The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass

one day…one day…you will embrace us.”

      Suddenly the demon lifted its head, and stared across the rock plateau as if something, or someone, had caught its attention.

      It blinked, and cocked its head, its horns catching a shimmer of moonlight.

      Then it looked back at Thomas. “You think to lead the armies of righteousness against us, Thomas. You think to be God’s General. Well, one day, one wicked black day, you will crucify righteousness for the sake of evil!”

      Then the fingers still about Thomas’ neck tightened to impossible cruelties, and Thomas blacked out.

      “Thomas? Thomas? Good brother, only a friar used to the hard couches of his priesthood could possibly sleep so well on this stony ground!”

      Thomas opened his eyes, felt the hand on his shoulder, then jerked up into a sitting position, making Marcel reel backwards onto his haunches.

      “My God, brother, do you always wake this anxious? It must be the shock of hearing the bells for Matins in the middle of every night!”

      Marcel was trying to make a jest of Thomas’ reaction, but Thomas was in no mood for jests. He got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his arm and belly, his eyes skittering about the campsite.

      “Thomas?” Marcel half reached out a hand, then thought better of it.

      Some of the others, including the two Biermans and several of the German guards had stopped what they were doing to watch Thomas.

      Everything seemed usual; there was nothing to indicate what had happened to him last night.

      Thomas looked back to Marcel, who was staring at him with a concerned face.

      “Thomas…Thomas, what is wrong?”

      Thomas took a deep breath and calmed himself. “A demon haunted this camp last night, Marcel.”

      “What?”

      “It taunted me with failure, and told me I would betray my God.”

      “Lord Christ Saviour, Thomas! Are you certain? This was not a dream?”

      Thomas tore back his right sleeve and exposed his upper arm. “Is this a dream?”

      Marcel looked at Thomas’ arm, then gasped in shock. It was covered in blue and black bruises, etched here and there with deep abrasions.

      He crossed himself. “A demon? Lord Christ save me! Save me!”

      He closed his eyes, steadied himself, then hesitantly took Thomas’ hand. “You beat him off with the strength of your faith. This is ungodly territory, but you were strong, and you prevailed. You are a good man, Thomas. A good man.”

      Thomas let Marcel’s words and touch comfort him, but he knew that the demon had been in no danger from Thomas. It had left of its own accord, or obeying whatever had called to it, rather than being beaten back by the strength of Thomas’ will…but, as Marcel’s grip tightened slightly, Thomas persuaded himself that the demon had known its cause was hopeless, and so left him alone.

      “And your neck,” Marcel said softly. “You have been ill-used indeed, brother. Come, one of the guides has some skill in healing, and has some pouches of salves that ease the worst of rock sprains and bruises.”

      Thomas smiled slightly to thank Marcel for his concern. “And let us hope that they ease demon strains and burns, my friend.”

      Marcel took Thomas over to one of the guards, leaving him sitting on a rock as the guard rummaged about in a pack for his salves.

      Thomas saw Marcel walk over to his companions, and lean down to speak to Marcoaldi who was still wrapped up in his blankets on the ground. Unheard words passed between them, and then Thomas saw Marcel harangue Marcoaldi angrily. Thomas frowned, wondering what the banker had done to earn Marcel’s ire, when the guide drew back his sleeve to inspect the abrasions and bruises.

      The man laughed, his tongue running about his thick lips, and he looked slyly at Thomas. “I hope she was worth the sport,” he said, and made an obscene gesture with one of his hands “and that your loving left her unable to walk for the next three days.”

      He roared with laughter, and Thomas, furious, pulled himself out of the man’s grip and stalked away.

      Peasant!

      Marcel kept close to him for the day’s nightmare journey through the last part of the pass. The trail was not appreciably narrower or steeper, but what made this section so dangerous were the constant waterfalls that roared down the cliff making the footing so treacherous that the guides insisted that everyone be roped together. It saved Thomas’ life on three occasions.

      Once he fell so badly he slipped entirely over the edge of the path, leaving Marcel and one of the guides to haul him back to safety.

      When he finally stood on his feet again, shivering with terror, he looked up to see Marcoaldi staring at him with eyes filled with bitterness and grief, and perhaps a little regret that Thomas had not also fallen to a lonely and unshriven death. The banker seemed unwell, as if he had caught an ague from his night spent on the cold ground.

      But perhaps he was only discomforted because Marcel had so berated him for some unknown misdeed.

      When Thomas finally began to move along the trail again, his hands and legs uncomfortably wobbly, he forced himself to look over the edge.

      The precipice fell away with no slope at all, but occasionally a rock or two jutted out from the rock face; on these rocks hung bleached bones, sometimes held together by a strip of skin or tendon.

      Thomas leaned back, shut his eyes briefly, and fought to forget what he’d seen.

      All the men made it safely through the pass, but four of the horses had, in that final horrific stretch, fallen screaming to their deaths. Gratefully, Thomas’ own mount was safe, but he found himself hoping ungraciously that one of the doomed horses had been the pack animal carrying Marcoaldi’s precious chests. But it was not so, and once on relatively flat ground the banker was reunited with his chests and also, it appeared, with his good temper, for he greeted Thomas cheerfully as the friar walked past.

      “And now,” Marcel said as they bid the guides farewell and remounted their horses, “Nuremberg.”

       III

      Vigil of the Feast of St Swithin

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

      (Wednesday 14th July 1378)

      For over two weeks they rode north from the Brenner Pass, making the best speed they could. The mood of the group had changed since the passage through the Brenner. Outwardly as cheerful as it had been previously, there was nevertheless a sombre undertone to the banter of the day’s rides and the evening discussions about the campfire or tavern table. Marcel and Karle appeared preoccupied with their need to travel as fast as possible. While this suited Thomas, it nevertheless added a degree of tenseness to both travel and relations within the group.