The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  ‘Don’t go,’ Bourne cried in sudden terror, believing he had a better chance of life if he kept this man talking. ‘You interest me. I would speak with you longer.’

  ‘Then speak,’ said Thaddeus. ‘Your voice is not so reedy that I won’t hear you. I caught every one of your drunken maunderings with your captain last night.’ He paused to glance back. ‘Begin with why I found you here when all sensible men have fled the pestilence by heading north.’

  Bourne blustered about the King’s warrant and God’s injunction to the righteous to root out evil. Dorseteshire had brought the pestilence to England and My Lord had a duty to hold her people to account. Unheeding, Thaddeus led the soldiers’ chargers two by two to the wagon, linking them with halters to a rail at the back before taking the sturdy tow-horses to the front and hobbling their legs until he was ready to harness them. He refused to answer any questions himself.

  ‘But you insist that I explain myself,’ Bourne snapped in frustration.

  ‘I insist on nothing,’ said Thaddeus, leaning through the leather canopy and pulling a wooden chest towards him. ‘If you wish to speak, you may. If you don’t, don’t.’ He studied the padlock and then bent to pull the neck of My Lord’s gown apart. A delicate glass vial, contained in gold tracery, hung on a gold chain around the scrawny neck and, beneath it, an iron key on a leather thong. ‘I’ve no wish for your relic,’ he said, lifting the thong over the old man’s head. ‘Splinters come two-a-penny on any carpenter’s floor.’

  ‘You blaspheme against the Holy Cross.’

  ‘I question your intelligence. Whoever sold you your sliver of wood must have thanked God for sending him a fool for a customer.’

  Thaddeus turned the key in the lock and threw back the lid. Folded parchments, a small writing box with a quill and a stoppered bottle of ink lay on a treasure of coins. He recognised Lady Anne’s handwriting on one of the squares, the seal broken, and he opened it to decipher what she’d written.

  ‘Where is mention of treachery or insurrection in this?’ he asked, showing the page to My Lord.

  ‘Your mistress speaks of overturning God’s social order. There can be no freedom for serfs.’

  ‘The pestilence will free us. Those who survive will be in high demand when there’s no one to work the land. Lords and their households will starve if they cannot attract labourers to their demesnes on the promise of payment.’

  ‘You share her heresy.’

  ‘I share her reasoning, as do all Develish serfs. It’s incompetent fools who cling to the belief that the world will be unchanged when the pestilence ends.’

  The old man’s lips thinned. ‘Only a sorceress could have kept her people alive so long.’

  ‘Or a saint. You should praise God for His mercy instead of giving the honour to Satan.’

  ‘Now you blaspheme against your Maker. Have you no fear of His anger?’

  ‘None. There can be only one truth if the pestilence was sent by God. To die is a punishment for wickedness, to be spared is a reward for goodness. Since Develish has been spared, what further evidence do you need that Milady is loved in Heaven?’

  There was a small silence. ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I believe what I see and know—that there are wicked amongst the living and good amongst the dead.’ Thaddeus reached for another parchment. ‘If you’re the King’s man you’ll carry his mandate. Which of these bears his signature? I’ll break every seal if I have to.’

  Bourne’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘For what reason except to damage them? They can mean nothing to you.’

  Thaddeus ignored him. He snapped the wax and scanned the document briefly before reading another. ‘Would these ever have reached the King?’

  In the absence of an answer, he continued to break the seals and read what was written. All were addressed to His Gracious Majesty in French and all bore the names of women with their demesne titles beside them. Lady Mary of Steynsford . . . Lady Paulann of Herringstone . . . Lady Bernadine of Chetel . . . Lady Katherine of Wolueston . . . The writing was in the uniform script of a single hand, as if each woman had dictated her thoughts to the same person, and he didn’t doubt that person was Bourne. There was desperation in every word. All spoke of the deaths of their husbands and their inability to run their demesnes alone. Some said their stewards had died, others that they’d fled when the pestilence began to wreak havoc amongst the serfs.

  Your Majesty . . . Have mercy . . . My husband is dead and his steward gone . . . I have no one to advise me . . . You leave us destitute by this demand for gold . . . The pestilence rages across the land . . . There is nowhere to sell our produce . . . The serfs die in the fields even as they struggle to bring in the harvest . . . Your people will starve without money to buy fresh supplies . . . Have mercy . . . Have mercy . . .

  Thaddeus recalled how often Lady Anne had told him she was unusual in having an education. The only talents most women of her class possessed were skill with embroidery and the ability to manage servants. ‘I wonder you bothered to record accurately what these poor ladies dictated,’ he murmured. ‘Were you not afraid to condemn yourself by your own hand?’ He lifted a darker pigmented parchment, the seal of which was already broken. ‘The King sends his respects,’ he read aloud, ‘and directs Bourne to collect revenues on his behalf in Wiltshire.’ He ran a finger over the cracks in the vellum. ‘The letter is an old one, written long before the pestilence reached our shores.’

  My Lord eased his wrists inside their bonds. A nervousness bit at his belly; he’d been mistaken to think a man who could read so fluently was a serf. ‘What is your name and status?’ he asked. ‘You seem to have some learning.’

  ‘Rather more than you, My Lord.’

  ‘May God strike you down for your insolence.’

  ‘And you for yours. Does the King know you traduce his name in order to rob the people of Dorseteshire when your estates are in the neighbouring county of Wiltshire?’ Thaddeus held the vellum in the water that streamed off the leather canopy and watched the ink begin to run. ‘The demesnes in these parts are the fiefdom of My Lord of Blandeforde. Do you have leave to collect taxes on his behalf?’

  ‘You speak of things you don’t understand.’

  Thaddeus shut the lid of the chest before relocking it and placing the leather thong around his own neck. ‘You shouldn’t have kept these letters, My Lord. They tell the tale of your deceit clearly enough. If it was your hand that wrote them, you’re doubly condemned as a liar as well as a thief. Only the basest of men would give a woman hope of the King’s mercy while leaving her destitute.’ He pushed the chest aside and hoisted himself into the wagon.

  ‘You’re no less of a thief,’ My Lord snapped. ‘You plan to steal the gold, do you not?’

  Thaddeus ignored him. ‘You searched out demesnes where only widows and serfs remained, knowing an army on horseback would frighten them into bringing out their wealth. Lady Anne defeated you but few others dared try, I imagine.’ He found collars and harness for the tow-horses beneath the seat and lowered them to the ground. ‘How much worse are your crimes than the paltry sins of the Dorseteshire peasants who’ve died of the pestilence? You should have joined them long since . . . yet I’m guessing the opposite is true, and it’s the wretches you’ve robbed who have perished.’ He jumped to the ground with a bundle of traces in his hand. ‘Is that why you stay amongst us? To make sure of it? If all are gone, My Lord of Blandeforde and the King will never hear of your thieving.’

  Bourne turned his head.

  ‘You were travelling away from the pestilence when you first passed through Develish. How far north did you go? What did you find? Are counties other than Dorseteshire affected?’ When no response came, Thaddeus placed his heel on his prisoner’s ankle. ‘You have no value to me except in what you know,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill you bone by broken bone if you choose silence now.’ He began to exert pressure. ‘And don’t waste time with talk of God’s vengeance. Worry more about mine.’
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  Perhaps Bourne needed to tell his story for, once started, he required little prompting to continue. He had been staying with cousins in the west of the county when a messenger arrived with news that a pestilence was sweeping the land. He was undecided about returning home until a servant died and he saw the putrid colour of her face. The journey back to his own estates in Wiltshire, some sixty miles to the north-east, would be long and perilous, but he believed it was necessary. It was clear to him that Dorseteshire was doomed, more so when travellers and mendicant friars warned with increasing alarm that nowhere was safe. From Melcombe in the south to Shafbury in the north, all were afflicted, and monasteries and grand houses were falling as easily to the sickness as the smallest of hamlets.

  At times he used the words ‘I have sinned’, as if he hoped a sign of contrition would wring sympathy from his persecutor. He excused his actions on weakness. To see a demesne dying and to learn from a desperate woman that there was gold in her husband’s coffers was a temptation. Death was written in every face and, since My Lord believed that only the wicked were being punished, it seemed a worse crime to let the money go to waste.

  ‘We refused offers of hospitality,’ he said, ‘preferring to make camp in the open air. We put our faith in God to protect us.’

  ‘Did you ever reach your own estates?’

  My Lord nodded. ‘They are as ravaged and desolate as any we saw here. Barely three in ten of my people survives. My foolish wife gave orders that comfort should be offered to the sick, and she brought death to my demesnes—to herself also—by doing so. She was as dull-witted as all her sex.’

  ‘Was there no steward to guide her?’

  ‘He was as dull-witted as she. They listened to the priest who preached salvation through good deeds and kindness, and now all are dead.’

  Thaddeus wondered that the old man dared declare his hypocrisy aloud, but he was more interested in why he’d returned to Dorseteshire. He put the question to him, adding, ‘Wouldn’t it have been wiser to keep heading north, away from the pestilence?’

  ‘It was too far ahead of us already. We heard word at the abbey that it had reached Oxford. The whole country trembles in fear. London has fallen to it in the east and Bristol in the west. The abbot called it a wind of destruction, blowing across the land, and it seemed more sensible to retreat behind it than run before it.’ The pale eyes studied Thaddeus. ‘Your good health suggests I was right. Has the danger passed here?’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘You owe your life to the way you’ve been living and not the capricious nature of wind.’ He took up the collars and traces and walked to the tow-horses. ‘Your saviours have been this wagon and these horses. If you’d had to pass through afflicted villages on foot—or your conscience had allowed you to take a woman’s hospitality before you stole her gold—you’d be dead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We found survivors in Woodoak who say the pestilence comes from rats, and it may be true. None has died in that demesne since they left their houses to live in the open.’ He laid the harnesses on the ground to untangle them.

  ‘Why do you refuse to see God’s hand behind it?’

  ‘Because good people like your wife are dead while you and I are not,’ answered Thaddeus, placing the harness across the horses’ backs.

  My Lord watched him attach the traces to the collars before easing the animals between the shafts and buckling the back straps and girths. ‘Is your plan to kill me even though I’ve answered your questions?’

  Thaddeus stooped to remove the hobbles. He took hold of the lead horse’s bridle, clicking his tongue to set the animal in motion. He was afraid the wheels would bind in the wet ground, but they moved easily enough, and he drew the convoy to a halt after a few yards. He looked back to see My Lord fallen on the grass, crying out in terror of the dancing hooves of the horses at the rear of the coach.

  Thaddeus dragged him clear and propped him against the wheel once more. ‘Why would I want your life?’ he asked, squatting on his haunches to stare into the old man’s eyes. ‘You’re no threat to us. My young friend had it right when he said you’re nothing without your trappings. Who will recognise you for a lord when you have no fighting men or servants to vouch for you?’ He paused. ‘I’ll take your wagon and horses because they’re a gift sent by God—they’ll save me from having to drag my own cart along a riverbed—but I’ll not take your life. It’s of no value to me. I don’t say I wouldn’t enjoy stealing your estates in Wiltshire by claiming to be My Lord of Bourne—’ a brief humour flickered in his eyes—‘but even if only a handful of your people survive, they’ll know me for an imposter.’

  A look of disquiet appeared on My Lord’s face. ‘Is this the freedom your mistress spoke of in her letter?’ he gasped, struggling to bring his breathing under control. ‘The theft of another’s birthright?’

  ‘Why not? Do you think a rise in status less tempting than widows’ gold? The pestilence makes equals of us all. A clever and resourceful serf can seize whatever opportunities are placed in his way.’

  Bourne seemed genuinely shocked, and Thaddeus wondered that he was unable to conceive of a world where the rules he lived by were overturned and abandoned.

  ‘You’ll never pass for a noble,’ the old man protested, while knowing he was wrong. If any serf was clever and resourceful, it was surely this one.

  ‘I already have.’ Thaddeus watched the brindled cur crawl through the grass to resume its place on its master’s lap. ‘You may keep your dog for company, and I’ll leave you your clothes and the use of your hands and feet . . . which is more than you allowed me.’

  ‘I’ll die without food or shelter. You’ll be no less guilty of murder if you leave me helpless. My death will be forever on your conscience.’

  Thaddeus smiled. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, My Lord. I shall forget you as quickly and easily as you would have forgotten me.’

  Bourne dropped his gaze. ‘My intention was never to kill you,’ he muttered. ‘Had you answered my questions, I would have ordered your release.’

  Thaddeus pushed himself to his feet, the strain of stretching bruised and stiffening muscles showing in his face. ‘Before or after you took your brutish soldiers to Develish with me as your hostage?’ he asked, reaching inside the canopy for his sword.

  Bourne’s mouth dried in fear. ‘There was no such plan.’

  ‘I heard you talk of it. You told your captain it would relieve the men’s boredom to play cock-sports with witches. Lady Anne’s letter appeared to express affection for me so you didn’t doubt she’d offer herself and all Develish’s young girls in return for my life.’

  ‘It was said in jest. I sought to humour him with a common soldiers’ fantasy.’

  Thaddeus ran his finger down the edge of the blade, testing for sharpness. ‘You succeeded. He liked the idea of using Lady Anne as a vessel for his Norman filth. If memory serves me right, he promised to break her for you first.’

  Bourne closed his eyes. ‘Your mistress was never in danger. I wouldn’t have allowed it.’

  ‘She’d have died before her people because she’d have placed herself between them and your men. She takes her oaths of fealty seriously, unlike you.’ Thaddeus rested the blade against the old man’s neck. ‘Remind me again why my young friend committed an offence by daring to challenge you. I forget the reasons.’

  There was a long hesitation. ‘You know them well enough. Each person’s standing is defined by his birth. You cannot alter what God has ordained.’ A sigh fluttered from his lips. ‘What do you want from me? Contrition for the privilege my birth gave me?’

  Thaddeus smiled slightly. ‘I’m not your priest, but if I were, I’d demand a more honest repentance than that.’ He lowered the tip of his sword to the ground and put his hand behind the old man’s neck to force his head forward. ‘Your sin was to abuse your privilege, not to be born to it.’ He was surprised at how violently his prisoner fought against his restraining hand.

 
‘Have you no mercy?’ Bourne cried, writhing and struggling to avoid the chop of the blade. ‘At least give me time to make my peace with God before you strike.’

  ‘I am a man of Develish,’ Thaddeus answered. ‘My word is my bond.’ He cut the sodden ropes that tied his prisoner’s hands. ‘This is as merciful as I’m prepared to be,’ he went on. ‘In two or three days, I shall return along the highway with your wagon full of grain. If you’re still alive and free of the pestilence, I’ll hear your entreaties then.’

  Spared one death, My Lord rushed to be spared another. ‘I’ll not survive that long,’ he pleaded. ‘The cold and wet are already deep in my bones.’

  ‘In mine also . . . and through your fault.’ Thaddeus pulled Bourne to his feet and felt the shivers in his hand and arm. With a sigh of irritation, he reached back through the flap in the canopy and pulled tunics and britches from beneath the tabards. ‘You’ll be warm enough in dead men’s clothes,’ he said, dropping them to the ground. ‘The inner layers will stay dry if you wear your cloak atop them.’

  Above the old man’s head, he saw the twins appear amongst the trees with Killer and the other two horses. The boys paled at the sight of My Lord on his feet and the sword in Thaddeus’s hand, their eyes full of anxiety that they were about to witness a murder. To set their minds at rest, Thaddeus tossed the blade into the wagon.

  ‘Your other choice is to walk to Develish,’ he said, retrieving the cloak and handing it to the old man. ‘At a steady pace you should make it before nightfall. If you’re willing to beg charity from a woman you’ve wronged, Lady Anne will float warm potage and clothing to you on the raft and allow you the use of a shelter which is being built on this side of the moat. Make no attempt to cross the water and be honest when you explain your presence there. Milady will not believe lies.’

  He raised a hand to the boys, calling to them that he was ready to leave, and My Lord followed his gaze, a frightened confusion in his face, as if the reality of his situation was only just beginning to dawn on him. ‘Will you do this?’ he asked.