The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

“I do not think he means to aid you, but to hinder you in every way he can.”

Gloucester nodded. “Lancaster and Raby both speak sense, Edward. Philip is dangerous … but do we cut our own throats by pretending to deal with him, or by brushing his offer aside and marching directly on Paris ourselves? Such an action will almost certainly throw Philip into an alliance with Charles … and that means we will face a strong force to take Paris.”

Edward sighed tiredly and sat down. “We could always winter here, wait for spring—”

“And thus give both Philip and Charles the time to strengthen their hand against us,” Lancaster said, “whether together or separately.”

“We must not forget King John,” Bolingbroke said. “How can we best use John?”

Lancaster laughed dryly, and poured himself some more of the watered wine. “I cannot believe either Charles or Philip will pay a single gold piece for the return of their king. I think we did them a service when we captured him.”

“Perhaps Tom can aid us in this decision,” Raby said, more than carefully. “He has spoken with Philip, and has seen with his own eyes the situation in the north.”

There was silence.

“But can we trust Tom?” Lancaster said quietly, his eyes riveted on Raby’s face.

He switched his gaze to Bolingbroke. “You were once his best friend, Hal. What say you? Does Tom speak with the voice of the Church … or with a voice that remains allied with our own interests?”

Bolingbroke took his time to answer.

“Tom has changed,” he said eventually, studying intently the rug between his booted feet. “He is not the man he was … or perhaps he has hidden that man so deep he cannot find him again. Tom … Tom was once a man of passion, warmth, a hearty laugh, of pride and impetuosity, it must be said, and yet a man of gentleness. I cannot see that man now. All I see is a cathedral—”

“What do you mean?” Lancaster said.

“He is nothing but a great stone edifice. Cold and heartless, mouthing the litany of the Church, and over-draped with hangings and banners that mean nothing. And as with all great stone edifices, Tom is hiding something … a powerful secret buried deep within his vaults.”

“He fled Rome too suddenly,” the Black Prince said, now sitting down in a chair close to the brazier. “And has wandered through half of Europe. Why? It was not a mission that the Church sent him on … the fact that the Prior General has ordered him back to make full account of his action demonstrates that the hierarchy of both the Order and the Church is gravely displeased with him.”

“And these apparent visions of Saint Michael,” Gloucester put in, his face closed and moody. “I trust no man who has visions. The Lord Savior alone knows whether he speaks honest truth… or whatever phantasms his visions have placed in his mind.

Perhaps he has spent too long fasting—”

“Tom tells us nothing,” Lancaster said. “And he certainly has told us nothing about what he has been up to. What does he hide? Why did he bolt from Rome and the discipline of the Order? I like it not.”

“Who knows his mind?” Bolingbroke said. “But he certainly has a secret. Uncle …

father, I think it is important we keep an eye on Tom. I would not willingly hand him over to the Prior General until we find out what veiled mystery he carries within him.”

Lancaster grunted again. “All I want to know is whether Tom can be trusted to tell us the truth of Philip’s plans, and the truth of what he has observed in the north.

Saint Michael can be damned if he can’t tell us what Philip and Charles plan.”

Bolingbroke smiled at his father’s blasphemy. “I don’t know if Tom can be completely trusted, father. But what I do know is that it would be a poor thing indeed if we handed him back to Thorseby before we know the secret he carries locked away in the stone vaults of his mind.”

The Black Prince gestured impatiently. “So we will keep Tom with us for a while.

He eats little enough. Bolingbroke, Raby, I entrust you both with ensuring he remains with us. You have also been his closest companions—find out the mystery that lurks within him. But for now? Well, for now we might as well question him a

little more closely.”

“Whatever,” Lancaster said, “you will need to speak your decision about Philip’s offer within the next few weeks, Edward. If we move from Chauvigny for winter then we must do it within a month or so. And whatever else you decide to do, then at least some of us will have to move. We can’t keep King John here for winter.

London is the only safe place to keep him.”

Edward nodded, then waved the others away. He needed to write to his beloved wife Joan this night, and for that he needed solitude. Speaking to Joan always managed to clarify his thoughts … and if he could not speak to her, then the next best thing was to write.

Sweet Jesu, tut he could have done with her here!

MARGARET HAD intended to go back to Raby’s chamber to snatch what few hours of sleep she could, but was halted just as she reached the quarter of the fortress where most of the nobles’ apartments were located.

“Lady Margaret?”

She jerked about, surprised and disconcerted. One of Gloucester’s men stood behind her, his face anxious beneath his rounded iron helmet.

“Lady Rivers, the Duchess’ time has come. Will you attend her? She has only one other lady, and—”

“Has no one sent for the midwife?” Margaret asked.

The man’s face set into hard lines. “No one can find her,” he said. “She has found herself a comfortable and warm bed for the night, and we have several thousand such beds and a score of miles of corridors to search through. Madam, hurry, for the Virgin’s sake!”

Still Margaret did not move. Her heart was thumping, and she fought down rising panic.

She didn’t want to attend the birth.

Unbelievably, Margaret had almost no experience in childbirth. After her own birth, her mother had no other children, none of their serving women had fallen pregnant, and neither Margaret nor her mother had bothered themselves with village births. The local midwife had been more than competent.

Thus Margaret’s home had yielded no experience, and there had been no opportunity for any since she’d become a wife. Roger had dragged her about Europe, perpetually traveling from shrine to shrine, holy relic to holy relic, and few of the women pilgrims Margaret had encountered had been with child.

All Margaret knew about birth were the frightening tales she had been confronted with since she was old enough to join the circle of older women about the kitchen fire. Tales of women so wracked by pain they begged their attendants to kill them.

Women so fearful of the knives and hooks of their midwives they locked themselves in attics to give birth alone and unaided.

Tales of blood and dismemberment as husbands sent in butchers to save their heirs in preference to their wives.

“I cannot!” she whispered, her hand on her own belly. She would not go through that!

The man grabbed her by the forearm. “You must, my lady, or I will march directly to Gloucester and tell him that you refused his wife aid.”

Margaret tore her arm out of his grip. “There must be someone else—”

“The Duchess has asked for you, my lady.”

“But—”

“You will attend her, my lady.”

There was something in the man’s voice, a quiet anger and determination, that told Margaret that he would drag her into the Duchess’ birthing chamber if necessary.

Margaret jerked her head in assent, her face set, and the man escorted her toward Gloucester’s apartment.

MARGARET TOOK a deep breath, then entered the chamber.

Eleanor was calmly walking about the central space of the room, both hands clutched to her sides.

She turned and smiled as Margaret entered. “Ah, I am glad that Walter found you, Margaret. I—”

Eleanor broke off suddenly, her face stilling and paling, and Margaret froze halfway across the floor. The Duchess moaned, closed her eyes, then reopened them, relaxing as the contraction faded.

She looked at Margaret searchingly. “Why so afraid, Margaret? I have birthed three daughters before this. No doubt this child will slither out as easily.”

Margaret took a deep breath and tried to relax. Eleanor was right—she had given birth before, and easily at that. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Besides, wouldn’t it be best if she went into her own birthing time the better prepared for the experience?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After Nones on All Souls Day

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