The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

The air was dank, far colder than the outside, and Thomas huddled deeper within his robes while still keeping a wary eye out for traps: he was not going to trust Tyler.

And yet had he not trusted Tyler with his life on many occasions in the past?

No, no, Tyler was likely no longer the same man. He spoke of social disorder and rebellion—he had spoken demon-inspired thoughts.

But there was no place from which hidden troops—or even demons—could launch an ambush. The walls of the tunnel were smooth and solid, and there were no subsidiary tunnels branching off this main one. The fifty men-at-arms had been left at the entrance to provide some warning of a force moving in behind them. Even if the men were overwhelmed (and that was unlikely, as the fifty were battle-hardened and suspicious of eye), then the sound of ringing steel should carry down through the quarry.

They should also, Thomas hoped, be able to keep a potentially dangerous Wat Tyler under some control.

Slowly the incline leveled out a little, and the group urged their horses into a trot.

The air was stale and smoky from die torches, shadows flitted across man, beast and walls alike as if a cloud of great moths whispered overhead.

It was an atmosphere carefully calculated to menace. What was Philip’s purpose?

The horses had to be kept on a tight rein lest they shied and direw a rider, and the men found they were having to ride knee to knee as the tunnel walls closed in.

Bolingbroke murmured something ahead, and even though Thomas did not catch the individual words, he knew what Hal had said: I like this not.

Almost as soon as Hal had spoken, they rode into the cavern that, while not much wider than the tunnel, was some forty or fifty feet high.

In its center was the yawning mouth of the collapsed floor that plunged down into the unknown.

Did it touch hell itself? wondered Thomas.

In the cavern’s far distance were a panoply of blazing torches lighting Philip of Navarre and his retinue. Although the numbers of Philip’s men matched the Black Prince’s, they gave the impression of far more, for they were arrayed in unmarked white steel armor that had been polished to mirror brightness, and shafts of light from the torches glanced off them and leaped unbounded about the cavern until Philip and his men were surrounded by a golden brilliance.

Philip himself was sitting his destrier to the front of his men, the horse’s hooves almost at the edge of the great void. As were his men, he was clad in mirrored steel, and only the golden crown atop his basinet differentiated king from nobleman. His visor was raised, and his handsome face grinned cheerfully. He clutched something in the front of his saddle, but the gap was too wide for any among the Black Prince’s party to see what it was.

“Hail, Edward!” Philip called, and lifted his right arm in greeting.

The Black Prince pulled his horse to a halt opposite Philip, and raised his visor.

Bolingbroke did the same.

“Philip,” the Black Prince said, nodding, and keeping his face impassive. “This is a pretty display.”

Philip’s grin stretched wider, and he laughed, although it sounded forced.

“You have brought Hal with you,” Philip said, “and Thomas. Thomas! Well met, my fellow!”

Thomas nodded from his position directly behind Edward and Bolingbroke—the space between their horses was wide enough to give him a clear view of Philip, as Philip had of him—but did not speak.

“Did you have a pleasant ride?” Philip said.

“Enough!” the Black Prince replied, and Thomas suddenly realized that Edward was very tense, and his face very pinched.

And how tired? The man had just endured two days hard riding, and was not well to begin with.

Philip shrugged. “As you wish. Did Tom relate to you my offer?”

Edward nodded.

“Then what say you, my friend? Do we,” he laughed again, “shake hands on the deal? Do we ride together against pretty boy Charlie?”

“I do not think you truly want my response,” the Black Prince said, “else you would have picked a fine meadow where we could have shaken hands on the deal. I think, Philip, you do not want to shake hands on it at all.”

“Ah,” Philip said, “what a suspicious mind. Don’t you want to ally yourself with me?”

“I do not trust you, Philip.”

Philip affected a distraught expression. “You do not trust me? But—”

“There is no one in Christendom who trusts you Philip, and no one knows that better than yourself. You wanted to see me, and you wanted to say something.

What? Not to deal, I think.”

Philip’s face hardened. “Nay. I do not wish to ‘deal’ with you, Edward. I wish to inform you of my decision, and I wanted to do that face-to-face. I knew you would appreciate hearing it from my own mouth.”

“Edward, most renowned Black Prince, the French have grown mightily disaffected with your incursions into their beloved lands. I have listened to their pleas—”

The Black Prince grunted.

“—and have granted their wishes. I have decided to leave behind any thought of gain—”

Now the Black Prince managed a laugh.

“—and have decided to ally myself with Prince Charles, grandson of the kidnaped King John, and rid this beauteous land of your filthy presence. We—”

“How much did he offer, Philip?” the Black Prince said in a quiet voice that cut across Philip’s.

“Offer?”

“Damn you, Philip!” Bolingbroke called, his mount shifting uneasily. “How much

did you sell out for?”

“I cannot ‘sell out’ my own land!” Philip said.

“And how long do you think your ‘alliance’ will last?” the Black Prince said. “How long before one or the other of you decides the crown of France is within reach and it is time to strike out on your own?”

“Our alliance is God-blessed!” Philip shouted. “We know so!”

“And how is that?” the Black Prince said. “Did He speak to you Himself, or did you bribe one or the other of the popes to speak on His behalf?”

A chill ran down Thomas’ spine, and he suddenly realized what Philip would say next.

“We have heard the word of God from a saintly damsel,” Philip cried. “She performs miracles in our presence. God will protect the French, and cast out from this land the evil English stench that assails us. I fight on the side of God! I fight on the side of God, not you, corruption!”

Both the Black Prince and Bolingbroke tried to smile, but could not. They did not want to believe Philip’s words, but there had been such an underlying ring of fanaticism in them that—

Thomas urged his horse close to those of the Black Prince and Bolingbroke.

“Believe him!” he hissed quietly. “I know who this girl is! I know who he speaks of.”

The Black Prince stared at him for a heartbeat, then looked back to Philip.

“Your alliance will not hold. You do not have the men to fight back an army that is—”

“Wrong!” Philip said. “We have already performed a miracle, as the damsel said we would. Between us, Charles and I have retaken Paris and the regions beyond that had rebelled! We control northern France, cur, and soon we will control all of our country!”

“How can we believe you?” Bolingbroke yelled.

Philip smiled, hard and cold. “I am more than glad you touted Thomas along with you,” he said, “for he can verify the truth of what I now show you.”

Suddenly Philip hefted a black bag from the front of his saddle, and the next instant it was sailing the distance between them.

It landed with a thud between the horses, and all three men had to struggle to control their mounts.

“Thomas,” the Black Prince said quietly.

Thomas dismounted, giving the reins of his horse into the outstretched hand of the Black Prince. He walked slowly up to the bag, and he saw that it was black with blood, not dye.

He knew what he would find.

Gingerly he undid the thong about the neck of the bag, and tipped out its contents.

Marcel’s head, his eyes staring lifelessly into eternity, rolled out.

“Who was he?” said the Black Prince.

“Etienne Marcel,” said Thomas. “He was the ringleader of the Parisian rebels. If he

is dead then Paris has indeed fallen.”

He looked up, and was surprised to see Hal staring at the head with a tightly controlled expression as if hiding deep emotion.

Why? Hal could not have known Marcel…

“Aye,” Philip called across the space. “Paris has fallen, and the north is under our control. Why, Edward, I even have eight thousand men-at-arms in Chatellerault.

Should I grow bored this winter, I might be tempted to sally forth to visit you at Chauvigny. Perhaps to toast wassail together? What say you?”