The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

“Not I! Not I! I am as innocent as you, Thomas.” She paused, letting the meaning of her words sink in. “As innocent as you.”

For a few minutes there was silence, each staring at the other.

“Are you with child?” Thomas finally asked.

She hesitated, then nodded.

“It is a child of sorcery. No doubt it will be born deformed and humped, and with the horns of a devil.”

Margaret winced, and turned her head away before Thomas could see that he had truly hurt her. She hugged her arms tight about her chest, wishing that someone, somewhere, would claim her and might love her.

“You mean to use this child against me.”

Margaret turned back to him. “I will never use this child against you!” Sweet Jesu, were all the Neville men in Christendom going to line up and accuse her of trying to trap them with this child?

“Then you mean me harm,” Thomas said, his voice flat.

“Nay. I do not… although I do not expect you to believe me.” In a gesture of uncertainty, or perhaps even impotence, Margaret lifted her hands and ran them back

through the burnished thickness of her hair, tipping her hood off her head with the movement.

The moonlight washed over her face, clothing her already lovely features with yet more beauty.

“I have been told,” Thomas said quietly, his eyes steady on her face, “by those you undoubtedly know, of the fate that awaits me should I fail in my resolve. Evil will snatch my soul, and mankind will fail… but only if I offer my soul to a woman.”

Margaret surprised him by laughing harshly. “Then what do you fear, Thomas?

Me? I do not want your soul! Besides, you must offer your soul, is that not so? It is not to be snatched, nor to be stolen, but must be offered. Thus,” her smile stretched, and became a grimace, “you are only in danger of failing should you allow your mortal weaknesses to overcome you.”

Her smile faded. “I am no danger to you, Thomas, unless you permit me to become a danger.”

She reached out, and touched his face so fleetingly he did not have time to draw back. “I am only a danger if you allow yourself to love … and I do not think there is much chance of that, do you?”

And before Thomas could find the words to answer, Margaret turned and walked back into the night.

MARGARET WALKED for an hour or more after she left Thomas, aimlessly, not caring where she went, only that she did not return to the castle too soon.

She wanted time to think, to absorb those fleeting few minutes with Thomas.

Sweet Jesu alone knew what had made her approach him. A desire simply to interact with him, she thought. A desire simply to be with him, even if only it meant his harsh words thrown her way.

At one point she stopped, and rested both her hands on her belly. His child grew in there, and her face softened, and she smiled. A child. She had always wanted so much her own children.

She walked on, and as she walked, Margaret tried to use what little she knew of Thomas to imagine what it would be like to bed with him. That one, ensorcelled encounter had little meaning to Margaret. She wanted to know what it would be like to have Thomas there in body as well as in spirit. What it would be like to have him whisper soft endearments into her ear, to have his hands run over her body, his mouth over her breast…

“Ah, Margaret, you are but a fool to think of such things!” she muttered to herself eventually. “Thomas would never gladly bed with you, nor is he one to whisper soft endearments into your ear!”

Still, she grew his child, and surely, at some moment, that would mean something to him…

Margaret walked back to the castle, and the chamber she shared with Raby, and dreamed of a future that could surely never be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Matins of All Souls Day

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

(predawn Tuesday 2nd November 1378)

— I —

CONTRARY TO MARGARET’S WORDS, Ralph, Baron Raby, was not spending the remaining hours of the night drinking and carousing with the Black Prince and King John.

After the royalty and high nobles had left the feast there had been, true, an hour spent in gentle conversation soothed by even gentler wine in the Black Prince’s chamber, but then King John, aged and slightly intoxicated, had retired to his own section of the castle for his bed and the warm and smooth wench who awaited him there.

Raby, the Black Prince and Lancaster had courteously wished him a sweet night’s rest, and then settled back into their chairs, refilling their goblets with some watered wine. A short space of time after King John had retired, Bolingbroke and Gloucester joined them.

All men were sober, and clear of eye and mind.

“Do we negotiate with Philip?” the Black Prince said. He was pacing slowly back and forth, one hand fiddling with his short beard, the other twirling an empty goblet around. His color was better than it had been for days, and Edward thought he might finally be leaving behind the flux he’d caught after Poitiers.

“I am uncertain about even negotiating,” Lancaster said, watching his elder brother carefully, “and we certainly go no further. We do not deal. Sweet Jesu, man! Philip would have no qualms about selling the Virgin Mary as a cheap whore for the Devil if the occasion—and price—presented itself!”

“He could be of some use,” Edward said slowly. “Brother… what options do we have? Poitiers did not win us a kingdom, only the rich southern provinces. To gain the throne we need to advance on Paris … but our men are so war-weary that we risk total defeat if we do it on our own. With Philip we might just manage a complete victory before winter closes in. Without him we must perforce wait out the winter…

and give the French enough time to raise another army to meet us in the springtime.”

Lancaster srunted, and looked away.

“Does Philip ask too much for his aid?” Bolmgbroke said, looking between his father and the Black Prince. “Gascony, for whatever help he can give us? Is be worth that?”

“I say we push forward now,” Lancaster said, now leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright, “and leave Philip for the Devil. We have the advantage … the French are

in disarray, and yet the longer we leave them be the more chances they will have to regroup.”

“Our men are too tired, John,” the Black Prince said, finally stopping his pacing and regarding Lancaster with a steady eye. “We lost a goodly proportion of our archers at Poitiers, and you know how our battle success depends on them.”

“Bah!” Lancaster said. “When have you ever been the cautionary one? I say,” he thumped the arms of his chair, “we push forward now and without Philip’s aid. We could have the French throne for our father, and eventually for you, Edward, within two months.”

Edward shook his head slowly. Move forward on their own? It would be folly!

“We risk meeting Philip and Charles combined, John. We would not survive it.”

“I do not want to negotiate an alliance with Philip,” Lancaster said, his brow furrowing over narrowed eyes. “I do not want to owe that cur anything, and I do not want to depend on him. Hal,” he swept his eyes toward his son, “what say you?”

Hal looked between his father and uncle carefully. Both men spoke sense … but which sense made the better battle plan? Alliance with Philip, push forward now without him, or wait out the winter to regain strength … only to risk the French regaining theirs as well?

“Do we want Philip as an ally,” he asked, “or as an enemy? If we negotiate with him, then at the least we stay his own hand for a few weeks or months. If we refuse to negotiate, he becomes an instant foe, and as likely to ally himself with Charles.”

“And while we ‘negotiate’ with him,” Lancaster said, “it is just as likely that Philip will also be negotiating with Charles. Gloucester, Raby, why so quiet? Give us your thoughts?”

Raby glanced at Gloucester for permission to speak first, then he sat forward, his fingers tapping against the arms of his chair. “Philip is dangerous. Whatever we do. I knew him as a lad—the Lord Savior alone knows how many summers he spent with me, and how many Tom spent with him—and I did not trust him then. I most certainly do not now. What think I? I think Philip will do anything he can to ensure he gains the French throne. My lord,” he inclined his head toward the Black Prince,