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
