The Tolls of Death

Chapter Thirty

It was past noon now, and Gervase felt frozen to the core. His horse was limping, if anything worse than before, and he could feel the sweat starting to form ice all down his back. It was being chilled by the breeze which had started up. Over the moor here, at the eastern fringe, there were thin patches of ice, and the wind was flaying the flesh from his face. He pulled a flap of his cowl over his mouth, but it helped only a little. This weather was too foul for a man. Oh, for a fire and a jug of warmed ale! He could have killed for a cheery flame and bowl of pottage.

The ground felt oddly springy, and every so often it gave way, as though it was merely a façade, a thin fabric stretched over emptiness. He paused, staring about him at the little tussocks of stuff, not grass alone, which moved gently in the wind. When he took another step, he saw that the nearer ones shivered. There was a pool of water nearby, and that too rippled as he moved.

In an icy terror, he realised that he was on the fringe of a bog, one of those terrible places into which animals often strayed, never to escape. Standing stock still, he threw an anxious look over his shoulder. The land was unremarkable, just another flat expanse, as it was ahead. But he daren’t go on forward, he must go back. He pulled at the reins, then dragged the mount’s head around until it was facing the way they had come. The horse snorted and nodded his head a few times to show his displeasure, and then started to limp back with Gervase.

It was then, when he had gone only a short way, that Gervase saw the tiny figures breasting the hill.

‘The bastard! There he is!’ Nicholas shouted, waving his hand, and then he clapped his spurs to his horse and sped away.

Baldwin kicked his own beast, but he was exhausted. They had covered at least ten leagues without pause, mostly at a good pace, and Baldwin’s and Simon’s rounseys were feeling the distance. It would be fortunate indeed if they could make the return without suffering strains.

‘Warin, keep with him, in God’s name!’ Baldwin bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t let him kill the man!’

Warin gave him a negligent wave of his hand, and then snapped his reins and set off after the castellan. Baldwin patted his horse’s neck, and then tried to urge him on again. The horse was game, and after tossing his mane, he started at a loping pace down the long shallow incline towards the men at the bottom. Simon’s horse trailed after them.

Baldwin could see that Gervase was in no better condition than them. He was sore-footed, from the look of him, and he stepped towards them with a gingerish manner, as though he was testing his feet. Baldwin couldn’t make out what he was doing, until Simon pulled up alongside him and roared to Nicholas and Warin: ‘He’s on a bog! Beware the marshes!’

But Nicholas and Warin were too far away to hear. Baldwin feared that they might run headlong into the mire and be swallowed, but even as he and Simon thrashed at their mounts, Gervase suddenly slipped beneath the crust, his legs and belly sinking below the green thatch.

His horse panicked, and leaped back as he disappeared, and then, as the reeds and grasses wobbled about him, he tried to jump. His momentum carried him over one patch, and he gathered himself and flung himself into the air again. This time, his landing was in the midst of a pool, and he reared, his hindquarters already disappearing in the filth that sucked him down. He splashed with his forelegs, but it could avail him nothing. All he achieved was a more speedy destruction. As he flailed, the mire’s grip grew more strong, and by the time Baldwin and Simon caught up with Warin and Nicholas, the horse was already so worn out that he could scarcely lift his forelegs. He looked at the men with eyes maddened with fear, and Baldwin could read the plea, but he had no bow to put him out of his misery.

‘Help!’

Nicholas glanced at Gervase with a sardonic expression. ‘It’s a shame you brought that mount. He was worth something. A good horse is hard to find, and you’ve thrown him away.’

‘Do you have a rope?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I wouldn’t let you use it if I did,’ Nicholas replied, his forearms crossed over his horse’s withers as he watched Gervase slipping relentlessly under the surface.

Baldwin glanced back at Gervase. He was petrified. This was surely one of the most hideous of deaths: slow suffocation as the body was taken down into the mire. It made Baldwin shudder to think of it, and as he did so, he saw Gervase’s horse rear one last time. The brave mount was fighting, but his efforts were doing him no good, and were even helping Gervase to die more swiftly. The ripples from his straining were lapping the mire ever higher on Gervase’s breast now, and the waters were almost up to his armpits.

‘Please!’ he begged.

It was piteous. The horse’s head alone was visible now, and the eyes, red with terror, stared at the men standing so still at the edge of the mire. He looked at them accusingly, as though they could do something to save him, and then his head disappeared quite suddenly. It burst upwards once, a black froth blowing from both nostrils, a jet of mud from his mouth, and then he sank down again, and the bog moved twice, thrice, and then was still.

‘Please! Sir Baldwin — Squire! Won’t you save me?’

‘Die, you bastard!’ Nicholas roared. ‘Why should we save a murderer and adulterer? Die there, and take your time. I want to enjoy this.’

Baldwin was looking about him, but there was no hope of assistance. There were no buildings in sight, not even a small plume of smoke to betray a tin-miner’s camp. Reluctantly he accepted that they must either watch the man die, or try at least to reach him somehow.

He dropped from his horse. They were more than fifty yards from Gervase here, and Baldwin had no idea where the mire began. Gervase had managed to cross from here, so it must be relatively safe. He pulled off his cloak and untied his belt. With luck, the two together would give him the reach to rescue the steward if he could get close enough. He looked up at Simon, and Simon nodded, pulling his own belt free and joining Baldwin.

‘Simon, I’ll go over there, and try to reach him with my cloak. It’s five feet long, and if he catches it, I can perhaps haul him free.’

‘You’re too heavy. I’d best go,’ Simon said shortly.

Baldwin was going to argue, but Simon was serious, and Baldwin had to agree that he had right on his side. He was lighter, and could go farther on the rippling thatch than Baldwin. The knight nodded. ‘Be careful, Simon.’

‘That has to rate as one of the most pointless comments you’ve ever made,’ Simon said thinly.

This was the aspect of the moors which he found most frightening. There was something about mires which brought out dread in any man with sense. They shifted and moved every year, like animals seeking fresh prey, and even when they dried up in the summer’s heat, they were dangerous. A patch of firm grass could become a lethal trap for the unwary as a man fell into a hole that could be yards deep, from which the water had drained.

But the water was not drained from this one. This was at its most lethal, full to the brim, and working with that strange ability of mires, pulling on a man’s feet to suck him beneath the surface. Gervase’s expression was waxen, corpse-like. His eyes, terrified, stared at Simon with the full knowledge of his doom, should Simon fail.

If there was one breed Simon hated, it was murderers who hurt women. This man, he knew, might have killed Athelina and cut her children’s throats. But he might be innocent, and Simon was no judge. Swearing under his breath, he eyed the land between him and Gervase. He could walk a certain distance, and continued until he felt the telltale springiness underfoot and saw the tussocks of grass and rushes bouncing with each of his footsteps. Then he cautiously crouched down and inched his way forward.

It was painstaking work. The ground so close to his nose reeked of foul exhalations. Every movement reminded him of his own danger, as a shift of his knee made the carpet under his chest move. He swore under his breath and moved again, trying to unsettle the ground as little as possible. Then, when he was within a couple of yards of Gervase, there was a belch of gas from where the steward’s horse had been swallowed, and Simon felt the ripples expand outwards, jigging him up and down. Gervase was more obviously affected. The tears streamed down his cheeks, both now at water-level. His expression was one of simple anguish. He was convinced of his impending death, certain that nothing Simon could do might save him.

‘Take the fucking thing!’ Simon swore.

Gervase looked at him and lunged at the belt that lay within his grasp. He overbalanced and then almost drowned. His face sank below the water, and it was only by a lucky chance that he caught the belt.

‘God save us from sodding stewards,’ Simon muttered to himself as he began to haul on the belt, moving backwards, then pulling, then moving back again. Gradually, the sodden figure of Gervase emerged from the bog, gasping for breath and sobbing in relief.

‘So why did he come back to scare me?’ Julia asked again.

Ivo shrugged comfortably. They were in Adam’s hall, seated on rugs and skins by the fire, still naked after their pleasing lovemaking, and the youth didn’t much care for the reasons. No wandering spectre of the night was going to spoil his day. ‘I expect someone heard that the priest was stuck in the gaol, and reckoned to steal a little of the church’s silver, that’s all.’

‘But why did he come to my room, then?’ she asked again.

Ivo considered. ‘Probably knew there was a gorgeous wench in here and wanted to have his wicked way with you.’

She thumped him, smiling, and he grabbed her, pulling her up and over him, then clasped her to him, both arms about her torso. She tilted her head back to peer down her nose at him, and then her expression changed. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t have scared me like that just to climb into my bed?’

‘Sweetheart, no,’ he said, genuinely shocked. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No. And I think I saw a man at the back of the place when I walked in, though I didn’t reckon anything about it at the time. Wasn’t until I heard you scream and you let me in that I realised there could be something odd going on. No, I didn’t do it, I swear.’

She subsided against him, turning her head and resting her cheek on his chest. ‘I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d got in. I think he was going to kill me.’

Ivo stroked her head happily. He did me a favour, he thought to himself, scaring you into my arms. ‘He’ll be caught by now, anyway.’

There was a moment’s consternation when he wondered whether the man at Julia’s door had actually been Gervase, but then Julia began to distract him, and he gave up all thoughts of the stranger.

Gervase was sprawled spread-eagled, taking in great gulps of air, unsure that he was truly safe at last. ‘My God! Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

‘Don’t be too glad yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘You’re still deep in the shit.’

Gervase ignored the coldness in his voice, ignored everything but the thrill of being alive. A shiver ran down his body, from the tip of his skull to his feet, a shudder of voluptuous refreshment. God! Alive!

There was the tramp of hooves, and a harness squeaked and jingled. Then he heard the voice of the man who had once been his best friend. ‘Get up, Steward. You have a long, weary walk ahead of you. Best get started.’

Baldwin insisted on allowing the steward to share his mount. The poor fellow was stumbling and falling every few paces. It was plain that his near death had all but emasculated him, and he was as shaky and gangling as a child. With him in this state, they would be fortunate ever to reach Cardinham.

‘I don’t care if he dies here!’ Nicholas rasped when Baldwin raised his concerns.

‘Well, you should. If he dies through your negligence, people will wonder why you didn’t save him. Perhaps because you were the murderer yourself?’

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Why in God’s name should I have killed Serlo or the widow?’

‘Because, Nicholas, if you knew of Gervase’s affair with your wife, might you not seek to punish him by setting him up as a murderer? Might you not kill his own past lovers so as to make them appear like his victims? Athelina, for example: you could have killed her because everyone in the vill knew she kept pestering Gervase about money. And then there was Serlo, killed because of the death of his apprentice, Dan. Everyone guessed Matty had her boy Dan by Gervase. Thus, a man wishing to make Gervase look guilty might kill him too.’

Gervase heard this and looked up. He was slumped on Sir Baldwin’s horse while the knight walked at the rounsey’s side. ‘What do you mean, Matty and her boy?’

‘Your son, Danny.’

Gervase’s mouth dropped. ‘He wasn’t my son!’

Nicolas swung his fist and Gervase almost fell from his horse. ‘Don’t lie to us, man! You killed Serlo because he let your son die,’ Nicholas sneered. ‘The whole vill knew that. It was a miracle you didn’t kill the murderous oaf beforehand. I would have done.’

‘Urgh!’ Gervase wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve, snorted, then spat out a gobbet of blood. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of Athelina’s head, and I certainly didn’t take revenge for Matty’s son’s death. Why should I? Dan wasn’t mine.’

Nicholas slowed his mount, turned a little in his saddle, and swung again. This time Gervase was ready, and rolled out of the way. ‘You can hit me as often as you like,’ he shouted, ‘but I swear on my mother’s grave, he wasn’t my son! Christ’s blood, Matty spread her legs for any man when she’d had a jug of cider. She was the sort of wench for one of the castle’s cooks, not me! I wouldn’t have gone near her unless there was little other choice.’

‘Then whose son was he?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Everyone in the castle swore he was Gervase’s. He’s raised bastards all over the place,’ Nicholas snarled. ‘This was just one more. He seeks to deny paternity because he doesn’t want his revenge to be known.’

Gervase sniffed gingerly. ‘You think so? Then tell me, wise man, why I’d wait so long to enjoy my revenge. Ballocks! I have never killed anyone in my life. The man who says I have is a liar!’

‘Then who did? Who else could have fathered that boy?’ Nicholas demanded.

Baldwin looked up at him, then at Gervase. ‘Either of you, I suppose, but then there are other men in the vill.’

The thought tugged at his mind all the way back to the vill: who else could have fathered the apprentice? Through the last days there had been a momentum which had all but prevented rational consideration of the issues, first because of the rush to find a reason for Athelina’s murder, and then the murder of Serlo himself. His connection to the death of his apprentice was so apparent, the paternity of the child was so plainly crucial to the discovery of the killer, that all else seemed irrelevant. Yet now, Baldwin wondered again whether the thrust of his and Simon’s questionings should have been redirected.

Something Susan at the alehouse had said was lingering in his head. It had felt important at the time, but again, other issues drew his attention away. All she had questioned was the sequence of the deaths of Athelina and her children. There was something in that. Surely, if the two boys had been together, killing them would have been difficult. A man like Gervase appearing might frighten them a little, because the lads knew he was an official at the castle, but that wouldn’t necessarily make them trust him enough to let him get so close he could cut both their throats. Did that mean Athelina arrived after her children, or before? Perhaps she was first to die, and the murderer sprang upon the boys as they arrived? If only he could think straight …

At Warin’s insistence they stopped at a tavern he knew up on the road to Launceston, and there as well as wines and some food, the party were able to hire a horse to speed their return. While they sat and ate, Gervase standing soaked and wretched, staring longingly at the food, for Nicholas refused point blank to allow him to eat, Baldwin glanced up at him with a frown. ‘Gervase, you can see that you are the obvious culprit in the murders. Can you think of anyone else who could have benefited from the deaths of Athelina and Serlo?’

‘Richer, of course,’ Gervase shivered. ‘He would have won the revenge of the years, killing the man who had wiped out his whole family.’

‘There was no one else?’ Simon asked. ‘Surely someone would have benefited from Serlo’s death?’

‘Everyone in the vill gained from his death,’ Gervase scoffed, a little of his past arrogance returning to him.

‘Except his brother,’ Nicholas said.

‘His brother can be excluded from this,’ Simon agreed.

‘Although it’s odd. Alexander is the only man I saw on the night Serlo died. He was out near the tavern,’ Nicholas said.

Baldwin glanced up at him. ‘Why?’

‘No idea.’

Simon was peering into the middle distance. He sat back on his stool, resting against the wall. ‘We thought Serlo could have murdered Athelina. What if …’

‘What?’ Baldwin asked. He was thinking of Athelina again, and as he realised how relevant Susan’s comments were about the killer being known to the children, Simon squinted.

‘Well, if Serlo had a financial motive to do away with her, surely Alexander had the same one? He had a share in the cottage where Athelina lived. And Serlo had been taking gifts when it was Alexander’s money that paid for the farm of tolls. That meant Serlo was defrauding Alexander too.’

Warin was listening, and now he scoffed. ‘You’re simply guessing! Why should Alexander kill Serlo?’

Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘It was odd that Serlo should be killed just now — but what if Alexander wanted children, and had fathered Danny? Serlo had allowed his son to die, crushed in the machine. And then Serlo allowed his own son to die, once again through his own negligence. Would not any father be so appalled that his mind could be unbalanced?’

‘By Christ’s bones!’ Simon whispered suddenly as his eye caught Baldwin’s.