Читать книгу The Nameless Day - Sara Douglass - Страница 16

Ember Friday in Whitsuntide

In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III

(11th June 1378)

Thomas spent the weeks on the road north from Rome in a state of troublesome melancholy, wondering at the future of the word of God in a world which seemed to be slipping ever closer to the blandishments of the Devil. These had been grey weeks of travel. He had been harassed by beggars, pilgrims and wandering pedlars who thought a lone traveller easy prey (even his obvious poverty had not lessened their threatening entreaties), while constant rain and a sweeping chill wind had added physical misery to the spiritual anguish of Thomas’ soul. Doubt had consumed him: how could he follow a trail thirty years dead? How could he, one man, rally the forces of God to destroy the evil that spread unhindered throughout Christendom?

Even worse were memories which had ridden untamed through his mind whenever he thought on Wat’s news that the Black Prince and John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, were again leading an invasion force into France.

The surge of battle, the scream of horses, and the ring of steel. The feel of the blade as it arced through the air, seeking that weakness in his opponent’s armour, and then the joy as he felt it crush through bone and sinew, and the expression of shock, almost wonder, on a man’s face as he felt cold death slide deep into his belly.

The glimpse of a sweaty comrade’s face, his expression half of fear, half of fierce joy, across the tangled gleam of armour and wild-eyed horses of the battlefield.

The same comrade later that night, lifting a goblet to toast victory.

The brotherhood of arms and of battle.

John of Gaunt—Lancaster—was returning to France, his friends and allies at his back.

Who was with Lancaster? Who? Memories rode not far behind Lancaster’s banner.

Thomas cursed Wat daily. Not only had the man spoken heretical words which had disturbed Thomas’ soul, the man’s very appearance had recalled to Thomas a life and passions he had thought to have forgotten years before. He served God and St Michael now, not the whims of some petty prince, or the dictates of a power-hungry sovereign.

He served God, not the brotherhood he’d left behind.

Man’s cause no longer interested him.

On this morning, as Thomas approached Florence, any doubts he may have had vanished along with the cloud and wind. Just after Sext he turned a corner of the road to find Florence lay spread out before him like a saviour.

Thomas halted his mule and stared.

Warm sunshine washed over him, and to either side of the road richly-scented summer flowers bloomed in waving cornfields. But none of this registered in Thomas’ mind. He could only stare at the walled metropolis below him. A gleaming city of God, surely, for nothing else could have given it such an aura of light and strength.

He had never seen a city so beautiful. Even Rome paled into insignificance before it. Not only was it larger—Florence was the largest city in the western world—but it was infinitely more colourful, more splendidly built, more alive.

Innumerable burnished domes of church and guildhall glittered in the noon sunshine; pale stone towers topped by red terracotta roofs soared from the dark narrow streets towards the light of both sun and God; colourful banners and pennants whipped from windows and parapets; bridges arched gracefully over the winding Arno—the river silver in this light. The tops of fruit trees and the waving tendrils of vines reached from the courtyards of villas and tenement blocks.

Thomas’ overwhelming impression was of majesty and light, where his memory of Rome was of decay and chaos and violence.

Surely God was here, where He had been absent in Rome?

Gently Thomas nudged the flanks of his mule, and the patient beast began the descent into the richest and most beautiful municipality in Christendom.

Thomas had thought that his initial impression of Florence might be shattered when he entered the crowded streets, but it was not so.

Where the crowds in Rome had been oppressive, often threatening, here they were lively and inviting.

Where the faces that turned his way in Rome had been surly or suspicious, here they were open and welcoming.

Where the doors of Rome had been closed to strangers and to the always expected violence, here they were open to friend and stranger alike. And it seemed that from every second window, and every third doorway, hung the tapestries and cloths for which Florence was famous—a waterfall of ever-changing colour that rippled and glittered down every street.

Above the voices and footsteps of the streets cascaded a clarion of bells: guild bells, church bells, the bells of the standing watches on the walls and the marching watches on the streets…the bells of God.

A tear slipped down Thomas’ cheek.

When Thomas rode into the city, he did not immediately seek the friary he knew would give him shelter. It was still high morning, and he could spend the next few hours more profitably seeking out that which he needed than passing platitudes with his brothers in the Order.

Thomas understood now that God needed him on his feet, not his knees.

So Thomas rode his mule slowly through the streets towards the market square. The past weeks on the road from Rome had taught him a valuable lesson: he would travel the quicker if he travelled in a well-escorted train. A lone traveller had to travel slowly and carefully, and not only to avoid the menacements of beggars, for Thomas had heard that the northern Italian roads were troubled by bandits who regularly dispossessed people of their valuables and, if the valuables proved insufficient, often their lives as well.

So Thomas needed to find a well-escorted group which would be travelling in his direction: through the Brenner Pass in the Alps, then north through Innsbruck and Augsberg to Nuremberg. There was only one group likely to be rich enough to afford the escort to travel quickly and safely, and only one group that would be likely to take that route, and Thomas had a good idea of where he’d find it.

Thomas dismounted from his mule and led it the final few hundred yards towards the market square, finally tying the beast to a post beside a wool store that bordered the square itself. The mule was a sorry beast, and Thomas thought that no one would be likely to steal it.

He patted the mule on the shoulder—sorry beast it might be, but it had also been faithful and of good service—and turned to the square. It was large, and lined with some of the most magnificent buildings Thomas had ever seen. There were churches, a cathedral, palaces of the nobles and of prelates and several prominent guildhalls. Colourful stalls had been set up about the square, selling every sort of goods from cloth to nubile Moorish slave girls, and in the centre of the square wove acrobats and jugglers, and a bear-handler with his abject and chained source of income.

The bear-handler was tying his charge to a stake and inviting passers-by to set their dogs to the creature, and to bet on the outcome.

Already a crowd was gathering around him.

Thomas ignored all the activity and set off for the largest of the guildhalls, that of the cloth merchants.

He paused inside the doors, his eyes narrowing. This was worldliness gone rampant! The guildhall rivalled any of the cathedrals Thomas had seen, save that of St Peter’s itself: supported by ornamented hammerbeams, its roof soared several hundred feet above his head. Its walls were painted over with scenes from the Scriptures, rich with gilding and studded with gems. Its furnishings were ornate and luxurious.

And Wat thought the Church too wealthy?

“Brother?” said a soft voice at his shoulder. “May I be of some assistance?”

Thomas turned around. A middle-aged and grey-haired man dressed in velvets and silks stood there, his well-fed face set into an expression of enquiry.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said. “I need to travel north, and fast. I seek any of your number who might be leaving within the next few days.”

“You want to travel with a merchant train?”

Thomas wondered if his fixed smile looked too false to this man. “That is what I said.”

The man spread his hands. “Surely the Church can afford to share some of the burden of finding a suitable escort for you, brother, if your mission be of such importance?”

“I travel alone, and I need to travel fast. I am sure any of your brothers within the guild would be happy to accept me into their company.”

The man raised his eyebrows.

“I would reward them well for their troubles,” Thomas said.

“With coin, good brother?”

“With prayers, good man.”

The man’s face split in a cynical grin. “You shall have to take your proposition to the merchants concerned, brother. It will be their choice or not…and I am not sure if they are so low on prayers they need to haul along the burden of a friar.”

“I will not be a burden!” Thomas snapped, and the man’s grin widened.

“Of course not. Well, ’tis not for me to say aye or nay. Take yourself to the Via Ricasoli. There is an inn there, you cannot miss it, and ask for Master Etienne Marcel. He is a Frenchman, a good cloth merchant, and he is leading a party north through the Brenner in two days’ time. Perchance he may feel the need of your prayers.”

Thomas nodded, and turned away,

“And perchance not,” the man added, and Thomas strode out of the guildhall and into the sunshine, the warmth of the day ruined.

He found the inn easily enough—it was the only one on the street—and asked of the innkeeper for Master Etienne Marcel.

The man inclined his head, and motioned Thomas to follow him.

They walked through the unoccupied front room, set out with several trestle tables and benches before a great fireplace, into a narrow hallway leading to a stairwell winding up to a darkened second level. Halfway up Thomas dimly heard laughter, and the clink of pewter—or coin—on a table.

There was only one door at the head of the stairs, and the innkeeper tapped on it gently.

It opened a fraction. The innkeeper spoke softly, briefly, then stood aside and indicated Thomas.

Thomas stared at the dark crack revealed by the open door, but could discern nothing.

The door closed, and he heard fragments of a conversation.

Then the door opened wide, and a well, but not overdressed young man, with a friendly grin, bright blue eyes and hair so blond it was almost white, stood there, a hand held out in welcome.

“A friar!” he said in poor Latin, “and with a request. Well, brother, enter, if you don’t mind our den of sin.”

A rebuke sounded behind the young man and he flushed, and moderated the width of his smile. “Well, good brother. Not quite a ‘den of sin’, perhaps, but a worldly enough place for such as you. Please, enter, with our welcome.”

Thomas stepped past the innkeeper, nodding his thanks as he did so, and took the hand the young man still extended. “Brother Thomas Neville,” he said, “and I thank you for your welcome.”

And then he startled the young man by flashing him a rakish grin before assuming a more sober face as he entered the room.

The young man closed the door behind him.

It was a large and well-lit apartment occupying the entire second storey. Obviously the inn’s best. Three glassed windows—this was a rich inn—ran along the eastern wall, chests and benches underneath them. At the rear were two curtained-off beds, the curtains tied back to let the day’s air and sun dapple across the bed coverings. Travelling caskets and panniers sat at the sides and feet of the beds.

On the wall opposite the windows was an enormous fireplace; room enough for not only the fire, but benches to either side of it. A tripod with a steaming kettle hanging from a chain stood to one side.

But it was the centre of the room which caught Thomas’ attention, and which had its attention entirely focused on him. There was a massive table—a proper table rather than a trestle affair—with chairs pulled up about it.

Seated in these chairs were four men, and the young man who had let Thomas in moved past him and sat down to make the number of men five.

All five stared silently at Thomas.

At the head of the table, directly facing him, was a man only a few years older than Thomas, but considerably more careworn. As with the younger man who had met Thomas at the door, he was well, but not ostentatiously dressed: dark green wool tunic and leggings, and a fine linen shirt. There were several gold and garnet rings on his fingers. He had close-cropped greying brown hair, an open face, and dark brown eyes that were lively with intelligence…and a wariness that Thomas thought was habitual rather than a momentary concern at the unexpected visitor.

“Good friar,” the man said. “How may we aid you?”

He spoke in a well-modulated voice, and his Latin was that of an educated man.

Thomas not only inclined his head, he bowed from the waist as well. “Master Marcel. I do thank you for your hospitality in granting me an audience.”

For an unknown reason, Thomas felt an instant empathy with the man. This was, indeed, a God-fearing man, and worthy of both trust and respect.

God, or his archangel, Michael, had led him to this city, to this room and to this man.

Marcel nodded, then indicated the other men about the table. “We are a group of merchants, and,” he smiled gently at a dark-haired man in his thirties, “one banker, Giulio Marcoaldi, of a most distinguished Florentine family.”

Thomas inclined his head at the banker. “Master Marcoaldi.”

Marcoaldi similarly inclined his head, but did not speak.

“To my right,” Marcel said, indicating an ascetic-looking man of similar age to himself, and as well dressed, “is William Karle, a merchant of Paris.”

“Master Karle,” Thomas said.

“And beside him is Christoffel Bierman, a wool merchant of Flanders. His son, Johan, is the one who greeted you at the door.”

Thomas smiled and greeted the Biermans; the father was an older replica of his fair-haired and cheerful son.

“And I,” Marcel said, “am Etienne Marcel, as you have realised. I am a cloth merchant, travelling home to Paris by way of the Nuremberg markets.”

“More than a ‘cloth merchant’,” Bierman said in heavily accented Latin, “for Marcel is also the Provost of Merchants of Paris.”

Thomas blinked in surprise. No wonder the man had such an air of authority about him. The Provost of Merchants of Paris was a comparable position to the Lord Mayor of London. A powerful and influential man, indeed.

And so far from home…Thomas wondered why he travelled so far afield. Surely his duties as Provost should have kept him in Paris?

“I am Thomas Neville,” he said, “and I do thank you for your hospitality.”

“Which is not in any manner done with yet,” Marcel said. “Will you sit with us? And ease your hunger and thirst?”

Thomas nodded, and sat in the chair Marcel offered. He grasped the mug of ale that Johan handed him, took a mouthful—it was thick and creamy, and of very good quality—and then set it down again.

“You must wonder why I have so imposed myself on you,” he said.

Marcel crooked his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“I am travelling north,” Thomas continued, “to Nuremberg, where I understand you also travel. I need to get there as fast as I may, and thought to find a group of merchants travelling to Nuremberg as well. I know that the last thing you need is—”

“From where do you come?” Marcoaldi said. “You are not of the Florentine order of Dominicans.”

“I have travelled from Rome. Although,” Thomas smiled as disarmingly as he could, feeling the weight of Marcel’s nationality deeply, “perhaps you can tell by the inflections of my voice that I am—”

“English,” said Marcel in a tighter voice than he’d yet used. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked intently at Thomas. “Although I did not need to hear your voice to know that. The Neville name is well known throughout many parts of France. Your family’s reputation precedes you, friar.”

“I am of the family of Christ now,” Thomas said softly, holding Marcel’s gaze, “not of any worldly family.”

Marcel softened his stare, and a corner of his mouth crooked. “Then I would advise you to repeat that as often as you may, Brother Thomas, if you move anywhere near my home country. I hear it rumoured that the English are preparing another invasion into France.”

Now his grin widened. “A completely futile exercise, of course. I have no doubt that within weeks King John will send your…ah…the English army scurrying home with its tail between its legs. So,” he slapped his hands on the table, “you want to move north with us?”

“If I may, Master Marcel. I have little money with which to reward you for—”

“Ah,” Marcel waved a hand. “If you come from Rome, then you have much news you can tell us. That will be reward enough for your passage. I hear tell there is trouble in the papal palace.”

Thomas’ grim face was confirmation enough. “Aye. It will take a while in the telling, though.”

“Well, then…” Marcel turned to look at each of his companions in turn. “Shall we allow this English dog of a friar—” a grin across his face took all insult out of his words “—to travel north with us, then? Eh? Giulio? William? Christoffel? And no need to ask Johan. The boy is agog for a new face to talk to.”

At the nods from the other men, Marcel looked back to Thomas. “It is settled! You travel north with us. We leave before dawn in the morning, and we will travel fast. You have a horse?”

“I have a mule which—”

“A mule?” Johan said. “A mule! Good friar, cannot your Order afford even a patient mare to horse you?”

“We are a humble Order, Johan. We have no need of flashy steeds. A mule will do me well enough.”

“But it will not do us well enough,” Marcel said. “You may leave your mule with the Order’s friary here in Florence, Brother Thomas, and we will horse you with one of our spares.”

“I—”

“I will not accept your protests. I cannot afford to be held back by a stumbling mule. Especially not now,” he continued in a lower voice, “that an invasion threatens. I must get back to Paris as fast as I can. I must…”

“You will take the horse, Brother Thomas,” said Marcoaldi, his dark brown eyes studying him intently.

Thomas gave in. “As you wish. I thank you for your assistance.”

“Good,” Marcel said. “Your mule is outside? Well, I will send one of my men to take it to the friary. It is a goodly walk from here, and perhaps you might better spend the time with us. Johan, tell Pietro to fetch the friar’s belongings up here—I doubt he has overmuch with him—then to take the mule to the friary.”

“Of course.” Johan stood up and left the room.

“And now,” Marcel said, “if perhaps you could lead us in prayer, friar?”

Thomas slipped quickly into sleep, warmed by the thick coverlets and drapes of the bed and by the bodies of the two Biermans he shared it with. This was luxury indeed; it had been many years since he’d slept in such comfort.

He sighed and turned over, and slid deeper into his sleep.

He dreamed.

He twisted, and awoke, startled.

Faces surrounded the bed—the Biermans had disappeared—and they were the faces of evil. There were six, perhaps seven, of them: horned, bearded, pig-snouted, and cat-eyed.

And yet, strangely beautiful.

They stared at him, their eyes widening as they realised he was awake.

“Thomas,” one said, its voice deep and melodic, “Thomas?”

“Begone!” Thomas cried, wrenching himself into a sitting position, and making the sign of the cross before them. “Begone!”

They did not cringe, nor cry out. Instead their faces grinned slyly.

“We hear you’re off to find our Keeper,” said one, and it was a female, for her voice was curiously woman-like. “We do wish you good seeking.”

“Thomas,” said another, male this time. “Beware of what you think is evil and what you think is good.”

“And do beware,” said yet another, “of who you think is the hunted, and who the hunter.”

They laughed, the sound as soft and as melodic as their voices, and then they reached for him…

Thomas jerked up from the bed, wide-eyed and sweating, his breath rattling harshly through his throat.

There was nothing untoward in the chamber: the Biermans lay to one side of him, deep in sleep.

In the other bed, Marcel, Karle and Marcoaldi lay still, their breathing slow and deep.

Thomas looked at the window. It was tightly shuttered. He turned his gaze to the door. It was closed, and the fire still burned bright in the hearth, casting enough light around the chamber to show that it was empty apart from himself and his travelling companions.

He swallowed and managed to bring his breathing under control. He lifted a hand, clenched it briefly to stop its trembling, and crossed himself, then sat and bowed his head in prayer for a few minutes, appealing to St Michael and Christ for protection.

He did not close his eyes, but kept them roving about the room, lest the…the demons should leap out from a shadowed recess.

Finally, after almost an hour of prayer, Thomas lay down. He stared at the ceiling. He did not sleep again that night.

Even though the room appeared empty of all save its legitimate occupiers, Thomas knew that, somehow, he was still being watched.

Somewhere, eyes still gleamed.