Hugh stared at his hands so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. His greatest regret was that he had accepted her illiterate husband’s view of her instead of deciding her character for himself. ‘I doubt you and My Lord would be right to trust my judgement, milady. I have been wrong about everything.’
‘Not everything,’ she answered gently. ‘Your only real error was to believe that God judges a man by his birth and not by his deeds.’
When the moon was three hours from midnight, Gyles Startout lit a torch from the fire and instructed the men to follow him into the woodland in search of bracken for beds. He invited Mistress Wilde to accompany them, raising her forcefully to her feet with his free hand cupped beneath her elbow when she expressed reluctance to leave the warmth of the flames. Alleyn moved to assist him, marching her unceremoniously into the trees while telling her amiably that she must make herself responsible for Milady’s mattress in the wagon.
She wrestled herself free after a hundred paces and glared indignantly at the amused faces around her. ‘If your purpose is malign, be sure I shall scream,’ she warned. ‘Lady Anne will be shocked if her chaperone is ill-treated by men she trusts and will send My Lord to rescue me.’
Gyles raised his hand in apology. ‘Forgive us, mistress. Our hearts are pure and our purpose good. It’s many weeks since My Lord and Milady were able to speak in private. They will welcome some time alone, I think.’
She made a pretence of patting down her cloak to restore some dignity. ‘You had but to say. Are they close as cousins? I sense a strong bond between them.’
‘Their cousinship is distant but their friendship close. There is admiration and respect on both sides.’
‘Grown stronger since her husband’s death, I don’t doubt. Neither was free to express regard while Sir Richard lived.’
‘Indeed . . . and have had little opportunity since.’
Mistress Wilde heard the wry note in Gyles’s voice, and looked from one man to the other. Sudden understanding appeared in her eyes. ‘Do you hope for more than expressions of regard? A betrothal perhaps?’ A laugh rumbled in her throat when none of them answered. ‘Go look for bracken and let God do His work,’ she said, shooing them away. ‘If ever a union was ordained, it was surely this one.’
(EXTRACT FROM A PRIVATE JOURNAL KEPT BY LADY ANNE)
Develish, the evening of the fifteenth day of April, 1349
We received such a welcome when we returned this noon that I wept for the gladness our people displayed. So loud were the cheers from across the moat that it was several minutes before Gyles could announce that our time of exclusion is over and Athelstan has been granted title to Pedle Hinton. At the forefront of the crowd was Eleanor, clasping the hands of Isabella and Robert as naturally as if they were her brother and sister, and I cannot recall ever seeing her so happy. It was a sweet moment when I stepped from the raft and she allowed me to embrace her as a mother; sweeter still when she begged me to accept the embraces of our serfs.
I have promised to give an account of our time in Blandeforde when we assemble to eat, though I doubt it will be necessary. Clara Trueblood has invited Mistress Wilde to the kitchen, claiming quite shamelessly that she needs a woman of experience to help in the preparation of the meal. From the noisy gasps of astonishment which echo through the great hall, Mistress Wilde’s rendering of the tale is more enthralling than mine can ever be. Who, except Thaddeus, will understand that the most exciting of yesterday’s events was to ride at speed along a deserted highway?
I have no fear that our people will reveal the truth about Athelstan. They and I have talked it through many times and none resents Thaddeus’s assumption of nobility. All have confidence that his single purpose is to secure their freedom and future prosperity, not least Will and Eva. It’s 3 months since he pledged to support them in idleness if they maintained the fiction, and Will has been counting his good fortune ever since. He tells me now that he always had confidence the son he raised would succeed in acquiring a demesne of his own!
It matters not if the name Thaddeus is used by accident. Mistress Wilde is so enchanted by Athelstan’s Moorish ways and thoughtful courtesy that she is quite persuaded he encouraged all to call him Thaddeus while he lived as a serf. Gyles, Alleyn and James have tasked themselves with spreading the story that Athelstan entered Develish last spring as a peasant, and as long as enough repeat it, Mistress Wilde will confirm that truth to d’Amiens upon her return to Blandeforde. I don’t doubt he will question her thoroughly, for a man such as he does not abandon his suspicions lightly.
I cannot say what caused de Courtesmain to fall to his knees and beg me to forgive his errors and lies but we would not have escaped so easily if he hadn’t. In truth, I had expected him to hold even more strongly to his accusations after d’Amiens threatened him with a flogging, and I am sure the priest expected the same, because he was most put out when de Courtesmain chose retraction instead. Mistress Wilde assures me God stepped in to prick de Courtesmain’s conscience, but I think it more likely de Courtesmain looked to prick mine. If so, he’s fortunate Thaddeus is able to read my thoughts and found a convincing reason to spare his attacker.
I pray de Courtesmain has the sense to bury his animosities and work with Thaddeus in Pedle Hinton. Gyles says he’ll have little choice, since the only audience for his whispered poison in the next few weeks will be Ian, Olyver, Edmund, Joshua and Peter, and not one of them will waver in loyalty to the man who is taking them from bondage to freedom. I don’t doubt for a moment that Gyles is correct. His sons and their friends are as worthy as their fathers and wholly committed to the path Thaddeus has chosen for them.
Dear Gyles. He has been my kindest and most generous supporter since I came to Develish. Mistress Wilde tells me I have him to thank for allowing me some moments alone with Thaddeus last night. How precious they were, for it is many weeks since my beautiful Moor last held me in his arms. Then, we could only dream that a day might come when a vassal widow might marry a bastard slave, but now we dare to hope that the dream will be realised. Thaddeus tells me he finds his Moorish part easier to play than his noble English part, but in truth he plays both with such ease that God must surely have intended him to be Athelstan.
It will be a few months yet before Pedle Hinton is restored and My Lord of Athelstan in a position to ask permission from Blandeforde to unite his demesne with Develish. That time will allow me to help Eleanor make peace with herself so that she gains in confidence and her mind becomes calm. I worry less than Clara and Isabella about her seizure because her character is not as frail as they believe. She needs only to understand that love is not diminished through being shared, and I see evidence of that lesson already being learnt through her nurturing of the cats and the happiness her friendship with Robert brings her. I even dare to hope that it won’t be long before Isabella, too, becomes a loved and trusted confidante.
Robert tells me it was he who helped Father Anselm compose his letter, by keeping the old man’s tankard replenished with wine. He says the more the Father drank the better his ideas and handwriting became! I can believe the second claim but not the first. The sweet praise could only have come from Robert. He assures me that his ambition now is to be a merchant and not a fighting man, but I’ve made a small wager with his father that he will reach even greater heights. He has the same cleverness and thirst for knowledge as Thaddeus and Isabella at the same age, and it will not be long before he has learnt all that I can teach him.
I bless God daily for the bonds of affection that have held us together and brought us through the pestilence. To be loved and honoured for who we are, and not what our status represents, is surely the lesson He wanted us to learn when he sent His son to live as a carpenter and not as a king.
The future will be bright indeed when even the humblest are given the chance to prove their worth.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctus
Minette Walters is the critically acclaimed and internat
ionally bestselling author of suspense novels, including The Devil’s Feather, The Sculptress and Acid Row. She is the recipient of an Edgar Award and two CWA Gold Dagger awards, among other accolades. The Turn of Midnight is the sequel to The Last Hours, published in 2017. She lives in Dorset with her husband.
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