‘But none so tempting.’ He stared hard at her for a moment and then, as if his mind was suddenly made up, he shouldered his way forward to stand beside Tench and the greybeard. ‘Come,’ he called to the crowd. ‘If Milady is willing to express our concerns to the steward then the least we can do is walk with her to the gates of the house.’
(A DOCUMENT WRITTEN BY HUGH DE COURTESMAIN WHILE HE LIVED IN DEVELISH)
I, Hugh de Courtesmain, steward to Lady Anne of Develish, swear by Our Lord Jesus Christ that everything written here is true. Should I die of the pestilence—and this vellum be found—I beg that whoever reads it will take it to My Lord of Blandeforde or His Grace the Bishop of Sarum and ask that prayers be said for my soul. Be confident that Hugh de Courtesmain is innocent of all wrongdoing and stands alone amongst the inhabitants of Develish in remaining true to the Church and the King.
I write this record without Lady Anne’s knowledge or permission, for it is she who must answer for what has been done here when the pestilence has passed. Her heresies are numerous and she infects her people with them, inciting serfs to break their oaths of allegiance and conduct themselves as freemen. Even the priest fails to discharge his duties as he should, cowering inside his room through fear of the evil that surrounds him.
The King’s taxes and the Church’s tithes have been squandered on feeding a multitude of base-born men and women who have taken refuge in their lord’s house. They treat it as their own and assume entitlement to everything inside. My unhappy situation—being bound to Develish through promises I made to Sir Richard before his death—forces me to hold my tongue over each new sacrilege committed, but the truth of what my pen writes cannot be silenced.
Develish is well named. If God be present here, I do not see Him.
The worst of men goes by the name of Thaddeus Thurkell. He was born a slave and is shameless in his overturning of God’s social order, taking powers to himself by virtue of the unnatural favours the widow of his liege lord bestows on him. Lady Anne debases herself and her class by making herself his whore.
Thurkell is a common thief and bandit, acting outside the laws of the Church and the King. In early September, he roamed the countryside with five companions, destroying villages at will and stealing whatever he could find. There is no sin or crime this man will not commit in service to himself and the woman he calls Mistress. He is a confessed thief and liar and, unless I miss my guess, a murderer also. It is beyond comprehension that all in the villages he has burnt were dead, yet neither he nor his companions show repentance. Instead they boast of their exploits, looking to receive admiration from the people who crowd about them wherever they go.
Along with 200 sheep and a wagon full of grain, he has delivered a Norman hostage, My Lord of Bourne, to Develish. My Lord’s age and infirmity make him quite unable to withstand the many terrors inflicted upon him by Thurkell. In return for his life and freedom, he has agreed to falsify a letter of accreditation, naming the man who bears it as My Lord of Athelstan.
Thurkell and his band plan to leave Develish on the first day of 1349, arrayed in finery once belonging to Sir Richard. Milady makes no secret of her approval of these men, labouring long hours with her seamstresses to stitch fine apparel for them. Since everything they wear or carry will be embossed with the crest of Athelstan, it is clear that Thurkell’s intention is to pretend nobility in order to steal more easily from the unfortunates he and his men encounter.
Every person in Develish is complicit in the deceit—even the children. The intent of all is to free themselves from bondage, and Thurkell goes with their blessing to find the means to achieve this ambition. My guess is he plans to win the confidence of lords and freemen in order to cheat them out of their gold.
The crest and title have been bestowed on him by Lady Anne of Develish, who claims descent from Godwin of Wessex, father to the usurper Harold who was defeated in battle by the rightful King, William of Normandy. In wickedness and complicity in his crimes, she has permitted a base-born slave to claim royal English blood through a designation lost when her maternal grandfather died without male issue.
Let these words of mine be shouted across the country if I am not alive to testify to them when the pestilence has passed.
The man who calls himself Athelstan was born Thaddeus Thurkell, the bastard son of a Develish harlot, reared in bondage without land or property to call his own. He may be recognised through the quickness of his mind, the tallness of his build, the darkness of his skin, the blackness of his hair and the heresy in his heart. He is twenty years of age but has the look of a man ten years older. He is well educated, and reads and writes as fluently as any scribe.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
Sixteen
THE SEVEN REMAINING SCROLLS CONTAINED de Courtesmain’s record of his stay in Develish. D’Amiens took them one by one from the altar and allowed Thaddeus time to read them, and since Thaddeus saw merit in stalling for as long as he could, he lingered long over each parchment. In themselves they proved nothing, since they were written in de Courtesmain’s own hand, but they made compelling reading. The angriest, denouncing Thaddeus as a thief and a murderer, had clearly been written in Develish; but from the differences of ink and vellum, Thaddeus guessed the others had been composed in Bourne.
It was hard to say what de Courtesmain’s purpose had been in writing them because their tone was so bitter and vengeful they read more like a rambling reassurance to the writer that he was a good man amongst heathens than a well-constructed accusation. He painted himself throughout as an honest, God-fearing innocent, obliged to live amongst heretics for half a year, and called on God to witness his innocence as often as he condemned Lady Anne and Thurkell for their guilt. Indeed, so strong were his protestations of continued dedication to the Church that Thaddeus wondered if, in truth, he hadn’t been trying to quell a voice of dissent in his own head.
He couldn’t fault the Frenchman’s memory. Every Develish secret was laid bare—from Lady Anne’s encouragement to her serfs to bid for freedom through to Eleanor’s revelation that Milady was not her mother—and, though Thaddeus toyed with dismissing it all as the workings of an imaginative mind, he knew the steward and priest would not believe him. No one could invent so elaborate a story and transcribe it in such detail to the page.
Thaddeus passed the last scroll back to d’Amiens without comment.
‘Well?’ the steward demanded. ‘Is all this true?’
‘As true as your priest’s claim that he keeps the household free of the pestilence through the cleansing of sin.’
‘What other truth is there?’
‘That you and he are using the same methods Lady Anne employs. First, strive to keep the pestilence out by closing your gates, and then be ready to remove any who succumb. Milady would have taken Develish sufferers outside the moat and cared for them herself, but you and this man—’ he glanced towards the priest—‘chose to banish yours for wickedness.’ He smiled cynically. ‘Which truth do you prefer, Master d’Amiens?’
‘It’s not a case of preference. If the Church cites wickedness as the cause of the pestilence, who am I to argue differently?’ The steward placed the scroll with the others on the altar. ‘Tell me how Master de Courtesmain’s account is flawed.’
Thaddeus glanced towards the Frenchman. His only recourse was to keep discrediting him. ‘In his depiction of himself. Had he mentioned his many deceits, you would struggle to believe anything he said.’
‘Name one.’
‘His constant switching of allegiance. It was hard to know from one day to the next where his loyalties lay. It made him greatly distrusted by the people.’
De Courtesmain appealed to the steward. ‘They had a hatred of Normans,’ he cried. ‘Sir Richard and Lady Eleanor felt their dislike as much as I did.’
Thaddeus gave an involuntary laugh. ‘You’re an ungrateful fellow,’ he said. ‘You were given the chance to leave after Sir Richard died. Why did
n’t you take it, if Develish was the Hell you portray in your writings?’
‘The pestilence was at the gates.’
‘You know it was not. We saw people moving north for several weeks afterwards. You were free to go whenever you wanted, yet you describe yourself as a prisoner.’ Thaddeus looked back to the steward. ‘He had more faith in Milady’s ability to keep the pestilence at bay than he did in God’s mercy. He’s greatly afeared his sins will find him out.’
‘Isn’t the same true of all men?’ asked d’Amiens.
‘You tell me, sir. Do you not have confidence in Father Aristide’s cleansing rituals?’ His lips twitched into another cynical smile. ‘I can’t blame you if you don’t. His inability to strike a spark suggests it’s a long time since these altar candles were lit.’ He caught the priest’s hand as the man made to slap him. ‘You and Master de Courtesmain are two of a kind,’ he murmured. ‘You both look to save your own lives at the expense of others. Do you fear becoming as low as he when your deceits are revealed?’
With relentless pressure, he twisted the priest’s arm behind his back and forced him to his knees. The steward moved to intervene but Thaddeus shook his head in warning. ‘Nothing would please me more than to wrap my chains around your neck, Master d’Amiens. Be sure de Courtesmain won’t come to your assistance. He’s more frightened of my anger than he is of yours. He knows I have little patience with hypocrites.’
‘You’ll compel me to summon the guards.’
‘Oblige me by doing so. I’d rather deal with honest men than cowardly liars who pretend a piety they don’t have.’
It seemed d’Amiens was as easily provoked as the priest. ‘You’d be in your shroud if I had some recollection of you,’ he snapped. ‘De Courtesmain tells me you’ve been doing ad opus work in Develish for more than a decade, but I have no memory of seeing you there. Be grateful for that. Were it otherwise, I’d have known you for a common serf and ordered the skin flayed from your bones.’
With feigned impatience, Thaddeus released the priest’s hand and thrust him away. ‘I’m wearied of this nonsense. If it’s the truth you want, put de Courtesmain to the question. He’ll refute his claims on the mere threat of pain.’ He cast a scornful look at the Frenchman. ‘He can barely stand for trembling at the lies he’s told.’
The sudden thoughtfulness in the steward’s expression suggested this ploy might work, but the creak of the church door distracted him. He narrowed his eyes at the captain of the guard who eased through the opening. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘Lady Anne of Develish is at the gate, sir. She’s accompanied by men from the town and is requesting entry. I need your orders.’
A slow smile spread across d’Amiens’ face as the captain’s words registered with him. ‘How fortuitous,’ he murmured, turning to Thaddeus. ‘God must be as eager as I to see you released from your pledge. Will Milady’s story be the same as yours, I wonder?’
Ian felt his twin’s nervousness as they approached to within a hundred yards of My Lord of Blandeforde’s walled enclosure. This was madness. On horseback, they could see above the gates, and both were intimidated by the extent of the enclosed land. A bend in the long driveway hid most of the house from their view, but enough of the eastern wall and roof was visible to suggest immense grandeur.
The trembling of Lady Anne’s hands on the reins told Ian she was as nervous and he asked her in a whisper if she would like him to bring the column to a halt. She shook her head and answered from a dry mouth that the men of Blandeforde would withdraw their support if they thought her afraid. Ian knew this to be true because the closer they came to the gates, the more the crowd began to drag its heels. Even Master Slater’s brow creased with uncertainty at the sight of archers with raised bows on the steps to either side of the barred entrance.
What to do?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ian watched Olyver remove a wooden beaker from the pack that was slung across the saddle in front of him and fill it from the goatskin of water that hung on the other side. He used movements so small they might have been taken for a need to adjust his horse’s breast collar, and when he passed the cup quietly to Lady Anne no one noticed. As she sipped from it gratefully, Ian turned in his saddle to beckon Edmund, Peter and Joshua forward.
‘Milady asks that we range ourselves in front of these brave townsmen to give them protection,’ he called. ‘Buckler, ride beside me with the dogs and pack horses. Trueblood and Catchpole, take up positions on the other side. As far as she is able, Milady promises to shield and safeguard all who walk with her.’
At thirty paces, one of the archers ordered the column to halt. ‘State your business,’ he called in French.
Lady Anne instructed Ian and Olyver to take her closer. She answered in the same language in a clear, untroubled voice. ‘My business is with the steward,’ she said. ‘Send word that Lady Anne of Develish awaits him at the gate.’
‘He’ll not come for a woman. He answers only to God and My Lord of Blandeforde.’
‘Is Master d’Amiens dead?’
‘He is not. Why would you ask such a question?’
‘Common soldiers don’t normally make decisions for stewards.’
‘We have our orders.’
‘You do indeed,’ she said boldly. ‘Send word that Lady Anne of Develish awaits Master d’Amiens at the gate.’ She gestured to the crowd behind her. ‘Be assured neither I nor these men will leave until I’ve spoken with him.’
It was a good quarter-hour before a liveried captain climbed up next to the archer and instructed Milady to enter alone. She refused, reiterating her request that the steward be brought to her. After another quarter-hour, the captain returned with new orders. If her entourage dismounted and left their horses and weapons outside, they would be allowed to accompany her. She refused again.
The captain shook his head. ‘I urge you not to try Master d’Amiens’ patience further, milady. It’s only out of courtesy to your dead husband’s status that he agrees to see you at all.’
She smiled slightly. ‘My request is a reasonable one, captain. Before I enter, I ask that the steward presents himself in person so that I can be assured he lives and has true charge of his master’s estates.’
‘You have my word that he does, milady.’
‘Does your word count for more than the men of Blandeforde’s, sir? They tell me they haven’t seen Master d’Amiens in months. Writs, purporting to be his, are posted by soldiers and all attempts to contact him are met with silence. What should I make of that?’
‘Whatever you choose, milady. You’ve been given the terms on which you may enter. If you accept them, I will open the gates. If you do not, they will remain closed.’
She bent her head in a mocking bow. ‘Thank you, sir. I believe that tells me all I need to know.’ She twisted around to address the crowd of men behind her, continuing to speak in French so that the captain would understand her. ‘You’ll find no leadership here. I’ll return with you to the town and then ride to Sarum to inform His Grace the bishop that the steward is dead and the house overrun by Norman fighting men. His Grace will know better than I how to reach My Lord of Blandeforde with the news. Meanwhile, I urge you to withhold your taxes for they will surely be stolen by these mercenaries.’
Ian heard a few voices call out for her to speak in English but Master Slater quickly hushed them. ‘’Er woords be for the Franky gaeky,’ he said in Dorset brogue. ‘She wan ’en affrighted enow to faetch the stoörd.’
But it seemed the captain was more distressed than afraid. ‘Have you not come for your cousin, milady? I felt certain you had. Will you abandon him?’
Both his words and his tone surprised Lady Anne, for they seemed to imply some sympathy with Thaddeus. ‘I can’t bargain with Norman thieves, sir. However small the ransom you demand for Athelstan’s release, it will be above anything Develish can afford. My only recourse is to seek help from the bishop.’
‘You malign me an
d my fighting men unfairly, milady. None of this is our doing.’
‘Then bring Master d’Amiens to the gate, sir. I have only to see him for my doubts to be resolved. His appearance is not one that’s easily forgotten.’
Thaddeus was thinking the same as he watched d’Amiens rage against the captain. The split nature of the steward’s face—more pronounced in anger as blood suffused the livid stain—seemed to mirror his character. His moods swung from light to dark in the blink of an eye. All his earlier triumph in the church to hear that Lady Anne was at the gate had now given way to fury. Yet there was no accounting for the wrath he was unleashing on the unfortunate wretch who stood before him, unless he believed his own authority was strengthened by it.
And perhaps it was. The young guards who’d been ordered to bring Thaddeus to the great hall halted him inside the entranceway, hunching their shoulders and staring at the floor as if fearful of being seen to have sympathy with their captain. For a brief moment, Thaddeus thought about returning outside. With everyone’s attention elsewhere, he could walk clear across the forecourt before his absence was noticed. Yet what would it achieve except a few moments of amusement for himself and a torrent of abuse against his guards? There was more to be gained by earning their gratitude than causing them trouble.
D’Amiens seemed most exercised by the captain’s inability to implement simple orders. He was a poor, weak-spirited creature. Only a coward would quail before a woman. She was a widow without rights. Blandeforde’s terms of entry, as decided by his steward, must always prevail over hers. It mattered nothing that she had townsmen at her side. Were his soldiers incapable of firing arrows?
Thaddeus advanced into the hall with a laugh. ‘You attack the wrong person, Master d’Amiens,’ he said, lowering himself into the same carved chair the steward had used two nights previously. ‘It’s hardly your captain’s fault that Lady Anne refuses your terms.’ He placed his chains on the table. ‘Were I less encumbered with iron, I would refuse them also. You have no authority over either of us.’
The Turn of Midnight Page 27