The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass

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      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, СКАЧАТЬ