The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  The only change Thaddeus made to his position was to sit a little straighter by easing his saddle more firmly into the small of his back. He asked the guildsmen to repeat their names and tell him about their families, showing sympathy when they listed their numbers of dead.

  ‘Our guilds are as badly affected, My Lord,’ said Joseph Spend. ‘I am one of but two wheelwrights who remain, and Master Cooper and Master Tench are the only barrel maker and wool merchant left in Blandeforde.’

  ‘How many departed before the pestilence arrived?’

  ‘We don’t know, sire. The town was so filled with people heading north there’s no saying how many of our own went with them. Will they have found safety? Is the north more favoured by God than the south?’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing on my travels to tell me so. Wiltshire’s as badly affected as Dorseteshire, and as long ago as last September, we heard that the sickness had reached Oxford. I fear all England will have fallen to it before the year is out.’

  ‘Is there good news, My Lord?’

  ‘Some first glimmerings, perhaps.’ Thaddeus selected a parchment from a small stack at his side and held it up for them to see. ‘These are the towns and villages along the coast of Dorseteshire where my men and I found people still living. In each place, we were told that no one has died since Christmas. Does Blandeforde fare the same or worse?’

  There was a short silence before the barrel maker spoke. ‘The last burial was eight weeks ago, sire. Should we take that as a sign of hope?’

  Thaddeus wondered why the man found it so hard to meet his eye. ‘I can think of no reason not to, Master Cooper. A full season without death in those communities first afflicted suggests to me that the pestilence may have run its course. It’s surely something to celebrate that the same seems to be happening here.’

  The imposter stirred. ‘You speak as if the pestilence is no different from the pox or the ague, My Lord. Is that your belief?’

  Thaddeus watched Andrew Tench, the wool merchant, give the faintest shake of his head. He took it for a warning, though why a Blandeforde freeman should side with a stranger against the man who had brought him here, he didn’t know.

  ‘There’s no likeness at all between the pestilence and the pox, Master d’Amiens,’ he answered. ‘The one gives rise to virulent boils which kill in three days, and the other to a red rash that fades after two weeks. Have you not seen sufferers yourself?’

  ‘My apologies, sire. I should have made my meaning clearer. We live in ignorance here in Blandeforde and any information you can give us about the pestilence would be welcome. To describe it as an infection that must inevitably run its course is to suggest it’s a disease like the common pox. I’d be interested to hear what led you to that belief.’

  If Thaddeus believed anything, it was that knowledge shared was knowledge gained, but he hardly needed the clear alarm in Tench’s face to avoid an honest answer. ‘You’re asking if I know God’s mind, sir, but I’m as ignorant of His plan for us as you are. I take comfort from the knowledge that no one has died in Melcombe in the last four months, but I can’t give a reason for it. Only priests know why some are more deserving of life than others.’

  ‘Did you consult with the clergy in Melcombe?’

  ‘There were none to be found. An elder told us the last to die was a Franciscan monk who tended sufferers into autumn and then fell to the sickness himself. The same was true everywhere we went.’

  ‘Here too. All the clergy in the town have been taken, and there are many who question why—these three guildsmen amongst them. They came in the hope you’d have answers, My Lord.’

  Thaddeus ran a thoughtful hand around his beard. ‘Can your own priest not help them? I presume he still lives since you spoke only of those in the town dying.’

  ‘His duties to the household keep him occupied.’

  Thaddeus smiled slightly. ‘Then you and My Lord of Blandeforde’s servants are more fortunate than your fellows in the town.’ He shifted his attention to Tench. ‘Does the household fare better than you and your neighbours?’ he asked.

  ‘We believe so, sire, but it’s a long time since we saw any of the servants. We’ve heard of only four dying since the pestilence came.’

  Thaddeus allowed his surprise to show. ‘Out of how many?’

  ‘Above one hundred, sire. Father Aristide hears the confessions of all and recites the liturgy of the hours from Matins to Compline so that the house is sanctified by prayer and absolution. The town accepts that this is why so few have succumbed.’

  But not you and your friends, thought Thaddeus, while pondering Tench’s use of the word ‘accept’. Had he chosen it deliberately? ‘Truths have to be explained before people can believe them. Why do you not seek answers from whomever told you of Father Aristide’s cleansing rituals?’

  ‘It was a young maid, sire. She was sent from the house to seek solace from her mother and father, and was in great despair to find they had perished. She had the early signs of the pestilence and died some five days later. Her anguish at being judged more wicked than the rest of the household was matched by her despair to find that every member of her family was dead.’

  Thaddeus leant forward to stare into the fire as an excuse to lower his gaze. The man posing as d’Amiens was ignorant of the expressions on the guildsmen’s faces because their backs were towards him, but for Thaddeus to respond to their intense stares with even a nod to show he fully understood what he was hearing would be to reveal the same to the imposter. There were too many conflicting tensions at play, and Thaddeus had little grasp of any of them. Had d’Amiens died and this man seized control? Did the guards on the bridge serve some purpose other than to keep the pestilence out?

  The only thing he was sure of was that the imposter was inviting him to challenge the Church’s position on the pestilence. But why? What possible reason could he have to suspect a lord he had never met of dissent? And why accuse Athelstan of a heresy he clearly shared? There was surely only one interpretation of the maid’s tale: that My Lord of Blandeforde’s household had isolated itself from the rest of the town, expelling any who showed signs of fever, while claiming to be protected by prayers and absolution.

  Thaddeus took a slender branch from a stack at his side and fed the tip into the fire. ‘Word has come from France that Pope Clement grants absolution to all who die of the pestilence,’ he told the guildsmen. ‘Had the young servant known that, her anguish for herself and her family would have been lessened.’ He raised his head. ‘Does the closure of the bridge prevent such news reaching you?’ he asked Spend.

  Spend shook his head. ‘There have been no messengers in months, My Lord. The guards make no difference.’

  ‘How long have they been there?’

  ‘A matter of days only, sire. The steward looks to deter thieves from entering the town while the Easter festivities take place. Pickings will be easy while all attention is on the parade.’

  A faint smile curved Thaddeus’s mouth. ‘You have reason to thank him. Only the pestilence is less welcome than a thief.’

  Twelve

  IAN HAD BLESSED THADDEUS EACH time he’d answered a question wisely but now, hearing the edge to his friend’s voice, he became nervous that Thaddeus’s patience was wearing thin. In his mind, he begged him not to abandon restraint. There was too much strangeness in the air and Ian, with no reason to doubt that the steward was who he said he was, had even less understanding of why that should be than Thaddeus.

  Perhaps Thaddeus picked up on Ian’s silent urgings because he took up his quill and wrote the signature of Athelstan at the bottom of the parchment page before raising his head to look at the imposter. ‘I’ve documented what my men and I discovered in the demesnes we believe to be Blandeforde’s, Master d’Amiens. Some are abandoned and derelict. Some retain small groups of serfs and servants whom God has chosen to spare. They are without guidance because their lords, priests and stewards have died or fled.’ He retrieved the branch from
the fire and used its smouldering tip to melt sealing wax on to the page beneath his signature before pressing his ring into the soft surface. ‘If Blandeforde returns, I suggest you prepare him for the news that there’ll be no tax receipts this year. If he does not, you must account to the King yourself.’

  The man seemed amused. ‘You expect me to take your word on this, My Lord? You and I are strangers to each other. What assurances can you give me that what you say is true?’

  Thaddeus rolled the parchment between his hands and then secured the edge with a second seal. ‘None. The choice of whether to believe me is yours. I tasked myself only with passing on what I’ve learnt. Tomorrow we ride for Sarum so that I can render the same service to His Grace the Lord Bishop. He may not be aware how many of his clergy have died or that tithes will go unpaid.’

  There was a brief hesitation. ‘Is His Grace expecting you?’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘No more than you were.’

  ‘Why should he grant you an audience?’

  ‘For the same reason you’ve chosen to speak to me, Master d’Amiens. I’m the messenger who gives information to those who want to hear it.’

  ‘On whose authority do you act?’

  Thaddeus smiled. ‘God’s . . . as do we all.’ He tossed the scroll across the fire to Andrew Tench and settled back against the saddle. ‘Be good enough to hand the parchment to the steward as you leave, Master Tench,’ he murmured, closing his eyes. ‘I believe our business is concluded.’

  The guildsmen rose to their feet immediately but the imposter clenched his hands in irritation. ‘I have more questions, sire.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Master d’Amiens,’ came the lazy response. ‘Every person we meet has questions. Put them to your priest. I don’t doubt he’ll be able to answer them better than I can.’ He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Take the path across the cleared land. My soldiers can shield you from the pack in the open, but not if you’re hidden by trees.’

  Ian, recognising that these words were as much for him as d’Amiens, called to Buckler that the visitors were leaving under escort. ‘My Lord asks that you hold the hounds steady until we’ve passed. Once we’re clear, send them to search the woodland.’ He stepped around the fire and motioned to the steward and his guards to join the guildsmen. ‘My men and I will accompany you the first two hundred paces, sir. I suggest you make speed in order to reach the bridge before the light goes.’

  Edmund, Peter and Olyver moved to join him and together they shepherded the eight men away from the fire. Thaddeus remained where he was, pretending sleep, but from beneath his apparently closed lids he was watching for movement in the darkened woodland. It may have been imagination but he fancied he saw a shift in the shadows amongst the trees. But were they retreating or coming forward?

  Unhurriedly, he rose to his feet, stretching to his full height before stooping to take a torch from beside the pile of parchments. He heard Joshua approach with the dogs as he held the resin-soaked hemp to the flames of the fire. ‘We’ll be following the pack, Buckler. The steward brought more men than he admitted to. I want to know why.’

  Joshua searched his face for guidance. ‘I can’t believe the steward would lie, My Lord.’

  ‘He’s done nothing else since he arrived.’ Thaddeus raised the torch in his left hand and drew his sword from his sheath with his right. ‘Come,’ he said, crossing the space to the trees. ‘Let’s see what the dogs unearth.’

  Joshua couldn’t tell what Thaddeus’s expectations were, but if he hoped to flush men from the woodland with words, he was disappointed. Nothing stirred. Joshua watched him advance through the trees, swinging the torch slowly from side to side until the beam settled on a well-trodden path, running east to west. He nodded understanding when Thaddeus levelled the tip of his sword towards it. On quiet feet, he led the pack across leaf mulch to the impacted track and knelt to point the muzzle of his best wolfhound in the direction of the highway.

  The animal set off at a rapid pace with the others falling in behind, and Joshua muttered that they were probably following a deer’s scent. But Thaddeus shook his head. In the flames of the torch, he could see where boots had trampled over clusters of the bluebells which grew in profusion beside the track, flattening leaves and breaking stems. Beckoning to Joshua to keep up, he strode fast behind the dogs, holding the torch high to light the gloom.

  They were almost at the highway when a discordance of barks and throaty growls split the air. Joshua made a vain attempt to catch at the skirts of Thaddeus’s coat in the hope of encouraging caution, but the black-haired giant was beyond his reach. Without even the briefest break of stride, Thaddeus stepped boldly onto the road, showing neither care nor fear of what might be waiting for him.

  At two hundred paces, Ian ordered his companions to halt and allow the eight Blandeforde men to continue alone. ‘My respects, sirs,’ he said in French. ‘We wish your town a joyful Easter and pray that you will have good fortune in the coming months.’

  The imposter gave a dry laugh. ‘Your lord has taught you well. Too well. I’ve yet to meet a Norman soldier who speaks so eloquently. Is your twin as fluent?’

  Ian held his gaze for a moment before turning to the guildsmen and speaking in English. ‘May God go with you, sirs. We will wait here until you’re safely across the river.’

  Peter, Edmund and Olyver formed a line beside him and stood in silence as the column moved away. By then the light was so dim that it wasn’t long before all eight were swallowed by darkness. ‘Maybe we should have accompanied them to the bridge,’ Edmund muttered in an undertone. ‘There’s nothing to stop them doubling back along the highway.’

  ‘They’ll do that anyway if they have a mind to it,’ said Peter reasonably. ‘Watching them cross won’t prevent it. They’ll wait an hour or two on the other side and then creep over again.’

  Olyver stood with his arms folded, trying to pick out the fleece collar on Andrew Tench’s cloak, but even that was invisible. ‘What did the steward say that troubled you?’ he asked Ian. ‘I felt your worry.’

  ‘He spoke of my twin.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How did he know I had one? It was dusk when he arrived and you and I look less alike now than we’ve ever done. He might have taken us for brothers, but never twins.’

  Pensively, Olyver scratched at the stubble around his jaw. From a young age he and his brother had sought to look different. Since riding with Thaddeus, however, they had turned their quest for difference into a sport to amuse their companions. The longer Ian’s hair grew in the manner of Thaddeus’s, the shorter Olyver cut his to resemble the shaven look of their father. The more Olyver nurtured and darkened his beard and moustache with charcoal, the sharper Ian kept his knife in order to scrape his face clean. Close to in daylight, a stranger might see the identical shape and colour of their eyes. But at night? And at ten paces distant?

  ‘It must have been a guess,’ he said slowly. ‘Who could have told him? The only people who know about us are in Develish.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Bourne,’ murmured Peter. ‘There wasn’t a person in the demesne who didn’t know you were twins. The girls kept asking you to stand together because they’d never seen grown ones before.’ He paused. ‘It can’t be far from here. I remember the elder in Melcombe telling Thaddeus that Blandeforde was only half a day’s ride from the Wiltshire border.’

  Ian would have answered that it was My Lord who’d been most intrigued by their twinship, but he was distracted by the distant barking of dogs. The sound seemed to be coming from the highway and he turned to look in that direction. As he listened, the barking turned to whimpering and, with a sense of terrible foreboding, he drew his sword and began to run.

  Joshua remained hidden inside the tree line, frozen by fear and indecision when he saw that there were other lights than Thaddeus’s. Even as he watched, more sprang to life and his dogs whimpered and cringed as burning flames were thrust into their faces. It seemed to Jo
shua that soldiers were everywhere. Some six stood abreast across the highway to bar escape to the south and a dozen more lined the verges on either side. All had their swords drawn with the tips pointing at Thaddeus, who had walked so carelessly into their trap.

  If the big man was aware of the danger he was in, he didn’t show it. Sheathing his own sword, he knelt to quench his torch in the dust of the road and then drew the dogs to him with a click of his fingers. As he ran his hands around their muzzles to calm them, he was looking at a cloaked figure in the centre of the highway some fifteen paces distant. Joshua followed his gaze and felt a thrill of horror as the man lowered his hood to reveal a disfiguring stain across his nose and right cheek. So pale was the rest of his skin that the splash of livid colour appeared black, and Joshua’s immediate thought was that he must have the pestilence.

  Thaddeus gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘My respects, Master d’Amiens,’ he said in French.

  ‘Sir.’

  With a smile, Thaddeus rose to his feet and gestured to the soldiers. ‘Whom do I have to thank for this honour guard?’

  ‘Yourself. I thought you’d have more sense than to pursue me.’

  ‘You pay me too much credit, Master d’Amiens. I’m not so sharp-sighted that I knew it was you I was following. I took you for a thief.’ He tapped a finger against his cheek. ‘I only know you now because of your birthmark.’

  ‘Who told you of it?’

  ‘My Lord of Bourne. He passed through Blandeforde some months ago.’

  D’Amiens gave an indifferent shrug. ‘We’ve had a hundred lords use our town as a staging post these last two seasons. What marks Bourne out that I should recall him?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Thaddeus with amusement. ‘Dressed in tunic and britches, he could easily pass for a serf. Few have the good and bad fortune to be as recognisable as you, Master d’Amiens.’