‘What?’
‘Leave me to die.’
‘I’m not your keeper, My Lord. What you choose to do once we’ve gone is your business. If you lack the will to live, no one can help you.’
Trembling fingers gripped his sleeve. ‘It’s but a few days since my archers fired on Develish. Milady will recognise me and not offer charity.’
‘Then die here,’ said Thaddeus dispassionately, pulling himself free. ‘You’ll not be recognised when your bones are found, for no one will know they were yours. Bourne will be written out of history as surely as every poor serf who has died of the pestilence.’
He took up the reins of the tow-horses and motioned to the boys to fall in at the rear with Killer. Having never driven a wagon before, he preferred to lead the convoy on foot rather than attempt to control it from the saddle. Had he been confident of keeping the wheels moving on saturated turf, he would have turned the vehicle and taken the drovers’ route to Holcombe, but common sense told him the impacted mud of the highway was the safer course. He shook his head as My Lord tried to mount the step beneath the opening in the canopy.
‘Don’t make me pull you out again,’ he warned. ‘I’ll snap you across my knee the next time, and your death will be the more painful because of it. Make your way to Develish and say Thaddeus Thurkell sent you. You’ll not be judged as harshly by Lady Anne and her people as you will by God.’
(EXTRACT FROM A PRIVATE JOURNAL KEPT BY LADY ANNE)
The thirteenth day of September, 1348
A strange event happened this afternoon. Gyles Startout summoned me to the moat with news that a cloaked figure was approaching on foot from the village. The traveller had come from the south and his progress up the valley had been slow. I recognised My Lord of Bourne as soon as he was close enough for me to see his face, but he is much diminished from the last time we saw him. He lacks presence, dressed in peasant’s britches and without a carriage or fighting men to give him stature.
I had it in my heart to feel sorry for him when I saw how his teeth chattered from the cold. His garments were so drenched by the rain—which continues to fall as heavily as ever—that we could see his bony shape through the many layers of fabric. Quite a crowd gathered to watch him, and I fancy my pity was shared by others, for no one laughed to see him in such distress. He carried a small lapdog, cradled tenderly against his breast, as if he cared more for the animal’s welfare than he did for his own.
Whether through fear or cold, he was unable to speak. He stood trembling on the other side of the moat with eyes cast down and his right hand stretched out in entreaty. His arm clearly troubled him, for he was unable to hold the gesture without wincing, but I couldn’t tell if the seat of his pain was beneath the tear in his cloak or in the raw injuries about his wrist, which suggested his hands had been bound. He was without a head covering and scabs of dried blood were matted in his white hair, adhering so fast to the strands that the rain had not dislodged them. I looked for a wound on his scalp but could not see one.
He cut a sad and pathetic figure, and even Gyles seemed moved to sympathy. I sent Jenny Buckler for a tunic, britches and Sir Richard’s heavy woollen mantle, and asked Clara Trueblood to bring a bowl of hot potage and a jar of liniment. While they were away, I explained to My Lord that we would send the items across on the raft, but that he must not attempt to board it or my archers would fire on him.
If he had thoughts of disobeying, he changed his mind when he saw the intent in the faces of my leading serfs. Even as John Trueblood and Adam Catchpole used poles and ropes to set the raft adrift and control its direction, Gyles Startout and James Buckler raised their bows and sighted their arrows on My Lord’s chest. His alarm was so great that I feared he would die of fright before he could warm himself with the soup and clothes.
I gave him leave to use the hut we’ve built to shelter Thaddeus and his companions, but he is incompetent at performing even basic tasks. Despite our leaving dry kindling, wood and a tinderbox inside the shelter, he was quite unable to set a fire. John Trueblood urged me in a whisper to be thankful, for he didn’t doubt My Lord would have set the hut ablaze had he succeeded. However, the old man’s inability to warm himself obliged me to send precious fleeces across to bring colour back to his cheeks.
When he found his voice, he thanked me from inside the shelter for my charity towards him. I suggested he extend his thanks to all in Develish, since the homespun he was wearing and the food he was eating were as much my people’s as mine. He did so with a show of humility, although it clearly demeaned him to bend his neck to serfs. I asked then why he had come to us without fighting men to protect him, and he answered that Thaddeus Thurkell had sent him, promising food and shelter as long as he made no attempt to cross the moat.
My Lord is unused to having his pronouncements questioned. I believe he hoped we would think that Thaddeus had found him wandering and bereft and had taken pity on him. He showed great reluctance to explain further until I asked who had bound his wrists and what manner of injury had caused blood to clot in his hair.
Few accept as true the story My Lord told us, and we will have to wait for Thaddeus’s return to learn it all. My Lord would have us believe that Thaddeus and twin youths used the cover of darkness to take him and his men by surprise while they slept; but since Thaddeus was travelling alone and did not leave Develish until some 3 hours before dawn, this seems unlikely. When and where could he have met the Startout twins in order to plan and launch such an attack before daybreak?
My Lord said their purpose was to steal his wagon and horses, but when I asked him why Thaddeus would endanger himself and his companions for something he already had—namely, a wagon and horses at Holcombe—he had no answer. Nor could he give me a reason for why Thaddeus would spare his life but murder 11 defenceless men in their sleep.
Whatever the truth, it pleases Gyles to know his sons fought alongside Thaddeus—which they surely must have done for Bourne to mention twins—although John Trueblood, Adam Catchpole and James Buckler worry for Edmund, Peter and Joshua. If they live, why were they not with Ian and Olyver?
We are wary of taking My Lord’s word on anything. Indeed, had he not arrived in such a parlous state, giving Thaddeus’s name as the man who had sent him, we would have dismissed his tale as an old man’s fantasy or, worse, a deliberate falsehood to persuade us we’re no longer at threat from his soldiers.
He claims to be free of the pestilence and promises to make it known if he begins to feel unwell. It’s of little matter whether he does or not. Gyles, who knows the sickness better than anyone, will see the signs even before My Lord is aware of them. If he dies inside the hut, we will use fire arrows to set it ablaze as soon as the rain ends.
I pray that end comes soon, for I worry that Thaddeus was overly confident to think he and his companions would survive this storm easily. Cold and damp kill as mercilessly as the pestilence.
Five
Develish, Dorseteshire
ELEANOR WATCHED MY LORD OF Bourne’s arrival from the window of Lady Anne’s chamber. She knew his face from the first time he came to Develish but little else about him was recognisable. He seemed frail and shrunken and cupped his hands in entreaty more often than he asserted dominance. Indeed, were it not for Lady Anne’s courtesy in giving him his title and urging him to accept the only hospitality she could give him, strangers would have said he was a person of no account.
She was still at the window a half-hour later when Lady Anne sought her out. ‘He should be raging at you for denying him entry,’ she said harshly, her stance rigid and unforgiving. ‘He disgraces himself by showing so little spirit.’
Lady Anne stood beside her and watched Bourne, huddled in fleeces in the gloom of the shelter, stroke the little dog in his lap. ‘Do you have no pity for him, Eleanor?’
‘Why should I?’
‘He’s alone and afraid. His men are gone and his only comfort is his pet.’
‘Does it please you that
Thaddeus Thurkell killed them?’
‘If he did, it would have been for a reason.’
Eleanor rounded on her, eyes glittering with tears. ‘For the same reason you would have me kill Sir Richard’s baby? To be rid of a nuisance?’
With a sigh, Lady Anne reached for her hand. ‘The choice isn’t mine to make, Eleanor. I have given you the means, but the decision on whether to take it must be yours.’
The girl drew back, as if fearing Lady Anne’s touch would cause her pain. ‘You’ll judge me whatever I do,’ she said bitterly. ‘You forgive Thaddeus Thurkell everything, but never me or my father.’
This time, Lady Anne wouldn’t allow her to escape. She reached for Eleanor’s hand again and caressed it gently between hers. ‘You’ve committed no fault, daughter, so I’ve no reason to judge you. It’s I who should beg forgiveness of you.’
Eleanor’s tears spilled on to her cheeks. ‘Why?’
‘For failing as a mother. I should have worked harder to earn your love instead of leaving you to seek comfort from your father. You would not be in this unhappy situation if you’d felt able to trust me. Do you think you might be able to trust me now? I beg you to believe, I have always thought of you as my daughter and truly do have only your best interests at heart.’
Perhaps pain was indeed what Eleanor felt, for she snatched her hand away, as if from a burning flame. But the racking sobs that consumed her thereafter suggested her anguish was based in regret; though whether for what might have been or for what she faced now, Lady Anne didn’t know.
Pain had featured largely in the decisions Edmund, Joshua and Peter had made that day. Left to find a solution to keeping grain barrels dry inside a shelter with a leaking roof and water rising from the ground, they had opted to take them back to where Thaddeus had found them: the inn at Holcombe. But since Thaddeus was the only one strong enough to lift a hundredweight barrel on his own, the work was laboured and arduous.
Peter, the most workshy of the three, took every opportunity to scold Joshua for not supporting him the previous day when he’d urged Thaddeus to leave the barrels where they were. It had been hard enough moving the damned things in sunlight; to do it again in a storm was well nigh impossible. Nevertheless, he put his back into the task when Joshua reminded him that the inn had a hearth and enough furniture to keep a fire going for days. The place was a palace compared with their sodden camp, which was close to being submerged by the rising waters of the River Pedle.
The wagon had proved worse than useless, becoming stuck in the sodden sward before they’d loaded a single barrel, and they were forced to do the job by hand. To spread the weight, Edmund fashioned a triangular litter out of hazel whips to allow each to take a corner, but they could only manage one barrel between them and the inn was some two thousand paces from their camp. Peter estimated they’d have to walk more than twenty-four miles to complete the task, twelve with the weight of a barrel and twelve without, but Joshua said it had to be done so there was no point complaining. On each trip they added some of what they’d stolen from the tannery, spreading the wet garments and cloth over the stools and tables in the inn’s hall to dry.
When they lowered the last keg to the floor, Peter announced his intention of lighting a fire and stewing the remains of the sheep that Thaddeus had slaughtered two days ago. But Joshua shook his head. ‘We must go back to the camp. The others won’t know where to find us.’
Edmund agreed. ‘There’ll be no light at all in a couple of hours. If they’re not there already, we’ll have to go looking for them.’ He took a sword from one of the tables and tucked it into his belt. ‘You made the same promises we did,’ he reminded Peter, seeing the reluctance on the other boy’s face. ‘Do I have to fight you to make you honour them?’
Grudgingly, Peter pulled on a second tunic. ‘It’ll be a waste of energy,’ he grumbled, heading for the door. ‘We’ll not be able to search in semi-darkness.’
He regretted his words when they reached the camp and discovered Ian’s pony standing listlessly amongst the trees and the boy unconscious inside the shelter. He lay in a ball on the ground, blue-lipped and pale-skinned, a crusted gash scarring his cheek, and no amount of Joshua’s shaking or calling woke him. Yet he seemed to be breathing and a pulse throbbed in his wrist.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Edmund. ‘Has the cut robbed him of blood?’
‘He’s cold,’ said Peter, dropping to the ground and manhandling Ian onto his lap so that he could pull him tight against his chest. ‘We need to warm him. One of you must kneel on his other side and press up close.’
Joshua obeyed readily but Edmund shook his head. ‘We’d do better to carry him back to the inn.’
‘There’s no time,’ countered Peter. ‘If Ian’s in this state, Olyver will be worse. Sleep like this isn’t good. My grandfather never woke from it that winter we had three feet of snow in Develish.’
Watching Peter’s efforts to bring colour to Ian’s cheeks, Edmund wondered what made him so contrary. There was no telling which tasks he would choose to shirk and which to embrace. Seemingly oblivious to the saturated ground and the rain dripping through the thatch, he put all his energy into ministering to their friend, instructing Joshua to breathe warm air onto the nape of Ian’s neck while he did the same to each hand, and urging Edmund to rub the boy’s arms and legs in order to heat the sluggish blood. When, finally, a flutter began in Ian’s lids, Peter dug his finger and thumb into an earlobe and spoke in a good imitation of Gyles Startout’s gravelly voice.
‘It’s past time to wake, boy . . . We need to find your twin . . . Your mother’s tears will never end if Olyver dies . . . Tell me where he is so that we can look for him . . .’
A whisper of sound came from Ian’s mouth. ‘On the highway.’
‘Which part of the highway?’
‘Above Athelhelm . . . too much mud.’
Peter urged him to say more, but his speech was slurred and impossible to understand.
Edmund rose to his feet. ‘He’s given us enough,’ he said. ‘Joshua and I will head through the woods and hope the dogs can pick up the scent once we reach the road. What about Ian? Can you manage him alone?’
Peter nodded. ‘If I can’t wake him enough to walk to the inn, I’ll lay him across the pony.’ He jerked his chin towards the sward where the remaining horses were hobbled. ‘You should take one of the others in case you have to do the same with Olyver.’
The advice was good but, without a halter, there was no way to implement it. Nor was it possible to lead a horse along the footpath towards Athelhelm. The river had risen so high the water was lapping inside the tree line. Edmund searched for sizeable pieces of chalk on the sward, handed some to Joshua, took what bearing he could from where he judged the sun should be and then entered the woodland in a direction he hoped would bring them to the road.
‘Make crosses on the far side of every tree we pass,’ he told his friend. ‘That way we can look back and see if we’re heading in a straight line. We’ll move in circles otherwise.’
After that, they spoke little. Edmund checked behind him constantly to make sure their path was true but, since he had little confidence in his estimate of the sun’s position, his greatest fear was that they were travelling due north instead of north-west. His worries grew as the light faded and the chalk marks on the trees became harder to see.
Joshua sensed his anxiety. ‘Don’t lose heart,’ he called. ‘I’ve been counting paces. We’ve done three thousand so far, which is well short of the two miles we know we have to walk . . . probably more, since we’ll be coming out above Athelhelm. The time to fret is when we pass six thousand.’
From then on he spoke the numbers aloud. Edmund found the sound reassuring, though he doubted Joshua had told the truth about counting the first three thousand. He had yet to reach five when a road, awash with water, opened out in front of them.
Ian opened his eyes to see Peter kneeling before a blazing fire inside a great
hearth and stirring a cauldron. He had a vague recollection of reaching the camp and finding it empty, but none at all of being brought to a building. His exhausted mind would have lapsed into sleep again had Peter not turned and seen that he was awake.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ the boy said firmly, shuffling across on his knees and linking his arm through Ian’s to pull him into a sitting position. ‘You’ll stay awake long enough to eat, then you can sleep as long as you like.’ He pulled forward some rushes and wedged them behind Ian’s back before returning to the cauldron and ladling some mutton stew into a bowl.
‘Where are the others?’
Peter squatted beside him and fed a spoonful of shredded meat into his mouth. ‘Looking for Olyver. You woke long enough to tell us where you’d left him. What happened? How did your cheek get sliced?’
But Ian’s only interest was the story of My Lord of Bourne’s wagon, and Thaddeus’s single-minded determination to keep it moving. ‘The highway became impassable a half-mile above Athelhelm. Devil’s Brook had overrun its banks and the wheels became stuck in ruts filled with silt and debris. I told Thaddeus we should give up and head for the camp but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘Why not?’
‘He said we hadn’t come all that way to abandon the wagon on the highway. He persuaded the horses to pull it another few paces by lifting the front and walking backwards, but I swear to God I’ve never been so scared. He thinks he can do everything . . . and he can’t. His face turned grey with the effort. I thought he was going to die.’
Peter offered him another spoonful of meat. ‘He needs to succeed. I’m guessing it comes from being called a bastard slave all his life. I’d not accept that title either if I were Thaddeus.’
‘He has nothing to prove to us.’
‘We’re not the ones he wants to impress.’
The Turn of Midnight Page 8