Thomas had seen very little of Margaret during the weeks spent negotiating meeting arrangements with Philip. Raby had kept her within his own chamber and, as Thomas now shared quarters with Bolingbroke and, further, was not encouraged to visit his uncle (who Thomas now realized was busily allying himself with the Plantagenets for a reason he could not yet fathom), he had little reason to see her.
Little reason in his uncle’s eyes, perhaps, but still… Thomas wished he had more reason to pass time with her, if only a moment here or there. He needed to keep an eye on her (better the devil you can keep your eye on than the one you can’f), as he needed to pry from her what she knew about the demons’ plans to wreak havoc across Christendom.
He needed to talk with Margaret to see if she knew where Wynkyn de Worde’s casket was.
He needed to make sure she was up to no evil (what if she was seducing other men with her dark witchery as she had managed to seduce him?). He wondered what she did in Raby’s chamber when she was left there alone… did she summon a coven of her sisters to mutter with her?
Or did she sit and tremble, her hands on her own growing belly, remembering Eleanor’s terrible death? Was she witch or was she woman? Thomas had seen how terrified Margaret had been at Eleanor’s bedside—and he wondered if that had been woman … or witch, play-acting.
Well, there was little point in worrying about Margaret while Raby had her under close scrutiny in his quarters. What did truly fret at him was the delay in returning to England.
Patently, the Black Prince and Lancaster knew he was hiding something, but Thomas was not prepared to trust them with the details—who could he trust? The encounter with the renegade priest, John Ball, had shaken him, as had the realization that the even-worse-than-renegade priest, John Wycliffe, held a powerful position at court. If heresies were tolerated within court, then Thomas was going to trust no one with his knowledge until he knew who he could have confidence in, and who not.
Unfortunately, that meant that he was not going to be released back to England (and there to the heavy care of Prior General Thorseby, who would also have to be placated) until the Black Prince and Lancaster believed they had pried every last piece of information out of him that they could.
So Thomas was left to fret in Chauvigny, while waiting to ride to the rendezvous with Philip. He tried reasoning that the demons had already had some thirty years to locate Wynkyn de Worde’s casket for themselves, and a few months here and there would make little difference.
On the other hand, they might make all the difference in the world…
He saw neither demon nor St. Michael, but the demons would hardly dare show themselves in their true form among the many thousands of men encamped within
Chauvigny and St. Michael had no reason to appear. Thomas had his mission, and it was up to him to accomplish it.
Neither did Thomas see Wat Tyler or John Ball during these weeks. Tyler had, apparently, been sent by Lancaster on some mission into the surrounding countryside, and Ball had just… vanished.
Perhaps, Thomas wondered, he had melted into the thick forests, there to revel with his fellow demons.
Sweet Christ Savior, how many demons had infiltrated the English court?
And who? Who?
FINALLY, AFTER so many weeks of waiting, fretting and delicate maneuvering, Thomas was riding toward the disused quarry surrounded by the six men-at-arms while Bol-ingbroke and the Black Prince rode slightly ahead. Behind them rode another group of fifty men-at-arms; these men would not progress down the tunnel with the smaller party, but remain as guard to its entrance. The Black Prince’s larger escort of a further one hundred men had stayed in camp.
Thomas smiled at the thought of meeting the King of Navarre underground—Philip had ever had a warped sense of humor, and Thomas wondered at the persuasions Philip must have used to make the Black Prince agree to the arrangement.
Perhaps Edward was just the slightest bit curious—he was certainly eager to speak with Philip and hear what he had to say. The English camp was still divided about what to do: ally with Philip and risk his well-known penchant for treachery, or push forward in the spring after waiting out the winter in Chauvigny.
Whatever, this meeting would decide Edward one way or the other.
The day was blustery and gray; winter was closing in. All the horses were skittish, shying and snorting at the leaves and dried vegetation that blew across their paths, and the men had to concentrate as much on keeping their seats as they did on the meeting ahead.
All, save Thomas, were arrayed in armor. The Black Prince and Bolingbroke wore plate armor covering chain mail over their torsos and limbs—both had tunics bearing their respective coats-of-arms over their armor—and visored and considerably bejeweled basinets on their heads. For their part, the men-at-arms (as the fifty riding some twenty paces behind this small group) had metal breast plates over chain mail, and round iron helmets on their heads. The horses, again save for Thomas’ gelding, were similarly arrayed in battle gear with shaffrons covering their heads, and peytrals covering their chest. The coat-of-arms of the Black Prince had been embroidered into the hangings that covered the rumps of all horses save Bolingbroke’s, which carried his own heraldic devices.
Thomas did not envy them one bit: riding this fast and this distance (although they had come the larger part of the way between Chauvigny and the quarry the previous day) in full armor and in biting wind and difficult conditions would not be easy. For once, Thomas was glad of his simple, yet thick and comfortable robes; only his feet, still clad in open sandals, were cold.
It lacked an hour to midday by the time they approached the quarry.
The Black Prince called a halt, and for several minutes he and Bolingbroke sat their horses, looking intently across the landscape for traps.
Eventually, the Black Prince waved his small retinue forward.
“Thomas!” he called. “Come ride behind me!”
Thomas pushed his gelding forward until he rode a pace or two behind the Black Prince. Bolingbroke acknowledged his presence with a small movement of his helmeted head, but the Black Prince made no sign.
The entrance to the quarry came into view when they were about a quarter of a mile away. The trail sloped down into a great cutting, disappearing into a blackness that would have been all-consuming save that the approaching group could see the first flicker of torches inside.
They halted some fifteen paces from the entrance. “I like it not,” said Bolingbroke.
“It could be a trap.”
“Wait,” the Black Prince said.
Bolingbroke shot Thomas what Thomas thought was probably a worried look, although he could not see the man’s expression beneath his closed visor, and began to say something, but just then there was a movement at the entrance of the tunnel, and Bolingbroke, as everyone else, stared forward.
A man in chain mail, leather tunic and round and visorless iron helmet had stepped forth and was now waving his arm.
“Tyler!” Bolingbroke said.
The Black Prince nodded. “Aye. Lancaster sent him forward some time ago to provide some degree of protection. If Tyler indicates that the tunnel is safe, then it is safe.”
“My lord,” Thomas said, kneeing his horse forward. “Is Tyler entirely trustworthy?”
The Black Prince turned his metal-clad face toward Thomas. “Do you have something to say about Tyler that you think I should know? Well, speak up, man!”
Thomas hesitated. What should he say—that Tyler was likely in consort with demon-controlled men, might even be a demon himself?
“Tyler has strange thoughts,” he said, and then wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
Bolingbroke laughed. “Tyler is Tyler, and the man has ever had a strange mouth about him. Nevertheless,” Bolingbroke’s voice hardened, “I would trust Tyler with my life.”
“As would I,” the Black Prince added, and then he spurred his horse forward, Bolingbroke to his right and just slightly behind.
Frowning, Thomas followed them, the men-at-arms a heartbeat behind him.
“The way is clear, my lords!” Wat called as they approached. “And the black-hearted King of Navarre is already in position.”
The Black Prince raised a mailed hand, but did not slow his mount. “I thank you!”
he called, and was then past in a scattering of loose dirt and pebbles thrown up by his horse’s hooves.
Thomas tried to measure the expression on Wat’s face, but only had the hazy impression of bright eyes and a slight smile as he, too, rode past.
The tunnel was wide and lit with torches, although the incline became steeper as they progressed, and the party had to slow their horses to a sliding walk.