And suffer she would have done, Thaddeus thought now. He could think of no quicker way to break her spirit—and the spirit of her people—than to strip her naked and force her to submit to a relay of soldiers in front of her own serfs. The same would be true if he and the boys were taken prisoner and brought to Develish for a hanging. Gyles had spoken honestly when he said that, for all her strength of mind, Milady would surrender the demesne before she allowed six of her own to be strung from a gallows on the other side of the moat.
Nonetheless, Thaddeus thought Gyles’s fears more alarmist than real, for the chances of Bourne finding their camp near the River Pedle were negligible. The greater threat was to Develish, not least because it offered comfort and safety from the storm. If Thaddeus was picturing the joy of being warm, dry and fed inside the great hall, how much more would My Lord and his men be coveting the same?
With sudden impatience, he dismissed Bourne from his mind. It was all too easy to give way to imagined fears when the brain was tired. The more urgent problem was how to move the grain from their camp to Develish. He was taken by Gyles’s suggestion of hauling the wagon up the river to Athelhelm, although he worried about the water rising if the downpour continued. He and the horses might keep their feet, but the boys would not. They were too slight and too short in stature.
He recalled his angry denouncing of them the previous night. His mood had darkened after Edmund related the story of Eleanor’s birth—a secret known only to Clara until she’d chosen to share it with her son—but he’d lost patience when the boys began to prance about the grass in front of the camp, wearing the clothes and wielding the swords they’d stolen from Holcombe. Their carefree antics were a bitter reminder of the childhood he’d never had, and every frustration he’d ever felt about his own birth had hammered inside his head. But he’d been wrong to lose his temper, and he wished now that he hadn’t. They weren’t to blame for his terrible sense of betrayal because Milady had allowed him to believe he was the only bastard in Develish.
He fell asleep to the slow, gentle rhythm of Killer’s walk, and the beast, unaware of his rider’s inattention, continued to feel his way around the ruts and holes in the road. It was what he’d been trained for; rare had been the journey when Sir Richard of Develish was sober enough to see where he was going.
It meant neither was alert to sentries at the end of the drovers’ route above Athelhelm, or prepared for the sudden beam of light from a lantern that shone on Thaddeus’s face and revealed him as a Develish serf.
Two
Thaddeus’s camp on the River Pedle
IAN STARTOUT SAT HUNCHED IN misery, wondering if dawn would ever break. By building a shelter amongst the trees, and positioning their stolen wagon against the side that faced the river, he and his four companions were protected against the worst of the weather, but their inability to light a fire had rendered them blind. Pressed hard against each other in the small space left to them by the twelve large barrels of pilfered grain, they stared sightlessly at nothing, preferring to withdraw into their thoughts than shout above the pounding rain.
Ian’s mood was turbulent, swinging between love for Thaddeus and a deep hurt that the man he’d thought of as a friend had left without explanation. Had he not done everything Thaddeus had asked without complaint in their search for supplies? Had he not been the most dutiful and received the fewest rewards? And what should he do if Thaddeus didn’t come back? Force these churls to drive sheep through the rain? He hadn’t the strength to keep punching their stupid faces when they challenged his orders. The only leader they respected was Thaddeus.
Not one of the boys would have blamed Thaddeus for turning his back on Develish if Edmund’s tale about Lady Anne not being mother to Eleanor was true. Any man, bastard-born, would cavil at being forced to live the life of a slave while Sir Richard’s daughter, carrying the same stain of illegitimacy, was paraded as a lady. Ian understood well that Thaddeus must have been pained to hear the story from Edmund rather than Lady Anne, but were hurt feelings enough of a reason to cause him to abandon his companions without a word?
Ian’s first awareness that night was coming to an end was when he saw the ghostly glimmer of faces in front of the curtain of rain that was running off the shelter’s interwoven roof of osiers and fern. As the light strengthened, he saw his own emotions reflected back at him in the eyes of his friends. Wretchedness. Uncertainty. Anxiety. But with the dawn came reason. It made no sense that Thaddeus hadn’t returned. He’d worked too hard to locate supplies for Develish to give up on the venture now, and he wouldn’t have burdened his conscience with burning Athelhelm if he hadn’t intended to herd sheep along the highway that ran through it.
With sudden decision, Ian pushed himself to his feet and began searching through the weapons, clothes and saddles that were piled on top of the grain barrels. They’d tossed everything in when the rain began to fall in earnest, and with the light still too dim to see, he used touch to select what he wanted.
His twin, Olyver, raised his voice to carry above the drumming on the roof. ‘Are you planning to look for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Me too,’ called the other three boys in unison.
Ian shook his head. ‘Just Olyver. If we don’t return by nightfall, one of you must ride to Develish tomorrow to tell Lady Anne there’s grain here and sheep at Afpedle. The other two must keep the rain off these kegs until help comes.’
‘It’s not possible,’ protested Edmund Trueblood. ‘We can keep plugging the roof, but when the ground becomes saturated the water will rise from below.’
‘Then think of a way to lift the kegs,’ Ian growled. ‘Build something . . . sit with the damned things on your laps, if necessary. Behave like men as Thaddeus expects, and find a solution to the problem instead of saying it can’t be done. Develish won’t thank us for bringing home mouldy grain.’
Joshua Buckler laid a calming hand on Edmund’s arm. ‘There are beds at the inn in Holcombe,’ he said. ‘They’re low enough and sturdy enough to make a decent platform if we carry them back.’
Peter Catchpole watched Ian don a second tunic for warmth and then hand another to his brother to do the same. ‘You’d better be sure you’re doing the right thing,’ he warned. ‘What if Thaddeus comes back frozen to the bone and finds you gone?’
‘Lay him down and warm him up,’ retorted Olyver.
‘He’ll go after you.’
‘It’s not his job. Get off your own arses to do it.’
‘There’s no sense in us all dying of cold.’
‘Then put your minds to keeping a fire alight and finding food,’ Ian told him. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll need to eat—unless you want to kill Joshua’s dogs and swallow them raw.’ He selected a leather jerkin and buttoned it across his chest, handing a second to Olyver. ‘We’ll divide the arrows we made yesterday between us and tie them in bundles across our saddles,’ he said, passing his brother a sword and a bow. ‘They may not fly straight but they’ll look threatening.’
‘Where do you think Thaddeus went?’ Joshua asked.
‘We’ll start in Athelhelm and then ride to Afpedle and on to Woodoak. If he comes back without us, follow that path. We’ll be somewhere along it.’ Ian dragged down a couple of saddles. ‘All I know for certain is that he would come looking for us if he thought we were in trouble, so it’s only right we do the same for him.’
He glanced at Joshua’s hunting hounds, wondering if they’d be able to follow Thaddeus’s scent, but he felt Olyver’s immediate resistance. Better the twins travel alone than have Joshua’s nervousness holding them back was the thought that came to him. He gave a small nod before stringing a sword and bow across his back and reaching for the bundle of arrows.
‘Do your best and we’ll do the same,’ he told the others as he followed his twin into the rain.
They found the horses huddled within the tree line, their flanks running with water. Both
boys felt momentary qualms about saddling the two they selected, knowing the animals would develop sores as the hard leather slithered to and fro across sodden fur and rain-softened skin. ‘We have to do it,’ Olyver shouted. ‘We’ll get nowhere on foot.’
Ian nodded. ‘We should lead them first. There’s no point mounting until we reach the highway at Athelhelm. They’ll break their legs if they slip on wet grass.’
They didn’t speak after that, but as Ian followed behind his brother with the river in spate on one side and dark woodland the other, he wondered if they’d ever been so in tune with each other. He felt the same fears Olyver felt. The light was too dim. The rain too strong. The level of the river too high. They wouldn’t be able to cross the ford at Athelhelm . . . It was strange. They had fought all their lives—refusing to sound alike, behave alike or look alike—yet today he knew every thought that was running through Olyver’s head. Please, God, make me brave.
Neither was prepared for what they found in Athelhelm. The storm had come too soon after Thaddeus had fired the village to reduce everything to ash, and charred bodies lay amongst the ruins. One had struggled to his doorway, lying half in and half out of the entrance, and the boys retched at the hideous, swollen face that lay in the dirt. It was impossible to say if it was black from smoke or the putrid blood of the pestilence, but the sight of the bulging, terrified eyes was the stuff of nightmares.
The relentless rain had caused Devil’s Brook to break its banks and a stream of loosened mud and stone was washing towards the ford. Even as Ian and Olyver watched, the arm of a corpse lifted as debris passed beneath it, giving the appearance of life. Each wondered how long it would be before the stream became a flood and washed the bodies away or buried them beneath drifts of earth. Perhaps God had brought this downpour for a reason.
As they’d drawn closer to the village and seen how turbulent the water in the river was becoming where Devil’s Brook was feeding into it, they’d left the path and moved through the trees in order to come out on the highway above the village. From that vantage point, they could see that the ford to Afpedle was impassable. If they’d known where safe passage was from crossing it before, it might have been different, but the river had backed up the highway, forming a lake which disguised the curve of the road.
‘It would explain why Thaddeus hasn’t come back,’ called Olyver. ‘Maybe he’s decided to camp in Afpedle.’
Ian turned to look along the highway to Develish. The visibility was so poor he could barely see to the first bend but he was drawn by the idea that Thaddeus might have returned to their home demesne. Yet why? What was so urgent that he was persuaded to ride in darkness instead of waiting for daylight? And who would know he was there except the men who stood on the guard steps?
‘I think he went this way,’ he answered, gesturing to his right. ‘Father and John Trueblood take turns to watch the approach from the village at night. I’m guessing Thaddeus wanted to speak with one of them privately while the rest of the demesne slept. He’ll not take us back if Eleanor’s made accusations of rape and murder against us.’
Olyver followed his gaze, questioning whether Thaddeus cared enough for any of his companions to continue protecting them. He’d been in a black mood the previous evening, cursing them roundly for their laziness and tomfoolery. ‘What if it’s Thaddeus she’s accused?’ he asked, leading his mount alongside Ian’s. ‘She hates him enough. Could Father have taken him in charge?’
Ian shook his head. ‘He has too much fondness for Thaddeus. He’d have sent him away again. John Trueblood likewise.’
‘Then where is he?’ Olyver asked reasonably. ‘It’s not that far to Develish . . . and he’d have to have left before dawn if he didn’t want his presence known to everyone.’
Ian put his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. ‘Let’s find out. He’ll cuss the Devil out of us if he’s round the next bend, and we’ll feel mighty foolish for worrying, but we can’t get any wetter than we are already.’
He came to regret that statement when his teeth were chattering with cold. The sun had been up for two hours by then but its light, blocked by dark, heavy clouds was the murky grey of dusk. There was no warmth in it, and the wind sliced easily through his jerkin and double tunic. He kept narrowing his eyes against the stinging rain, searching for movement ahead, but there was nothing to see. He was close to giving up, certain he’d guessed wrongly about Thaddeus’s intentions, when Olyver put a restraining hand on his bridle and brought both horses to a halt. He jerked his chin towards the woodland on their right.
‘There’s something in those trees. Look at the horses’ ears. They can hear it.’
Ian canted his head, listening. The sound of a whinny, barely discernible over the wind, was unmistakeable. ‘Do you think it’s Killer?’
‘Bound to be,’ said Olyver with decision. ‘How many other horses will be out in weather like this?’ He slid from his mount. ‘We should go on foot.’ He adjusted his bow and sword across his shoulder and lifted the bundle of arrows Ian had given him from his saddle. ‘Let’s pray we don’t have to use these.’
They tied their mounts to trees at the edge of the road and crept forward slowly, alert for any noise that would tell them which direction to go, but if a second whinny came, they both missed it. They felt a pounding on the ground more often than they heard anything above the wind and rain. If either had been alone, he would have turned back out of superstitious fear—such strange tremors in the earth weren’t normal—but, together, they went on. They could barely see ten yards ahead, so dark was the shade inside the wood, and both gave shouts of alarm as something huge and black rose out of the ground in front of them.
They would have lost all courage if they hadn’t heard the rattle of harness and laboured breathing as the creature crashed to earth again. ‘Praise be to Mother Mary and all the Blessed Saints!’ Ian gasped, before stepping forward and holding out a hand. ‘Whoa, boy! Whoa! What’s troubling you?’
‘Take care he doesn’t rear again,’ warned Olyver. ‘He’s scared out of his wits.’ He made a gesture to show he was going to approach the animal from the other side. ‘He seems to have lost his reins so be ready to catch his head collar. It’ll need both our strength to stop him from bolting.’
Perhaps Thaddeus’s charger recognised their voices, because his only resistance to being caught was a half-hearted buck as their hands closed on the straps beneath his rolling eyes. Ian ran a soothing palm down his neck, feeling the heat and the trembling under the skin, but it wasn’t until he looked at the back legs that he saw why the wretched creature was so frightened. For a brief moment he wondered if the rope bound tightly around the fetlocks was a badly applied hobble, but the tangle of hemp on the forest floor, caught in brambles and fallen branches, told a different story. The horse’s rear hooves had become caught in the coils and his attempts to free himself had tightened the noose around his legs.
‘What should we do?’ Olyver called. ‘He’s too worked up. The rope’s the only thing that’s holding him. If we cut him free, he’ll run.’
‘Not if you go back for our two. He’ll calm quicker with his own kind around him.’
‘He’ll smash your skull if he rears again. Thaddeus didn’t call him Killer for nothing.’
‘Do you have a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘Then go.’
All Ian could do was talk to the animal and keep running his hand down the wet neck, ever ready to jump back if Killer made another futile attempt to break free. His eyes were drawn to a breast collar, lying on the forest floor some ten paces behind Killer. The leather bore the Develish crest, much faded from being bleached by the sun, but Ian recognised it as one the serfs used to harness ponies to the plough. He knew then why Thaddeus had returned to the demesne. He’d gone for tack and rope to yoke a number of horses together in order to move the wagon and grain from their camp. He would have called Thaddeus’s name if he hadn’t been afraid of s
pooking the horse. And what would shouts achieve anyway? Thaddeus was no coward or weakling. Whatever accident had befallen him, he would have tried to follow Killer’s tracks once daylight came.
It was clear to Ian that the horse had been dragging the rope for a distance because the churned-up trail in the leaf mould stretched farther than his eyes could see. Surely Thaddeus could have found it? Surely he would have heard the whinny and the intermittent pounding of the creature’s front hooves as Ian and Olyver had done?
If he were able . . .
It seemed Olyver had been thinking along similar lines. ‘Something bad must have happened,’ he told his twin as he came to a halt with the other two horses.
Ian nodded. ‘How should we do this? Killer seems calmer but he’s not going to like us touching his back legs. He’ll lash out as soon as we cut him free.’
‘Do we have a choice?’
‘No.’
Olyver’s teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Your turn then. At least his eyes have stopped rolling.’ He tied their two mounts to a tree and stepped forward to take Ian’s place at Killer’s head. ‘We’ll need an anchor to stop him running. If you cut a length of rope from the coils on the ground, I’ll make a halter to run around the trunk behind me.’
It took longer than Ian hoped. A sword was a poor substitute for a knife when cutting through fibres that were wound so tightly about flesh and bone that there was no give in them. He was mindful of time passing and even more mindful of Killer’s hooves. All the while he hoped the clouds would thin, the rain would ease, and the sun would send more light into the forest. But it didn’t happen. If anything, the visibility worsened, and with it their chances of finding Thaddeus. As the final strand of hemp tore apart, he rolled aside, shielding his head from lashing kicks as Killer danced away from him.
The Turn of Midnight Page 4
