The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

They spoke in hushed but urgent tones.

“Hal, you must have realized that both the king and the Black Prince’s deaths were unnatural!”

“Aye. Demons attended both.” The messenger had told of the devilish tempest and encircling demons who taunted the prince to his death. Hal and Thomas did not doubt for one moment that the masked mummers who had encircled Edward III had been demons as well.

“Thomas … do you still suspect my father?”

Thomas hesitated. “No,” he eventually said. “I had wondered if he were to be the new Demon-King… but his grief at his father’s death is genuine, and in the days since Edward’s inhuman end he has done nothing but that which any mortal man bound by loyalty and duty should. If… if he had been the new Demon-King he would have acted differently.”

“Seized power himself.”

“Yes.” And if be had, Hal, that would have made you heir to the throne.

If nothing else, the events and actions of the past twenty-four hours had relieved Thomas’ mind regarding both Lancaster and Hal. If they had been demons themselves, or in the employ or thrall of demons, they would not have acted as they did.

No demon would leave the path to all-encompassing power untrod.

No, Lancaster and Hal had both acted with loyalty and righteousness.

Hal studied Thomas’ face. “You think Richard will be the Demon-King, don’t you.”

Thomas nodded. “There were only three people to gain from the simultaneous deaths of Edward and the Black Prince,” Thomas said. “Your father, you, and Richard. Neither you nor your father have taken any advantage of their deaths …”

“But Richard can scarce contain his joy at his fortune.”

“Aye. He has not shed a tear for either grandfather or father.”

Hal half turned away, his handsome face shadowed, and mouthed an obscenity.

Then he looked back at Thomas. “We must tell my father.”

APART FROM Richard, no one save Bolingbroke could have gained access to Lancaster at such a late hour and during such trying times as these… and certainly no one save Bolingbroke could have managed an interview with Lancaster on the man’s wedding night. Hal and Thomas waited in a small chamber within the apartments of

the palace complex that Lancaster had hurriedly selected for himself, watching Lancaster’s back as he stared out a window.

He had stood, silent and watchful, as Thomas and then Hal had spoken, and had then turned and walked away to think.

His hands, held behind his back, suddenly twitched, and the duke turned around.

His face was ravaged, gray, and horribly old. For Lancaster the past few days had been solid shock and grief, save for those brief, sweet moments when he had wed Katherine.

“I refuse to believe you,” he said.

“Father,” Hal said, stepping forward, “who else could it be? Saint Michael said that—”

“I care not what Saint Michael has said!” Lancaster said. “You may or may not be correct in believing there is a Demon-King in our midst, but I do know it is not Richard!”

He walked stiffly to a table and poured himself a goblet of wine, and then left the wine untouched. “I owe my father and my brother loyalty, and through that loyalty—which has been the mainstay of my entire life—I owe loyalty to Richard!”

“Perhaps,” Hal said softly, knowing he risked his life saying this, but knowing that it had to be said anyway, “it would be better if you took the throne yourself, and—”

Lancaster whipped about and stared at his son. “Is your ambition so overweening, Hal?”

“Would you place a demon on the throne of England, Father?”

“Prove it! Prove to me he is a demon!”

“I believe.. .”Thomas said with some hesitation, “I believe that I might be able to.”

Now both Lancaster and Bolingbroke turned and stared at Thomas.

“Wynkyn de Worde’s casket,” Thomas said.

“It will tell you?” Lancaster said.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said, “for who knows the extent and breadth of the secrets it contains. But it will also draw the Demon-King out, for he will do all he can to prevent me finding it. My lord Duke, let me ride north. Please. I am useless in London.”

Silence, save for the angry breathing of Lancaster.

Thomas held the duke’s stare. “Grant me your permission to ride north, my lord.”

“You will need to avoid the Prior General,” said Lancaster. “He will have watchers everywhere through the north.”

“I will avoid him,” said Thomas, and Lancaster grunted.

There was a silence, Thomas managing to hold both his tongue and impatience in check.

Lancaster finally took a swallow of his wine. “You cannot leave until after my father’s funeral rites.”

Thomas bowed his head. It would look too strange; no one would leave London until after the king had been interred.

“And you will return with your ‘proof before Richard is crowned in the spring.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Lancaster stared a little longer, then his shoulders slumped and he waved his hand dismissively. “Get out. Both of you.”

As Bolingbroke and Thomas moved toward the door, Lancaster added quietly: “If I didn’t believe your mission was angel-inspired, Thomas, both you and Hal would be in the Tower now for your treasonous words.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Matins on the Second Sunday after Christmas

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(predawn Sunday 2nd January 1379)

“TOM?”

He jerked awake, his mind still fogged. Where was he? Westminster or… no, back in his chamber at the Savoy, where he had returned the previous afternoon after the subdued New Year’s celebrations at Westminster.

“Tom? Tom?”

His mind would not clear. All he could think of was Lancaster, speaking words of treachery and imprisonment.

“Tom?”

Sweet Jesu! That was Margaret! He leaped out of bed and was almost to the door when the cold air crawling over his skin finally made him realize he was naked. He snatched at his robe, sliding it over his head, cursing as the woolen cloth caught and rucked over his shoulders.

“Tom!”

Thomas threw open the door. “For the sweet Lord’s sake, woman! You’ll wake half the palace!”

“Tom.”

She was standing shivering in her thin nightgown, a red wool cloak flung over her shoulders.

Her hair was unbound, and Thomas’ mind found the time and energy to note he had never seen it thus before.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, keeping the doorway blocked with his body.

Her hands clenched at the cloak, trying to pull it tighter closed. Her shivering had increased and she had to make a visible effort to speak.

“Tom. I have heard rumors about the fate of the Black Prince in France …”

“And?”

She winced at the cold dismissal in his voice. “Ralph … what has happened to him?”

“My uncle? But—”

“Just because this is not his child I bear, it does not mean I have no regard or affection for him. Tom, please, what do you know?”

He sighed, glanced along the corridor, then pulled her inside his chamber.

AS THE door closed, John Wycliffe stood forth from a darkened niche. He smiled slightly, and stepped back into his lair.

“SIT DOWN.” Thomas indicated the narrow bed, and Margaret, having given the stark chamber a cursory glance, did as she was told.

She pulled the cloak yet closer about her and stared up at Thomas with pleading eyes. “What have you heard—”

“Why aren’t you with the Lady Katherine?”

“She has been badly upset by the events of the past day. Her husband’s physician—”

Thomas noted wryly the way she said “husband.”

“—gave her a sleeping draft. She does not need me. But, oh, Thomas, all I have heard is that the Black Prince and his force were decimated by a tempest driven by the Devil’s breath, and the Black Prince is dead. But I have heard nothing of Raby!”

“I know little … but Raby is alive.”

Margaret let out a great breath of relief, and her hands loosened somewhat their hold on her cloak.

“He and a soldier, leading a horse carrying the prince’s body, stumbled into Blaye at dawn on Saint Stephen’s Day, just as a fishing vessel bound for Dover was leaving. Once it had landed, a messenger set out immediately for London.”

“And Raby? Where is he?”

“He remained in Dover for a day or so. He was sick unto death—no, do not fear, he is well now, but needed to rest. He will be here in a day or so with the prince’s body. Lancaster has sent Gloucester with an escort to bring them home.”

Margaret nodded, her fears alleviated, and looked at her hands, now in her lap.

“And are you going soon, Tom?”

He wondered where she thought he might be going. What did she know? “Why?

Do you seek to stop me?”

She jerked her head up, her eyes angry or hurt, Thomas knew not which.

“Nay. I do not seek to stop you. I…” she dropped her gaze again, “I am a woman without friend. My lover ignores me, and the father of my child fears my ‘devilish enchantments.'”