The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

ambivalent the English were about Lancaster. Why? Was it just his wealth and power, or did they, like he, suspect the man of greater ambitions?

There was a clarion of horns as Lancaster pulled his stallion to a halt before the hall, and the party dismounted with much gaiety and gossip. The ladies, who had ridden sweet-tempered palfrey mares, paused to straighten their headdresses and gowns, and to make eyes at the lords and knights standing about.

Hal, who had by now moved to his father’s side, sent Thomas a wink—the chill night ride had given him time to think and to calm—and offered his arm to the Lady Mary Bohun, heiress to the titles and estates of Hereford, who had wandered by with her own retinue in tow.

Lady Mary was a small woman, her face saved from outright plainness by a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. She smiled nervously at Hal’s attentions, one hand fidgeting in her hair, and Thomas thought she looked like a nervous mare about to bolt at any instant.

Hal spoke gently to her, and Mary’s face lost some of its apprehension, and she smiled more naturally.

Lancaster watched them carefully, relaxing himself as Mary did also, then he motioned with his hand, and the party moved inside the hall.

Thomas gasped the moment he stepped under the threshold.

The hall looked like a palace from fairyland.

More candles and torches than he could possibly count hung from every beam and stood from every pillar and sconce; golden light filled the entire hall.

Greenery—holly, ivy, mistletoe … everything that was green in winter time—had been draped about walls and over the trestle tables, and wound about with silver and golden threads and red balls of wool.

The floor had been strewn with sweet-smelling herbs and spices, and fires of scented apple wood burned cheerily from hearths. A huge Yule log lay at the far end of the hall by the High Table, one end crackling and hissing in the great fireplace.

Along each table were set thousands of yule candles, prettied with ribbons and streamers, and the scent of incense and warmth and revelry filled the air.

Both lords and servants moved quickly to greet the Duke, and he and his party were escorted to the tables set at the very top of the hall.

Unsurprisingly, Lancaster and Katherine both sat at the High Table where Gloucester already waited—Edward had not yet arrived—but Thomas was surprised to find himself seated at the first table on the High Table’s right, a few places down from Hal and Mary Bohun.

Then his delight died a little as Margaret was placed directly to his left.

“Thomas,” she said as greeting, and smiled a little, and lowered her eyes demurely.

“My lady,” he replied. “You look well.”

And indeed Margaret did, for she wore a new gown of gold wool, embroidered about with a deep blue thread. It had a wide neckline, which showed the top of her breasts and her shoulders, and a tapered waist, which emphasized her belly: Thomas noted with some little surprise how much bigger she had grown since they had left France. Her beautiful hair was not piled under a cap or veil, nor even atop her head,

but had been wound into a thick braid with gold threads and seed pearls which hung down her back.

She looked lovely and virginal and utterly desirable, save that her belly showed indisputably that at least one man had already found her desirable enough to bear down to his bed.

She smiled more naturally now, looking about the hall with wonder-filled eyes. “I feel well, Thomas. The Lady Katherine has been good for my soul, and tales of her own childbed has made me fear my own less.”

Margaret paused, and looked back to Thomas, smiling with sheer joy and lightness of spirit, and he could not help but respond.

“My Lady Katherine tells me,” she said, “that the mid-months of carrying a child are always the best.”

“And the last months?”

Margaret made a face. “Then a woman swells so big she can scarcely walk from stool to table and all avert their eyes from her form. Thomas … I thank you for taking such an interest in a woman’s woes.”

“I cannot pretend that I have no interest in this child,” he said quietly, then turned to speak to the cheery-faced man on his right before Margaret could respond.

She sat, her face now expressionless, staring at him. Then she refocused on someone further down the table, smiled slightly, and nodded.

“SWEET JESU!” Raby whispered, watching the barely visible deformed shapes cavort through the driving snow. Wat Tyler had led the baron to the edge of their huddled encampment, and now they stood, grabbing onto the top of a waist-high stone wall for support.

“Are these the demons that attacked my lord the Black Prince and yourself on the way back from your meeting with Philip?” Wat Tyler said.

“Aye.”

For an instant Raby lifted his eyes from the demons to the waves of snow and ice driving through the night air. “This tempest is not of God’s earth.”

Tyler mumbled a prayer. “What can we do? How can we defeat such as these?”

His voice cracked, as if he toppled on a knife-edge of despair.

Raby grabbed at him, pulling the man close so he could see his face. “We’ve got to get the prince out of here! He is near to death as it is, and to allow such as these to get close again …”

“We should have Thomas Neville here.”

Raby peered at Tyler. “Why?”

“Wasn’t it he who ordered the demons to depart before? We need a priest!”

“We have no priest,” Raby said. “Come, Tyler.”

And he hauled the soldier back into the camp, past wailing groups of men standing or half-sitting in the snowdrifts, pointing into the night, and calling to their God.

THE CHEERY middle-aged man on Thomas’ right now leaned forward and smiled gently at Margaret. He had a round, ruddy face, thinning brown hair, a snub of a nose, and bright eyes whose sharpness belied the otherwise genial conviviality of his expression.

“My lady, I fear I have not yet had the privilege …”

Thomas sighed. “The Lady Margaret Rivers,” he said. “Recently arrived from France, where she lost her husband to the wasting illness. Lady Margaret currently serves Lady Katherine Swynford.”

“Ah!” the man said. “My lady, I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance, for I know the Lady Katherine well. My name is Geoffrey Chaucer, and I make my way through this world as a humble poet.”

Margaret’s face lit up. “I have heard some of your work, Master Chaucer. My Lady Katherine often causes your poems to be read aloud to her and her ladies as we sit at our needlework.”

Chaucer beamed. “Both my Lady Katherine and my Lord of Lancaster have been good to me. If it were not for them, I should have starved many years previous.”

“Master Chaucer’s wife, Pippa, is Katherine’s sister,” Thomas said. “Is she not with you this night, Master Chaucer?”

“Nay. My sweet Pippa has an ague, and has preferred to stay before her fire at home.” Chaucer again caught Margaret’s eyes, and winked. “I shall have a fine evening without her company!”

Then Chaucer’s expression sobered. “My lady, I am grieved to hear of the loss of your husband. And to think that he shall not know his child. Tell me, how long has he been dead?”

The question was so impolite, and so direct, that it bordered on the impudent.

Margaret was fixated by Chaucer’s sharp and very direct stare. “He, ah, he died last, um…”

Thomas could almost hear her counting frantically in her mind. “He died but a few months ago, Master Chaucer, after a long and incapacitating illness.”

“Not too incapacitating, I note,” Chaucer said.

“I kept my husband warm and comfortable through the long nights of his suffering,” Margaret said, her voice now steady, “as all good wives should do. I would not leave my spouse alone by the fire.”

Chaucer’s mouth quirked. “Well said, my dear. Margaret… I am not unaware of your situation, few at court are, but it would aid your cause if you were a little more prepared for the inevitable questions and comment.”

She inclined her head and changed the subject, demonstrating she was not so unskilled at court conversation as Chaucer had intimated. “Master Chaucer, much of your work interests me deeply. I confess myself amazed that some of your commentary on social injustice, particularly the plight of the poor, and the parasitic nature of many of the wandering clergy, should find such favor at court.”

Chaucer shot a glance at Thomas, amused that the woman had so needled the friar. Chaucer was not loath to caricature the fat, corrupt clergy who lived off the poor and needy, and his work bad caused him some official reprimand. If it had not