The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  The priest bridled. ‘And I would have offered both gladly as my duty demanded,’ he snapped. ‘You will not deny, I hope, that in matters concerning the rites and rituals of the Church I have superiority.’

  ‘I will not, sir. You stand alone in your knowledge of procedure.’

  Strangely, her words seemed to trouble him. He turned to the altar and fluttered a finger to his forehead to make the sign of the cross. ‘So Thurkell would have us believe. I pray hourly that he is mistaken.’

  It was a moment before Lady Anne understood his meaning, and she reached out an instinctive hand in sympathy. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I should have asked myself long since how Thaddeus’s talk of priests and monks dying might affect you. You’re so much a part of Develish’s community that I forget you belong to the wider one of the Church. It must have distressed you greatly to hear of the deaths of your brothers.’

  He seemed glad to take her hand. ‘I am more afraid than distressed, milady.’

  She studied him with surprise, as much for the tight, needy grasp of his fingers as for the dread in his voice. ‘What is it you fear?’ she asked.

  ‘That I shall be the only priest to survive. I haven’t the ability to carry so much responsibility alone.’

  Lady Anne wondered that so bleak a vision of the future had never occurred to her. She had little trouble imagining the sense of isolation and loneliness he must be feeling, because she felt it herself. She sought for an answer that would comfort. ‘God never tests us so hard that we fail, Father. Perhaps His purpose for you—and for everyone who survives the pestilence—is to be a witness for those who have died. Their names will be written out of history if we allow ourselves to forget.’

  Her words seemed to alarm him more. ‘I’ve witnessed nothing,’ he cried, snatching his hand away to tremble through another sign of the cross. ‘You’ve kept all suffering from Develish’s door . . . even your husband’s.’

  ‘But isn’t that something to celebrate?’ she asked in perplexity. ‘I could wish all demesnes had done the same. The lives of so many have been lost unnecessarily for want of a little thought.’

  The priest rounded on her angrily. ‘It’s not for you to decide which death is necessary and which is not. You raise yourself above God when you make such statements.’

  Lady Anne gave a weary shake of her head. ‘That was not my intention,’ she answered quietly. ‘If I have offended you, I am sorry.’

  ‘Your offence is against God.’

  ‘Then I beg His pardon even more humbly than I beg yours. He watches over us with more kindness than we deserve. Are you able to bear witness to that at least?’

  The old man’s mouth worked in furious denial. ‘I am not. God has been absent from this place since you came here. Master de Courtesmain saw it and so do I.’ Spittle formed along his lips. ‘You have encouraged your people to break every commandment, and so infected are they by your profanity that none sees the need for confession or absolution. Would you have me speak of that? Or worse—’ his spittle sprayed the air—‘describe how your lover, a slave, parades as a noble, steals at will, and even brings demons into our midst in the shape of cats?’

  Lady Anne turned away, unwilling to be drawn into any more argument. ‘You must state the truth as you understand it, Father,’ she said. ‘That’s all any of us can do. I’ll have the wine sent to you shortly but be wise in how much you consume each night. The supply is limited.’

  He watched her small figure disappear into the shadows beyond the candlelight. ‘You had a request of me.’

  There was a pause in her steps. ‘It’s of no matter. You gave me your answer when you spoke of your knowledge of rite and ritual.’

  He heard the sound of the latch being raised and Lady Anne’s voice speaking softly to people outside. She must have given them leave to enter, for her words were followed by the whisper of feet across the rush-strewn floor. He recognised the faces of the Pedle Hinton serfs, whom he’d watched cross the moat, and frowned from one to the other in puzzlement. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked.

  ‘Vespers, Father,’ said Alice Bartram. ‘It’s six months and more since we’ve attended a service.’

  ‘Or seen a priest,’ said another woman, dropping to her knees and reaching for Father Anselm’s hands. ‘We beg you most earnestly to hear our confessions.’

  Harold Talbot stepped from their midst and searched Father Anselm’s face. ‘I don’t know this man,’ he said, turning to his daughter. ‘Where is Father Jean?’

  ‘He died of the pestilence and is buried in Pedle Hinton,’ said Alice. ‘We are in Develish now and this is their priest.’ She made a gesture of pleading to Father Anselm. ‘He will take solace from your chanting of the psalms, sir. Please begin—and pay no mind if he interrupts. He is excitable from having spent the day in sleep. He means no offence by it.’

  Offence. The word rang like a condemnation in Father Anselm’s ears, and he wondered if he’d been wrong to distrust Lady Anne’s motives. ‘Why did you wait outside?’ he asked.

  ‘Milady advised us that your custom is to use Vespers for private communion between yourself and God, sir. She wanted to be sure you were happy to include us. My father knows all the psalms, having learnt them word by word from Father Jean. He will assist in their recitation if you allow it.’

  Father Anselm retreated to the altar to support himself. In drink he had some memory of the Vespers’ chants, but sober he had none. He ran a trembling hand over the surface of the table as if a miracle might suddenly produce his Bible and catechism, for he had no recollection of where they were or when he had last used them. He felt the brush of a cloak against his arm.

  ‘You will do Master Talbot a great kindness if you allow him to lead the service, Father,’ said Lady Anne. ‘He asks for understanding of mistakes, being less proficient in the language of the Church than you.’ Under cover of her cloak, she took her own Bible from the pocket of her kirtle and slipped it onto the altar. ‘He wishes to begin with Psalm One Hundred and Nine.’ She opened the book at a marked page and read aloud in Latin: ‘My God, whom I praise, do not remain silent, for people who are wicked and deceitful have opened their mouths against me.’

  From behind them, the old man took up the verse in the same language. ‘They have spoken against me with lying tongues and surround me with hatred. They attack me without cause and repay my friendship with loathing. I am a man of prayer, my God. Appoint someone evil to oppose my enemy. Let an accuser stand at his right hand. When he is tried, let him be found guilty. Let his days be few. Let his wife become a widow, and his children wandering beggars, driven from their ruined homes.’

  When Father Anselm failed to respond, Lady Anne placed a finger beside the text to show him where they were. ‘May no one extend kindness to my enemy or take pity on his fatherless children,’ he read in tremulous tones. ‘May his descendants be cut off, their names blotted out from the next generation. May the sins of his mother never be forgiven. May knowledge of his family be erased from the earth . . .’

  He faltered to a halt and, in the silence that followed, Harold drew breath to start again. With a sigh, Father Anselm turned towards him. ‘Do you have any understanding of what you are saying, my son? Did your priest in Pedle Hinton ever give you these words in English?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Do you take comfort from them?’

  Harold studied Father Anselm with suspicion. ‘All men of prayer do. We imperil our souls when we forget that God should be feared. His wrath is terrible against the unrighteous.’

  This time Father Anselm’s hesitation went on so long that Lady Anne found herself regretting his sobriety. If she’d had the foresight to send a flagon of wine an hour before Vespers, he would be looking on Harold as a man of virtue and reciting Psalm 109 without a qualm. As it was, he seemed lost in indecision. She lifted the Bible from the altar and stepped forward to read for him, but he stayed her with a surprisingly firm hand.

  ‘
There’s no fear of God in Develish and no place for this psalm in our church,’ he told Harold. ‘The Lord blesses us with love and kindness and we do our best to repay Him by sharing what we have with each other. Milady urges her people to entreat that all men are spared, be they God-fearing or not, for we have no wish that anyone should suffer death and misery. Were you so surrounded by enemies in Pedle Hinton that you like to be reminded of their suffering through these bitter words of hatred?’

  ‘It’s God’s choice if I am. The words are His.’

  Father Anselm shook his head. ‘They are a man’s, spoken in malice against those who disagree with him. Do you repeat them because your own heart is full of malice?’

  Anger flared in Harold’s eyes. ‘The Bible is the word of God. What manner of priest are you that you don’t know that?’

  ‘A poor one, my son, for I am ignorant of how God answered this man’s demands for retribution. Was it Father Jean’s belief that rage and resentment are rewarded? For myself, I know only that God sent His son to take our sins upon His shoulders and teach us to forgive one another—and that simple message of love couldn’t be more distant from the brutal vengeance requested in this psalm.’

  Harold seemed so baffled by the question that Alice answered for him. ‘The bishop sent word that the pestilence was a punishment for ungodliness, sir, and My Lord of Pedle Hinton ordered Father Jean to read the psalm each Vespers as warning that everything predicted in it would come to pass if we forgot our prayers and strayed from the path of righteousness. We thought him correct until we came to Develish.’ She glanced shyly at Lady Anne. ‘Now we’re unsure what to believe except that the people here are blessed in their mistress.’

  Perhaps Father Anselm was as confused as Harold, for he sank to his knees before the altar and buried his head in his hands.

  EASTER, 1349

  Eleven

  Blandeforde, Dorseteshire

  THADDEUS SAT ASTRIDE KILLER ON the ridge of a small hill and gazed down on Blandeforde. Gyles had described this place as a busy market town which drew its importance from standing at a bridge across the River Stour, but while the settlement was larger than many Thaddeus and his companions had seen, there was no greater evidence of people. They could see handfuls lingering at corners or moving about the streets, but not enough to indicate a once-thriving community. As ever, Thaddeus was struck by their lethargy. Even those who appeared to be walking with purpose lacked urgency, as if they had long since accepted that the struggle for life was more trouble than it was worth.

  Ian adjusted his reins as his horse sidled sideways out of boredom at being forced to stand still for so long. ‘Do you suppose they know tomorrow’s a feast day?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps all their priests have perished and they think we’re still in Lent?’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘There’s not a man or woman in England who doesn’t know that Easter falls on the Sunday after the first full moon of spring. The skies have been clear this last week. They’ll have seen it shining in the heavens just as we did.’

  The swelling moon had been their signal to ride north, for Thaddeus had hoped their arrival would spark less interest amidst the joy and celebration of Christ’s resurrection. Easter was a day for parades and hearty eating after six long weeks of fasting, and he had expected to find Blandeforde readying itself for the festivities. In Develish, the Saturday eve was taken up with the slaughter of lambs for roasting and the final stitching of new apparel for the parade. But there was no such industry here.

  ‘They’ll be like the survivors in Melcombe,’ said Peter. ‘We didn’t find one who thought there was cause to rejoice.’

  ‘Nor anywhere else,’ added Joshua. ‘They’re all just waiting for death.’

  Thaddeus couldn’t disagree with either statement. They had travelled the coastline for a month, seeking knowledge, but they could have ended their journey in Melcombe had they realised the people’s sense of despair there was shared by everyone else. By night they had camped outside the port; by day they had ridden the streets to gain what information they could. It was hard to come by. The pestilence had so overwhelmed the town that no one could say how many had died. Even when they were directed to a town elder, a man of authority, he proved as ignorant as the beggars who inhabited the gutters. So many had fled when the pestilence first struck, there was no knowing who had perished and who had survived.

  From Melcombe they had headed west along the coast to Lyme Regis, riding through deserted or barely inhabited demesnes along the way. Thaddeus spoke to all he met, offering what help and advice he could, but he had no answers to the three questions he was most commonly asked. Does God punish us by keeping us alive? Will our liege lord ever return? Does the King know of our troubles? All he could say with certainty was that, whether through flight or death, Dorseteshire was almost empty of people.

  The truth of this statement was driven home to them when they returned along the highway to Dorchester—once the most prosperous market town in south Dorseteshire. They found it all but deserted, with shops and taverns closed, doors daubed with crosses and only the odd movement at windows to suggest that anyone still lived there. Thaddeus would have turned north towards Blandeforde then had the sea held less fascination for him. He told his companions he wanted to discover if there was another port to the east, but he showed no hurry to find it, choosing bridleways that hugged the crooked coastline as often as he returned to the straighter highway that ran inland.

  The youths had no complaints. A man could believe he was free indeed when he stood on a rocky height and stared across an ocean. Some days the water was a turgid grey, but on clear afternoons, when a spring sun shone in the heavens, it mirrored the blueness above and there was no saying where the water ended and the sky began. Their favourite camping spots were on pebble beaches where small rivers had cut through the cliffs to empty into the sea. Driftwood made easy fires and the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping along the shore brought a deep and restful sleep.

  They grew accustomed to the mournful cries of seagulls but never to the numbers and size of the birds. As big as buzzards, they ruled the sea and the shore, watching the travellers from pale eyes. Thaddeus thought they must live on fish, but Joshua said he’d seen a dozen pecking flesh off a dead sheep outside Melcombe. Only Peter had any liking for them, mimicking their calls with the same ease he mimicked blackbirds and larks.

  They took most pleasure from discovering a stretch of golden sand which ended in a mighty bay, dotted with tree-covered islands. Because the entrance was narrow—a quarter-mile cleft between two arms of land—the waters of the bay were as calm as an inland lake and the youths shook their heads in wonder at the beauty of the scene. How dreary Develish seemed by comparison. Half-a-dozen sailing ships rode at anchor down the centre, but all seemed as carelessly forgotten as the fishing boats that lay tilted on their sides along the banks. Edmund’s long sight picked out a settlement far away on the other side, but Thaddeus guessed the only way to reach it was by the highway. There were too many marshy inlets where brooks and rivers were feeding into the bay for horses to find an easy path around the shoreline.

  He gladly gave in to his companions’ pleas to spend the night on the beach, being as entranced as they by the softness of the sand and the white-frothed spume that rolled across it. They returned the way they’d come, looking for a sheltered spot amongst the trees that grew along the promontory. Thaddeus chose to remove his boots and lead Killer through the shallow waves. He was fascinated by the pull of sand beneath his feet each time the water receded and only became aware that a fishing boat was drifting towards the shore behind him when Ian called a warning.

  He turned to watch a greybeard and a youngster using their oars to try to push the vessel back into deeper water. He called out to them, asking where they were headed, and the greybeard pointed back to the mouth of the bay, saying the current had carried them past it. The craft was too heavy for a tired old man and his grandson to handle alone when all t
heir effort had gone into hauling in nets full of fish. Without thought for whether either had fleas, and pausing only to remove his coat and jerkin, Thaddeus released Killer and waded towards them, putting his shoulder to the planking at the bow. As the boat began to turn, he moved to the stern to push it into deeper water and then called for a rope.

  ‘The water’s shallow enough for me to tow you to the end of the headland, but from there you must manage on your own.’

  The greybeard had no doubts that his finely apparelled rescuer was a man of status and he expressed his gratitude humbly, promising My Lord a parcel of mackerel as reward for his help. Thaddeus said he would be as happy with information, and the talkative old man gave him all he required. Thaddeus learnt that the settlement on the far side of the bay was called Poole, with another to the west named Warham, which stood between the mouths of the River Pedle and the River Frome. More than half the inhabitants of both towns had died or fled, and fishing had become harder with only the weakest left to handle the boats and nets.

  ‘The boy and I have done well this day, but our catch would have become food for gulls if the tide had stranded us on the beach. God was kind to send us a man so tall to push us clear. Do you not fear drowning, sire?’

  Thaddeus laughed as the waves lapped around his chest. ‘Not yet, my friend. Tell me about these fish you’ve caught. Do they taste the same as river fish?’

  ‘Better. The salt water gives them flavour.’

  ‘And they’re called mackerel?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘And the birds are gulls? I’ve not encountered them before either.’

  The greybeard found that hard to believe. ‘You have the look of a foreigner, sire. How did you come here if not by sea?’

  Thaddeus made a mental note to watch his words more carefully when he spoke with Blandeforde’s steward. ‘I came as an infant and have no memory of the journey,’ he lied. ‘Since then I’ve lived in the north.’ He ran some of the rope through his fingers to allow the craft to move farther from the shore as the end of the headland approached. ‘Do many foreigners come to this bay?’