The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  ‘They used to, but we’ve seen none since September. Word has it that all Europe has perished.’

  ‘Not all. There’ll be some like you who’ve survived. They’ll take to their ships again once the pestilence passes.’

  He was answered with a hollow laugh. ‘There’s few here believe it will, sire. If we don’t die today, we’ll die tomorrow. What makes you think differently?’

  ‘Common sense. When did the last person succumb to it in Poole?’

  ‘I’ve not heard of any deaths since Christmas.’

  ‘Then, God willing, the towns along the coast have seen the end of it already, for we’ve been told the same story in Melcombe and Lyme Regis.’ Thaddeus halted. ‘You must make ready to take the rope and begin rowing, my friend. I cannot take you beyond this point.’

  ‘A moment longer, My Lord. The boy wraps fish in sacking and will throw them when you’ve tossed the rope.’ The old man’s eyes regarded Thaddeus thoughtfully. ‘You seem more trusting than most that you’ll survive, sire. What practices do you follow to avoid it?’

  Thaddeus recalled Ian’s injunctions to avoid talk of rats and fleas. It was one thing to give people hope that the pestilence had run its course but quite another to invite derision. ‘I come from a country where cleanliness is valued,’ he said instead. ‘We bury our waste and do not tolerate vermin or parasites in our houses or on our persons. Such customs keep us healthy.’

  ‘Would that be one of the Moorish lands of Africa, sire? We’ve had ships from there in the past and all the sailors have your height and dark skin. They have more kindness and courtesy than most and are a goodly sight cleaner. Many’s the time I’ve watched them cover their mouths and noses to protect themselves from English stink.’

  Africa . . . ‘Do you know the names of these lands?’

  ‘Only Egypt.’

  ‘Because her people visit here or because your priest has taught you about Moses?’

  ‘Both. Their ships sail from a town called Alexandria. It’s said to be very fine.’

  Thaddeus nodded to the youngster, who was showing him that the parcel of fish was ready. He coiled the end of the rope and threw it towards the greybeard before catching the sacking bundle in return. ‘Stay well,’ he said, raising his hand in farewell.

  The old man chuckled. ‘If you were from a land in Africa, you would do this,’ he said, leaning his head forward and touching the fingers of his right hand to his forehead.

  Thaddeus mimicked the gesture. ‘I thank you for the fish.’

  The old man took up his oar. ‘And you for your help, sire. Thanks be to God, we’ll all eat well tonight.’

  Thaddeus retreated to the shore and watched them angle into the bay before returning along the sand to where Ian was holding Killer. His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he stripped off his dripping clothes and pulled spare ones from his saddle pack, but his eyes were alight with good humour as he did it.

  ‘What did the fishermen say to make you so cheerful?’ asked Ian.

  ‘He told me something I didn’t know.’ Thaddeus re-dressed himself and knelt to undo the sacking. ‘These are called mackerel,’ he said, revealing twelve silvery-blue fish. ‘They’ll make a welcome change from mutton.’

  There was never any shortage of sheep. Everywhere they went, flocks were multiplying as ewes gave birth to spring lambs and pastures recovered from the frosts of winter. But these days only Joshua’s dogs showed excitement to see yet another carcass being butchered. Despite the height and bulk that plentiful meat had added to the previously slender frames of Thaddeus’s companions, they grumbled endlessly about the boredom of their diet. Even so, faced with only two mackerel apiece after a long day’s riding, the ram Joshua had been carrying across his horse’s withers was turned into stew anyway.

  They made a fire in the sand, using driftwood and fallen branches from the woodland, and watched the sun turn brilliant red as it dipped towards the horizon and sent a blazing trail across the sea. The mackerel was roasted on a woven lattice of pliable green saplings and the scent from the bubbling skin was irresistible, as was the tender oily flesh when they came to pick it from the bones. Ian licked his fingers after swallowing the last morsel.

  ‘What else did the greybeard tell you?’ he asked Thaddeus. ‘I don’t say the taste of mackerel isn’t enough to make any man smile but just learning its name wouldn’t.’

  Thaddeus pondered for a moment, wondering how much to reveal about himself and the questions that had plagued him most of his life. ‘He told me something about the man who sired me. I’ve never been able to picture him before.’

  ‘How do you see him now?’ asked Peter.

  ‘As a clean, courteous, dark-skinned Moor from a land in Africa . . . perhaps even a town called Alexandria in Egypt.’ A small laugh escaped his mouth. ‘I have no idea what or where Africa is, but a father from there sounds sweeter to my ears than “passing gypsy”.’

  ‘He’ll be a man of importance, whoever he is,’ said Joshua. ‘You’re too clever to have a dunce for a sire.’

  Peter nodded. ‘My guess would be a wealthy merchant who journeyed to England to sell silks and tapestries.’

  ‘Or a lord,’ countered Edmund. ‘Why settle for less if you can have more?’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘It’s a private comfort only and not something any of us should dwell upon,’ he warned. ‘If I’m to pass for Athelstan, my title must have come from my father and my Moorish blood from my mother. Take care to remember that in Blandeforde and never mention Eva. We’ll none of us fare well if my imposture is discovered.’

  Ian recalled those words as they looked down on the town. The prospect of entering it had been such a distant idea when they set out, and so easily put from mind during their travels along the coastline, that he’d given no heed to whether or not he was ready. Thaddeus might feel confident about being questioned by the steward, but the same wasn’t true of his companions. To pass as a fighting man before a fisherman was very different from upholding the pretence before My Lord of Blandeforde’s proctor. Nor, in truth, did any of them understand why it was necessary. What did Thaddeus hope to learn from the steward that he couldn’t as easily discover from the townsfolk?

  Olyver, picking up on his twin’s thoughts, shifted in his saddle. ‘Why is it so important to go there?’ he asked Thaddeus. ‘Can’t you tell just by looking that we’ll hear nothing new?’

  ‘I doubt we’ll be allowed in,’ said Edmund, pointing to the far end of the bridge. ‘I see a group of men in livery who look like guards. I’d guess they’re there to turn back all who come from this direction.’

  Thaddeus nodded. He, too, had seen the men. ‘We might be able to use them to our advantage,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By persuading them to fetch the steward to us. He’ll be less alarming out here than inside Blandeforde.’

  ‘What is it you want from him anyway?’ asked Peter. ‘And don’t say “news”, because that’s the excuse you give for everyone you speak to.’

  Thaddeus thought it only fair to answer honestly, since his companions would take the consequences alongside him if he failed. ‘I want his agreement to Athelstan’s purchase of Pedle Hinton for two hundred nobles. Unless the steward’s a fool, he’ll jump at the chance to replenish his master’s coffers in return for a derelict demesne and a half-ruined house.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very serious.’

  ‘How will it help Develish to buy another demesne? You’ve always said our future will be in a town where we can earn our living as freemen.’

  ‘But not lawfully. Wouldn’t you rather gain your liberty in Develish first and then choose the future you want?’ He smiled at Peter’s puzzlement. ‘Milady and I look to turn Develish into a demesne like Holcombe, where every man is free to earn his living as he chooses. His rent will be in coin from the trade he pursues, and a proportion will be rendered as taxes to Blandeforde.’

&
nbsp; ‘What does Pedle Hinton have to do with that?’ Edmund asked.

  ‘If Athelstan is granted title to a derelict demesne, and succeeds in remitting taxes at the required time, Milady believes Blandeforde will look more favourably on his request to partner Pedle Hinton with Develish. Once both demesnes are under Athelstan’s governance, all serfs will have the right to buy themselves out of bondage—as long as they have the money.’

  Olyver grinned. ‘Is that why we’ve been stealing dead men’s gold these last few weeks?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Does Milady know?’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘She’s too honest to do what Bourne did. Fortunately for you and your families, I am not.’

  ‘But why not just offer for Develish?’ asked Joshua.

  ‘Because it was in Blandeforde that Bourne heard rumours of everyone still being alive there, and if he picked up on those stories, then be sure the steward has also. He’ll be wary of granting anyone title to a lucrative demesne, let alone an unknown noble whose lineage shows he’s related to Sir Richard’s widow. I look to allay his suspicions not raise them.’

  Peter groaned. ‘It won’t work. He’ll know us for imposters.’

  ‘Only if you show timidity. Play the part of a fighting man and you’ll be taken for one. Even stewards believe what their eyes tell them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you explain all this before?’ asked Ian.

  Thaddeus’s dark face split in smile. ‘Because you’d have bedevilled me with your doubts these last few weeks.’ He nodded to a large stone building which stood on pastureland inside the western loop of the river, some five hundred paces from the nearest habitation. ‘Is that a house or a monastery?’ he asked Edmund.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Does it have a belltower?’

  Edmund shook his head. ‘There’s a church behind that does, but not the house.’

  ‘Are you thinking it’s where My Lord of Blandeforde lives?’ asked Ian.

  ‘When he’s at home.’ Thaddeus cast a last glance across the town. ‘There’s nowhere else imposing enough for a man of his wealth.’ He shortened his reins and touched his heels to Killer’s flanks to set him back on the highway. ‘Let’s see if the guards let us pass.’

  They descended the slope into the valley at a walk, with Joshua and his dogs at Thaddeus’s side and the others riding two by two behind. The white-and-gold crest of Athelstan, stitched by Lady Anne and her seamstresses onto the cloth beneath Killer’s saddle and the breasts of the youths’ crimson tabards, showed up well in the late-afternoon light, but it was greeted with blank looks from the men at the northern end of the bridge. They knew every lord’s emblem for miles around but this wasn’t one they recognised.

  Thaddeus brought Killer to a halt when he was halfway across the cobbled bridge and leant his arms on the pommel of his saddle to study the five men who guarded the exit. He made an impressive figure with his great height, his jet-black charger and seven large hunting dogs quivering at his side. ‘I come to speak with Blandeforde,’ he called in French. ‘Lord Bourne of Wiltshire said I’d receive a warm welcome here. Was he wrong?’

  Their leader answered in the same language. ‘Wiltshire’s to the north. Why do you approach from the south?’

  ‘Eight weeks have passed since I was in Bourne. In that time, I’ve journeyed through Dorseteshire to discover if there’s any truth to the reports that all in the south have perished.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Nothing that I choose to share with you. Is your lord in residence?’

  ‘He left for his estates in the west last summer. The steward governs in his place.’

  ‘Is he as ill-mannered as the men he commands?’

  ‘We are here to prevent strangers crossing the bridge. There’s no requirement to pretend a welcome that doesn’t exist.’

  Thaddeus looked to his left and picked out a stretch of woodland some half-mile to the west across cleared land. ‘My men and I will camp there overnight. You may tell the steward that Athelstan has news of Blandeforde’s vassal demesnes. If he wishes to hear it, he must seek us out before the light fades. I take no responsibility for my dogs once darkness falls.’

  He nudged Killer into a turn, instructing Ian to lead them out across the cleared land. The guard shouted that he hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. The town had seen all sorts, demanding refuge and bringing the pestilence with them. Had he known he was speaking to My Lord of Athelstan, he would have sent a runner to fetch the steward. He would do so now if My Lord was willing to wait. The sun was a bare two hours from setting and it made better sense to converse at the bridge. Thaddeus ignored him.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer?’ asked Joshua when they were clear of the cobbles.

  ‘Because leaving makes the point better. Stewards wait on lords not lords on stewards.’

  ‘He only showed interest when you said you were Athelstan.’

  Thaddeus nodded. ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Do you think the steward will come to the camp?’

  ‘Not in person, but I’ll wager he’ll be curious enough to send spies.’

  They came when the soft grey of twilight had drained colour from the grass and trees, and the flames of the fire shone bright in the gathering gloom. The dogs heard them long before Thaddeus and his companions did, leaping to their feet with throaty growls and pointing their muzzles along the line of trees that bordered the cleared land between the camp and the highway. With an encouraging smile, and certain that his voice would carry in the stillness of the night, Thaddeus ordered his men to arm themselves.

  ‘But keep the pack close until we know who these visitors are, Buckler. The steward won’t thank us if his envoys are mauled in mistake for bandits.’

  For himself, he remained where he was, seated on a bed of bracken with his back supported by his saddle and his legs stretched out in front of him. On his lap was a slim wooden box crafted by John Trueblood, which, when closed, contained vellum and writing implements, and when open served as a desk. As he’d been doing for the last hour, he continued to write on the page in front of him, dipping his quill into the inkwell at his side and forming his letters by the light of the fire.

  ‘Three men have walked from the woodland, sire,’ called Ian. ‘They’re still some fifty paces away but they’re not wearing livery. What is your command?’

  ‘Hold your bows level until they prove themselves. No one of good intent creeps through trees when he can more easily approach across pastureland.’

  ‘They hold their hands high to show they’re unarmed, sire.’

  ‘Ask their names and what service they perform for My Lord of Blandeforde. I’ll not accept beard-trimmers, cooks or pot-emptiers.’

  ‘We are Joseph Spend of the guild of wheelwrights, Paul Cooper of the guild of barrel makers and Andrew Tench of the guild of wool merchants,’ cried one. ‘We come at the request of My Lord of Blandeforde’s steward.’

  Thaddeus lodged his quill in the inkwell and raised his head to look at them. ‘Take ten paces away from the trees and thirty towards me,’ he instructed. ‘My soldiers will range themselves in front of you while my dogs search the woodland for others who may be hiding.’ He gave a nod to Joshua. ‘Wait until they reach their places and then send the hounds about their business.’

  The men, trembling visibly, advanced a bare three steps before a shadowy figure stepped from between the trees some twenty paces away. He made a small bow. ‘I am Jacques d’Amiens, steward to My Lord of Blandeforde, sire,’ he said in French. ‘There are no others. These three men and I came alone.’

  Thaddeus studied him with interest. He was somewhat as Lady Anne had described him, of middle height and middle build, but there was no sign of the birthmark—a port-wine stain on his nose and right cheek—that Lady Anne had said was his most distinguishing feature. Whoever this man was, he was not who he was claiming to be.

  Nevertheless, Thaddeus gave a small nod of ackn
owledgement before telling Joshua that his instructions for the dogs remained unchanged. ‘You must forgive my suspicious nature, Master d’Amiens,’ he answered in the same language, ‘but it’s an unusual Norman who chooses unarmed Englishmen to protect him when he could as easily have brought the guards from the bridge. You still have time to order them from the trees. My men and I wish them no harm but I can’t say the same for my mastiffs.’

  Whatever command the man gave was too low for Thaddeus to hear, but four armed soldiers appeared from the trees behind him. ‘We live in difficult times, My Lord. All men are wise to be wary of strangers.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Thaddeus turned to watch the guildsmen’s hesitant approach. ‘These poor fellows look ready to die of fright,’ he murmured. ‘Are they here of their own free will or under threat?’

  ‘Your dogs unsettle them, My Lord.’

  Thaddeus ordered Joshua to take the pack twenty paces onto the pastureland before beckoning the guildsmen closer. ‘We’ll do well to keep the fire between us,’ he told them. ‘You don’t look as if you’re carrying the pestilence but I’m reluctant to risk my life on it.’

  ‘Does God not protect you, My Lord?’

  ‘Without doubt, but I do my best to assist Him.’ He pointed to a pile of saddle packs. ‘Bring forward three of those if you care to sit. Do you find French easy to understand or would you prefer that we speak in English?’

  It seemed they needed the imposter’s permission both to seat themselves and express a preference for English, and Thaddeus wondered who the man was and what his purpose was in bringing them. The guildsmen’s anxiety remained strong even with the dogs at a distance, and he sensed they’d been given a task they didn’t want to perform. The imposter elected to stand apart with his guards, watching without comment as Ian positioned himself and his remaining men behind Thaddeus. None held weapons in their hands but Ian took quiet satisfaction from the unease in the faces of the two younger soldiers.