The Tolls of Death

Chapter Sixteen

It was no noisome hovel, this tavern, but as soon as Baldwin, Simon and Jules entered, the lusty singing and roaring which they had heard from outside died down and the whole room became as quiet as a church at dawn.

There were many vills where those in a tavern would behave in a similar manner, but here, Baldwin was sure that there was a reason other than the usual one of local suspicion of foreigners. Here it seemed more likely to be alarm at finding three men-at-arms in the doorway.

That was true except for one man: Serlo. The miller was slumped on an old barrel, his legs spread wide and a pot gripped in his fist. About him was a small group of local men, from the look of them.

‘What, come to demand more questions of me, have you?’ he slurred rudely at Baldwin. ‘Thought you’d get a poor miller when he’s down on his luck and his brat’s been scalded? Or do you want to accuse me of his murder — is that it, you curs whelped by devils!’

Baldwin set his jaw and walked to a heavy table, sitting with his back to the wall so he could see Serlo and the door. He could not blame the man for his mood after all he had endured that day, but he wasn’t sure that Simon or Sir Jules would be capable of controlling their anger should Serlo continue to insult them. He considered walking out again, but to do so would leave them open to ridicule. Their offices required respect.

In preference, he beckoned the only woman in the place. She made to go to him immediately, wiping her hands on a grubby cloth bound about her middle by a piece of string. ‘Master-’ she began anxiously, but he cut her off.

‘Mistress, fetch me a jug of your best wine, and my friends here will have …?’

Sir Jules ordered wine, but Simon, who was desperately thirsty, demanded a quart of cider. When they had done, Baldwin leaned forward. ‘Mistress, we shall be here for one drink, and we shall not leave under the threats of the miller, but please order him to be silent. We are officers of the King, and if he abuses us, we shall have to respond.’

‘I’m sure he’s not serious, master,’ she replied, wiping her hands more vigorously in agitation. She was a pretty woman, Baldwin thought, with a round face, bright blue eyes and hair the colour of straw at harvest-time, more yellow than gold, which hung in natural ringlets about her features, unflattened by her coif. ‘He lost his son today and-’

‘We know, but he cannot insult a Coroner and a Keeper of the King’s Peace with impunity. Make him silent, or command him to leave.’

‘I will.’

She threw Serlo an anxious glance and made her way back towards him. She had set up her bar at the far end of the room, near to where he sat, and as she served the cider and drew off two jugs of wine, she leaned towards Serlo and spoke.

There was silence. At first Baldwin thought that the man had taken the hint and would leave them in peace, but then he saw the slow dawning of anger on Serlo’s face. The miller reddened, then his scowl grew into a ferocious glare. He said nothing, but sat staring fixedly at Baldwin and the other two while the woman served them.

She returned to the table and set their drinks before them, saying in an undertone, ‘I hope he’ll be sensible, master. Don’t think too harshly of him. He’s been very unlucky today. To lose a son …’

‘We all know of his misfortune,’ Baldwin said, ‘but he must respect our offices, whether he likes us or no. Make him remain silent like this, and we shall leave as soon as we have finished our drinks, mistress.’

She flashed him a smile. ‘You can call me Susan, master. Everyone else does about here.’

‘Thank you. Tell me, Susan, how has he been? He looks as though he’d like to begin a fight. Is that how he reacts to ale?’

‘In all truth, yes.’ She allowed her gaze to float over them. ‘I don’t think he’d try his luck with three armed men though, Sir Knight.’

‘You may call me Baldwin,’ he said. ‘Well, that at least is a relief.’

‘He’s a bully, Sir Baldwin. The only person who’s likely to feel his fist is his wife.’

She spoke with some contempt, and Baldwin thought to learn more if he could. ‘This Athelina: I heard that she was widowed some nine years ago. Yet she still lived in her own little house. How did she support herself?’

‘Not in the usual way,’ Susan said with a broad grin. ‘Any man asking Athelina to whore for him would end up with a blackened eye, no matter what some men might say.’

‘He has made some comment about her?’ Baldwin enquired, seeing her gaze harden as she glanced at Serlo again.

‘He was talking in his ale earlier, that’s all. Said she should have whored and paid him that way for the house. He’s all mouth when he’s been drinking. I think it’s because he never had a mother. His own died when he was a babe, and he was brought up by his brother.’

‘A hard life for a child,’ Baldwin mused. ‘This Athelina … if she didn’t rely on the old profession, how did she earn money?’

‘She enjoyed the support of the church. And there were the gleanings, alms, money from the castle. Many here are very poor, so she often went to the castle.’

There was a subtle alteration in tone that caught Baldwin’s attention. ‘So she would go to the castle for food and perhaps …’

Susan smiled again. ‘Like I said, no whoring for Athelina. No, she was the sort of woman to give herself entirely, never by halves. She loved her old man, Hob, and when he died, she never looked at another local man again so far as I know.’

Baldwin thought he caught that curious intonation once more, but as he glanced up at her, her face hardened. ‘Perhaps Athelina had a lover, one who was not a “local man”?’ he wondered. ‘One of the castle’s men-at-arms?’

‘Perhaps. She was still a handsome woman.’

‘How could she afford the house? The miller over there was apparently making money from her, and the first reason why everyone assumed that she had committed suicide was her inability to pay an increase in rent. How did she manage to pay before?’

‘I don’t know,’ the alewife said, making as if to leave.

‘Wait, Susan,’ Baldwin said firmly. He remembered the Coroner, who sat silently without evincing the faintest interest in the conversation. ‘We are investigating a murder, and the Coroner here is interested in all aspects of her life.’

Sir Jules coughed slightly to hear this. He had been enjoying his wine without being plagued by questions he must ask or people he should see. When Baldwin started questioning this maid, he had thought it was because the knight was interested in her for himself; he hadn’t realised it was in order to further the inquest. So far as he was concerned, the investigation could wait until his official inquest. All this was speculation, nothing more. He tried to appear interested.

‘So, Susan,’ Baldwin continued, ‘do you know how she earned money before?’

‘No,’ she said, a hint of sulkiness in her tone. ‘It wasn’t my business. All I can say is, she was fine until a year or so back, and suddenly life was more difficult. Recently she’d been worried about money.’

Sir Jules decided to show he was also listening and wiped his mouth. ‘So you think that she might have grown despondent about money, and that made her occasionally lose her reason?’

‘Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘And what about the boys? How were they?’

‘They were worried about her, I suppose.’

Sir Jules said, ‘If she was murdered, who was most likely to kill her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What of the miller there?’ he asked. ‘He’s a bully, cruel by nature. He could beat his wife, you say, but he holds his tongue against us — he sounds just the sort of man to kill a defenceless woman. Maybe this mention of whoring is because he desired her?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘What do you think, Simon?’

‘I think he had no reason to kill. Perhaps he desired her, but so what? He probably desires you too, Susan. You’ve certainly the looks and figure to make a man love you …’

She dimpled.

‘But,’ Simon continued, ‘there would have been no purpose to his hurting her. He wanted her money, didn’t he? Anyway, she started getting strange a while ago, before Serlo increased her rent, which shows that there was something else that made her depressed.’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said. ‘Whatever caused her to start to lose her mind may have had a direct influence on her end.’

‘But it may have nothing to do with her death,’ Sir Jules said. ‘After all, it could be a rapist who wanted her and decided to take her, with or without her agreement. Serlo the miller would be that sort of man.’

‘It’s possible, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I think we would be remiss not to investigate all the possible solutions. And the fact of her melancholy is curious. You are sure, Susan, that you weren’t told why she was so suddenly afflicted?’

‘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 sky 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!’