The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

And presumably no kings wanting to be carpenters, Thomas thought, but realized it might be prudent to leave that thought unspoken.

“It will not come to that,” he said. “Philip and Charles are both as appalled as are you. Paris will not long hold out in its bid for freedom.”

“I have heard reports that Philip and Charles have forces encamped beyond Paris’

walls,” the Black Prince said, looking up through the branches of the fruit trees as if he expected retribution to drop down suddenly from heaven. But the sky shone a soft, calm blue, the only cloud a flock of barn swallows winging their way south for the winter.

“Aye,” Thomas said. “I believe they will ally to attack together.”

“And then find something to argue over and attack each other,” Lancaster said,

“or whatever suits Philip’s ambitions.”

He walked away a few paces, his hands clasped behind his back, thinking.

“Thomas,” he said eventually, turning back, “is all northern France seething with resentment?”

“Much of the north is in disarray,” Thomas replied. “The people hurt with the taxes they must pay in order to finance the war against you, and seethe with resentment that their nobles cannot protect them. The northern provinces are stacks of kindling, waiting for someone to throw a match.”

“And added to that,” the Black Prince said, “the two highest nobles, Philip and Charles, are at each other’s throats.” He would have said more, but Lancaster caught his eye, and Edward swallowed his words.

Instead he turned to Thomas. “You have acted the part of a fool,” he said, “and I doubt the depth of your contrition. But I still respect your word. If we allow you the freedom of the fortress, will you not disabuse our trust and bolt off on whatever angelic mission you believe yourself engaged in?”

“You have my word,” Thomas said, once again bowing slightly to the two princes.

“But, my lords, I do desire to return to England as soon as I can, so that I may also make my peace with the Prior General. Is it possible that—”

“Yes, yes,” the Black Prince said, waving a hand. “Whenever it suits us. I am most certainly not going to leap and dance at the whims of the Prior General. Perhaps he should wait a while.”

“My lord, it may be best that you send me back as soon as—”

“I will send you back when I damn well choose!” the Black Prince said. “And for the moment you may yet be of some use to me.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Thomas bowed again, and, while he was determined in his mind to get back to England, he also fully realized that the worst thing he could do now was to further antagonize the Black Prince … or Lancaster and Raby, for that matter. Any one of them could incarcerate him in a some dank gaol indefinitely, and if that happened, then no one could have any chance against the demons.

What demons walked in disguise within the English campPThe archangel had said that the English camp was particularly infected… but which faces about him were those of true Christian men, and which of demons? Who were they?

“Very good, Thomas,” the Black Prince said, then smiled. “Has your uncle told you of this evening’s banquet?”

MARGARET SAT at the open window of Gloucester’s apartment, a half-stitched linen under-tunic in her small hands. Directly below flowed the waters of the Vienne,

and even though they were so high, Margaret sometimes fancied she could see the flashing shadows of fish deep within it. Beside her sat Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, wife of Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest surviving brother of the Black Prince and John of Gaunt, Gloucester himself was nowhere to be seen, and Eleanor had merely shrugged when Margaret hesitantly asked after him. He was off doing what all men of war did when cooling their heels in a fortress, apparently, and Margaret did not want to ask further what that might be.

Eleanor was of an age with Margaret, about twenty-five or -six, a tall, elegant woman with shining golden hair, her chief glory. Today she sat uncomfortably, her huge belly protruding before her. Eleanor was too tired to even sew, and she had in her hands a beautifully illuminated book of hours—her husband, Thomas, was a patron of the arts, and had an extensive library. Every so often she would read a page, reciting the prayers under her breath. Eleanor, like any careful woman approaching the dangers of childbirth, was preparing herself for death.

The duchess was almost to term with this her fourth child, and Margaret did not envy her giving birth in this forbidding fortress. Her presence here was not in itself unusual. Many noble wives accompanied their husbands on campaign—King Edward’s wife, Philippa, had given birth to eight of her children while following her husband about Europe on his eternal quest for more land and glory—but Margaret hoped that she herself would be in a far more comfortable environment when the time for her confinement came.

Where? she thought. I have no home save with Roger’s parents… and what if they should discover that this child is not Roger’s, but a hastard born of their daughter-in-law’s whoring?

Besides, Margaret did not get on well with Sir Egdon and Lady Jacquetta Rivers.

They had never approved of their son’s choice of wife, and no doubt would blame her for the fact that he had died abroad while on one of his ceaseless pilgrimages to shrines, seeking a divine miracle for his affliction.

Eleanor regarded Margaret as surreptitiously as the other woman did her. Eleanor suspected the woman was breeding—she’d had enough pregnancies of her own to recognize the symptoms in another woman—and now she wondered how best to broach the delicate subject.

In the end, Eleanor decided she so outranked the Lady Rivers that she need not be delicate at all. Besides, her back ached and her feet hurt, and she was in no mood for niceties.

“It must be a great gladness to you, Lady Margaret,” she said smoothly, keeping her eyes on the open page of the book of hours, “to know that even though your husband is now with God, you still have his child growing in your belly.”

Margaret’s fingers stilled, then she shakily threaded her needle into the linen and sat back, looking at Eleanor.

“It is an increasing sadness with me,” Margaret said, “that the child will be born fatherless.”

Eleanor smiled at her, coldly. Born without a father indeed! Well, Baron Raby would certainly never name it as his own.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you hope that Baron Raby will provide for the child’s

future.”

Margaret dropped her eyes and did not reply.

Eleanor sighed, suddenly sick of speaking in such delicate niceties. “I can understand why you went to Raby’s bed,” she said, and Margaret jerked her eyes back at the duchess, her cheeks reddening, “but you cannot think that he will wed you himself.”

“He has made that plain enough to me—”

“You cannot even hope,” Eleanor said. She bit her lip, wondering how much she should say. Margaret’s sensibilities did not concern her at all, but this was a highly sensitive matter…

“I have heard,” Eleanor said, her voice very, very careful, “that Raby already has another marriage planned.”

Margaret’s eyes widened, and Eleanor wondered if the woman had indeed hoped Raby would wed her.

“He has said nothing to me,” Margaret said.

“He may not think that it concerns you.”

Furious with this haughty woman before her, Margaret looked away, pretending an interest in a group of archers at target practice in a field beyond the river.

“High nobles have been known to prefer a mistress before a wife,” she said.

Eleanor knew well to whom Margaret referred. Lancaster had kept a mistress, Katherine Swynford, through three decades, and gave her two children along with his heart. But Lancaster’s arrangement with Katherine was something Margaret could not hope for with Raby, especially since Eleanor had heard … ah! She hated keeping secrets, but was too afraid of both Lancaster’s and Raby’s anger to inform Margaret just how hopeless her position truly was.

“My advice, Lady Margaret,” Eleanor said, “is to seek another marriage as soon as possible. Raby will speak for you, and his is a powerful voice. There are many knights who would be glad enough for your hand … even big with another man’s child.”

And especially if she was big with child to a nobleman rich enough to provide the penniless widow with a large dowry to go with her hand. And Raby would be generous when it came to handing Margaret on to another man. Eleanor knew that Margaret did not yet realize how desperate Raby would be to save both himself and his future bride the embarrassment of being faced with a hysterical woman flaunting her belly at court and demanding recompense.