The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  Olyver placed a foot on the trunk of the tree to brace himself as the horse fought to tear himself free of the halter. ‘I’m losing him,’ he shouted. ‘He’s too strong.’

  With a groan, Ian scrambled to his feet and caught the end of the rope behind Olyver, wrapping it around his fist and digging his heels into the ground. ‘If we find Thaddeus dead, I’ll slit the brute’s throat myself,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Don’t tempt fate,’ his twin warned as together they reeled the charger in. Once there was enough slack, he secured the rope about the tree and dropped to a squat to draw breath. ‘He near scared me to death. I thought he was the Devil rising up.’

  Ian walked to where he’d dropped his sword. ‘Me too,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe this darkness is Hell . . . and we just don’t know it.’

  ‘I’m hurting too much to be dead.’

  Ian followed the trail of rope that Killer had left behind him on the forest floor for twenty yards. ‘There’s more harness here,’ he called back. ‘Another breast collar and traces.’

  Olyver rose to his feet, stooping to collect the bundle of arrows he’d dropped when they first saw Killer. He split the bundle in two and passed half to Ian as he drew level with him.

  After two hundred yards they came across a second set of traces, and it wasn’t hard to work out that Thaddeus must have been carrying them, coiled inside the rope, on the pommel of his saddle. Once he fell, the rope had unravelled and become entangled about Killer’s legs, sending the creature into a frenzied charge through the trees, dragging the traces and reins behind him.

  After another two hundred yards the trail began to dwindle and the twins knew that if Thaddeus wasn’t at the end of it their chances of finding him were small. Killer could have travelled a mile with the coil still in place, in any direction, and neither boy was clever enough to follow a track without clear markers.

  ‘Where next?’ Ian asked as he cast around for signs of disturbed leaves. ‘Do you think we mistook the trail farther back?’

  Olyver shook his head. ‘We should return to the highway and look for where Killer first bolted into this woodland. Thaddeus is more likely to be there than here.’

  Ian couldn’t fault his logic but something—instinct?—wouldn’t let him give up. He drew his sword and slashed a slice of bark from the far side of the nearest trunk. ‘We’ll mark every fifth tree,’ he said. ‘Keep a count. I’ll call it a day when you reach a hundred.’

  Olyver hadn’t reached fifty when the trees began to thin and the light, such as it was, intensified. Either they were heading back to the highway or there was a clearing ahead. He watched Ian draw to a halt and make a damping motion with his hand to urge silence. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, putting his lips to his brother’s ear. ‘It sounded like a laugh.’

  Olyver nodded, tucking his sword into his belt and readying his bow. They didn’t need to give each other instructions. They knew it wasn’t Thaddeus they’d heard and neither believed that chance could have put strangers so close to where they’d found Killer.

  For once the rain was their friend, hiding the sound of snapping twigs under their feet as they crept forward. As the trees grew wider apart, showing an expanse of grass beyond, Olyver spread his hands to suggest they should separate and approach the clearing from different angles. Ian gave a jerk of his chin to signal agreement. Independently, they could move more easily and find better cover behind the thinning trunks, but he swivelled his first and middle fingers between Olyver’s eyes and his own to stress the need to keep in visual contact. They must act together or not all.

  Ian recognised the wagon in the middle of the clearing as soon as he was close enough to see My Lord of Bourne’s crest emblazoned on the side. There was no sign of My Lord or his fighting men, but it was easy to see Thaddeus. He’d been stripped of his clothes and was lying spread-eagled on the grass in front of the wagon, his wrists and ankles bound to stakes which had been driven into the earth. His nakedness, closed eyes and utter immobility told Ian he was dead. No living person could remain so still with freezing rain beating like needles on his exposed skin.

  Twenty yards away Olyver was thinking the same. He looked for any flicker of life in Thaddeus and his heart burnt with anger as he made a solemn pledge to kill My Lord of Bourne. From where he was standing, he could see horses hobbled together on the far side of the clearing, but when he followed the tree line to the left and the right, looking for sight of a soldier, he realised it wasn’t a clearing at all but some kind of road. The tracks of My Lord of Bourne’s wagon, leading from the east, showed clearly in the grass where the wheels had cut into the turf.

  He searched the trees around the horses, convinced Bourne’s men must be hiding in the woodland, but if they were there he couldn’t see them, and the idea entered his mind to run towards Thaddeus and cut him free. Perhaps Ian sensed the thought because he shook his head and held up his hand to signal his twin to be patient. The scene had all the appearance of trap. Yet he wondered who My Lord was expecting. Soldiers from Develish?

  He was racking his brain for a plan when a second laugh came from the direction of the wagon. It was followed by the grunt of a voice and he watched the leather canopy open to allow a man to climb out. Ian recognised him as the captain of arms who had ordered his men to burn Develish village a month earlier. He was clad in the fur-trimmed coat that Thaddeus had stolen from the tannery in Holcombe, and he walked to the spread-eagled serf and kicked him in the ribs.

  ‘My Lord grows impatient,’ he said. ‘Explain the letter you carry from Lady Anne. What is this freedom she speaks of? Do you carry a message of insurrection to the other peasants of Dorset? Is your treachery against God and the King to blame for the pestilence?’ He jerked his head towards a couple of horse collars on the ground near the wagon. ‘Why were you carrying those? Whose wagon do you plan to steal? Answer me.’

  To Ian’s eyes the man looked drunk as he launched another kick at Thaddeus’s side, staggering slightly when he missed. There was no response at all from their friend, not even the smallest flinch to show he was aware of the other’s kicks or even his presence.

  ‘Your refusal to speak makes My Lord the more suspicious. He sees witchcraft behind it. What manner of creature are you with your height and dark skin? Did you think you wouldn’t be recognised as the serf who stood with Lady Anne and lied about Develish dying of the pestilence?’ He parted his coat and pulled his cock from his britches. ‘You seem to find the rain easy enough to bear. Let’s see how you like being used as a piss-pot again.’

  The bows of the two boys came up in unison but neither had time to unleash his arrow before Thaddeus ripped his hands from the earth and lunged at his tormentor’s legs, catching him behind the calves and flipping him backwards. With a tremendous heave, he pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the stake that bound his right ankle, grasping it with both hands and wrenching it to and fro to loosen it.

  On the other side of the clearing, Ian saw a shape emerge from behind an oak. Without hesitation he levelled his arrow at the man’s heart and let it fly. He felt a surge of triumph as it flew straight, and he paused only to watch the man drop before feeding a second arrow onto the string and seeing with detachment that Olyver’s arrow had also found a mark. He glanced briefly at the squirming body of a soldier on the grass to his right then raised his eyes to scour the woodland for further movement. There had been ten fighting men when Bourne came to Develish to burn it, and a rider on one of the horses that pulled the wagon.

  But where were they?

  He heard the twang of a string as his twin released a second arrow but Olyver must have missed because Ian caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a cloaked figure running at Thaddeus with a drawn sword. He took a breath to calm himself then loosed his own, and watched with satisfaction as the man tumbled to the ground with a hazel whip buried in his thigh.

  He had time to see Thaddeus free his left ankle
, but it was hard to keep up with events after that. An arrow, shot from a longbow, thudded into the ground at their friend’s side and the boys, seeing how defenceless he was, shouted warnings. In doing so, they gave their own positions away and, within seconds, came under attack themselves. Since their only recourse was to crouch in the lee of their trees while arrows ripped through the leaves above them, they had to interpret what happened from what they heard.

  Both believed the hideous and prolonged screams that filled the air came from Thaddeus. They told themselves they should do something—move into the clearing, surrender, beg, plead—but their terror was too great. They pictured their own agony when they suffered the same fate, and looked to escape rather than intervene. But how? In the moment Ian realised the rain of arrows had ceased, he looked up to see a man approach through the woodland, bow raised and string drawn taut, frightened eyes darting to left and right.

  He was of a similar age to Ian’s father and was almost on top of the boy before he saw him. He stared in disbelief at the skinny youth sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chin as if to make himself as small a target as possible. ‘You’re just a child,’ he said in French, lowering his weapon. ‘By what madness do you dare attack My Lord of Bourne’s army?’

  Ian gave a small shrug before stretching his legs to put tension on his bow and rocking backwards to lift it from the ground. The soldier watched in fascinated horror as the tightly bent arc rose horizontally from amongst the leaves, and he had time to curse himself for lowering his guard as a shaft whipped towards his chest from between the boy’s feet. He felt the thud as it pierced his ribs and penetrated his lung, and with sudden weariness tried to bring up his own bow to fire back. He’d been wrong to call this youth a child, he thought, as a second shaft caught him in the heart.

  Ian had no idea how long he sat looking at the fallen man. A minute? An hour? They were too close to each other. Ian could smell the sweat on his clothes and see the grizzle of grey hair about his jaw. It might have been any of Develish’s elders lying there. The noise of screaming from the clearing beat upon his ears, overwhelming him with grief and guilt, and with a sigh he leant to one side and retched on the forest floor. He’d failed in everything, he thought as he rose unsteadily to his feet and forced himself to confront what was happening to Thaddeus.

  He couldn’t see him. Only two men writhed on the ground, screaming and clutching their bellies, but Thaddeus wasn’t one of them. Ian watched their blood, diluted by rain, spread in pink pools across the grass. One wore Thaddeus’s fur-lined coat, the other was the soldier with the arrow in his thigh. To their right lay the body of the man Olyver had killed. A flame of hope lit in Ian’s breast. Had Thaddeus escaped? He searched to his left for his twin, and the flame became a blaze of joy when he saw Olyver running through the trees towards him.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you show yourself when the longbows stopped?’ his brother demanded angrily, jabbing two fingers at Ian’s eyes. ‘What was all this about if you couldn’t be bothered to look at me? I thought you were dead.’ He followed Ian’s gaze to the crumpled body of the grizzled fighting man. ‘Sweet Mary!’

  ‘He could have killed me if he’d wanted to. He lowered his weapon because he thought me a child.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad about it,’ answered Olyver sternly. ‘There’s not an ounce of compassion in any of them. You saw what they did to Thaddeus. I thought it was him who was screaming.’

  ‘Me too.’ Ian stared around the clearing. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘If he has any sense, he’s taken to his heels.’

  ‘Maybe we should do the same.’

  But neither moved except to make their bows ready to fire again. They shared a conviction that Thaddeus wouldn’t run. Ian watched the blood continue to flow from the wounded men, wondering how Thaddeus had injured them so badly until he remembered the stakes that had pinned him to the ground. They’d still been attached to his wrists when he ripped them out, and the points had been sharp. It would be a good and easy revenge to plunge them into an enemy’s belly. The pain would be great and the death slow.

  ‘The soldier you hit in the thigh was carrying a sword,’ Olyver muttered, ‘but it’s not there now. Thaddeus must have taken it. Do you think he’s gone after the rest? Five are down so there must be six still standing.’

  Ian saw that his brother was right. ‘Perhaps that’s why the archers stopped firing at us,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps they retreated into the wood so he wouldn’t be able to see them. This one looked frightened as he came through the trees but it wasn’t me he was afraid of.’ He paused. ‘Maybe we should draw them out again—give Thaddeus a fighting chance.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By attacking the wagon. Soldiers won’t stay hidden if their lord’s in danger.’ A glint of anticipated triumph lit in Ian’s eyes. ‘None of his men will fire on us for fear of hitting their master. We can force the surrender of all of them.’

  Olyver smiled wryly. ‘You’ve a grand imagination, Twin. You’ve made him your prisoner before you’ve even worked out how to do it.’

  Ian assessed the distance between them and the wagon. ‘It can’t be more than thirty paces,’ he said. ‘I’ll lay money I can make that run and put my sword to the old devil’s throat before an archer even has time to pick me out.’ He laid his bow on the ground, stripping off his jerkin and second tunic to give himself more freedom of movement. He shook his head as Olyver prepared to do the same. ‘We can’t both go. You’re quicker on the draw than I am. Someone needs to bring the fighting men down as they cross the clearing. Shout numbers as they fall.’

  ‘Just don’t run in a straight line,’ Olyver cautioned. ‘You’ll take an arrow in the heart if there’s an archer behind the flap in the canopy.’ He waited while Ian picked up his sword. ‘I’ll not let you die,’ he said with sudden emotion, gripping the other boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m in no mood to lose a brother today.’

  Ian pulled him into a rough embrace. ‘And I’m in no mood to lose you or Thaddeus,’ he said. ‘By God’s grace, we’ll all three come out of this alive.’

  Three

  OLYVER PUT MORE FAITH IN gut feelings than in God. He was so convinced the danger would come from inside the wagon that he trained his arrow on the side of the canopy and loosed it the minute the aperture opened. Ian, running in a curving arc, saw a man slump backwards, pulling the flap aside with his arm, and he had time to bless his brother as he leapt onto a small wooden step and hauled himself inside.

  The space was confined and he hadn’t thought My Lord of Bourne would have a weapon. He felt the sting of a blade against his cheek before the impetus of his leap slammed him against the old man in the far corner of the seat. His flesh recoiled before the pale eyes that looked into his own. If there was fear in them, Ian didn’t see it. My Lord seemed to believe his stare alone could compel obedience.

  As if to prove him right, Ian scrambled away along the seat, flicking his eyes over the chests and barrels on the floor and the fighting man who was slumped, groaning, atop a wooden box. He felt blood run from the wound on his face and saw a snarling lapdog on the floor at My Lord’s feet. The first lesson his father had taught him in sword practice was never to hesitate, and the advice served him well as My Lord eased his arm away from the side of the wagon. Ian swung his sword in a backhanded arc, slicing through the ermine-trimmed cloak and cutting the flesh of the old man’s shoulder.

  My Lord’s blade clattered to the floor as he gave a gasp of pain, but Ian’s attention had already shifted to the wounded soldier. Olyver’s arrow had embedded itself in his side and Ian watched as the man grasped the shaft with both hands and pulled it from his body. With more regret than he’d felt for injuring My Lord—this was another who could have been his father—he sprang to his feet and thrust his sword into the man’s neck. Gyles had told him that such a cut brought instant death but he hadn’t prepared his son for the hot blood that sprayed from the wound when the blade was withdrawn.r />
  With a feeling of nausea, he heaved the man’s torso across the sill of the wagon and toppled him to the ground before whipping around to place the point of his sword to My Lord of Bourne’s throat. Only the dog showed fight, baring its teeth and yapping ferociously, until Ian kicked it and the yaps turned to whimpers of pain. The dead soldier’s gore was everywhere. On Ian, on the canopy walls and on My Lord’s face and clothes; and this time the pitiless eyes did show fear. ‘A place is reserved for you in Hell,’ the old man whispered in French. ‘You offend against God’s laws by what you do.’

  Ian placed his knee on one of the barrels to steady himself. He’d never spoken to a lord in his life, not even Sir Richard of Develish, and he needed to calm himself before he did so. He felt a fizz of excitement in his veins to have taken Bourne prisoner but it was hard to forget the Church’s teachings that men such as this owned him body and soul. The only sounds were the beating of the rain on the leather roof and the whimpers of the dog. Even the screams of the men in the clearing had silenced.

  He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth to produce some saliva, tasting blood as he did so. But whether it was his or the dead soldier’s he didn’t know. ‘You should fear Hell more than I do,’ he answered in English. ‘Your cruelty marks you out for Satan. His evil is written in your face.’

  ‘A murderer dares accuse me of sin?’

  ‘I’m no murderer. You invited attack when you ordered your men to take an innocent traveller prisoner.’

  ‘Your friend is a common thief. No serf wears such clothes or rides such a fine charger. My sentries recognised him immediately as the liar from Develish. Few men are so tall or so dark of skin.’

  Above the pounding of the rain, Ian heard a cry from outside. He recognised the voice as Olyver’s. ‘Seven!’ his twin shouted.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked, leaning forward to press the blade tighter against the crepey skin of My Lord’s neck, smelling the foul odour of his breath and seeing the trembling in his hands. ‘You have four men left. Will you speak so arrogantly when none remains?’