The Nameless Day by Sara Douglass

Every gut instinct, every strange, sidling glance Richard sent his way, every damned event since Edward and the Black Prince had died, told Thomas that Richard would be the Demon-King.

Yet none of that was enough to convince the only man who had a chance of preventing Richard taking the throne: Lancaster. The duke was letting nothing stand in the way of his loyalties. He had promised both his father and elder brother that he would fight for Richard’s right to take the throne, and he would listen to none of Bolingbroke’s or Thomas’ suspicions.

“Show me the proof,” he demanded, and Thomas was finally on his way to do just that.

Unfortunately, he was not allowed to ride directly to Bramham Moor, nor was he allowed to ride alone, which is what he would have preferred.

Lancaster would not let Thomas ride north without an escort, and so now here he was, trotting along the wintry northern Lincolnshire lanes with five men-at-arms men led, to Thomas’ irritation, by Wat Tyler himself.

Lancaster had insisted on Tyler. The man was a long-time retainer in Lancaster’s retinue, and the duke trusted the man deeply. Besides, Thomas and Tyler had been acquainted for many years—indeed, Tyler had fought with Thomas when the man had been a noble and not a friar—and Lancaster could see no reason why Tyler shouldn’t be the perfect sergeant to lead Thomas’ escort.

Thomas could say nothing. He did not trust Tyler, but he had no proof against him.

As Lancaster demanded Thomas ride with an escort, so he also demanded Thomas abandon his clerical robes. Thus Thomas rode, not as a friar, but as a knight returning to his estates in Yorkshire.

The Prior General of the Dominicans in England, Father Richard Thorseby, had discovered that Thomas was back in England, and the man’s influence was particularly strong in northern England. If Thorseby discovered that Thomas was in the north, then he would have no trouble finding a lord to arrest the friar for him. The north was both home and trap for Thomas.

So Thomas must needs ride in disguise. He found it discomforting to once again wear the habit of the man he thought he had abandoned. It reminded him of what Margaret had said to him: You are less the friar now than the man, Tom Neville.

And so here he was, his tonsure grown out, and a three-week old black beard covering his lower face. About his body he wore an expensive tunic of green velvet with silver gilt buttons over a fine linen under-tunic, black leggings and boots, fine-grained leather gloves with fur trimming, and a double thickness cloak of rich blue around his shoulders.

While it was warmer than riding in open-toed sandals and friar’s robe, Thomas was nonetheless uncomfortable at how “at home” he felt in the clothes.

He found he did not miss his robe and sandals at all.

But, of all things Thomas had to ride with, the most discomforting was Margaret.

Lancaster had insisted that, as Thomas was already heading north with a sizeable escort, he might as well escort the Lady Margaret Rivers to her husband’s parental home just south of Saxbye in northern Lincolnshire.

There she could give birth to her—her husband’s—child. Lancaster had been grimly insistent that Margaret ride with Thomas, and Thomas thought he knew why.

Raby’s wedding had been planned for mid-February—indeed, it would have been accomplished sometime last week, when Thomas and Margaret and their escort had been riding the northern Cambridgeshire roads—and both Raby and his soon-to-be father-in-law wanted Margaret and her swelling belly out of the way.

Fast.

Thomas had not wanted to be burdened with Margaret for many reasons, but primarily because she would delay them on the road—Lord Jesus! she was almost seven months gone with child—and because the detour needed to get her to Saxbye would add many days to Thomas’ own journey.

Nevertheless, he was burdened with her, and he must bear his burden as well as he might.

Surprisingly, Margaret was little trouble. Unlike their ride through western France to reach the port of la Rochelle, Margaret coped well with the long days in the saddle. In the evenings, when they halted at an inn or the welcoming house of one of Lancaster’s vassals, Margaret ate quickly and then retired to bed, tired from her long hours on the road. She rarely talked with Thomas, and then mostly only a brief commentary on the countryside they passed through, or the pleasantries that a particular occasion demanded. She did not attempt to seduce him again, nor flaunt her pregnancy.

They did not mention the child, although Thomas found himself thinking on it—

her— constantly.

In fact, Thomas thought Margaret was somewhat subdued, and wondered what had passed between her and Raby. But perhaps that was merely the natural habit of a woman fast approaching her childbed, and more concerned with thoughts of pain and death than of seduction and love.

At dusk on St. Valentine’s Day they rode through the small village of Saxbye, peasant women peering through doorways, their husbands pausing from unyoking their plow teams to wonder at the strangers.

A mile past Saxbye, nestled in the hollow of the foothills rising toward the ranges that separated Lincolnshire from the Humber Estuary, stood Rivers Hall. It was a fortified house rather than a castle, sitting by a frozen pond in meadows that, Thomas thought, would be particularly pleasant in springtime.

The gates to the courtyard were open—no one in this part of England suspected any trouble—and Thomas led his party straight into the court of the house, their horses’ clattering hooves bringing surprised servants from kitchen and barn doors.

“Well, Margaret,” he said as he swung down from his horse. “You are finally home.”

She sat her horse, her face strained under the hood of her scarlet cloak.

She was staring at the walls of the house rising about her.

“This will never be my home,” she said.

THE PRIOR General of the Dominican Order in England, Father Richard Thorseby, sat gratefully before his fire in his chamber. He had spent much of the day inspecting and questioning the members of his Order who taught at Oxford, and it had been a cold and tiresome affair.

But there was one more item of business to be attended to before he could finally relax.

The letter.

It had arrived this morning, and Thorseby had left it to one side the entire day.

Well, God would not be mocked, and he supposed he finally must read it and see what heresies it contained.

Thorseby picked it up, idly turning it over in his hands. He had not needed to see the seal to know who had sent it: this crabbed writing was as well known to him as his own.

Well, what apostasies had Master Wycliffe decided to write him now?

Because of their mutual association with the colleges of Oxford, Thorseby knew Wycliffe well.

Unfortunately.

The man had abandoned God years ago, and now ran riot in London, protected by Lancaster, spouting forth ever more horrendous ideas.

If it hadn’t been for Lancaster… Thorseby sighed, and broke the seal. His eyes scanned the brief letter inside, then his face went purple and he leaped to his feet

shouting for his secretary.

AN AGED man, a shock of wiry white hair over a sallow and sunken face, rushed out of the main entrance way in such a hurry he had forgotten to grab a cloak.

Behind him came a stout woman, of a similar age to the man, with badly dyed brown hair and a russet robe straining about her ample body. She, at least, had remembered to lay hand to a wrap, and now she was hurriedly throwing it about her shoulders.

“Good sir,” the man said as he stopped before Thomas. His eyes briefly noted the Lancastrian emblems on the soldiers’ tunics and the horses’ saddlecloths, and his manner became even more deferential. “Good lord, may I offer you the hospitality of my house this night? My name is Egdon Rivers, and this,” he indicated the woman,

“is my wife, the Lady Jacquetta.”

“I thank you, Sir Egdon and Lady Rivers,” said Thomas, pulling off his gloves as a stable lad rushed to take the reins of his horse. “Your hospitality would be most welcome, for the road has been long and cold. My name is Thomas Neville, kinsman of Baron Raby, and I escort home to you your daughter-in-law, the Lady Margaret Rivers.” Thomas did not even feel a stab of guilt at naming himself in so secular a style. He was not wearing his robes, thus he did not bother to confuse the issue by referring to himself as a member of the clergy.

Sir Egdon and Lady Jacquetta stared unbelieving at Thomas a moment longer, then their eyes slowly settled on Margaret, sitting her horse a few feet behind Thomas. “Margaret?” Sir Egdon said hesitatingly. “Where… where is Roger?”