The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Between the hungry and angry peasants, and the hungry, angry and unpaid soldiers, the journey south was perilous and uncertain. Thomas and his escort sought shelter each night where they could—an inn, the burned-out shell of a peasant’s hovel or barn, the tangled, worm-ridden detritus of a wood felled in an ancient storm—many of them spending the greater part of the night awake and alert lest they be attacked, suspecting every creeping shadow of intending murder, jumping at every twitter of a field mouse that had somehow escaped the jaws of marauding refugees.

Day was somehow even worse, spent creeping down sunken laneways off the main roads, sitting tense in saddles, eyes darting from tree to tumbledown wall, wondering what each one hid. Thomas could not rely on his Dominican habit to save him; most of the refugees they came in contact with, whether peasant or soldier, spat at him as readily as they spat at Philip’s soldiers. They loathed the sun for rising each morning, and hated and blamed everyone in any form of authority for their misery.

You didn’t save us. You couldn’t stop the English. Why then should we respect you?

By the time they drew within twenty miles of Chauvigny, two weeks after they’d left Philip’s camp, it was not only hungry peasants and marauding soldiers who ate at their assurance. They heard rumors of rogue bands of Englishmen roaming above Chauvigny, looting what they could. Some eighteen miles north of Chauvigny, just after Thomas and his escort had passed through a tiny, burned-out village, they came upon a solitary traveler on the road moving toward them.

Even a single man, and even one as patently exhausted and wounded as this one—he hobbled on crutches, one foot heavily wrapped in bandages reeking of old blood and new infection—caused Philip’s soldiers to bunch in tight about Thomas, and ready hands on swords.

In these grim days, no one was to be trusted.

But the man fell to his knees as the horsemen approached, crying softly, involuntarily, as his foot hit a sharp rock.

“Brother!” he called, reaching out with one hand. “Brother, a blessing, I beg you!”

Thomas waved the soldiers back, and reined his horse (still Marcel’s trusty brown gelding) in beside the man. He lifted his right hand in benediction and sketched the sign of the cross over the man’s head, murmuring a blessing.

“Thank you, brother,” the man said, lifting his tear-streaked face. “Thank you!”

“Where do you come from?” Thomas said.

The man sniffed, and wiped the back of a hand under his nose. “From a small

village just south of Chatellerault, Father. Chatellerault is—”

“I know where it is. What news can you tell me? Where are the English? What is their condition?”

“What is their condition? Brother, you may as well ask me for the condition of all mankind. There is nothing but evil behind me: the ambition of the devilish English, their ravagings, their murders, their hate. The countryside is afire, whether from the torches of the English dogs, or of good Frenchmen who do not want their hearths and stores to fall into the hands of the English. A pall of smoke lies over the land, fear seeps into every crack. I lived through the great pestilence, brother, and yet then I did not know half the despair I do now.”

“How were you injured?”

“I hid in a haystack. Fresh, sweet hay that I had scythed from my own land. The English dogs came through, and they thrust long spikes into the hay, seeking honest French blood. The spike that pierced my foot also tore out my wife’s throat. When the English saw the blood seeping through the hay they laughed, and set it afire. I barely escaped. I was the only one from my village who escaped alive.”

“And the English? Do they remain in Chauvigny?”

“Yes, brother, although they ravage the land far about for their food and sustenance. I pray to God every hour I still live that the pestilence returns and wipes all English life from French soil.”

Thomas nodded his thanks, then wheeled his horse away. The man did not have long to live—already the gray streaks of poison had spread as far as his neck and lower face—and would soon escape this miserable life.

BY LATE afternoon they were within a few miles of Chauvigny. The castle town rose in the distance, a crowded collection of keeps and towers and ramparts. It was an ancient fortification, which consisted of not one, but five castles—all built at different times. Now, after generations of alterations and additions, the castles were so interlaced by connecting walls and twisting streets and courtyards they formed one virtually impregnable fortress.

Surrounded by rich farming lands, swathes of woodland and the gentle sweep of the Vienne River, Chauvigny sat on a hill overlooking the countryside—it was one of the most beautiful and magnificent fortifications in France. Even from this distance, Thomas could see the flags and pennants fluttering atop the towers and walls.

Despite all his protestations over the past weeks that his loyalty belonged to God rather than to the English, Thomas could not help a rush of excitement and anticipation. That walled fortress held so many friends… so many memories …

Thomas shivered, and looked about. The fine weather and splendid view would not last—already an autumnal evening fog was sweeping in from the river.

Thomas turned his horse to face his escort. “Go home now,” he said, the indistinct forms of men and horses looming out of the fog like underwater rocks seen through several feet of murky stream. “I cannot guarantee your safety—nor mine, for that matter,” he added with a low, mirthless laugh. “You can do no more for me. Go back to your lord, with my thanks. I wish you safe journey.”

There were quick glances exchanged among those soldiers whose faces Thomas could make out, then one, the sergeant, nodded, and saluted. “Go in peace, brother,” he said.

“Peace?” Thomas said. “I doubt any of us will ever find that again.”

But he, too, raised a hand and managed a half smile, and then he turned his horse’s head for Chauvigny, and the names and faces of his youth.

Behind him Thomas thought he heard the sound of hoof fall, and perhaps even the jingle of a bit in a horse’s mouth, but then there was silence, and the feeling that Philip’s escort had never been anything more than a insubstantial dream.

There was only him, his horse, and the fog.

And the past, rising up to meet him.

Thomas shuddered, although whether in fear or anticipation, he did not know, and kneed his horse forward.

HE RODE for what may have been an hour, perhaps two, but no longer. Night had not yet closed in, for there was still some dim, reflected light within the fog, but it could not be far off.

There was not much else to see.

Very occasionally the fog rolled and lifted enough for Thomas to glimpse the rough stub-bled earth of autumn fields waiting for their November plowing and sowing of the winter crops.

Somehow, Thomas did not think much plowing or sowing would get done this autumn—and that meant that the misery and starvation would continue well into next year, and even beyond.

Evil indeed.

Dusk closed in about him, and Thomas shivered, and pulled his hood close about his face. Surely he should have reached the fortress by now? Where were the English? Was there anything alive in this cursed mist?

Were demons even now creeping upon him, ready to leap and impale him with their fangs, or, worse, their lies?

Thomas twisted about in the saddle, but he could see nothing except several trees—their twisted branches bare of leaves—looming off to his left.

He turned about to stare to his right. Nothing there save more trees. He must have wandered into one of the patches of woodland close to Chauvigny.

Lord Christ Savior, aid me!

There were crackling sounds in the fallen leaves, then a low laugh—or was it a hiss?— that came from Thomas knew not what direction.

His heart thudded in his breast, and he pulled his horse to a halt, staring impotently through the clinging, obscuring droplets of the fog.

Now even his horse was tense. Thomas could feel the beast’s muscles bunching beneath the saddle, and he shortened the reins, tightening his hold upon them, speaking to the horse in low, reassuring tones.

There, another movement in the fog to his left: a shadow, darting behind a tree. It

was humped and misshapen, but Thomas did not know if that was because it belonged to a devilish creature, or because of the distorting effects of the fog.

The horse whinnied, and tried to shy.

Thomas jerked him back under control, then pushed him forward at a fast walk.

There was no point standing still here for whatever blade or shaft was pointed at his back.