The woods closed in, as did Thomas’ sense that he was surrounded on all sides.
He thought to call out, then didn’t, because he thought it might reveal the extent of his own fear.
No, no, God and St. Michael rode with him, surely.
Surely.
Thomas suddenly remembered what day it was. All Saints Eve, yes, but All Souls Eve in popular custom, a night when the souls of the dead stirred and walked once more over the land.
What was in the fog about him?
Suddenly a glow blossomed somewhere before him. Thomas slowed his horse, then kicked him forward again, his heart now leaping so violently he thought it might escape through his mouth.
Sweet Jesu, he didn’t even have a sword with which to defend himself! The glow dimmed, then resolved itself into five or six pinpoints of light about a small clearing.
Torches, set in the trees.
Thomas halted the horse at the edge of the clearing. The light from the torches only added to the obscurity of the fog: light glistened off the droplets within the mist, giving everything an eerie yellow and rose glow, as if creation itself was afire.
Then why so cold, why so damp?
Thomas swallowed, gathered his courage, and finally spoke. “I am Thomas Neville, brother of the Order of Preachers, come from Philip, King of Navarre and Count of Evreux, with a message for the Black Prince, Edward, Prince of Wales.”
Nothing.
Thomas looked about him, his eyes staring, feeling sweat trickle down his back and pool underneath his buttocks. Should he speak again? Surely there were men behind these trees to hear him! Surely—
There was a movement directly across the clearing, and Thomas tensed.
A horseman appeared; a knight in full battle array, wearing a great helm with its visor down. His destrier was massive, a gray stallion that dipped its head and pawed the ground as his rider pulled him to a halt, the beast’s snowy mane falling down over the mirrored steel of his faceplate.
But Thomas had eyes for no one but the rider. His heraldic badges were clearly displayed on shield, helm and the hangings over the stallion’s armor, and even though the visor covered his face, Thomas well knew who he was.
Henry of Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt and Blanche of the Duchy of Lancaster, eldest grandson of Edward III, and prince of the realm, if not quite heir to the throne.
“Hal!” Thomas whispered.
There was just the slightest movement of Bolingbroke’s helm, then the prince reined his stallion about and disappeared into the fog.
After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Thomas followed him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Twentieth Sunday after Trinity
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(31st October 1378)
— II —
Thomas’ habit now put between them? Thomas had heard that Hal cursed and raged when he learned of Thomas’ decision to join the Dominican Order.
Why, Thomas was not sure. Was it because Hal felt he’d lost a friend to the Church? Was it because Hal felt Thomas had rejected him in favor of holy vows?
Thomas prayed that something of their old comradeship had survived. To have a friend like Hal at court—Hal, one of the truest men Thomas had ever known—would be of inestimable value to Thomas’ fight against the demons, and his quest to discover de Worde’s casket. Prince Hal could open doors as no one else. Yet even as he thought this, Thomas understood that this wasn’t the only reason he hoped his old friendship with Hal had somehow survived. The battle against the demons notwithstanding, it would be good to have Hal once again as his friend.
They had grown up together, spending long summers playing with wooden swords in the tilting yards, longer summer nights exploring the sweet passions of burgeoning manhood. They had planned grand futures for themselves. Hal that he would somehow succeed his grandfather to the throne of England, even though he was only the son of King Edward’s fourth son; Thomas that he would lead a glittering crusade back to the Holy Land, pushing the Arabs back into the desert wastes where they belonged, and wiping all trace of their presence from the holy stones of Jerusalem for eternity.
But then, five years ago, Thomas had turned away from his heritage, and his friendship and future with Hal, and entered the Church, and Hal had been left to face his future alone.
Was there a friendship left?
BOLINGBROKE LED THOMAS through the woods along a path so obscure and ill-defined Thomas thought either Hal or his horse must have fairy sight to be able to discern it. Within a few minutes, however, the path broadened, then began to rise. The woodlands and fog fell away.
Chauvigny appeared directly before them, bathed in moonlight.
There were several small camps of foot soldiers and pikemen outside the outer
walls of the fortress, and Bolingbroke lead Thomas through them toward the main gates.
Soon Thomas realized the reason for the outside camps. The English had built great lines of trenches filled with spikes beyond the walls in case of attack. These soldiers were here to man them… and also to show friends the passage through.
As Bolingbroke and Thomas rode through, a man would occasionally call out to Bolingbroke, and one or two ran up and touched the shoulder of his war horse, speaking quick words to the prince before turning respectfully back to allow him passage.
There were no frowns, no sullen resentful faces turning slowly away.
Hal is as popular as ever, Thomas thought. It would take a disaster such as England had not yet endured to make the commons turn their hearts away from fair prince Hal.
Thomas studied what he could see of Bolingbroke ahead. It had been many, many years since he had seen Hal. Had their friendship managed to weather both time and the distance
EVENTUALLY, IN full cold night, Bolingbroke led Thomas through the gates and into the narrow, twisting streets of Chauvigny, where they immediately dismounted.
The horses would be stabled in the lower quarters of the fortress, and Bolingbroke and Thomas would have to complete the journey into the heart of Chauvigny on foot, Thomas looked above him as a squire hastened to lift Bolingbroke’s helm from his head, and remove the clumsier pieces of armor from his body. Flags and standards fluttered from the walls, each denoting a particular prince, or baron, or count, or any one of countless other ranks among the nobility. His breath caught in his throat—the full flower of English aristocracy was here! There the standard of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and King of Castile, Hal’s father. There the standard of the Black Prince. There the standard of Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester and youngest brother of Edward the Black Prince and John of Gaunt.
There… there the standard of the Earl of Northumberland—was Hotspur here as well? And there the standard of Baron Raby fluttering cheekily on the tent next to that of Northumberland, his greatest rival for power in the north of England.
Thomas grinned slowly to himself. Raby was no doubt spending his non-fighting time plotting against Northumberland, as Northumberland was doubtless similarly spending his spare time. Were they even now in their respective chambers within the fortress, sharpening their blades, their eyes fanatical with hatred and ambition?
Bolingbroke mumbled his thanks to the squire who had aided him, and Thomas turned to study the prince.
Hal Bolingbroke stood in a shaft of moonlight, looking for all the world like one of the fabled fairy-folk. The moon turned his fair hair a glittering silver gilt, and made his light gray eyes colorless and unreadable. Since Thomas had last seen him, Hal’s handsome boyish features had hardened into those of a man. There were faint lines of care about his eyes, and more running from his straight nose to his mouth, and the strength of his unbearded jawline revealed a certain pitilessness that made Thomas
wonder what tragedies Hal had endured over the past five or six years.
“Well, Tom,” Bolingbroke said in a quiet voice. “Have you come to take our confession? Perhaps deal us our penances? Or mayhap you have grown tired of your scratchy black robe and yearn once more for the caress of metal.”
“It is good to see you once more, Hal,” Thomas said.
Then he bowed deeply in Bolmgbroke’s direction. “My lord, it is good to see you again. The years between us have been too long.”
“Indeed,” Bolingbroke said softly, “but it was not I who walked away.”
Thomas winced, and would have spoken, but Bolingbroke turned his back and walked toward the dark mouth of a narrow street between two soaring buildings.
“This way, Neville,” he called back over his shoulder. “My uncle awaits your news of our distant cousin, Philip.”
Thomas jerked in surprise. Had the Black Prince and Hal known of Thomas’