The Turn of Midnight

The much anticipated second instalment to the bestselling novel The Last Hours

Minette Walters

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781760632182
• eBook ISBN:
  9781760638856
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A deadly plague is spreading across the land...
__________________ As the year 1349 approaches, the Black Death continues its devastating course across England. In Dorseteshire, the quarantined people of Develish question whether they are the only survivors. Guided by their beloved young mistress, Lady Anne, they wait, knowing that when their dwindling stores are finally gone they will have no choice but to leave. But where will they find safety in the desolate wasteland outside? One man has the courage to find out. Thaddeus Thurkell, a free-thinking, educated serf, strikes out in search of supplies and news. A compelling leader, he and his companions quickly throw off the shackles of serfdom and set their minds to ensuring Develish's future - and freedom for its people. But what use is freedom that cannot be gained lawfully? When Lady Anne and Thaddeus conceive an audacious plan to secure her people's independence, neither foresees the life-threatening struggle over power, money and religion that follows... 'Wonderful and sweeping, with a fabulous sense of place and history.' Kate Mosse on The Last Hours

EASTER, 1349

Eleven

Blandeforde, Dorseteshire

THADDEUS SAT ASTRIDE KILLER ON the ridge of a small hill and gazed down on Blandeforde. Gyles had described this place as a busy market town which drew its importance from standing at a bridge across the River Stour, but while the settlement was larger than many Thaddeus and his companions had seen, there was no greater evidence of people. They could see handfuls lingering at corners or moving about the streets, but not enough to indicate a once-thriving community. As ever, Thaddeus was struck by their lethargy. Even those who appeared to be walking with purpose lacked urgency, as if they had long since accepted that the struggle for life was more trouble than it was worth.

Ian adjusted his reins as his horse sidled sideways out of boredom at being forced to stand still for so long. ‘Do you suppose they know tomorrow’s a feast day?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps all their priests have perished and they think we’re still in Lent?’

Thaddeus shook his head. ‘There’s not a man or woman in England who doesn’t know that Easter falls on the Sunday after the first full moon of spring. The skies have been clear this last week. They’ll have seen it shining in the heavens just as we did.’

The swelling moon had been their signal to ride north, for Thaddeus had hoped their arrival would spark less interest amidst the joy and celebration of Christ’s resurrection. Easter was a day for parades and hearty eating after six long weeks of fasting, and he had expected to find Blandeforde readying itself for the festivities. In Develish, the Saturday eve was taken up with the slaughter of lambs for roasting and the final stitching of new apparel for the parade. But there was no such industry here.

‘They’ll be like the survivors in Melcombe,’ said Peter. ‘We didn’t find one who thought there was cause to rejoice.’

‘Nor anywhere else,’ added Joshua. ‘They’re all just waiting for death.’

Thaddeus couldn’t disagree with either statement. They had travelled the coastline for a month, seeking knowledge, but they could have ended their journey in Melcombe had they realised the people’s sense of despair there was shared by everyone else. By night they had camped outside the port; by day they had ridden the streets to gain what information they could. It was hard to come by. The pestilence had so overwhelmed the town that no one could say how many had died. Even when they were directed to a town elder, a man of authority, he proved as ignorant as the beggars who inhabited the gutters. So many had fled when the pestilence first struck, there was no knowing who had perished and who had survived.

From Melcombe they had headed west along the coast to Lyme Regis, riding through deserted or barely inhabited demesnes along the way. Thaddeus spoke to all he met, offering what help and advice he could, but he had no answers to the three questions he was most commonly asked. Does God punish us by keeping us alive? Will our liege lord ever return? Does the King know of our troubles? All he could say with certainty was that, whether through flight or death, Dorseteshire was almost empty of people.

The truth of this statement was driven home to them when they returned along the highway to Dorchester—once the most prosperous market town in south Dorseteshire. They found it all but deserted, with shops and taverns closed, doors daubed with crosses and only the odd movement at windows to suggest that anyone still lived there. Thaddeus would have turned north towards Blandeforde then had the sea held less fascination for him. He told his companions he wanted to discover if there was another port to the east, but he showed no hurry to find it, choosing bridleways that hugged the crooked coastline as often as he returned to the straighter highway that ran inland.

The youths had no complaints. A man could believe he was free indeed when he stood on a rocky height and stared across an ocean. Some days the water was a turgid grey, but on clear afternoons, when a spring sun shone in the heavens, it mirrored the blueness above and there was no saying where the water ended and the sky began. Their favourite camping spots were on pebble beaches where small rivers had cut through the cliffs to empty into the sea. Driftwood made easy fires and the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping along the shore brought a deep and restful sleep.

They grew accustomed to the mournful cries of seagulls but never to the numbers and size of the birds. As big as buzzards, they ruled the sea and the shore, watching the travellers from pale eyes. Thaddeus thought they must live on fish, but Joshua said he’d seen a dozen pecking flesh off a dead sheep outside Melcombe. Only Peter had any liking for them, mimicking their calls with the same ease he mimicked blackbirds and larks.

They took most pleasure from discovering a stretch of golden sand which ended in a mighty bay, dotted with tree-covered islands. Because the entrance was narrow—a quarter-mile cleft between two arms of land—the waters of the bay were as calm as an inland lake and the youths shook their heads in wonder at the beauty of the scene. How dreary Develish seemed by comparison. Half-a-dozen sailing ships rode at anchor down the centre, but all seemed as carelessly forgotten as the fishing boats that lay tilted on their sides along the banks. Edmund’s long sight picked out a settlement far away on the other side, but Thaddeus guessed the only way to reach it was by the highway. There were too many marshy inlets where brooks and rivers were feeding into the bay for horses to find an easy path around the shoreline.

He gladly gave in to his companions’ pleas to spend the night on the beach, being as entranced as they by the softness of the sand and the white-frothed spume that rolled across it. They returned the way they’d come, looking for a sheltered spot amongst the trees that grew along the promontory. Thaddeus chose to remove his boots and lead Killer through the shallow waves. He was fascinated by the pull of sand beneath his feet each time the water receded and only became aware that a fishing boat was drifting towards the shore behind him when Ian called a warning.

He turned to watch a greybeard and a youngster using their oars to try to push the vessel back into deeper water. He called out to them, asking where they were headed, and the greybeard pointed back to the mouth of the bay, saying the current had carried them past it. The craft was too heavy for a tired old man and his grandson to handle alone when all their effort had gone into hauling in nets full of fish. Without thought for whether either had fleas, and pausing only to remove his coat and jerkin, Thaddeus released Killer and waded towards them, putting his shoulder to the planking at the bow. As the boat began to turn, he moved to the stern to push it into deeper water and then called for a rope.

‘The water’s shallow enough for me to tow you to the end of the headland, but from there you must manage on your own.’

The greybeard had no doubts that his finely apparelled rescuer was a man of status and he expressed his gratitude humbly, promising My Lord a parcel of mackerel as reward for his help. Thaddeus said he would be as happy with information, and the talkative old man gave him all he required. Thaddeus learnt that the settlement on the far side of the bay was called Poole, with another to the west named Warham, which stood between the mouths of the River Pedle and the River Frome. More than half the inhabitants of both towns had died or fled, and fishing had become harder with only the weakest left to handle the boats and nets.

‘The boy and I have done well this day, but our catch would have become food for gulls if the tide had stranded us on the beach. God was kind to send us a man so tall to push us clear. Do you not fear drowning, sire?’

Thaddeus laughed as the waves lapped around his chest. ‘Not yet, my friend. Tell me about these fish you’ve caught. Do they taste the same as river fish?’

‘Better. The salt water gives them flavour.’

‘And they’re called mackerel?’

‘They are.’

‘And the birds are gulls? I’ve not encountered them before either.’

The greybeard found that hard to believe. ‘You have the look of a foreigner, sire. How did you come here if not by sea?’

Thaddeus made a mental note to watch his words more carefully when he spoke with Blandeforde’s steward. ‘I came as an infant and have no memory of the journey,’ he lied. ‘Since then I’ve lived in the north.’ He ran some of the rope through his fingers to allow the craft to move farther from the shore as the end of the headland approached. ‘Do many foreigners come to this bay?’

‘They used to, but we’ve seen none since September. Word has it that all Europe has perished.’

‘Not all. There’ll be some like you who’ve survived. They’ll take to their ships again once the pestilence passes.’

He was answered with a hollow laugh. ‘There’s few here believe it will, sire. If we don’t die today, we’ll die tomorrow. What makes you think differently?’

‘Common sense. When did the last person succumb to it in Poole?’

‘I’ve not heard of any deaths since Christmas.’

‘Then, God willing, the towns along the coast have seen the end of it already, for we’ve been told the same story in Melcombe and Lyme Regis.’ Thaddeus halted. ‘You must make ready to take the rope and begin rowing, my friend. I cannot take you beyond this point.’

‘A moment longer, My Lord. The boy wraps fish in sacking and will throw them when you’ve tossed the rope.’ The old man’s eyes regarded Thaddeus thoughtfully. ‘You seem more trusting than most that you’ll survive, sire. What practices do you follow to avoid it?’

Thaddeus recalled Ian’s injunctions to avoid talk of rats and fleas. It was one thing to give people hope that the pestilence had run its course but quite another to invite derision. ‘I come from a country where cleanliness is valued,’ he said instead. ‘We bury our waste and do not tolerate vermin or parasites in our houses or on our persons. Such customs keep us healthy.’

‘Would that be one of the Moorish lands of Africa, sire? We’ve had ships from there in the past and all the sailors have your height and dark skin. They have more kindness and courtesy than most and are a goodly sight cleaner. Many’s the time I’ve watched them cover their mouths and noses to protect themselves from English stink.’

Africa . . . ‘Do you know the names of these lands?’

‘Only Egypt.’

‘Because her people visit here or because your priest has taught you about Moses?’

‘Both. Their ships sail from a town called Alexandria. It’s said to be very fine.’

Thaddeus nodded to the youngster, who was showing him that the parcel of fish was ready. He coiled the end of the rope and threw it towards the greybeard before catching the sacking bundle in return. ‘Stay well,’ he said, raising his hand in farewell.

The old man chuckled. ‘If you were from a land in Africa, you would do this,’ he said, leaning his head forward and touching the fingers of his right hand to his forehead.

Thaddeus mimicked the gesture. ‘I thank you for the fish.’

The old man took up his oar. ‘And you for your help, sire. Thanks be to God, we’ll all eat well tonight.’

Thaddeus retreated to the shore and watched them angle into the bay before returning along the sand to where Ian was holding Killer. His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he stripped off his dripping clothes and pulled spare ones from his saddle pack, but his eyes were alight with good humour as he did it.

‘What did the fishermen say to make you so cheerful?’ asked Ian.

‘He told me something I didn’t know.’ Thaddeus re-dressed himself and knelt to undo the sacking. ‘These are called mackerel,’ he said, revealing twelve silvery-blue fish. ‘They’ll make a welcome change from mutton.’

There was never any shortage of sheep. Everywhere they went, flocks were multiplying as ewes gave birth to spring lambs and pastures recovered from the frost...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Places, people and events from The Last Hours
• Autumn and Winter, 1348
• 1349
• February, 1349
• Easter, 1349