The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17)

by Michael Jecks

‘Which is fine,’ Simon said, ‘but the child said that the castellan was guilty. That makes no sense. If Nicholas heard evil rumours, he might kill the adulterous couple, but why slaughter the mere witnesses?’

  ‘I only repeat the child’s evidence,’ Jules said haughtily.

  ‘You seriously tell us that this child, this infant, was a credible witness?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Enough for you to insult a man of Nicholas’s stature? I find that more than a little surprising.’

  ‘You are attracted to an abstract problem, Sir Baldwin,’ Jules said with some asperity. ‘This, for me, is a prosaic matter. We have bodies: a man and a woman and three children. These are issues of record. I am not interested in justice, my duty is to record the facts so that when the Justices of gaol delivery arrive, they can assess the guilt or innocence of the men put before them by the jury. All the time I am bogged down with this matter, I am missing others. Better by far that I should move on to the next. Especially while a traitor to the King is wandering the countryside.’

  ‘So you will blacken the good castellan’s name in front of his lord’s peasants so that you can run off and look at other matters?’ Baldwin asked silkily. ‘Not to mention causing untold problems at the castle. What if Nicholas has no idea of the adultery of his wife? What if she is not guilty of adultery and these rumours are nothing more than that?’

  ‘You say that, when both those who witnessed the steward and the lady rutting in the meadow are now dead? Surely it is this secret which is being concealed at the cost of so much death.’

  Baldwin rolled his eyes. ‘God save me from logical Coroners! Good Christ in Heaven, man. Two people saw Lady Anne lying with Gervase; the two people have been murdered – therefore they were killed because Lady Anne lay with Gervase. It is the same as saying this moth has wings; birds have wings therefore this moth is a bird. It is not logical.’

  ‘You may not think so, but I disagree. I think it makes good sense, so I shall call my inquest now and finish the job.’

  Baldwin licked his lips. ‘Please, give me a little more time before you take this action. It is too drastic. I require another day to find the truth.’

  ‘A whole day? Keeper, it’s impossible.’

  Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘At least talk with me for a little while. We can discuss the actual amount of time we have. Please, let me buy you a cup of wine to talk it through?’

  Sir Jules threw a harassed look at Roger, who nodded encouragingly. Then, ‘Oh, very well, Sir Baldwin, but only one drink!’

  When Nicholas suddenly strode from the room, Anne could see that something had upset him, and she had an unpleasant suspicion that he had read her look. She rose, sweeping away from Gervase, who had tried to engage her in conversation again, and rushed after her husband.

  He had made his way to the solar, and had gone up to their bedchamber. He stood there now, head bowed, staring at their bed.

  ‘My love?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘Was it here, in my own bed?’ he asked in a broken voice, and she felt her heart die and shrivel.

  ‘My love, I …’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! I saw your expression in the room down there. I should have guessed before, but you’ve always made yourself appear so loving that no hint of betrayal ever occurred to me. But I should have known. Why should a woman so young, so …’ he choked on the word. ‘So lovely! Why should you look at a grizzled old captain like me? Anne, I know it’s Gervase’s baby, not mine. Just tell me truthfully: did you pollute my bed as well as your body when you whored for him?’

  ‘I did not.’ She set her features into a steady, calm expression and sat on the edge of their tester bed. ‘I couldn’t. That would have been disloyal.’

  ‘Disloyal! Madam, how much less loyal could you have managed? By St Peter’s bones, are you mad, or just taunting me? Are you a mere common stale, ready for any tarse in the castle? Have you fucked the guards as well as Gervase? Why stop there? Perhaps you sought the ostlers too – or the scavengers?’

  ‘Husband, please, listen to me,’ she said with a break in her voice.

  She could feel her breast squeezing tighter and tighter as he spoke, spittle flying from his lips, pacing up and down the small chamber. He might harm himself, and it would all be her fault. It was all her fault. ‘Husband, please …’

  ‘I am no husband to you, woman. You are a whore, and the sooner you leave here, the better.’

  ‘Please, Nicholas, don’t do this to me,’ she whispered feebly. She felt weak, panicked and full of tension. Her very scalp seemed to tighten.

  ‘Think what you have done to me! You have betrayed me, betrayed any love we had for each other. Christ Jesus! I should draw steel and end your life now!’

  He put his hand to his sword-hilt, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to fall, but then she heard his grunt of contempt. ‘Open your eyes, whore! What do you want of me? More pain? You can wait for that. I shall have my revenge on you and him.’

  ‘What of my revenge?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yours?’ he sneered, and then his face hardened like rock. ‘You mean he raped you?’

  ‘I was betrayed by a man,’ she said. ‘He said he loved me, and then he left me for months, and I had no idea what had become of him. I loved him, but he was gone without a message to tell me he was alive. What was I to do?’

  ‘Remain chaste and honourable. That was what you were supposed to do,’ he grated.

  ‘My father left me, Husband. He never came back. And when we heard that he was dead, my mother died too, and I was an orphan. I was thrown from my vill, because there was not enough food to fill even one useless mouth. All I could do was walk, and I was taken in by a man – to live the most demeaning life I could imagine. I swore, when I left that place, that I would rather die than return. And then,’ she stood, walking to him slowly, ‘I found a man who loved me as much as I loved him. I loved, adored, worshipped him, and when I thought he might be dead, it was as though my father had died again, and I was forced to imagine life without him. I began to have dreams of returning to that hell-hole, where any man could buy me. Can you imagine what that made me feel? A whore. Yes, I was a whore. My honour gone, my shame permanent. Do you condemn me for trying to escape that?’

  ‘You should have waited for news.’

  ‘There was no news. You sent no message in months!’

  ‘You should have kept faith, woman! You should have trusted me, trusted our master!’

  ‘I suppose he would have taken the time to write to a woman who was merely the wife of a captain in his host,’ she said with a sneer in her voice.

  ‘And then, when I came home, you dragged me to your bed as though to prove your desire for me, when all you intended was to hide the fatherhood of your baby!’

  ‘No! I swear that’s not true! Husband, please believe me when I say that I love you, and I was so delighted that you returned, I was overwhelmed. I had to take you to my bed immediately.’

  ‘To the bed where you lay with him.’

  ‘No. Believe me, I—’

  ‘I can’t believe you!’ he shouted. ‘All you say is false!’

  ‘I still love you. Please, for my sake, for our child’s sake …’

  ‘Damn you, and damn it!’ he blurted, and as she put out a hand to him, he first knocked it aside, and then clenched his fist and swung it at her belly.

  ‘Masters? I have a message for Father Adam. Do you know where I can find him?’

  Simon was squatting and throwing stones at a twig when the fellow arrived.

  The newcomer was a young man, short and slight of frame, with a sunbrowned, oval face, and Simon did not recognise him. Roger didn’t either apparently, for he looked enquiringly at the fellow. ‘You aren’t from round this vill, then?’

  ‘No, I come from Temple. Father John sent me.’

  ‘Ah. Well, Father Adam’s up there in the church,’ Roger said.

  The two watched as the youth made his way up the bank to the porch o
f the church, and then entered.

  ‘Did you learn anything from Nicholas at the castle?’ Roger asked.

  Simon shook his head. ‘Only that he is the father of Richer, and I see no reason why he should claim paternity unless it is true.’

  Roger nodded, but just then the messenger came back from the church. As he passed them, Roger could see Adam peering out at them from the vantage point of the church’s porch, and the clerk had the impression that Adam wanted to talk to him. He asked Simon to wait a short while and walked to the open door.

  ‘Is that Bailiff outside still, Brother?’ Adam hissed from the shadows.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said, and then he gasped as he saw the flash of a knife. He tried to leap back, stumbled on the step and fell, shouting, ‘Murder! Murder! He’s killing me!’

  ‘Not soon enough, you devil!’ Adam screamed, and rushed forward, the dagger gripped under his fist, ready to plunge it down into Roger’s breast.

  Roger saw the silver-blue steel racing towards him and raised both hands to block it. As luck would have it, his wrists crossed, and the knife fell between his hands, caught in the scissor-like grip. Roger bleated, shoving his fists up over his head as Adam fell onto him, pushing the knife higher, the point scratching over his right eyebrow, and then Roger gripped his assailant’s wrist in both of his own and tried to wrest the knife from him. Adam responded by pounding Roger’s face and neck with his free hand, Roger shrieking at the top of his voice all the while. And then the clerk was sure that he must have fainted, because all became quiet, and the weight of Adam’s body grew lighter and lighter, as though Roger’s soul was passing away. He closed his eyes when he seemed to see Adam’s face receding into the darkness, and then he heard a chuckle and opened his eyes fully to see Simon standing over him studying Adam’s knife.

  ‘Don’t worry, clerk. He’s no threat to you now,’ he said offhandedly as he shoved the knife into his own belt and stood over the body of the priest.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Roger managed, climbing to his feet.

  ‘Nope. Not yet,’ Simon answered. ‘But I’d like to know why he sprang on you like that. Have you any idea?’

  ‘None,’ Roger said, his hand on his forehead at the scratch. If it had been an inch lower, it would have spiked his eyeball, he thought, and suddenly felt quite sick, leaning his back against the doorway.

  ‘Well, as soon as he comes round, we’ll ask him,’ Simon said.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said, and then, quite elegantly, he fainted and sank slowly to the floor, a ridiculous smile fitted to his blanched face.

  John finished the service and put away the vestments and sacramental vessels in his little ambry, then locked the door over the hole in the wall.

  He was filled with a sense of looming disaster. There was little he could do to avoid it, bearing in mind Warin’s close questioning, but it was no help to be aware of the fact.

  It had all started many years ago, when John’s grandfather had been a close ally of Sir Henry’s. The two men had been companions in the crusade of the last century, both going to the southern reaches of Christendom to fight the heretics known as Albigensians, and since then the two families had been close. John had known Sir Henry all his life, and counted him as a friend, although Sir Henry was much older. It was entirely due to Sir Henry that he had been granted this little post in the backwater that was Temple.

  He had been given this position in early 1315 at the height of the famine. Yes, there had been hints of disputes even then, but the vitriol that later came to characterise the relationship between Earl Thomas of Lancaster and his cousin the King were less apparent in those famine years.

  John remembered those times so clearly. Even to journey here had been difficult, with food for his pony rocketing in price as the rains fell. Harsh, terrible weather, it was.

  And then life changed dramatically. Earl Thomas’s arguments with the King had grown more acrimonious, and the Earl himself had been captured and executed, along with his followers and supporters – many of them John’s friends. He felt sick again, just thinking of all those good men – comrades of his father, some of them. At least his father had himself died many years ago, at Bannockburn, when the Scottish made King Edward II turn and flee.

  His father had been a loyal supporter of the Crown, but John’s uncle had gradually changed his allegiance. It was all to do with the situation on the Marches. When the Despensers began to increase in power and wealth, taking any pieces of land they wanted, one man to suffer was his uncle, and he resented it. As a result, seeing his holdings reduced to a few small farms, he took up his weapons and went to support the Earl of Lancaster. And he fought in the last Battle of Boroughbridge, dying at the side of the Earl of Hereford. The poor man had been stabbed in the vitals by a man under the bridge. The fellow thrust upwards with a lance, and the point found the gap between the Earl’s buttocks, entering his backside and tearing him apart. While he screamed, John’s uncle went to him, and as he reached out to comfort the man, a bolt slammed into his breast. He was dead in moments.

  Afterwards, John had waited, certain that the family’s disloyalty must have been noted. Perhaps the King would order that he was one of those who must be punished for association. Many were. Or Sir Henry might realise that the man he had installed in this chapel was related to a traitor, and seek to have him removed to show his own devotion. Yet nothing had happened so far. Only that visit from Warin, and the subsequent veiled threat from the Coroner’s man, Roger. Damn him!

  Here in the wilds of Cornwall he had thought himself as safe as a man could be, far from the centre of power, whether it resided in London or York or one of the many cities dotted about the English countryside, but even here there was no security. John was grown accustomed to searching the faces of all visitors, always alert to the wrong expression. There were too many travellers who might be spies sent by the King. Or by one of his enemies.

  Warin had appeared to be safe enough at first. He reminded John of their fathers’ friendship, chatted happily about their pasts, and only later did he spring on John the reason for his visit. He was here to investigate the allegiances of all the men in the vills hereabouts. He wanted to know, should his father Sir Henry seek an alliance with an enemy of the King, would his people obey him.

  Whatever John said could be reported and used against him. If he said that he was a devoted supporter of the King, and Sir Henry sought to turn to Mortimer, John would be in danger, but if Warin’s father was testing him, and intended remaining loyal to King Edward II, John could be branded a traitor. No, there was no safety. His only security lay in praying for Bishop Stapeldon’s support, were he to be arrested. The good Bishop was absolutely committed to the King, so he could be a useful ally, but not if he felt John was himself turning to treachery.

  He’d thought Warin was joking at first, but then he’d realised that the squire was too well briefed. He knew all about John’s uncle, and that meant John was in danger, as was Adam, because Warin had hinted at suspicions about the priest at Cardinham too. Not for treachery, but for that other sin which even the Bishop couldn’t condone. Ah, Christ, what could a man do, when all these forces were ranged against him?

  There was nothing he could do during the morning, because there was no one whom he could send to warn Adam, but when the men started coming back from the fields for their lunch, he quickly scribbled a note, gave it to one of them and asked him to ensure that it only went to Adam’s own hand.

  Yes, he had sent the message to warn his neighbour of the risks which he ran. And in the meantime, John had time to sit and contemplate the dangers. Not of his allegiance becoming more commonly known – since that was already a problem, if Warin was telling the truth – no, it was the hideous fact of becoming embroiled in the nation’s politics. That didn’t bear thinking about. Shivering, John wrapped his arms about him and he entered the church to kneel and pray, staring at the cross all the while.

  That was what Warin had said, that Sir Henry s
ought to turn his allegiance from the King. There was no Lancastrian power with authority enough now, but others would soon appear, especially if Roger Mortimer was executed, as was rumoured. Then others would be bound to come forward and Sir Henry wanted the vill’s people readied for the coming wars. It was John’s duty to prepare the way, Warin told him.

  He had seen the country at war; he knew what war was like. When the Lords Marcher had laid waste a wide swathe of the country, winding up at London, their armies drinking and whoring the nights away, John had been on pilgrimage to Canterbury. He had seen armies at close range, and had witnessed the depredations. Men argued and slaughtered each other, or threatened others with death if they were stopped in their drunken, thieving progress. He had come across a poor family standing sobbing in a road, because a man-at-arms had ridden down their youngest son – not by accident, but for fun. He galloped off, laughing. John had done what he could, but the boy was dead long before he arrived, and he could only give consolation to the family, not save the lad’s soul. He said prayers for the child, and continued on his way, a sad, more fearful man.

  If war was to come here, to Temple, he knew the result. Bodies lying in the roads and fields; homes burning; women raped and slaughtered. In the fields, cattle killed for sport. Not even dogs or cats would escape. His little church would be razed to the ground, the ambry broken open and the church’s most prized possessions taken.

  This was what Warin and his father threatened to unleash upon the vill.

  They must be mad!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nicholas couldn’t do it. As his fist approached her belly, her sweet eyes closed, tears trembling on the lower lids, he gave a loud bellow of rage and frustration, and sent his fist slamming into the mattress beside her instead.

  Spinning around, he made for the stairs. He couldn’t hurt her, but he wouldn’t stay and listen to her. She was a whore, just some bitch who would spread her legs for the first man who came along. He would have nothing to do with her.