Say nothing!” he continued. “I can guess why you’re here. Why, you damn

Englishman, you have come to spy on us, have you not? Capture our goodwill and then lead us straight into the heart of the Black Prince’s camp? Ha! Tom, you cannot fool this fine fellow!”

“Marcel!” Philip turned so he could see Marcel, who had risen from his chair, completely shocked. “Marcel? You know this man? Ah,” Philip turned back to Thomas, who appeared only marginally less shocked than Marcel, “Tom, my friend, it is too many years since we have hunted the boar together.”

“Philip … your grace, what do you here?”

Philip continued to grin happily at Thomas. “You do not know?”

Thomas looked over at Marcel, then back to Philip. “I…”

“If I know Thomas,” Marcel said, regaining his composure, “he has been locked away on some obscure Church business and has completely failed to note the doings of the world beyond the door. Thomas, come, sit down. I am as pleased to see you as his grace obviously is. Although,” Marcel sank down into his chair as both Philip and Thomas took their seats, “I had no idea that you knew the King of Navarre.”

A servant glided out of the shadows with a goblet, which he set down beside Thomas’ right hand.

Philip waved him away, and poured Thomas a measure of wine himself. “If you know Thomas, Marcel, then you must know he is a Neville.”

“Of course,” Marcel said, making a small gesture of self-deprecation. “I should have known that as you are of similar age and station you must have shared—”

“Many youthful adventures,” Philip said, and laughed good-naturedly. “Tom spent much time with my family when he was a youth and learning the arts of the knight.

Ha! But look at you now!”

All merriment left the king’s face, and when he spoke again his voice was serious.

“A damn priest. I heard rumor you’d joined a monkery, Tom, but I had given it little credit. I am… dismayed… to see you thus.”

“We must each follow our own hearts,” Thomas said.

“But to give up your heritage, Tom… and your lands! What on earth possessed you?”

“The Holy Spirit—”

“No! Save me. I do not want to hear priestly prattle from your mouth.”

Philip sighed, fiddled with his goblet, then looked at Marcel. “And you, my rebellious friend—”

Thomas looked sharply at Marcel.

“—where did you make Tom’s acquaintance?”

“Brother Thomas joined my company as we traveled the Brenner Pass, your grace. We were both going to Nuremberg, although I had to break my journey short and hurry homewards when I heard news of the … troubles.”

“Ah, yes, the ‘troubles,'” Philip said and leaned forward, sloshing more wine into his goblet. “The troubles …”

“I have been,” Thomas said quietly, “too deep in my own problems the past weeks and months to be much aware of the outside world. Such news as I have

heard has largely passed me by untouched. But, as I entered France, and traveled westward, I have heard of—and seen—great miseries. King John,” Thomas risked a glance at Philip, “has met with disaster at Poitiers, I believe.”

Philip said nothing, but took a deeper swallow of wine, and grinned.

“As a result,” Thomas continued, “I hear there has been disturbance in Paris. The Dauphin has been ejected, and now gathers men to the east—”

“What?” Philip and Marcel exclaimed together.

“What do you know?” Philip said, once more leaning forward, his goblet now pushed to one side. His black eyes were intense, but with what emotion Thomas could not guess.

Marcel sat back a little, allowing Philip precedence, although the provost was clearly as desperate to hear Thomas’ news as was the king.

“I need to know what has happened here first,” Thomas said, “or else I may not be able to explain coherently my own news.”

Philip’s mouth curled; it was not a pleasant expression. “What you mean is that you need to know where Provost Marcel and I stand so that you may tailor your news accordingly.”

“Marcel,” he waved a languid hand at the provost, “tell the friar what you’ve been up to.”

Marcel looked down at his hands resting on the top of the table for a moment, then raised his eyes to Thomas’ face. “The war with the English has sent Paris spiraling into chaos, Thomas. King John, as you have heard, has fought a disastrous campaign—”

“The scabby senile old man couldn’t have won a battle with a three-legged kitten,”

Philip said, almost under his breath.

“—and has been captured as a result. The Black Prince has demanded a huge ransom, as well as a winter truce that would see most of France under English control.”

“Where are the English?” Thomas said.

“Still south,” Marcel replied. “The Black Prince has moved his force into Chauvigny, where he waits like a spider for his next meal. Whatever, for the moment we have greater troubles than the English.”

“What greater trouble can there be than the English?” Philip said, smiling once more.

Marcel took a deep breath. “If your grace will allow me to finish …”

Philip waved a hand again, and Marcel turned back to Thomas. “The Dauphin summoned the Estates General—”

“The representative assembly?” Thomas said. “But that hasn’t been summoned in decades.”

“Nay. But Charles needed it. Desperately.” A vein began to flicker in Marcel’s neck, and his hands clawed into fists on the table. “In order to raise the ransom, Charles needed to levy taxes—such taxes as you cannot believe!—on the citizens of Paris and the surrounding provinces. This war between our king and yours, Thomas, has caused us such great misery for the past years that you cannot begin to imagine.