The Nameless Day

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.

GERMANY

“The King comands, and I must to the warres.”

“thers others more enow to end those cares.”

“but I am one appointed for to goe,

And I dare not for my liffe once say noe.”

“O marry me, and you may stay att home!

Full 30 wekes you know that I am gone.”

“theres time enough; another Father take;

heele loue thee well, and not thy child forsake.”

A Jigge (for Margrett)

Medieval English ballad

I

The Vigil of the Feast of St John the Baptist

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

(Wednesday 23rd June 1378)

—Midsummer’s Eve—

Thomas wrapped his cloak tightly about his body, and pulled his hood forward so it cut out as much of the chill wind as possible. It was high summer—Midsummer’s Eve—but this far up in the Alps it meant nothing save that the road was not waist-high in snow. He lifted his head and squinted into the mountains.

They were massive, higher than anything Thomas had ever seen. Great craggy peaks, still snow-covered, reared into the afternoon sky, tendrils of mist swirling about their tops.

He shivered. Folklore maintained that mountains and deep forests were the haunt of demons, sprites and unkind elves, and looking at these horrific crags, Thomas could well believe it himself.

And tomorrow, he would have to dare them.

The alpine passes were legendary, and most grown men had been reared on the stories of old men who claimed to have bested them. The great chain of Alps cut Italy, with all her great trading ports and industrial cities, off from northern Europe. Apart from the uncertainties of sea carriage, the only way to get expensive spices and silks from the Far East into northern Europe was via the alpine passes: the Brenner Pass in the western Alps, used by travellers to central and eastern Europe, and the St Gothard and Great St Bernard Pass in the eastern Alps for movement into the west of Europe.

And any who desired travel between the Italian city states and northern Europe also had to use the passes unless, as Thomas had on his journey to Rome, they possessed the courage, or the inclination, to dare the perilous sea voyage.

There were only two periods in the year when the passes were open: high summer and deep winter. Spring and autumn were too dangerous—these were the times of greatest risk from avalanche, when the snow melted, or was only newly laid. In high summer most of the snow had gone; in deep winter it was largely frozen in place.

Now it was high summer, and the passes were safe.

Relatively.

Thomas was under no illusions as to the hazards he and his companions would face in the next few days.

They’d travelled rapidly from Florence—Thomas atop a hefty but swift brown gelding, and desperately trying not to enjoy riding a horse again. Marcel, Karle and Bierman had between them a large consignment of cloths, both Florentine wools and Far Eastern silks and tapestries, to sell in the northern European markets, but they had entrusted most of this cargo to the trusty, though ugly and slow, cog ships that plied the trading route between Venice and the northern cities of the Hanseatic League. The banker Marcoaldi travelled with nothing but a pair of well-braced, locked chests on a packhorse. He never let the chests out of his sight, and had them guarded by six heavily-weaponed and armoured men.

Thomas recognised them instantly as Swiss mercenaries, and thought that Marcoaldi must be wealthy indeed to be able to afford such expensive guards.

Wealthy…or extremely anxious.

Apart from Marcoaldi’s packhorse and mercenaries, Thomas and the merchants, the train consisted of eight packhorses laden with the merchants’ personal effects and small packages of spices to sell in Nuremberg, as well as gifts for their families, and twelve rather rough but apparently reasonably professional German mercenaries who acted as guards for the entire train. The Swiss mercenaries kept themselves to themselves, as Swiss soldiers tended to do, but the Germans were congenial, some fairly well educated, and those not on guard joined Thomas and his companions about the campfire at night when they camped out.

Generally, the merchants and Marcoaldi preferred to find an inn or a monastery guest house to stay in for the night; camping out was all very well, but they vastly favoured the comforts of a mattress above the chill and inflexible comforts of the ground.

And so they had this night. There was a Benedictine monastery at the foot of the Brenner Pass, catering for all manner of travellers, whether traders and merchants, pilgrims, footloose mercenaries, or noble diplomats moving between the Italian cities and the court of the Holy Roman Emperor. The accommodation was better than most monastic houses—Thomas assumed this was because the monastery had been made rich from centuries of patronage by noble pilgrims—and Marcel and his companions were currently enjoying a glass of German wine and sweetmeats in the guest house refectory with their host, the hosteller.

Thomas shook his head, thinking of the accommodation: not only did every guest have his own straw mattress, every guest had his own latrine!

Wealth, indeed.

“Thinking of the difficulties of the Brenner, my friend?” said a soft voice behind him.

Thomas turned around, and grinned. “No, Johan. I was thinking only of the wealth of the monastery below us.”

“Aha!” Johan laughed. “I believe you are regretting joining the Dominicans instead of the Benedictines!”

They turned to silently study the mountains soaring before them. Johan and Thomas had become good friends in their journey north through Ferrara to Venice—at which place Marcel, Karle and Bierman had overseen the shipping of their consignments, clucking over its packing and storage in the deep holds of the cogs like mother hens—and then Verona, and from there onto the northern road to the foot of the Alps.

Johan was a likeable lad, a bit too irreligious for Thomas’ taste—but then hadn’t he been so at the same age?—but well meaning and behaved, traits which Thomas thought had obviously been taught Johan by his serious and moralistic father. Also, Thomas admitted to himself, he was flattered by Johan’s attention. The young man admired Thomas’ experience in the world, as his deep commitment to the Church, and was slightly in awe of Thomas’ family name, which, truth to tell, very occasionally annoyed Thomas.