The Turn of Midnight

by Minette Walters

  ‘Of course there wasn’t,’ she agreed. ‘No one else thought as badly of you as Sir Richard did. I felt for you that his intemperate language meant we only saw your deputies thereafter.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘I see no comparison between de Courtesmain’s accusations and the false one that was levelled against Jacques d’Amiens,’ the priest said then.

  ‘You would if you’d ever been accused of a crime you hadn’t committed, Father. Master d’Amiens was deeply distressed to have Sir Richard call him a thief.’

  ‘What reason would de Courtesmain have to make up such tales?’

  Lady Anne gave a whisper of a laugh. ‘How else could he gain entry here? He was a stranger without place or position. What better way to ensure a welcome than to tell a compelling story about one of Blandeforde’s vassal demesnes.’ She glanced at d’Amiens. ‘The bigger mystery is how he persuaded you he wasn’t carrying the pestilence. In Develish, we insist on fourteen days’ exclusion before we allow people across the moat.’

  ‘He was confined to the church for a week. The Father took him his food and spoke to him through the door.’

  ‘That must have frightened the household.’

  ‘Why? They had no contact with him.’

  Lady Anne showed surprise. ‘Do they know that contact is dangerous? I thought they were persuaded that absolution and the liturgy of the hours keeps them safe. To have Father Aristide shut from his church for seven days, and the cleansing rituals abandoned, must have worried them.’

  The priest stirred angrily. ‘These are insignificant matters beside the godlessness of Develish,’ he snapped, gesturing to some scrolls on the desk. ‘The details are written here, inscribed by de Courtesmain. Your priest has been silenced, your serfs promised freedom and your daughter declared illegitimate so that you and the son of a Develish harlot can govern the demesne together.’

  ‘You make me quite faint with these words, Father. Master de Courtesmain lived amongst us for eight months and I never once guessed his mind was so disturbed. If you’ll allow Mistress Wilde to fetch my bag from outside, I can show you the steward’s ledger from Develish which tells the true story of my demesne.’

  ‘As written by you and Thurkell.’

  She shook her head. ‘There are many hands, for the record dates back twenty years. The most recent are mine, Athelstan’s and de Courtesmain’s. You will recognise your informant’s in the pages he composed. He was eager to make what contribution he could to Develish’s survival while he was amongst us, and it saddens me greatly that he maligns us now in order to win favour here.’ She turned to Mistress Wilde. ‘Oblige me by asking my captain of arms to give you the bag that contains the ledger, mistress. You will know him by his closely cropped hair and the Develish crest he wears. I don’t doubt Master d’Amiens and Father Aristide will agree to wait on the other side of the door during your absence.’

  Mistress Wilde gave them no choice, stepping behind the desk and using her broad body to urge them ahead of her. Once outside, she closed the latch securely behind her, bobbed a respectful curtsey and then hurried toward the entranceway. Her mind was spinning with what she’d heard. Master d’Amiens a thief . . . the liturgy of the hours a lie . . . Develish a godless Hell. Was any of it true? she wondered, searching the forecourt for Milady’s captain of arms. She picked him out immediately, for he stood apart from the crowd with two others, each wearing the same crest on his tabard and holding his horse by its reins.

  They were deep in conversation but broke off as she approached. ‘Are you Milady’s captain, sir?’ she asked Gyles.

  ‘I am, mistress.’

  ‘She asks that you give me the bag that contains the ledger. She wishes the priest and steward to see it so they know she speaks the truth.’

  Gyles glanced towards the river. ‘My Lord of Athelstan’s men have charge of it,’ he said, nodding to where Ian and his companions stood with their horses. ‘I can accompany you on foot or fetch it more speedily by riding. Which would you prefer?’

  Mistress Wilde laughed. ‘Speed, sir. I’m a slow walker and Milady’s too wearied from her journey to endure the company of Master d’Amiens and Father Aristide for long.’

  Gyles swung into his saddle. ‘If you have Milady’s trust, you have ours,’ he said, nodding to James and Alleyn. ‘Tell my men how she fares. We worry that she has no protection inside the house.’

  As he left, Mistress Wilde looked to James. ‘There’s no cause for worry,’ she assured him. ‘Milady may be tired but her mind is strong. I believe the steward and priest feel more menaced by her than she by them.’

  ‘It’s Master de Courtesmain we fear, mistress. It seems he’s already attacked My Lord of Athelstan. We cannot allow the same to happen to Lady Anne. Where is he now? What news do you have of him? Are his accusations believed?’

  She needed little prompting to repeat what she knew. For herself, she thought Milady was right to say the Frenchman’s mind was disturbed and his claims against Develish merely designed to win him a position in Blandeforde, but it was clear the priest believed them. She asked the men if anything de Courtesmain said was true, and because they spoke with Doreseteshire accents, she gladly accepted their denials. The day would end poorly if it was Lady Anne who was lying and not the malicious Frenchman.

  Twenty-one

  WHEN D’AMIENS RE-ENTERED THE OFFICE, he looked at the scrolls on the desk before he looked at Lady Anne. If any had been unfurled and read, it wasn’t obvious, though he saw humour in her eyes when he raised his gaze to hers. There had been time enough for her to scan them all, and he chided himself for not removing them. He handed her an advantage each time he undervalued her character and intelligence.

  Mistress Wilde placed the bag at Lady Anne’s feet. ‘Your captain sends his compliments, milady, and trusts that all is as it should be. He’s concerned that the loose scrolls may have been crushed by the weight of the ledger.’

  Lady Anne smiled her gratitude. ‘I’m sure he worries unnecessarily,’ she said. ‘Will you oblige me by turning away, sirs?’ she asked d’Amiens and Aristide. ‘There are garments personal to a lady in here and it wouldn’t be seemly for you to see them. It will take but a moment to retrieve the documents from the bottom.’

  They did as she asked but, even so, she was careful to use the flap of the bag to obscure the contents once she’d unbuckled it. She had no more desire for them to glimpse the britches she’d worn than Gyles’s ‘loose scrolls’ of which she was ignorant. There were two of them lying atop her woollen cloak and she moved them to her lap before pulling out the ledger and placing it above the scrolls. She let the flap drop again and thanked the steward for his patience.

  She handed him the ledger. ‘You’ll find Sir Richard’s and my own lineage inscribed at the front, Master d’Amiens. Athelstan is shown as my cousin through direct descent from my grandfather’s brother. It gives his date of birth as one year before mine. If you’d rather study the record in private, I’m happy to wait in the chamber Mistress Wilde found for me.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, milady. I’ll have queries as I read and you’ll be better able to answer them if you remain.’ He nodded to the scrolls in her lap. ‘What are they?’

  Lady Anne unrolled the first and recognised the shaky, ill-formed script as Father Anselm’s. ‘This is written by my priest and is addressed to His Grace of Sarum. And this—’ she unrolled the next and saw that, though the letter was signed with Eleanor’s childish hand, the writing was Isabella Startout’s—‘is from my daughter, Lady Eleanor. It, too, is addressed to His Grace of Sarum.’

  ‘Why is neither sealed?’

  ‘Wax is precious in Develish, sir. We reserve what little we have for the making of altar candles.’

  Father Aristide gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You lie. I watched Thurkell seal a parchment with wax two nights ago.’

  She smiled slightly. ‘Would that be when you were claiming to be the steward, Father?
The townsmen tell me their fellows found it unnerving to have you speak so many lies about yourself.’ She paused. ‘If by Thurkell you mean Athelstan, he left Develish with My Lord of Bourne and Master de Courtesmain on the first day of January—some three and a half months since. I imagine any wax he uses comes from Bourne.’

  ‘You have answers for everything, milady,’ said d’Amiens.

  ‘You will find more in the ledger, sir.’

  But not the ones you want, she thought, as they bent their heads to the pages. There was no mention of Thaddeus entering the demesne last spring in the guise of a peasant or explanation for why he would do such a thing. She could guess he’d devised the idea of a ‘pledge’ to avoid having to give a reason himself and had then cursed mightily to hear that the person who could release him from his promise was at the gate. But where did that leave her? What possible reason could Milady of Develish have had to ask her cousin to pose as a peasant before her husband and his new steward?

  Every story she and Thaddeus had composed had been designed to convince d’Amiens of Athelstan’s nobility. Not once had they thought to invent explanations for why he might have feigned being a serf in front of de Courtesmain. She understood why he’d had no choice but to admit knowledge of the Frenchman—de Courtesmain’s descriptions in his scrolls were so precise that anyone would recognise Thurkell in Athelstan—but she had no idea what to do about it without knowing what else Thaddeus had claimed. Had he said all in Develish believed him a serf? And why would he not have declared himself after Sir Richard’s death?

  With an inward sigh, she lowered her gaze to Eleanor’s letter. It was a fickle irony that in order to defend Thaddeus against one accusation of imposture she must prove him capable of maintaining another.

  Easter Monday, 1349

  Your Most Reverend Grace,

  I am Eleanor of Develish, daughter to Sir Richard (now deceased) and his widow Lady Anne. I pray that you are well and that this letter reaches you, for I am greatly troubled in mind over the whereabouts and fate of my beloved mother and her cousin My Lord of Athelstan.

  News reached us yesterday in the midst of our joyous celebrations of Christ’s resurrection that My Lord of Athelstan had been taken prisoner in Blandeforde. This alarming message was brought by one of his fighting men who spoke of accusations of imposture being made against My Lord. The soldier could not say who the accuser was, but Lady Anne knows of only one person who would level such charges against her cousin. He goes by the name of Hugh de Courtesmain and holds deep grudges against My Lord of Athelstan.

  Honoured Sir, I beg you to believe that Master de Courtesmain is not to be trusted. He came to Develish at the behest of my father, who believed he would make a loyal and able steward. This proved to be untrue. Master de Courtesmain was so afeared for himself when Sir Richard died of the pestilence that he handed government to my mother and reduced himself to the class of peasant in order to escape responsibility.

  It was by God’s mercy that our cousin, Athelstan, was on a visit from Spain when this happened, for he was able to assist Lady Anne in the management of Sir Richard’s estate. Being much travelled, he has more knowledge of the world than she, and his different customs and ease of manner endeared him greatly to my father’s people in our time of trouble. Together, he and Lady Anne used their wisdom to keep Develish safe, and this caused jealousy and resentment in Master de Courtesmain who saw that he’d been foolish to relinquish his authority so hastily.

  Lady Anne has journeyed to Blandeforde to demand My Lord of Athelstan’s release but I have grave concerns for her safety. We had word that My Lord of Blandeforde travelled west last year and I do not know who governs in his place. Whoever that person is, I fear Master de Courtesmain has filled his head with falsehoods, and the blame for that is mine. I am more childish than a girl of fourteen years should be and, out of scorn for his cowardice, teased Master de Courtesmain daily with stories that were not true. To my shame, I laughed to see his expressions, for his jealous nature led him to believe the most foolish absurdities.

  If you be willing, I beg you to send an envoy to Blandeforde to discover what is happening there. I have such dread that my ill-considered teasing of a man too craven to honour his pledge to my father has led to terrible error. In true contrition, I have performed every penance Father Anselm has asked of me for my falsehoods, but only you have the power to redeem my intemperate words. My Lord of Athelstan is ill-versed in English law, and, being but a woman, my mother may not be given a hearing.

  I entreat you to believe that Almighty God blessed Develish twice when He gave charge of the demesne to Lady Anne and ordained that My Lord of Athelstan was at hand to help her. In great humility and obedience to God, and assisted by the prayers of our priest Father Anselm, they have protected my father’s people and welcomed those from other demesnes who have come seeking sanctuary. My Lord of Bourne from Wiltshire was one such and will testify to the truth of what I write.

  Your most contrite and humble servant, In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti Eleanor of Develish

  Lady Anne saw more than Isabella’s hand in the letter. The cleverness of the ideas and phrasing were surely hers, for Eleanor would never have thought to write of de Courtesmain looking ‘to escape responsibility’ or Thaddeus having ‘different customs’ and being ‘ill-versed in English law’. Perhaps Isabella had helped, too, in the construction of Father Anselm’s letter for, though the hand was his, the expressions of praise were quite foreign to his nature, and she wondered if Gyles and Clara had had the foresight to soften his mood with drink before he began—or, more simply, Gyles had threatened to oust him from his comfortable quarters in the church.

  She watched d’Amiens flick through the pages of the ledger, reading some but ignoring most, and it was clear to her that he was searching for the crimes and heresies that de Courtesmain had listed by date in his scrolls. He wouldn’t find them, for they were in her private journal, buried at the bottom of a coffer in her chamber. Nevertheless, she knew there was mention of Thaddeus Thurkell in this ledger, often in her own hand.

  After a quarter-hour, d’Amiens raised his head. ‘This tells me nothing except that Develish’s days are filled with tedium. The only pages of interest are those that refer to Thaddeus Thurkell.’

  ‘Would those be the ones written by Master de Courtesmain?’ she asked calmly. ‘He cuts his quill very fine so his hand is distinctive. You will know it from his scrolls.’

  ‘Why does he not refer to Thurkell as Athelstan?’

  ‘Because Thurkell is the name by which he knew him.’ Lady Anne lifted Father Anselm’s letter from her lap and offered it to him. ‘This may help you understand. It’s addressed to His Grace of Sarum but, since it’s unsealed, I see no reason why you shouldn’t read it.’

  ‘The date is today’s. How did you come by it?’

  ‘Father Anselm entrusted it to my captain of arms. Should I and Athelstan be denied justice here, he will ride with it to Sarum.’

  Easter Monday, 1349

  Most Reverend Sir,

  I am Anselm of Develish. If this letter reaches you, I beg you to pray for me as I pray for you each morning and night. With God’s blessing we will both survive the pestilence.

  This letter will accompany one from Lady Eleanor of Develish, who beseeches you on her knees to intercede on behalf of Lady Anne, her beloved mother, and Lord Athelstan, her admired cousin. Since time is pressing, I will not repeat the reasons for her request, which she has set out well enough, but will say only that I lend my pleas to hers out of a sincere belief that the light of God shines strongly in the two persons she entreats you to help.

  Lady Anne is a noblewoman of great love and kindness who has striven to honour her deceased husband’s pledge to protect his people. She has done so in humility, following St Francis’s example of wearing simple homespun and sharing all she has with her serfs so that they might better understand how beloved they are by God. In this endeavour, she has had t
he support of My Lord of Athelstan, whose presence has been a source of hope and belief in God and the future. He, too, adopts the ways of St Francis, taking a simple name, choosing humbleness over extravagance and paying heed to all men, regardless of their class.

  It is a cause for joy that none in Develish has died of the pestilence since Sir Richard passed. Yesterday, as we celebrated His glorious resurrection, every voice was raised in praise and gratitude to Christ Our Lord. He has shown us nothing but love and we repay Him a thousandfold in the care we have for each other.

  Honoured sir, I commit Lady Anne and My Lord of Athelstan to your mercy and beg that you respond to Lady Eleanor’s entreaties.

  Your humble servant,

  In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti Anselm

  D’Amiens laid the letter aside and examined the page from the Develish register of births. ‘The hand is the same,’ he said, placing both before Aristide. ‘But the thinking and spelling in one is better controlled than the other.’

  Aristide took the page of births and deaths from d’Amiens and handed it to Lady Anne. ‘How do you explain this, milady? It was written by your priest, was it not?’

  She looked at it and nodded. ‘Did Master de Courtesmain steal it from us? How very unkind of him. He should have given more thought to families who might want reminding of when their parents and grandparents died.’

  ‘I’m more interested in the birth of Thaddeus Thurkell, milady.’

  Lady Anne read the words aloud. ‘A sun, Thades, was bor this second week of June, thirteen twenty-eight, to Wil and Ev Thkell.’ She laid the vellum in her lap. ‘Poor Eva. It was all too common for children to die early before I arrived in Develish. Did de Courtesmain not think to search for the notification of death? He must surely have questioned why Athelstan looks so much older than a serf born twenty years ago.’