The Tolls of Death

Epilogue

There were many people who declared that, since Alexander was so obviously insane, they should take pity on his soul. The Bishop of Exeter himself was petitioned to ensure mercy was granted to him, but then one morning Alexander was found dead, hanging in his cell by the thongs which had bound his hosen to his tunic. He had spent the evening carefully pulling them free, one by one, and tying them together to fashion a rough noose.

There was no one to grieve for him. Sir Jules certainly didn’t when he went to view the body. To him, the Constable was just one more corpse. Already he had seen more than he wanted to, and at least this was less traumatic — a convicted murderer and madman was not the sort of victim Jules could lose sleep over. It was other deaths that stuck in his memory and returned in his dreams to haunt him. Already he had told his Sheriff that he didn’t want to continue in his post, and so far as he was concerned, the sooner the Sheriff could find another fool to take on this thankless job, the better.

Roger didn’t seem bothered to learn that his Coroner was going to resign. He merely shrugged. ‘Oh well. I’ll just have to break in another one, then.’

Gervase had been in the hall that day, and heard his words. Sir Jules had looked offended, drawing himself up to his full height before stalking away. Roger shook his head. ‘At least there’s a chance I’ll get a man with some brains this time.’

‘Sir Jules wasn’t the brightest?’

‘Not in my experience. He needs a war to blood him. There hasn’t been a decent chance to fight since the King stopped tournaments. That’s what Sir Jules needs — an opportunity to prove himself in the lists, so he could come to the job with an experience of death and the reasons why people kill.’

It was one thing Gervase had no need of: he already knew some of those reasons. However, the thought of pitting himself against another man clad all in mail, was revolting.

No, his fights required more subtlety.

He had been very lucky, he knew, to survive the beating meted out by Nicholas. And in the end, it had achieved Nicholas’s twin objectives: Gervase was far too unwell to attend the inquest, and the castellan had some compensation for his pain and hurt. Yet there was mitigation for Gervase.

As he fell to the floor, he had looked up just once, and saw Anne’s expression. It was love. It had to be. She was looking down at him with that light in her eyes that spoke of her feelings, and the sorrow in her face to see how her bastard husband kicked at him told Gervase that this woman knew at last which of them she truly adored. It was him.

That had decided him, and although the course of action took some planning, it was going to be worth it.

After Warin’s intervention, pointing out that without the steward the manor would soon fail, Nicholas conceded that Gervase might continue in his duties, but only if he no longer slept in the castle or ate at Nicholas’s table. Warin had agreed and now Gervase lived in a small house on the outskirts of the vill.

He had bought the poison from a pedlar, ostensibly to kill some rats in his yard. Then he arranged to have some of Nicholas’s favourite treats delivered on a day when Warin and the castle’s guard were out hunting. The timing couldn’t have been more propitious. Nicholas was eating alone still, not with his wife, because of her faithlessness, and the Lady Anne ate a meagre and curious diet in her room, pale and wan as the birthing came closer. So it was that Nicholas enjoyed the poisoned pies on his own, and scoffed the lot.

He was fine for some little while, but then Gervase heard that one of the men-at-arms had fallen from his horse, and Warin sent to the castle for a cart to collect the injured man. Nicholas himself escorted the cart, saying he needed some exercise, and on the way, his face reddened, his lips became blue, he complained of a pain in his chest, and suddenly toppled from his horse. He was dead before he hit the ground.

And Gervase was now content. He could wait a little while, he thought, for the necessary period of mourning, and then he could enfold his beloved in an embrace, declare his love for her, and the two of them would be content for the rest of their lives.

Except it didn’t happen that way. Warin, apparently, had no regard for the niceties of decent behaviour. While Gervase watched in horror, the squire laid siege to Anne’s honour, and in the week before the baby was born, he won her hand in marriage.

Gervase was stunned. All he had wanted to do was help his lover to be free so that they could be together, and now she had declared her love for another. He couldn’t have misread the love in her eyes though, surely? In despair, a week later he went to the priest’s house to speak with Julia, seeking to renew his relationship with her, knowing that the only way to exorcise the grief of losing this woman was in the arms of another. Once there, however, he learned that Julia had left the vill. The young ostler from Bodmin had claimed her as his wife, and she and the baby had gone back there with him.

Father Adam seemed less than happy about the arrangement. ‘Who will cook for me?’ he demanded petulantly.

Adam was relieved that his attempted murder was forgotten so easily, until he learned what the cost would be of Warin’s silence. The idea that he could be forced to spy on his congregation was appalling. As he said to the new master of the castle, he had a duty to a higher authority than Warin.

‘That’s fine, then. We’ll see what the rural dean has to say about you,’ Warin had grinned.

It was that grin that cowed Adam. He had no idea what Warin might know of him, but there was something deeply unsettling about the fellow. It was almost as though Warin knew of his love for John. He couldn’t, of course. John wouldn’t have told anyone about the strength of his passion, surely? John was his soul, his heart, his love. Even if John didn’t reciprocate Adam’s fervour, surely he wouldn’t have sought to shame him by telling of his desires …

That smile was very worrying, yes. The rural dean was an evil-minded old bigot who would push a homosexual into a fire himself, without waiting for official sanction from the Bishop. Warin was a danger to him, it was true, but all he said he wanted was to prevent another war. Any man would want to do that. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, to let him know if trouble was brewing … if doing so meant staying here and being left alone. He wouldn’t be far from his John, apart from anything else, and he could still see him every now and again.

Perhaps all would be for the best. Especially if he could find a new maid.

When he heard that Muriel was looking for a home, it seemed as though his prayers were answered.

John was particularly happy to hear that Adam had been able to find space for the miller’s widow. From all he had heard, she was an excellent cook. She would be so much better off away from the home in which her child had died before her eyes, and from the mill where her man’s body had been found.

For John there was no such comfort. He lived with the constant fear of the mad squire at Cardinham arriving at his door with a troop of King’s men to arrest him for preaching against the King. After Boroughbridge and his uncle’s death, John didn’t care any more. To him, the only thing that mattered now was his pastoral care, and he would only preach the truth to his parishioners. If that meant upsetting the King, so be it.

It was late in the year when he received a message from Exeter. He was told that the Bishop would like to see him. There was a parish church in the city which had need of a strong-willed priest keen to do God’s work among the poor and needy. John had been suggested to him, and the Bishop felt sure that God wished John to take up His mission.

This was a decision that needed little thought. In one move, freedom from Warin and Adam. John packed his meagre belongings that very night, and left for Exeter without a backwards glance.

Simon and Baldwin reached Simon’s home at the end of September. They had travelled together all the way to Lydford, and when they reached his house, both were weary after two nights in the open air. There was a sense of anticlimax about this end of their pilgrimage.

Both felt it. It was an unsettling sensation, and for a moment neither could speak. They stood like strangers, hardly able to meet each other’s eye.

‘Baldwin, it’s been a marvellous experience,’ Simon said at last.

‘I am only sorry that it is over,’ his friend replied. ‘We must return to our true lives now. I am not sure I am ready to. There is a curious urge in me to go on another pilgrimage.’

‘Perhaps you are better suited to travel,’ Simon said. ‘Especially sea-travel!’

‘Yes, well — I think that we have been unfortunate in our choice of vessels and ship-masters.’

Simon nodded, and glanced westwards. The sky was already darkening with twilight. ‘You’ve been all over the world, Baldwin, whereas I have never been farther than Exeter until now. You’ve made me see places I wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing. Compostela, Ennor — the world is so much larger than I had thought.’

‘And now you shall go to Dartmouth and be the Master of the Port for our friend the Abbot,’ Baldwin said. ‘While I shall retire to Furnshill and occasionally visit Crediton when there is a matter requiring my attention. Perhaps you shall become the traveller instead of me?’

Simon heard a squeal of delight, and turned to see his wife at the doorway, his son in her arms.

With a smile, he shook his head. ‘No, Baldwin. I don’t want to travel. I want to stay at my home, and will do so for as long as God allows me.’

* See The Outlaws of Ennor.