The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Well, the Justice sends for the vintner, and he responds quick, like, to explain why he hasn’t paid up. The vintner says, “I would have paid on possession, but didn’t use it. I never put anything into her cellar, other than one poor pipe of wine.” Right? Get it? To this she says, quick as a flash, “You had two full butts with you which you left at the door – why ever didn’t you bring them in?” See? He’d two butts outside – you get it?’

  Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look.

  While Ivo roared his delight at the joke, Baldwin muttered, ‘This fellow is more degenerate than many a man twice his age.’

  Serlo hadn’t been away from the mill all day. There were no travellers so far, and his wife Muriel was alarmed to see his mood. There were days when he could be a devil, and if this was one of them, she’d give him as good as he gave. She’d had enough of being trampled on like a slave.

  In the late morning she called him for his lunch. He came stomping into the house, standing at their fire and staring down at the flames. The mill was warm enough for him, because running about and lifting the heavy sacks made his blood course faster, but when Muriel herself went in, she felt the cold eat into her bones. The air was always icy that close to the water, and even on a hot summer’s day, the sun couldn’t warm the mill.

  Once, she had asked her husband why he didn’t light a fire, and he had sneered at her foolishness. The fine powder would explode, he told her. If he had a fire in the mill, just the merest spark could set the whole place ablaze.

  It was a terrible thought. Muriel had stared about the place with alarm, suddenly struck with a fear that her sons could come in here and be hurt. Of course Aumery was only four years old, and Hamelin a matter of eight months, so they wouldn’t be likely to play with fire yet, but young boys were always trouble, and they might, in the future, be silly enough to do something stupid. This was just one more thing for her to worry about.

  ‘Do you want some drink, Husband?’ she said at length. Hamelin was settled against her, nuzzling at her breast. Without thinking, she opened her tunic and let him suckle, smiling down at him, feeling the warmth of her love for her child.

  ‘Yes. Ale,’ Serlo responded, busy with a jammed block and tackle.

  Still feeding her child she filled a jug one-handed and took it back to Serlo, setting it down on the table near him. There was a loud rumbling and the constant sound of water from the mill nearby, but they were reassuring sounds. While she could hear them, she knew that there was food for them, that there would be a store through the winter, and that they should survive through to the spring. Hunger was a terrible affliction, and Muriel could all too easily remember the horrors of the famine.

  Yes, sitting here, she could be content. As the trees swayed gently outside in the soft breezes, occasional gleams of sunlight darted in at the window, making the dusty interior glow with a godly light, as though He was indicating His own pleasure. Meanwhile her child supped at her, instilling that feeling of maternal wonder and pride that always made her so happy.

  Serlo ignored her, glowering at the block as he tried to release it. He said nothing as Muriel sniffed at Hamelin’s backside, which smelled again. She settled him on a mat near the fire and pulled his legs apart, untying the clout and throwing it from his reach before wiping him clean and binding a fresh shred of cloth about him. The old clout she put in a bucket out by the door ready to be washed later, and then she filled a pot with ale for herself and sank down to stir the pottage.

  She spent much of her time these days feeling tired. The effort of looking after the two boys was draining, especially while she was still breastfeeding. And their father was so sullen. He was more uncommunicative than ever since little Danny had died. As though that wasn’t bad enough, she had the clenching ache in her womb that spoke of her monthly time coming. She would have to wash all the clouts today to make sure that there were enough for her as well as for Ham. She longed for the baby to be clean. Some were clean at two years, she knew; her Aumery had been one of them.

  If only her husband were prepared to help – even a little. Just to take the two boys off with him for a morning or so, so that Muriel could get on with her washing. But he wouldn’t, and to be fair, Muriel knew full well that she’d never trust him with her children … their children. He was too forgetful.

  In the past he had been different. A kind, considerate lover to her when he wooed her, he had grown more distant since their wedding. Over the last year since Dan’s death he’d been really morose. Now there was seldom a chance for them to spend time alone together, apart from when he wanted her. Then he could be charming for a while. But only for a while. After that, when he was done, he’d roll over and start to snore, sated. A good meal, a pleasing congress, and he was content.

  ‘We need some—’ she began, but he cut through her speech like a saw through wood.

  ‘You always want more money, woman! When will you get it into your thick skull that we don’t have enough?’

  ‘We do quite well!’ she retorted, hurt. ‘We’ll have more when folk start bringing us their new grain.’

  ‘That isn’t going to be enough – not if you keep asking for more all the time! And those brats want feeding and clothing, damn them both!’ he shouted, his face red with frustration. ‘Christ’s balls, there must be a way to get more.’

  His voice trailed off and Muriel watched him silently. Better to wait than incur his wrath.

  ‘I could try it,’ he muttered thoughtfully, his low brow creased with the effort.

  ‘What, dear?’

  ‘Ask Lady Anne to cough up – to pay me for my silence. She’s no better than any other, but she wouldn’t want her name spoiled by me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked again. There was something in his cunning expression that alarmed her.

  ‘Don’t you worry, maid. She’ll pay – otherwise the castellan might learn what I know of his wife.’

  ‘The castellan … Husband, be careful! Nicholas would have you in his court as soon as look at you, and then where would we be?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, woman! The castellan’s wife will do anything to make sure others don’t hear of her adultery. What, would she allow her husband to find out he’s got a cuckoo in the nest? If he learned that another man knew his wife, he’d kill her.’

  Aumery was listening, and he repeated slowly, ‘Another man knew his …’ before Serlo slapped him around the head.

  He picked up his son and stared into his eyes. ‘Don’t ever say that again. Not while I’m alive, boy. You repeat that to anyone while I’m living, and I’ll break your head!’

  Muriel took her son from him, now shivering with tiny sobs of terror and gentled him. ‘Daddy didn’t mean it, Aumie. He just didn’t want you to tell anyone what you heard. It’s secret.’

  ‘I meant it,’ Serlo grated. ‘While I live, I’ll kill anyone who talks about it.’

  Simon and Baldwin had ridden alongside a river and continued up the trail. It was, like most of the roadways in Devonshire, a poor track. Grasses grew thickly all about it apart from the edge where horses’ hooves had cut into the turf. The soil was thick and dusty, even close to the stream, while every so often swirling flies attacked their exposed flesh. At one point they passed a large byre, and here the buzzing of flies was deafening. Swarms rose into the air from the dung as they passed, and Baldwin put his arm about his nose and mouth. Flies were to him repellent; although he was immune to Simon’s dread of corpses, Baldwin had seen flies too often about the faces and bodies of dead men to want them to touch him. War had scarred him: the raking knife-cut on his face was the least of his wounds, but sometimes he thought that the scars were mostly in his mind.

  Now, having passed through an area of thicker woodland, they found signs of coppicing. Although the road narrowed a little, they had better views afforded them by the thinning trees, and up ahead there was the unmistakable sight of smoke. This could only mean a village. There was too much smoke for it
to have come from one homestead. Baldwin, like Simon, stared ahead keenly.

  Villages should be places of safety, but all too often a stranger was viewed as a threat, even on a road which was, theoretically at least, as busy as this. This way was the most important route from Bodmin and the whole of the far western side of Cornwall to Devonshire, so it was supposed to be busy – not that Simon and Baldwin had seen much evidence of other travellers. If the folk hereabouts weren’t very used to seeing people, they might be less than welcoming.

  ‘What do you know of this place, Ivo?’ Baldwin asked their guide.

  ‘Cardinham? The normal haunt of churls and fools,’ Ivo said with the contempt of a town-dweller for a peasant community. ‘They are harmless, though.’

  ‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let’s go and see what sort of reception we merit, eh, Simon?’

  Chapter Five

  Having few duties that morning, Richer walked with his companion to the house which had a bush of furze tied to a post above its door. ‘Ale!’ he shouted.

  ‘If you want ale, you can ask for it like a man of manners, and not bellow like a lovesick ox,’ the alewife Susan called out firmly.

  ‘Woman, you have two men dying of thirst out here,’ Richer said.

  ‘I doubt it. Oh, so it’s you, Richer.’ A small, mousy-haired woman appeared, with a gap between her front teeth and a few too many wrinkles, but attractive nonetheless. ‘Who’s your friend?’ she asked.

  ‘This is my master, Squire Warin.’

  ‘It is, is it?’ said the woman, peering at the man. ‘I’ve heard much of you, Squire.’

  Richer knew that there was good reason for her to stare, just as there was good reason for Serlo to be fearful at the sight of the man beside him. Squire Warin was a sight to behold, the stuff of some women’s dreams. Tall, with the broad shoulders and thickened neck of one used to charging with the lance, he had thighs as thick as a woman’s waist, and a chest like a barrel. His features were craggy and square, the jaw heavy, as though he could bite through stone. When he was angered, Richer had seen the great muscles at the side of his head knotting until his entire head looked like a clenched fist.

  Now he was not angry, and feeling safe enough from the scrutiny of a woman like this, Squire Warin was content to treat her to a wide grin. ‘Lady, do you object to serving men of common fame like me?’

  ‘No,’ she said, although doubtfully. ‘I suppose not. Although I’m surprised you’ve not been in here before. You’ve been living in Cardinham more than a month.’

  ‘The ale at the castle is good,’ Warin smiled, ‘but if I had known that your tavern held such an obvious attraction, I should have come here much sooner.’

  Sue winked at Richer. ‘You taught him well, Rich. He can flatter as well as you! What’s it to be? A quart of ale each?’

  ‘That would be good,’ Richer said easily.

  She went off, and was soon back carrying a great jug and two mazers. ‘Try some of this. It’s good, I’ll wager. It was made for the harvesting, and it’s near perfect.’

  Squire Warin took a long swallow. ‘It is good,’ he said, his approval echoed by Richer. ‘It is your own brew?’

  ‘Who else would make it?’

  ‘Your husband? I had heard you were married?’

  ‘To a wastrel, yes. He lived here for a while,’ she said, her face setting rigidly for a moment. Then, like a cloud passing from the sun’s face, the mood left her and she chuckled slightly. ‘Then I booted him out. He drank all the ale he could, spent money on buying drinks for others, took my purse when he had little left himself, and near lost me this house. It was my parents’ place, you see. Well, he’s gone now. I won’t have him back.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I doubt it. So, that’s my story … why are you here?’

  Richer coughed into his ale. ‘Woman, don’t think to question a nobleman!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Why? What’s so wrong about asking that?’ she asked with a sly glance.

  ‘I think you know already,’ Squire Warin said. ‘My lord died, and I was without a master for a while, but then I was sent here, and Nicholas at the castle has taken me on as a guard.’

  ‘You are lordless?’ she asked, eyeing his rich clothing. ‘And yet you seek to make trouble.’

  ‘Me?’ Warin rumbled.

  ‘Richer does, and you’d support him, wouldn’t you?’ she countered.

  Richer smiled at her. ‘We seek no trouble at all.’

  ‘Really? Yet you want to pick a fight, don’t you?’

  ‘You mean Serlo? He has been robbing the vill for too long. If he steals from your lord, the lord will fine everyone here. But he takes money from strangers as gifts so that they don’t have to pay tolls; when he is discovered, everyone else will be forced to pay. Is that fair?’

  ‘As fair as life usually is,’ she countered. ‘Ah, but I don’t know. I can’t care. I don’t know how many summers I’ve seen in my time, but I don’t suppose I’ll see many more. What is it to me if you pick a fight with him?’

  ‘I don’t want to fight him, just expose him,’ Richer said. In truth he didn’t want either. All he wanted was for Athelina to be safe in her home, secure from Serlo’s threats and unreasonable demands for money. It was Serlo who’d suggested that she should whore for the money. Richer could remember the rising fury when she had told him that. It had made him want to go and slaughter the miller on the spot.

  He hadn’t seen her for some days now. He’d been busy, of course, with his duties as a man-at-arms, but when he had gone to the house, it had been empty. Only last night he’d banged on the door, but before he could push it open, he’d seen old Iwan watching him, and the awareness that entering a woman’s home uninvited was improper and could give rise to rumours of her incontinence, made him stop and walk away.

  Susan was watching him carefully. ‘If you upset those two, it’ll end in a fight, mark my words. And even you might find it hard to defend yourself against both together.’

  As Sue spoke, had she but known it, three travellers were approaching the tollgate over the miller’s bridge.

  Serlo heard them from his little cottage and cocked his head. Aumery, his older son, was whining about something or other, but a flick from Serlo’s hand to the boy’s head and, ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about!’ soon made him silent. Muriel hurried to the snot-nosed brat and soothed him, watching Serlo with wide, bitter eyes.

  Yes, it was horses. Hopefully, Serlo rose and hurried out through the door and over to the gate. Once there, he leaned on it and gazed westwards down the lane. The road bent immediately after the bridge, and although there were few trees there lining the stream’s banks, they stood rank behind rank, obliterating any view of the roadway.

  Surely this must be merchants, or a pair of fellows hurrying to a market? Serlo’s face was wreathed in smiles at the prospect of making a little money. And Christ’s tears, he could do with it! Muriel was always on at him, as if he needed that sort of nagging when he was already worried about Richer. She should learn to keep her trap shut.

  There was a flash of colour through the trees. Yes, it was two – no, three men on horseback! Serlo felt his mood slip a little, because so many might be able to dispute his right to charge anything, just as Richer had. Then he shrugged. If they did, there was little he could do to change that. They shouldn’t, anyway. Most didn’t.

  The leading rider was a bluff-looking fellow, big in the saddle, wearing a green tunic with pale red hosen. Behind him was another man, one with a thin line of dark beard following his jaw, wearing a blue tunic, red hosen and a floppy-brimmed green hat. The last rider was clearly a servant, clad in tatty ochre-coloured tunic and hosen. No other men, no one on foot. Yes, Serlo reckoned, this was an easy mark.

  ‘Masters!’ he roared as the men approached. ‘Godspeed!’

  ‘Godspeed,’ replied the leading man, his eyes all about the place as though suspecting an ambush. ‘What is this
, friend?’

  ‘My master built this bridge from his own funds, and he collects tolls to help pay for it.’

  ‘Does he have permission?’ asked the second man. He spurred his horse on, and studied Serlo. His eyes seemed black and intense, and Serlo felt nervous of meeting that flat, determined stare.

  ‘Permission, master? I suppose so. This is his manor, after all.’

  ‘I should like to speak to him about this, then, and see the authority which permits him to charge travellers at will.’

  Serlo smiled and ducked his head. ‘If you don’t want to pay, masters, maybe I could help? Give me a halfpenny, instead of the penny toll each, and I’ll forget you passed this way.’

  ‘So you would halve our fee?’ the bearded man asked quietly. Suddenly his horse jerked his head, and Serlo found that the man had approached the gate with an angry set to his face. ‘Do you mean to say that you would betray your master’s trust, churl? Would you forget his tolls in order to make your own profit?’

  ‘I am trying to help you, that’s all,’ Serlo said. He regretted not bringing his cudgel with him now. ‘If you don’t want my help, go back the way you came, and find another route. It’s nothing to me!’

  ‘My name is Sir Baldwin of Furnshill. I command you to open that gate now, fool, before I ride both it and you down! Be silent! Open the gate at once in the name of the King! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I swear this to you now: when I see your master I shall enquire as to the legality of this tollgate, and if I learn that it is not legal, I shall return to question you.’

  He was leaning low over his horse’s neck now, his eyes fixed upon Serlo like a snake’s upon a rabbit, and Serlo was petrified. The movement of the rider’s hand towards his sword-hilt decided him. There was nothing he could do to defend himself against a knight trained in battle. With a bad grace, he lifted the bar once more and hauled the gate wide, keeping behind it. ‘I’ll tell my master of this,’ he muttered sulkily. ‘He won’t be happy.’