The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass
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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