The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

They hardly rested. The third day out Lancaster’s spies had reported troop movements to the north and the Duke, fearing that Philip had mobilized against them, had driven them even harder. The party dismounted only for brief meal stops, and an hour or two here and there when it was patently clear that horses were going to drop dead if they weren’t given some rest. After five days of hard riding Lancaster had begun to beg, borrow and commandeer mounts wherever he found them, and threatened to tie to the saddle anyone who so drooped from weariness they threatened to fall off. On at least three occasions that Thomas was aware of, Lancaster did just that.

Thomas rode in the group that directly followed the French king’s litter, itself drawn by two horses in front, and two at the rear. Here was the heaviest concentration of troops—all of the knights and two-thirds of the men-at-arms—for Lancaster constantly feared that the French would make an attempt to seize back their king.

Apart from the occasional raid from bandits and disorganized soldiers, who were more in search of food than regal flesh, the French made no such attempt.

The noble and serving women in the retinue also traveled close behind John’s litter to obtain the maximum benefit from the close proximity of the armed men, and Thomas found himself on several occasions riding next to Margaret.

After the first few days, Thomas felt as though the cold and wet had eaten into his very flesh, and he doubted if he would ever be warm again. And yet he journeyed in luxurious comfort compared to others. The knights and men-at-arms who rode in varying degrees of armor (many had taken the risk of stowing their heavier and more cumbersome pieces of plate on pack horses after a few days of wet chafing misery through the rain) spent much of their time on frequent rest stops to have their valets and pages rub salves into the red and weeping chafes over shoulders and joints.

Even some of the women suffered. Margaret looked as if she spent the greater part

of each day in abject distress. Her face had lost its beauty to a wretched pallor, her once clear dark eyes had become clouded and sunken, and her body lurched sickeningly with every stride of her gray palfrey. Sometimes she grabbed at her belly and lurched forward, retching over the side of her mount’s neck, and when Lancaster did afford them the luxury of a stop, Margaret refused all the food offered to her, and curled into a doleful ball under whatever shelter she could find.

On the day they reached la Rochelle, Lancaster forced them to ride at almost a gallop the last few miles—little matter now if some of the horses foundered. By daybreak—a thin, weak grayish dawn that brought no cheer—they had been in the saddle since the middle of the night after only a two-hour rest from the previous day’s ride. Everyone, from the most inexperienced boy-soldier to the captive king, was exhausted, brittle-tempered and nursing a variety of chills, aching muscles, callused hands and cold-hardened flesh.

Margaret looked as if she was almost dead. She swayed alarmingly in the saddle, her eyes closed in her pallid face, her mouth a thin line of distress, her hands clutching the pommel of her saddle, the reins dangling loose about her palfrey’s neck. It looked as if she stayed in the saddle only because her muscles had cramped into position.

Thomas watched her carefully, thinking that she feigned her distress. Why? Did she hope that he would lean over and lift her into his own saddle? Did she hope that the intimate contact between their bodies, lurching and swaying in the mad ride, might awake in him some uncontrollable lust? Did she think to stimulate his pity, that she might then turn it to love?

Suddenly, as their horses’ hooves clattered over the first cobbles on the road that led into la Rochelle, Margaret gave a low cry, and swayed so alarmingly in the saddle it seemed she might, finally, topple to the ground to be trampled by the hooves of the following horses.

Thomas averted his face. He was not going to allow her to—

“Thomas!”

Thomas looked back to Margaret. Bolingbroke, clad in chain mail and a soaked, thick tunic, had ridden his destrier beside Margaret’s palfrey and had lifted the woman into the saddle before him. She swooned, and Thomas saw Bolingbroke’s body tense in the effort both to hold her and to control his own horse, shying at the unexpected extra weight.

As soon as Bolingbroke had regained control, he shot Thomas a furious look.

“Why did you not aid her, Thomas? Look!”

He dipped his chin down. Margaret’s cloak had fallen open, and the rain had plastered her gray gown to the contours of her body, emphasizing her five-month rounded belly.

“She is with child!” Bolingbroke said. “She deserved your care, Thomas, not your disregard!”

And with that he spurred his horse forward, pulling Margaret’s cloak once more about her body.

Thomas’ expression hardened, furious at the niggling guilt that he should have aided her himself, and blaming Margaret for both guilt and fury.

LA ROCHELLE was only just stirring when Lancaster’s column clattered into the town. It was one of the main ports along the French coast, and was thus well stocked and provisioned by the English—who had held the territory about it for the past year or two—for an emergency such as this. Although there was not housing for the entire party, which numbered several thousand, warehouses close to the pier accommodated most of the men, and several inns took in the higher nobles, a damp and cantankerous French king, and all of the women.

Nine cog vessels bobbed in the gray water at the pier. The ungainly vessels were merchantmen, used for carrying cargo from the Mediterranean ports to the northern waters of Europe and so while not pretty, and a nightmare to sail in, had generous space for both men and horses. Lancaster wasted no time in bargaining a good price for their use, although his threats could hardly be called bargaining, and for their provisioning; the cogs would be ready within two days. Meanwhile all would rest and Lancaster himself finally appeared to relax. His scouts reported that the area for some fifty miles about was secured, and no sizeable force could approach la Rochelle without being seen.

By noon, as lines of men were strung out along the pier shouldering heavy bundles of provisions from town to cogs, a dark ponderous line of clouds moved in from the southwest. A heartbeat after several of the men had stopped and pointed to the clouds, a furious wind blew in, hurling cream-crested waves over the entire pier and washing some eight men out to sea. The next moment hail pelted down from the sky, and men dropped provisions and scattered to whatever shelter they could find.

The storm lasted four full days, developing into an early winter tempest within hours of its arrival. Snow and ice sleeted down from the clouds at vicious angles, and the wind galed so maliciously that the entire town of la Rochelle wailed and groaned as slate was torn from roofs, and nails popped from walls, shutters and doors.

Several outbuildings were destroyed, but the rest of the town remained secure. La Rochelle had endured many such storms in its history, and its homes were, for the greater part, strongly built and heavily reinforced.

No one moved beyond shelter, and Lancaster spent the greater part of an entire day on his knees before a makeshift altar, thanking God that the tempest had not hit them while they were still on the road, or, come to that, after they had put to sea.

Having thanked God for their own safety, Lancaster then paced about worrying for his brother. Had the Black Prince been hit by this same tempest? And, if so, had he and his managed to find adequate shelter?

Thomas spent the days confined to his particular accommodation fretting about the time wasted, and wondering if the storm were demon-sent. What better way to prevent him reaching England? Would it hail and gust for the next several months as the demons consolidated their position … wherever and whatever that was?

After a few days fretting, both at the delay and at the irritation of being confined to the same tiny set of rooms, Thomas persuaded the three men-at-arms who watched over him (or was it guarded him?) to allow him, with them in close tow, to dash

across a narrow street to the larger and more commodious inn that housed Lancaster, the French king, and most of the higher nobles.

Even in this narrow alley, the wind picked up the four men and thudded them painfully against the door that opened from kitchens to alley. Thomas and one of the men-at-arms hammered as loudly as they could on the door and, after a nightmarish wait of several moments, it opened inward, tumbling the men onto the dirty floor of the kitchen.