The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

The friar now comes your way. Be prepared, for he is of stubborn mind and even worse faith, but rejoice, for he is vulnerable where we need him to be weak.

You know to what I refer— our fairy brother planned well, and the execution was perfect.

Beloved sister, I embrace you now for the last time. Go with love, and into love.

CHAPTER NINE

The Friday before the Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III

(15th October 1378)

THE SQUARE, HIGH-PEAKED TENT was dyed scarlet and gilded about its edges; tasseled and beribboned banners and pennants fluttered from its corners and peak. Its interior sheltered a very large and ornate mirror that had been cast in the east and then encased in a jeweled and gilded frame in Constantinople before being shipped westward.

It was very, very expensive.

Philip thought it framed his glory perfectly. When he was king of all France—finally reuniting the kingdoms of France and Navarre—he would surround himself with such objects.

When he was King of France …

Philip smiled at his reflection, turning this way and that. He lifted his hands, pausing briefly to admire the glint of gold and turquoise of their rings, then ran them down the rich embroidered red velvet of his coat armor. He tapped it lightly with the fingers of his right hand, enjoying the dull thud that sounded from the metal breastplate beneath.

Then Philip frowned at his reflection, and, after a moment’s consideration, undid the top three buttons of the coat, revealing not only a shine of steel breastplate, but also the exquisitely worked coat lining of gold silk.

“Your grace.”

Philip turned and took the sword belt his manservant held out, and fastened it about his hips. Save for his basinet (and that Philip was not yet ready to don, and may not have to, if circumstances were favorable), he was arrayed for war in full battle armor… but he was not about to enter a physical fray. This armor, the jewelery he wore about his person, and the haughty confidence of his face were to be worn for the purpose of diplomatic combat, a war of words rather than of swords.

The manservant made another slight noise behind him, and, slightly irritated this time, Philip turned once more from his reflection and took the sword the man held out, sliding it impatiently into its scabbard.

“Is everything in readiness?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“My escort?”

“Mounted and waiting, sire.”

Philip sighed, and fiddled with the hilt of his sword, suddenly unwilling to rush. He must not let his self-confidence work in his disfavor. Charles would be difficult to deal with…

but…

“But at least I have something with which to bargain,” Philip muttered, “and at last he needs something from me so badly is he prepared to talk to achieve it,”

“Sire?”

“Nothing!” Philip snapped, and waved the man away. “Leave me be!”

His expression quietened once the man had gone, and he stared at his reflection with eyes unfocused.

His entire life had been moving to this point. Navarre was not enough for him …

Philip knew that with the right combination of circumstance and cunning, he could also have the French throne.

Now the circumstance was right, and he need only add his cunning.

John—despicable, senile old man—was in the hands of the English (who were never going to let him go, whatever ransom demands they mouthed), and his grandson Charles was so unsure and indecisive he could undoubtedly be induced to fall upon his own sword at some point.

Of course the peacock king, Louis, could be disregarded completely.

Once John, Louis and Charles were disposed of, Phillip would be next in line to the throne. The irritating fact that King Edward of England also happened to be a close blood cousin to John could be disregarded. The French would never accept an English king.

Philip smiled, cold and feral.

The French throne was his. So long as he kept a cool head, and was prepared to sway whichever way the wind dictated.

There was a movement, and then a heavy swish as the tent flap was pushed back, and one of the outside guards poked an uncertain head in.

“Sire, I—”

“What is it?”

“There is an emissary from the provost of Pans, your grace. A friar by the look of him—”

Philip burst out laughing. Marcel had sent Black Tom to argue on his behalf?

Well… Marcel must know he was dead. “He is outside?”

“Yes, your grace.”

Philip smoothed down the velvet where it had crumpled a little over a line of bolts in his breastplate. “Bring him in.”

“Thomas!” Philip said as the friar entered. “My friend! I am so glad you escaped.”

Thomas gave Philip a cynical look, then bowed in courtly fashion. “Your grace looks very… very …”

“Flamboyant is the word you seek, Tom. No need to hesitate.”

Thomas walked a little further into the center of the tent. Philip had truly set himself up in style: a bed, complete with tapestried hangings, stood to one side; a brass brazier glowed in another corner. Intricately carved cedar chests, draped with as intricately embroidered cloths and linens, were scattered about, and rich wool and silken rugs covered the floor so that not a single degrading speck of dirt, nor blade of grass, might touch the boots of Philip the Bad.

“You have done well for yourself,” Thomas said. “When I was escorted through your camp I made a rough estimate of the number of fighting men you have here.

What? Several thousand knights? And some five or six thousand pikemen and

archers?”

“Twenty-eight hundred knights,” Philip said, “as many men-at-arms, and eight thousand pikemen and archers.”

“And yet you were released from Charles’ gaol a bare two weeks ago.

Nevertheless, either John or Charles have had you incarcerated so many times for so many imagined—or not— plots against their lives, that you must have had good practice in recovering your strength on release.”

Philip moved, quite gracefully considering the armor he wore, to a chest and picked up a jug and goblet. “Wine?”

“I thank you. I have had a trying two weeks myself under the care of Marcel.”

Philip handed Thomas a goblet, and poured one for himself. “And now Marcel has sent you to plead for him.”

Thomas drank some of the wine, rolling it about his mouth a little, enjoying its mellowness. Philip lived very well indeed. “Marcel,” he finally said, “has sent me to remind you—”

Philip snorted into his goblet, then drained it in a single, abrupt movement.

“—of the agreement you and he reached.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I aid him and his rabble and he gives me the throne.”

Thomas said nothing, waiting.

“Of course,” Philip said, a smile slowly forming, “no prince considers an agreement made with a murderer and traitor binding, does he?”

Now Thomas smiled, too, and drained his own wine. “And so what will you do?”

“I will do what I must.”

“And let me see if I can guess what it is you must do. On my way through your lines I saw an escort ready and waiting for your presence. It was richly furbished, and not only with your colors and livery… but with—”

“With those of my dear cousin Charles! How observant you are.”

“You ride to deal with him.”

“To a point, I ride to suggest that we unite for the moment against our twin enemies— Marcel and his rabble, and the English.”

“Ah. I think I understand. Between you, Paris will fall—I hear tell that Charles has a considerable force beyond the city’s eastern wall, and Paris cannot hope to withstand both of you. Then, once Paris is under control—”

“Then I will review the situation,” Philip said. “As any good prince would.”

Thomas laughed softly. “As any good and ambitious prince would. But I am glad, Philip, that you mean to put Marcel down. He…” Thomas hesitated, his face clouding over, and Philip’s eyes narrowed as he watched him, “he frightened me with his vision of the uneducated and ill-bred masses rising against their betters. There is good in order, and our order is good. You, the princes and the barons, protect those who till the soil on your behalf, and we, the priests and monks, nurture and protect their souls. To think that—”

“There is no point trying to lecture me on the subject, Tom. I am a complete convert to the all-consuming power of prince and priest. But I can see that you remain concerned.”

“It is not only Marcel. Philip, there is a great evil abroad, and Marcel represents only a small part of it. There was a soldier I spoke to in Rome, and there is a renegade priest in England, both of whom spoke of the same thing: the questioning of the order of society—an order ordained by God! Sweet Jesu, Philip, do they think to destroy the hand that feeds and nurtures them?”