The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘She wasn’t the sort of woman to confide in all and sundry,’ Susan said and went to serve another customer.

  ‘Should we question that miller now?’ Sir Jules asked.

  Baldwin was tempted to say yes, but a glance at Serlo dissuaded him. The man was sitting slumped, head hanging miserably. Every few moments he would shake it as though in disbelief. He was past rage at the world, and now was sunk in grief.

  ‘No. He’s consumed too much ale. Wait until tomorrow. We can ask him then, before the inquest of his child.’

  ‘So we have learned a little today,’ Simon noted. ‘She was desperate for money. Fine until a year or so backalong, Susan said. Since then, the money dried up.’

  Baldwin nodded. He glanced at Sir Jules. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. Let’s wait until we can hear what others say.’

  Baldwin stared at him a moment, then looked to Simon.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘I think we need to find a lover.’

  ‘A man,’ Baldwin said, ‘who could afford to support her and her children, who had the inclination to protect her and who, roughly a year ago, lost interest in her.’

  ‘He found a new lover,’ Simon guessed.

  Jules narrowed his eyes. ‘He might have got married.’

  Baldwin considered. ‘If he was enjoying himself with Athelina, would he have had time or inclination to woo another? I’d think it unlikely. And he’ll not be young. She wasn’t, and a man seeking a mistress almost always looks for a woman younger than himself.’

  He stood and left some coins on the table before leading the others from the room. As they reached the roadway, the noise began to build again, with a harsh voice speaking, then a burst of raucous laughter. It was tempting to return inside, but then he reflected that there was little he could achieve. Perhaps he could have Serlo thrown into gaol, but that itself could serve no useful purpose. Or so he thought.

  Later he wished that he had done exactly that, but of course by then it was too late.

  Susan could see that Serlo was now very drunk indeed. It had grown dark outside, and as he drank, he grew more and more depressed.

  ‘She can’t love me any more. If she ever did before, she won’t now, will she? I love her, too. I loved Aumie and Ham, and now Ham’s dead, what’ll Aumie think of me? He’ll blame me too, won’t he? All I wanted was to have a good family, but it’s all gone. All gone! All because I couldn’t find anyone to look after them while Muriel was in her bed. How was I to know Ham would be scalded? I couldn’t tell.’

  She knew his complaint was reasonable. There were few men in the tavern with them who wouldn’t have done the same; leaving their children alone, hoping that they would be sensible enough to avoid any danger. But it was a lot to expect of a crawling baby and a boy of four.

  It was odd that Athelina’s boys hadn’t been able to call out the alarm. They were, after all, aged twelve and ten. Had they died first, or had she? Faugh! It was a horrible thought that she could have walked into her house and found both murdered, the killer still there. No woman could do much if she walked in on such a scene. Except …

  Susan considered herself ordinary enough, not dissimilar to Athelina in many ways. Surely if she had walked in to find a man doing that to her children, she’d have screamed and attacked. He’d have scratches all over his face, and even if he killed her afterwards, he’d remain hurt. However, no one in the vill had shown any such marks. Perhaps she had just fainted. Maybe that was it. She collapsed as soon as she saw her boys.

  Or perhaps she was dead first. The two lads were out, and she was killed first, the boys next. But how could the killer have kept them both quiet? They must have screamed and shouted and struggled.

  That was when she had the disturbing thought. It made her stop in her tracks, and as she stood, staring into the distance, she heard Serlo slurring coarsely.

  ‘Well, Sue? You want something? Looking for a man to tire you? I’m the one. Other men can’t sire a single child, but I managed two in three years. My seed’s good.’ He belched, and she turned to him with exhaustion tinged with anger.

  ‘You think you could raise more than a finger? I need a man to satisfy me, Serlo, not my own ale!’ There was a drunken chuckle which ran about the room as the other men appreciated her joke. She was angry enough to make mention of his son’s body cooling in the church, but she stilled her mouth.

  ‘Go home, Serlo,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have a hard day tomorrow, so go home now and sleep well. Angot, you look after him, eh? Make sure he gets there safely.’

  There was a lot of argument at that, and some of the other men disputed her decision to close the doors, but she was tired.

  She was also very worried by the revelation she had just had. The idea that the children could have been silent when the murderer entered left her thinking she could guess who it might have been.

  No, not worried. Petrified.

  ‘Come on, old Serlo,’ Angot said, and hiccuped softly into the night.

  It was much later than usual for him to be out. Usually he’d be up until dusk, and then he’d be off to his bed as darkness fell. Not much else to do. And Bab was a cheerful sort, thank God. Some men had wives who moaned and complained about their lot all night, but Bab was a good wife. She was happy to let him do as he wanted. She’d be there now, waiting for him to come home. He burped. She wouldn’t be over the moon if he let it out that he’d had a gallon or more of Sue’s best ale, mind. Better explain it was ’cos of poor Serlo.

  ‘Come on, poor old Serlo,’ he said companionably. ‘Time to go home.’

  They had almost reached the bend in the track where the stream met it, more than halfway from the tavern, but it had taken them much longer than it would usually. Angot looked up and saw that the sky was clear. Above the trees the stars glittered and shone like pinpricks through a black veil. He had to pause, staring up in awe. God must be wonderful to have created that, he thought. Vaguely, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t have had any idea where to start. It was lovely, though. As a small silver fleece of cloud sailed across the sky, passing near to the moon, he felt his heart expand in pleasure at the beauty of the sight. And Bab would be lying on their palliasse back home, waiting for him.

  ‘Come on, old fellow! Time for bed.’

  Serlo was dragging his heels, leaning on Angot and breathing stertorously, and from what Angot could tell, sweating profusely. No surprise there. The miller always sweated a lot. Usually smelled like a rancid stoat, too. Never bathed, and his armpits were foul enough to be classed as weapons. Now, though, he appeared to take offence at Angot’s words.

  ‘Keep off me! You think I need help? Sod you! You go home to your wife, and leave me alone. I’m not in need of help from the likes of you. Think you’re so sober you can lead me like a pony? I’m all right!’

  He staggered away from Angot, reaching out to grab a tree’s branch as he did so, the breath groaning in his throat, and he cursed bitterly as he started to retch.

  ‘Let’s get you home, Serlo.’

  ‘Fuck off! Leave me to myself, you prick! Get yourself off to your own home and leave me alone!’

  Angot put out a hand to him, but Serlo slapped it away. In truth Angot would be happy to go. There was little point in his staying here if the miller didn’t want him. He shouldn’t leave Serlo in this state though, he thought as the other man brought up much of his ale, vomiting it in among the trees and swearing again as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Christ Jesus! That ale was bad.’

  ‘Come on, let me just help you to your door.’

  ‘Go away!’

  Angot reflected that he had done the best he could. He shrugged, a little pointlessly since Serlo was throwing up again and not even facing him, and then he turned on his heel and stumbled away from the place. If he was quick, Bab would still be awake. It was a lovely night, after all, he thought to himself. A lovely night.

  And so it was. The crescent moon was waxing, and the s
ky was alive with stars. Bats hurtled across the sky in search of their prey, and over the meadows there glided a white wraith, a barn owl, which plummeted as silent as starlight upon a shrew, and then, with an effortless waft of wings, rose again to lift over the trees at the edge of the meadowlands. There he perched on a branch and devoured his meal.

  Afterwards, he remained there, watching, his enormous eyes blinking slowly as he digested his food. He was above all the little creatures of the wood. He cared not for the souls of the animals which scampered and tussled below him. Although in human terms he was the king of all birds here, he had no interest in any other creature, other than those which he might consume.

  He saw the shuffling, stumbling shape of Serlo, and he saw the other figure step out from behind a tree. As the knife rose, the blade shining with an oily perfection under the moon’s silver light, he blinked, but only once. He watched the blade fall, heard the loud hiccup, the whimper, and the sound of blade striking flesh – once, twice, thrice, and once more for luck. He observed the figure of Serlo crawling on as the life drained from him, saw the man walk alongside and kick him viciously in the head and saw him kick again at the dying man’s flanks. He saw the blade come down again, the fingers knotting in Serlo’s hair, yanking the miller’s head back to expose the throat, and saw the blade swipe cleanly across, like a scythe taking the corn. And then there was silence, other than the loud rasping breath of the killer. Soon even that was gone as the man picked up Serlo’s corpse and carried it down towards the mill.

  The owl remained there watching impassively. It was only when he heard a strange rumbling noise that seemed to transmit itself through the ground and up through the trunk of the tree, that he stirred himself and peered about him. Then, a few moments later, he saw a small mouse pushing its nose through the stems of grass at the edge of the meadow.

  He glided down once more on assassin’s wings; as efficient a killer as any human.

  It was late when Richer got back to the castle. Thankfully the door was open still, even though it was long after dark, but here in the wilds, the gate was often left ajar. Inside his hutch-like shed, the gatekeeper slumbered, snoring and whistling, and Richer tiptoed past, rather than waken him.

  ‘You have been gone a long while,’ Warin said as he entered the hall.

  ‘I have been sick. A severe headache …’

  ‘It’s curious,’ the squire said. He was sitting at a table, and now he leaned forward, elbows on the table-top, staring at Richer unblinking. ‘I have known you many years, and in all that time, you’ve never had such bad headaches – but today you refused to join me because of one, and you say you’ve suffered a worse one since.’

  It was true. The headaches had been at their worst when his family had all died, but had reduced in severity over time. ‘I don’t understand it either,’ Richer shrugged. ‘They haven’t been so bad in years. Today I could hardly see for flashing lights and poor vision.’

  ‘Very peculiar.’ Warin stared at him with a strange look in his eye. ‘So long as you’re sure there’s nothing else the matter?’

  ‘What else could be wrong?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re upset over this dead widow? Or could it be something else?’

  ‘You mean the King’s murder?’

  Warin’s eyes hardened. ‘Not so damned loud, fool!’ he hissed. ‘Do you want the whole castle to hear you?’

  Richer shook his head, eyes shut. ‘I can’t think straight while my head’s like this. All I meant was, while the King was planning to murder the Lord Marcher.’

  ‘He intends to execute a traitor, that is all,’ Warin said flatly. ‘Mortimer raised his flag against the King’s friends and officers. That makes him traitor.’

  Richer nodded. It was too late and he was too tired to argue. The flickering candles in the hall were making his head start to feel odd again, and he had no desire to be caught here with a fresh migraine. ‘Did you learn all you sought?’

  ‘The priest agreed to my proposal, yes. And he’ll keep his mouth shut. There were some interesting snippets about the people in this vill though – especially Father Adam.’

  ‘What sort?’ Richer asked.

  ‘The man is a sodomite,’ Warin smiled. ‘So he’s another one we can count upon!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simon and Baldwin were woken the next morning by the sudden eruption of noise as the little fortress’s servants began to rouse themselves.

  It was something that Simon reckoned he could never get used to, this infernal din heralding each new day. To Baldwin it was as natural as breathing, and he lived with the row perfectly happily, but Simon groaned as the men entered the room, chatting loudly about their plans for the day, issuing orders as they went about which horse was to be taken for exercise first, whether the bitch was going to pup today or hold back for another, whether the falcon with the lame wing would recover, and then the more crucial decisions, such as should the red calf or the black one with the lighter flank be pole-axed today. All the Bailiff wanted was to pull his cloak back over his head and return to the arms of Morpheus. (Simon had no idea who the man was, but he’d heard Baldwin mention him before now, and he liked the sound of the phrase.)

  When at last he sat up and pulled on his clothes, the hall was already almost filled. At a nearby wall, Baldwin sat slouched, his face dark as he stared into the distance. Gervase was sitting at a bench on the dais, dealing with the hundred and one little decisions which, as steward here, he must make each day, and not far from him, forlorn and chewing a fingernail, was Jules. His disconsolate clerk peering at his master with a look of impatience on his face.

  Simon ran a hand through his tousled hair and felt a slight tension in his left shoulder. It was always the way when he slept on a bench. The damn things were too hard, but he supposed in a little place like this, he was lucky to have been given a bench to himself. All too often even a notable guest might be forced to sleep on the floor in a castle this size. It was good that the lord and his wife at least had their own chamber separate from the men here in their hall. Most modern castles were built this way, as Simon knew, because with so many hired men-at-arms, it was safer for the lord and his lady to be segregated in case of treachery. Things were no longer, as Baldwin was so fond of saying, as they used to be, when each warrior gave his oath to support and protect his lord for as long as either lived. There was no need for payment in those days – the man served his lord and in return he received food, shelter and clothing. Nowadays, the bastards always wanted money.

  Simon’s mouth tasted foul. Last night, Jules and he had discovered a joint attraction for the red wine Gervase had stored in the buttery. It was flavoursome – powerful and sweet – and although Baldwin had retired to his sleep before long, Simon and Jules had remained in the corner, talking. Now his mouth tasted like the inside of a chicken house. He needed water to sluice it clean. A little meat to chew on would help – as would a pot of cider.

  Outside he ducked his head under the water in the trough and came back up blowing and shaking his head like a dog. God’s heart, but that was cold! Still, at least the wash was refreshing, and he took off his shirt and used it to dry the worst of the dampness. Returning to the room, he saw that Jules was talking to Gervase now, Baldwin listening intently.

  ‘What is it, Baldwin?’ he asked heartily. His belly rumbled and he thought of breakfast again.

  ‘There is a possibility that the inquests will be swiftly completed,’ Baldwin said quietly.

  Simon stared at him. ‘How so? If there was murder, we’ll have to find out who could have killed her.’

  ‘The good Coroner has many other calls upon his time,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘He feels this affair is not important enough to hold his interest. He wishes to be away.’

  ‘The ignorant puppy!’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Looking to his side, Simon saw that the Coroner’s clerk had joined them.

  Roger continued, ‘I fear it’s more
difficult. This morning we have had a message from the Sheriff. A prisoner of the King’s has escaped from his prison and we’re commanded to raise the Hue and Cry and catch him alive or dead.’

  ‘Who is this terror?’ Simon asked with a frown. For a man to escape the King was unknown. Surely the fellow would be recaught soon, but the fact that he had caused messengers to be sent all the way here spoke of the man’s dangerous reputation.

  ‘Lord Mortimer of Wigmore. He has escaped from the Tower of London, apparently.’

  ‘My Heavens!’ Baldwin breathed. ‘No one escapes from the Tower.’

  ‘Not for ever, no,’ the clerk nodded.

  Simon shot a look at Baldwin, and he saw his friend’s head shake. They could not discuss the matter in front of a stranger. It was one thing to enquire about the circumstances, but any speculation would have to wait until they were out of earshot of this clerk. Since they had returned from their pilgrimage, it had become plain to both that it was all too easy for a man to be heard by a fellow talking insolently about the King or his friends, or speaking in support of a man whom the King now considered his enemy. A man who wished to keep his head would refrain from commenting in public.

  ‘So will you be leaving shortly, Roger?’ Baldwin asked.

  The clerk pulled a moue and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It seems madness to me, because there is clearly much to investigate here, but whether it was a murder or a suicide, the most important thing is to keep the records. Once we have the story written down, and the value of the fines, we can move on to the next matter. The child’s death was sad, of course,’ he said, his face growing still more cadaverous, ‘but at least that will be straightforward. The pig will be deodand, for it caused his death.’

  ‘Accidents will happen,’ Simon said heavily. ‘It’s better than some: last time I was involved with a pig causing death, the damned thing had entered a house in Exeter and eaten a baby before the mother’s eyes.’