The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass

a mile before the monastery.”

      At that, Thomas’ mouth thinned. Peasants made far too much of the midsummer solstice, believing that if they didn’t mark it with fire festivals and dances, then the sun would not recover from its long slide towards its winter nadir. The Church had long tried to halt the festivals, but with little success. All across Christendom, people walked up hills and to the tops of cliffs, and there rolled down the slopes burning wheels of hay and straw to mark the solstice.

      Marcel watched Thomas’ face carefully, then said: “Do not judge them too harshly, Thomas. A little colour in their lives, a little fun, is hardly harmful.”

      “What is harm, Marcel, is when they engage in un-Christian rites that allow demons a stronger hold among us.”

      “Well,” Marcel said slowly, “the older and wiser among us are still here, and I have planned a small gathering tonight to give thanks for our continued freedom from the entrapments of evil. I,” he hesitated, “and mine always mark Midsummer in this fashion. I will be delighted and grateful if you would lead us in prayer tonight. Come, Thomas, what do you say?”

      Thomas sighed, and nodded. “Of course I will. I am sorry, Marcel. Sometimes I think that mankind should all be perfect, and, of course, they are hardly so.”

      “But there are many good men working within society, brother, trying day by day to bring order to chaos. You must trust in them.”

      “Yes. You are right.”

      That night, safe in his clean bed, Thomas dreamed of the mountains overrun with demons scampering across their peaks. He shivered, fearing, then he rejoiced, for behind the mountains appeared the glowing form of the archangel Michael. But, just as he thought St Michael would smite the demons from the mountains, the archangel put a hand to his face, as if afraid, and fled.

      Thomas woke screaming, bringing the hosteller, as also Marcel and Karle, running to his side.

      The next morning, early, they set out for the Brenner Pass.

       II

      The Feast of St John the Baptist

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

      (Thursday 24th June 1378)

      —Midsummer’s Day—

      The ascent for the final few miles to the opening of the pass was a sombre one. It was still dark, and cold this high up, but that was not the reason. Thomas was distant and silent, and sat hunched in his saddle as if he thought all the imps of hell were about to descend upon him.

      He’d not explained his nightmare of the previous night—even though Marcel and the hosteller had sat by his side until it was time to rise—and in fact had hardly spoken, apart from a few grudging monosyllabic replies, since they’d begun their ride towards the pass.

      Thomas was afraid, deeply afraid. If the archangel himself fled before the evil, then what hope had he?

      He did not doubt that what he had seen in his dream had been, if not perfect fact, then an accurate representation of the way things lay. All knew that dreams were a window between the world of man and the world of spirits, and dreams were the perfect vehicle by which demons and imps could invade the world of mankind. It was why no woman should ever sleep in a chamber alone, because, faulted with the weakness of Eve, lone women were ever likely to succumb to the blandishments of imps and demons.

      In past years Thomas had seen three babies, hideously deformed, that were the obvious results of women who’d allowed (perhaps even begged) the minions of hell to seduce them.

      The babies had been killed, the women burned.

      But this nightmare was not so easily disposed of. It lingered on the edges of Thomas’ mind, making him jump at every shadow, and wince at every glimpse of a looming mountain peak. He could feel the eyes of his companions upon him, and he knew they thought he was scared of the dangerous passage ahead.

      True, but not for the reasons they believed. The danger of a footslip on a narrow path did not concern him so much as the thought that the Brenner Pass might hold more evil than he could possibly deal with.

      Saint Michael aid me, Saint Michael aid me, he prayed over and over in a silent litany.

      But the dream had planted the seeds of doubt in Thomas’ mind, and he feared that St Michael might not be strong enough to aid him.

      And if the great archangel was afraid and impotent against the evil, then what chance had he?

      “Thomas?”

      Etienne Marcel, riding close to his side.

      “Thomas, do not fear too greatly—”

      “You cannot know of what I fear!”

      “Thomas.” Marcel leaned over and placed a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I do know. It is not the heights and the depths and the treacherous ice paths awaiting us which fret at you, but the unknowns. This is ungodly territory, and you and I both know it. Be strong, Thomas. We will prevail.”

      Thomas looked up, stunned by Marcel’s perception…and equally stunned by the degree of comfort the man had imparted with his words and touch.

      Thomas gave a small nod, and briefly laid his own hand over Marcel’s. “I thank you. You are truly a man of God.”

      Marcel’s mouth gave a peculiar twist, and then he smiled, lifting his hand away. “I am sent to give you comfort and courage, Thomas. Do not doubt.”

      Thomas stared at him. God had led him to this man. Was Marcel an angel or saint in disguise, sent to guide his steps? Thomas knew better than to question. Better to have faith, and to believe.

      He took a deep breath, and threw his hood back. “Shall we chase back the demons of fear between us, Marcel?”

      Marcel laughed, glad to see Thomas more himself. “Between us, my friend, we shall make the world a place of our own.”

      And he kicked his horse forward, leaving Thomas to stare puzzled after him.

      They rode until an hour after dawn, when they entered a small encampment at the foot of the pass. There were several wooden huts, and a long building that was obviously a barn. Several team of oxen were waiting outside, yoked to surprisingly narrow carts.

      Marcel waved them to dismount. “From here we will go on foot,” he said.

      Thomas slid to the ground, giving his gelding a grateful rub on his neck, and turned to Johan. “We don’t ride?”

      Johan shook his head, and tossed the reins of his horse to a rough-dressed and as equally rough-bearded man who’d come up to them. He motioned Thomas to do the same.

      “We walk,” he said. “It is too dangerous to ride. No, wait. It will be easier for you to see than for me to explain. The guides will blindfold the riding and packhorses and lead them through.”

      The horses had to be blindfolded? Sweet Jesu, how fearsome was this pass?

      Johan walked over to join Marcel, who was haggling with three of the men who were to be their guides through the pass. Thomas looked about him. The elder Bierman had hunched himself into his cloak, staring at the cliffs rising to either side of the opening of the pass; Marcoaldi was standing to one side of Bierman, his hands clenching nervously at his side.

      As Thomas watched, Marcoaldi turned and saw him. He almost flinched, then gathered himself and walked over.

      His face was death grey, and Thomas reached out, concerned. “Master Marcoaldi, we shall surely be safe. Is this…is this your first time through the pass?”

      Marcoaldi gave a jerky shake of his head. “I’ve been through once before. Some years ago.”