The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Laying the razor to one side, and repressing a grin, Thomas stood, straightened his robes, then stepped to the door and opened it.

There was a tall man outside, of an age with himself. He was lean and fit, wearing a heavily embroidered knee-length and hooded over-tunic of blue and gold wool with streamers dangling from its sleeves. His thick dark hair was cut short over straight eyebrows, a slightly hooked nose and merry brown eyes.

Bolingbroke stood laughing behind the man, similarly (if slightly more richly) dressed in a colorful knee-length tunic embroidered with gems and pearls and with silver-gilt buttons. He had two thick cloaks draped over one arm.

Both men were armed with knives in their belts.

As soon as Thomas opened the door, the man who had hammered and called affected a startled and contrite expression.

He fell to his knees, and clasped his hands in contrition. “Oh, father! Forgive me. I thought my old friend Tom resided here… but I was misled! Why! Here is a sober priest, ready to condemn me to hellfire’s misery for my thoughtlessness.”

Thomas grinned over the man’s now bowed head at Bolingbroke, then leaned over and shook the kneeling man’s shoulder.

“Oh, get up, Hotspur. I still live here, under these sober robes.”

Lord Henry Percy, son and heir of the powerful and ambitious Earl of Northumberland, known far and wide as Hotspur for his courage in battle, leaped to his feet and embraced Thomas.

“Ah, my friend, it has been too long! Too long!”

“Hotspur arrived late last night, Tom,” Bolingbroke said. “He demanded there and then to be taken to your chamber, but I demurred. I said you’d be in too deep a conversation with your God and would not welcome mere mortal merriment.”

Thomas smiled, and gripped Hotspur’s forearms with his hands. “You look well…

better than well. How many of the foul Scots have you laid waste with your sword in the past years, Hotspur? I have heard such tales about your exploits!”

Hotspur sobered. “As I have about yours, Thomas.”

Thomas locked eyes briefly with Bolingbroke. What had Hal told Hotspur?

Hal reassured him with a quick shake of his head. I have told him nothing of the demons.

“You have been to Rome, no less!” Hotspur said. “And now I hear you have the monstrous Thorseby panting for your arrest and, doubtless, your execution!”

Although he knew Hotspur had spoken in jest, Thomas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Was the Prior General more than just a man?

“Ah!” Hotspur said. “But we cannot stand about in this chill corridor, Thomas. I

can’t imagine why Hal hasn’t had you housed more hospitably.”

Hal shrugged. “This is what makes Thomas feel most comfortable these days, Hotspur.”

“You carry the pretense of priesthood too far,” Hotspur said.

“I do not pretend at all!” Thomas replied, stung.

Hotspur ignored him. Swiveling, he took one of the cloaks that Hal had been holding, then turned back to Thomas, slinging the cloak about his shoulders. “Do you have a warm cloak? Yes? Then fetch it, man! An adventure awaits us!”

Thomas hesitated. He constantly felt as if he should be doing something, going somewhere, but his recent conversation with the archangel and his hours of prayer had made him realize that he could not always be moving, or fighting.

Sometimes he had simply to rest, and observe.

Thomas now understood that a calm observing eye would serve him as well, if not better, than constant agitation to move forward and find Wynkyn’s casket. After all, the casket was as much moving toward him, as he should be moving toward it. Yes, he needed to reach it, and discover its secrets … but Thomas also needed to discover the secrets of those about him.

Somehow Lancaster, or someone (or a number of people) within his immediate circle, was involved with the demons. Wycliffe, certainly. Others, most definitely.

Was the heir apparent to the Demon-King’s throne among them?

St. Michael had told him that the new Demon-King would be as driven to seek him out as would the casket.

If Thomas watched and observed, perhaps he could mark him before he did too much damage.

Beside, it was Christmastide, and there would be no leaving London for two weeks or more until after Plow Monday, the unofficial end of the Christmastide festivities.

It was Christmastide, and there was to be much eating and drinking and merry-making, and perhaps the demons among Lancaster’s retinue would relax …

make an error of judgment … disclose themselves …

“Thomas?” Hotspur said. “Have you gone to ask your God for permission to indulge in a small Christmastide adventure?”

Thomas grinned, shook his head, and went to fetch his cloak, A small adventure wouldn’t do him any harm at all.

HAL AND Hotspur had horses waiting in the courtyard.

“Come, come!” Hotspur said, striding ahead of the other two, sliding on thick gloves against the winter chill.

“I am to be allowed to leave?” Thomas said softly to Hal.

Hal slid him an unfathomable glance. “My father merely wants to be sure of you,”

he said. “There is too much unsurety in these days to risk that which does not need to be risked.”

Hotspur had mounted his horse, a showy, fiery gray stallion. “Tom, Hal, do hurry

along!”

Grooms held Hal’s and Thomas’ horses, and the two men mounted.

Thomas still had the brown gelding given him so many months ago by Marcel.

I must be rid of it, he thought, Jor this horse is a gift from the Devil himself. Then he half jerked, wondering further if the horse itself was a demon.

“Don’t you even want to know where we’re going?” Hotspur said as they clattered toward the gates.

“To where do we go?” Thomas dutifully replied, his eyes still on the gelding beneath him.

“There is to be a tilting match at Smithfield,” Hal responded before Hotspur broke in.

“And a wrestling match, and an archery contest, and some say, fireworks!”

Hal grinned wryly. “Half the household is already there,” he said. “We waited only to fetch you… Thomas, do stop glaring at your horse like that. He is a mediocre animal, to be sure, but I thought priests did not like to mount themselves atop showy, prancing beasts.”

Thomas finally raised his eyes. “He was a gift from a man I no longer trust,” he said, “and so now I wonder whether I should distrust the gift.”

“Trust is something that can all too easily be misconstrued,” Hal said. “Sometimes we accept in trust what we should reject, and reject what we should trust.”

Hotspur threw up his hands in mock despair, his stallion almost bolting as his rider momentarily relinquished control of the reins. Hotspur regained control, then grinned over his shoulder.

“I did not think you the philosopher, Hal. Now, can we ride?”

Hal smiled back at Hotspur, although his face remained thoughtful, and soon all three were clattering through the crowds in the courtyard of St. Paul’s. At Cheapside they turned north onto the short street that led through Aldersgate toward the open space in the suburbs beyond the walls where many festivals and markets were held.

As they rode through the streets, people stood back, waving and calling out cheerfully to Hal.

Thomas rode closer to him. “If the people had their say, Hal, you would sit the throne before either the Black Prince or Richard!”

Hal did not laugh, as Thomas thought he would. ” ‘Tis treasonous talk, Thomas.

I’d not thought it of you.”

“It was but a jest,” Thomas said, “and between friends.”

Hal stared at him. “And are we friends, Thomas? You and I and Hotspur were once inseparable; we sinned and jested and fought together. Now… ah, forgive me. I grow maudlin.”

He looked away, his eyes focused on something in his thoughts rather than on the still cheering crowds to either side of him. “After yesterday I feel the passing of an age most sorely.”

“What happened?”

Hal did not reply for the moment, but waved briefly at the crowds. He waited until they had ridden through Aldersgate before he replied.

“His grace my grandfather has aged since I last saw him some few months previously.”

“Edward is old.”

“Aye. He still appears strong in body … but his mind has slipped away. Yesterday

… yesterday during the ceremonies to greet King John he dribbled and whispered, and some of the baser men watching sniggered and jested at his expense. My father had them committed to Ludgate later, but…”

“Hal.”

Hal shrugged. “My grandfather grows old, and inane with age. But he is also a king, and I do fear for what lies before us.”

“Has your father heard of the Black Prince?”

“Aye. We know he has reached Bordeaux safely, but little else. My father grows more worried by the hour. He wishes now that he counseled my uncle the more strongly to return to England. My God, Tom, he is the heir, and he should be here, now!”