The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Now, Charles proposes taxes that would cripple most honest people!”

“And so the Estates General refused to grant the taxes.” Thomas sincerely doubted that Charles had proposed much at all—undoubtedly he’d been mouthing the thoughts and phrases of some incompetent advisers.

“The Estates General did not have much say in the matter.” Marcel paused. “I would not allow such taxes.”

“What do you say?”

“The Parisians had had enough, Thomas,” Marcel said. “All they wanted was some man to stand up for them, to lead them—”

“And you were there,” Thomas said, remembering the conversation he’d had with Marcel on that final night they spent together in Germany.

“There was a spontaneous uprising,” Marcel said, “which, if someone had not given it direction, would have caused massive bloodshed.” “And… ?” “And so, on behalf of the people of Paris, and of France, I set before Prince Charles demands that needed to be met before we could allow ourselves to be taxed one more sou.”

“And the demands?”

“That power be passed from the hands of the king into the hands of the people,”

Marcel said.

Thomas stared at the provost, almost unable to believe what he had heard. This went beyond rebellion … this was a heresy against the ordained order.

“The people are not the ones to make demands on the king,” Thomas said quietly, holding Marcel’s stare. “Kings are ordained of God, and the only office which has the authority to chastise kings is the papacy.”

Philip chuckled, and Marcel sneered.

” Which papacy?” Marcel said. “It appears that in these days of suffering we can pick and choose. Kings have abandoned the common people, and the Church is in disarray! It was time we took matters into our own hands.”

Thomas said nothing, and so Marcel continued. “I headed a deputation to the Louvre, and we set our demands before the Dauphin. He refused to listen to me.

There was a… small altercation.”

Philip laughed softly again. “What he means, my dear Tom, is that Marcel’s

‘deputation’ got slightly out of control, seized two of Charles’ marshals, and tore them apart on the spot.”

“Of course,” Philip leaned back in his chair, and rested his elegant silk-hosed legs on the table, ” I should not be the one to mouth complaints. At the time, the Dauphin had me incarcerated in a dungeon for some imagined wrong. Marcel, once he’d managed to keep the mob back from the Dauphin, had me set free.”

“Ah,” Thomas said, finally understanding. “And so now you are allies against the Dauphin.” He wondered if Marcel knew what kind of ally Philip could be.

“His grace and I have struck a bargain,” Marcel said. “He supports my and my fellows’ bid for a representative say in government, and we support him as rightful claimant to the French throne.”

Now it was Thomas’ turn to burst out laughing. “The French throne has more

‘rightful claimants’ than a dog has fleas! You cannot hope to succeed!”

“And we will not,” Philip said, “if you do not tell us what you know.”

“It is not much,” Thomas said. “Charles has, as you say, fled Paris. He gathers troops, to the east somewhere, although I do not know the precise location. Forces rush to join him. When he has an adequate complement, I have no doubt that he—”

or, more likely, his sister ” —will lay siege to Paris.”

Philip and Marcel looked at each other, and Thomas watched the both of them.

France is tearing itself apart, he thought. All the Black Prince need do is give them time enough to complete their own murder and the path to the throne of France will he his father’s for the taking.

“I need to leave,” Philip said. “Now.”

Marcel nodded, rising. “I will have horses and an escort for you within a few minutes. Wait here.” He spoke briefly to one of the guards at the door, then left.

Thomas and Philip waited until he had gone, and then Thomas looked directly at Philip. “What are you doing, Philip?”

Philip did not evade his eyes. “I am going to leave this Godforsaken city,” he said,

“and I am going to ride to my estates to the west. I have men there, waiting. I will raise an army!”

“And then?”

“And then…” Philip smiled, utterly malevolent, “I will have to make up my mind who to support, won’t I?”

“You cannot think to support Marcel! What he advocates is treason to both man and God.”

Philip rose, scraping back his chair. “You know me well enough, Tom. You tell me who I will support.”

“Whoever promises you the most,” Thomas said bitterly.

Philip gave him a small, cold smile, then stalked out of the room.

THOMAS SAT for a few minutes, staring into the fire, then he, too, rose and walked to the door. He knew now that Marcel was undoubtedly demon-corrupted, if not demon himself, and he had confirmed the method of the demonic assault of Christendom: through their evil, both subtle and direct, the demons meant to launch an attack on the traditional and God-given hierarchy of society. They would attack the Church, and they would attack the right of the nobles to govern society, and they would persuade the common man that he had a right to his own destiny. Sweet Jesu!

It was a nightmare! The commonality were simple folk, who needed the love and direction of the higher orders of priests and nobles. God’s order on earth would collapse if common men were allowed freedom of choice! Ah, it was best he leave now, before Paris disintegrated into flames around him. He could prevent more damage the quicker he found Wynkyn de Worde’s casket, and threw the secrets it contained against the demons.

As he went to pass the guards, two stepped forward and grabbed Thomas by the upper arms.

“What—”

“The provost’s order, brother. For your own protection,” said one guard.

The other grinned, his eyes malicious. “Paris is a dangerous place these days. We wouldn’t want you to come to any harm… would we?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Feast of St. Michael

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

(Wednesday 29th September 1378)

— MICHAELMAS —

IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY GOOD Michaelmas at la Roche-Guyon, and the Dauphin Charles was in surprisingly good humor, considering that the English controlled the entire south of France, they held his grandfather (as well as much of the flower of French nobility) for ransom, and he had fled Paris not a week before in fear of his life.

All this was due to the peasant girl, Joan of Arc.

She had said little on the day and a half’s ride it took to reach the castle of la Roche-Guyon, save that she worked God’s and the angels’ will and that all would be well in due course. De Noyes, as well as Catherine and most of their escort, regarded her with some suspicion.

Who could not be suspicious of a girl who dressed as a man?

And what peasant girl claimed to have the knowledge to lead France to a victory against the English?

Catherine, in the few minutes she had alone with de Noyes at dusk on the day Joan had joined them, whispered the word “witch” at least four times, and further claimed that she was probably a harlot who wanted to seduce Charles for her own gain.

De Noyes, although he thought his princess might have gone too far in her assumptions, nonetheless had his own reservations about the girl.

Mon Dieu, she wasn’t even beautiful! No knight could be inspired to perform valorous deeds on the battlefield by a stumpy, brown-faced, thick-waisted girl!

Charles, however, was fully prepared to be enraptured. He had prayed for a sign from God that all was not lost, and here it was, albeit in the slightly unglamorous form of Joan.

They arrived at la Roche-Guyon at dusk on the evening of the Feast of St.

Michael, their mounts wearily plodding the steep roadway up the chalk cliff to the citadel. La Roche-Guyon was an ancient castle with a great round keep soaring above its walls, dominating the curve of the River Seine far below. It would be a safe and convenient site for Charles to rally the remnants of the French nobility and army about him … if he had the nerve and the skills to do it.

By Compline that evening Charles, Catherine and de Noyes had eaten and rested, and Charles called the girl, Joan of Arc, before him.

He leaned forward in his chair, his face eager, as Joan sank to her knees before him. She had not washed, nor set aside her travel-stained clothing since her arrival, and Catherine’s mouth curled very slightly in distaste as she noted the stains about the girl’s face and body. No doubt the witch thinks it gives her an air of hermetical mysticism, she thought. “How may I know that what you say is true?” Charles asked.