The Tolls of Death

Chapter Four

Walking quickly, Richer left the churchyard and made his way along the path towards the castle. He had not gone above a hundred paces when at the bend in the road where the trees obscured the view, his companion Warin appeared suddenly at his side.

‘Christ’s tears, I wish you wouldn’t do that!’ Richer declared. ‘The way you appear, it’s enough to make a man have a fit!’

His friend glanced at him. ‘Why? You think I’m more likely to give a man a fit than you? It wasn’t me who tweaked the tail of that little monkey.’

‘It wasn’t only his tail I was tweaking,’ Richer said smugly. ‘It was his brother’s.’

‘Don’t forget,’ his friend said unsmilingly, ‘that this is not an affair which concerns only you.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘Good. If you upset the Constable and his brother, it may have unfortunate consequences for the tithing and the manor, and I cannot allow that.’ Warin’s voice was sharper this time.

Richer had rarely heard his tone so cool. The man was a squire, yes, and of course he had a legitimate interest in the workings of the manor and in the loyalties of the peasants because of his position with the castle, but Richer felt as though he had been deserted by his oldest companion. Their relationship had been one of mutual trust, rather that of friends or brothers than squire with his man-at-arms. To hear Warin speak so was enough to make Richer feel as he did when he prepared to ride into a battle: an awareness of danger to come.

‘This business of the tolls should interest the castle,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand why the steward does nothing about it.’

Warin frowned. ‘Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you. This matter goes much deeper than the foolishness of a tollkeeper. It is an ancient feud.’

‘I never liked him,’ Richer answered simply. ‘And now, seeing how he’s treated my woman, I dislike him all the more.’

‘Your woman? You left her fifteen years ago, you tell me she has two brats from her dead husband, and still you call her yours?’

‘She may be mine again,’ Richer said seriously, but then he looked up at his squire and grinned. ‘Don’t worry about Serlo — he’s no real danger to us. Alex is the one with the brain. He’ll understand that all I want is to see Athelina safe, remaining in her house. They’ll work out for themselves that it’s better to do what I want, rather than have me making trouble for them. If they leave her alone, I’ll leave them alone.’

‘The two brothers together could be a risk. They are upsetting the folk about here with their depredations. They are like those other thieving devils, Despenser and his father,’ Warin growled. ‘If you keep up this affair of trying to settle an old score, Serlo might decide to harm you. Perhaps even waylay and kill you.’

‘Not while we are at the castle. Even they wouldn’t do anything while we live under Nicholas’s protection. He’s the representative of Sir Henry. No one would dare to gainsay him in the lord’s own manor.’

‘Perhaps.’ Warin’s eyes were a curious light hazel colour with green flecks. When those eyes were fired with rage, they glittered like gold shot through with emerald. Although he was large and strongly built, he was no dullard, like some of the blockheads who regularly fought in the lists, but an intelligent and educated man. Now he turned on Richer a look which seemed to shear through his words like a sword through butter.

Richer’s laugh was less certain under that scrutiny. ‘“Perhaps”- nothing! And while I’m here, I won’t have the pair of them robbing everyone including their master!’

‘Very well, but I don’t wish the area to be unsettled. This used to be a stable, secure place. I want it to remain so.’

‘Yes, Squire, and I shall see to it.’

‘Good,’ Warin said. ‘With Despenser running the land there are already too many problems in the realm without us seeking to create more here in the manor.’

‘The problems aren’t of my making,’ Richer protested. ‘I didn’t tell the miller to ask us for a gift.’

‘Yet you are happy enough to continue the argument, aren’t you? And you’d like to smack Serlo’s fat face, wouldn’t you, friend Richer?’

Those unsettling eyes were on him again, and Richer had to shrug in agreement.

He had always disliked Almeric’s family. Then, when he had suffered his own personal disaster and lost everyone belonging to him, it seemed cruel and unjust that they should have remained in Cardinham and prospered while he was absent. It served to make his dislike more intense.

Alexander and Serlo had been nasty pieces of work from as early as Richer could remember. Never the sort to leave the vill and make their own way in the world, they preferred to remain in the backwater where they had been sired and whelped, making themselves kings of this little territory. But like kings of many another small land, their rule was permanently at risk. Alexander liked to believe that he was master of the vill because he was the Constable; Serlo liked to believe that he was a prince among his peers because his brother ran things.

The brothers had managed to acquire much power and influence here, by judicious use of gossip, spreading malicious tales about others in order to enhance their own positions. When all else failed, they resorted to threats of violence, but from what Richer had seen, that was a rare occurrence. Most people in the vill didn’t bother to argue.

If they demanded a piece of land to graze their animals, the farmer would give way. It was easier than preventing them. And in that way, they encroached on other men’s lands and increased their flocks. Small parcels were borrowed, and then after some months or a year the neighbour might see that they had put up a fence to prevent their sheep escaping, and soon that fence became a wall and hedge, and then Alexander would claim that since he’d been using the land for so long, it was easier to include it on his lands, and how much would the farmer want for it? All too often the farmer would agree to let him make use of the land because, as Alexander said, it was better for the manor that his profits were kept high, since they formed such a large part of the manor’s total profit.

Aye, Richer thought, the two had come a long way from the young lads who had been so fearful of their father, a man so drunken and stupid, he couldn’t even keep his sheep in their fold.

Warin appeared to think he had made his point and was silent for the rest of their march, but Richer was not persuaded that he was happy. Warin did not like the mess that was this little manor. There was too much corruption, and too many intense rivalries.

And they still had business with Nicholas, of course. Perhaps that was what occupied the squire’s thoughts: how to make him bow to Warin’s will.

On the Monday following these events, Simon and Baldwin bade farewell to the morose young ostler; they sent him on his way with two pennies instead of the one they had agreed on as a fee. When he received the money, he stared at the coins as though in disbelief at their niggardliness, before shaking his head in disgust and mounting his horse, leading the others away with him.

Soon Simon and Baldwin were on their way again, this time with a fellow who was as different from their last stony-faced companion as he could be; this one appeared unable to keep his mouth shut.

Ivo was an engaging youth, perhaps fifteen years old. He wore a pair of hosen that were far too large for him and which rumpled about his knees alarmingly. They were tied to his belt underneath his tunic, a bright blue-coloured wool garment which looked warm and comfortable. On his head he wore a coif with a hood, which he was constantly pulling up over his forehead, and then shaking it free, as though he was practising the best method of removing it whenever he had an opportunity.

When the hood was down, Simon saw that the lad had an unruly shock of tallow-coloured hair over his long, thin face. It was the sort of face Simon would have expected to see on a clerk: pale, with hooded eyes, high cheeks and a long nose, small mouth, and a chin which was all but non-existent — but for all that Ivo was enormously cheering company. He plainly enjoyed telling and hearing stories, the more bawdy the better. Already Simon had heard two tales of an alewife and her lovers, together with a couple of crude verses based upon a miller who tried to rob a pair of northern clerics of their grain, but who was bested by them when they slept with the miller’s wife and daughter before the daughter took pity on them and showed them where their grain had been hidden.

Simon’s amusement was only enhanced by the often repeated expression of shock on Baldwin’s face. It was rare that a villein on Baldwin’s land would have dared utter such talk in his presence, Simon realised, and although the knight was used to hearing such language from convicted felons, he was entirely unprepared to hear it from a boy who was his servant.

They had slept well at Bodmin, and found that their route out of the town took them up a hill and over a pleasantly sheltered way, with spreading oaks and beech trees high overhead, and strong turf hedges at either side. Soon, however, these started to disappear, and the path, although well-trodden, became noticeably less well-maintained. This far from the town, the farmsteads and vills were more widely separated, and Simon couldn’t help but wonder how safe it was. His eyes were drawn to tree-trunks and bushes, looking for ambushes.

‘The Keeper of the King’s Peace down here doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the law on keeping the verges clear,’ Simon noted.

Baldwin, who was himself the Keeper for the Crediton area, smiled. ‘Perhaps he feels it is far enough from danger down here?’

‘More fool him, then. A felon can attack here as easily as in Buckinghamshire. Vigilance isn’t a matter of relying on good fortune,’ Simon grunted. ‘Pirates could land at the shore and attack; a peasant can turn outlaw here as easily as a man from Exeter.’

‘True enough,’ Baldwin nodded.

‘Did you ever hear the story about the apple-selling girl who accused the vintner of taking her virginity?’ the ostler asked eagerly.

Simon was taken off-balance. ‘What was that?’

‘See, she’s teased by him into his bed, right?’ Ivo continued happily. ‘She wouldn’t have gone with him, but he promises her five pounds in gold, he wants her so much. So afterwards, next morning, she says, “Right, you’ve had your fun, where’s my money?” but he says, “Last night was so good, I’ll have you again tonight. Stay here, pretty maid, and let us play again.” She says, “I can’t stay, and I won’t stay! Pay me like you promised,” but he isn’t having any of that. He says, “If you won’t stay, I’m not paying.” So she goes to the court, says this vintner he promised her five pounds in “cellarage” for a night, and she wants her money.

‘Well, the Justice sends for the vintner, and he responds quick, like, to explain why he hasn’t paid up. The vintner says, “I would have paid on possession, but didn’t use it. I never put anything into her cellar, other than one poor pipe of wine.” Right? Get it? To this she says, quick as a flash, “You had two full butts with you which you left at the door — why ever didn’t you bring them in?” See? He’d two butts outside — you get it?’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look.

While Ivo roared his delight at the joke, Baldwin muttered, ‘This fellow is more degenerate than many a man twice his age.’

Serlo hadn’t been away from the mill all day. There were no travellers so far, and his wife Muriel was alarmed to see his mood. There were days when he could be a devil, and if this was one of them, she’d give him as good as he gave. She’d had enough of being trampled on like a slave.

In the late morning she called him for his lunch. He came stomping into the house, standing at their fire and staring down at the flames. The mill was warm enough for him, because running about and lifting the heavy sacks made his blood course faster, but when Muriel herself went in, she felt the cold eat into her bones. The air was always icy that close to the water, and even on a hot summer’s day, the sun couldn’t warm the mill.

Once, she had asked her husband why he didn’t light a fire, and he had sneered at her foolishness. The fine powder would explode, he told her. If he had a fire in the mill, just the merest spark could set the whole place ablaze.

It was a terrible thought. Muriel had stared about the place with alarm, suddenly struck with a fear that her sons could come in here and be hurt. Of course Aumery was only four years old, and Hamelin a matter of eight months, so they wouldn’t be likely to play with fire yet, but young boys were always trouble, and they might, in the future, be silly enough to do something stupid. This was just one more thing for her to worry about.

‘Do you want some drink, Husband?’ she said at length. Hamelin was settled against her, nuzzling at her breast. Without thinking, she opened her tunic and let him suckle, smiling down at him, feeling the warmth of her love for her child.

‘Yes. Ale,’ Serlo responded, busy with a jammed block and tackle.

Still feeding her child she filled a jug one-handed and took it back to Serlo, setting it down on the table near him. There was a loud rumbling and the constant sound of water from the mill nearby, but they were reassuring sounds. While she could hear them, she knew that there was food for them, that there would be a store through the winter, and that they should survive through to the spring. Hunger was a terrible affliction, and Muriel could all too easily remember the horrors of the famine.

Yes, sitting here, she could be content. As the trees swayed gently outside in the soft breezes, occasional gleams of sunlight darted in at the window, making the dusty interior glow with a godly light, as though He was indicating His own pleasure. Meanwhile her child supped at her, instilling that feeling of maternal wonder and pride that always made her so happy.

Serlo ignored her, glowering at the block as he tried to release it. He said nothing as Muriel sniffed at Hamelin’s backside, which smelled again. She settled him on a mat near the fire and pulled his legs apart, untying the clout and throwing it from his reach before wiping him clean and binding a fresh shred of cloth about him. The old clout she put in a bucket out by the door ready to be washed later, and then she filled a pot with ale for herself and sank down to stir the pottage.

She spent much of her time these days feeling tired. The effort of looking after the two boys was draining, especially while she was still breastfeeding. And their father was so sullen. He was more uncommunicative than ever since little Danny had died. As though that wasn’t bad enough, she had the clenching ache in her womb that spoke of her monthly time coming. She would have to wash all the clouts today to make sure that there were enough for her as well as for Ham. She longed for the baby to be clean. Some were clean at two years, she knew; her Aumery had been one of them.

If only her husband were prepared to help — even a little. Just to take the two boys off with him for a morning or so, so that Muriel could get on with her washing. But he wouldn’t, and to be fair, Muriel knew full well that she’d never trust him with her children … their children. He was too forgetful.

In the past he had been different. A kind, considerate lover to her when he wooed her, he had grown more distant since their wedding. Over the last year since Dan’s death he’d been really morose. Now there was seldom a chance for them to spend time alone together, apart from when he wanted her. Then he could be charming for a while. But only for a while. After that, when he was done, he’d roll over and start to snore, sated. A good meal, a pleasing congress, and he was content.

‘We need some-’ she began, but he cut through her speech like a saw through wood.

‘You always want more money, woman! When will you get it into your thick skull that we don’t have enough?’

‘We do quite well!’ she retorted, hurt. ‘We’ll have more when folk start bringing us their new grain.’

‘That isn’t going to be enough — not if you keep asking for more all the time! And those brats want feeding and clothing, damn them both!’ he shouted, his face red with frustration. ‘Christ’s balls, there must be a way to get more.’

His voice trailed off and Muriel watched him silently. Better to wait than incur his wrath.

‘I could try it,’ he muttered thoughtfully, his low brow creased with the effort.

‘What, dear?’

‘Ask Lady Anne to cough up — to pay me for my silence. She’s no better than any other, but she wouldn’t want her name spoiled by me.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked again. There was something in his cunning expression that alarmed her.

‘Don’t you worry, maid. She’ll pay — otherwise the castellan might learn what I know of his wife.’

‘The castellan … Husband, be careful! Nicholas would have you in his court as soon as look at you, and then where would we be?’

‘Don’t be a fool, woman! The castellan’s wife will do anything to make sure others don’t hear of her adultery. What, would she allow her husband to find out he’s got a cuckoo in the nest? If he learned that another man knew his wife, he’d kill her.’

Aumery was listening, and he repeated slowly, ‘Another man knew his …’ before Serlo slapped him around the head.

He picked up his son and stared into his eyes. ‘Don’t ever say that again. Not while I’m alive, boy. You repeat that to anyone while I’m living, and I’ll break your head!’

Muriel took her son from him, now shivering with tiny sobs of terror and gentled him. ‘Daddy didn’t mean it, Aumie. He just didn’t want you to tell anyone what you heard. It’s secret.’

‘I meant it,’ Serlo grated. ‘While I live, I’ll kill anyone who talks about it.’

Simon and Baldwin had ridden alongside a river and continued up the trail. It was, like most of the roadways in Devonshire, a poor track. Grasses grew thickly all about it apart from the edge where horses’ hooves had cut into the turf. The soil was thick and dusty, even close to the stream, while every so often swirling flies attacked their exposed flesh. At one point they passed a large byre, and here the buzzing of flies was deafening. Swarms rose into the air from the dung as they passed, and Baldwin put his arm about his nose and mouth. Flies were to him repellent; although he was immune to Simon’s dread of corpses, Baldwin had seen flies too often about the faces and bodies of dead men to want them to touch him. War had scarred him: the raking knife-cut on his face was the least of his wounds, but sometimes he thought that the scars were mostly in his mind.

Now, having passed through an area of thicker woodland, they found signs of coppicing. Although the road narrowed a little, they had better views afforded them by the thinning trees, and up ahead there was the unmistakable sight of smoke. This could only mean a village. There was too much smoke for it to have come from one homestead. Baldwin, like Simon, stared ahead keenly.

Villages should be places of safety, but all too often a stranger was viewed as a threat, even on a road which was, theoretically at least, as busy as this. This way was the most important route from Bodmin and the whole of the far western side of Cornwall to Devonshire, so it was supposed to be busy — not that Simon and Baldwin had seen much evidence of other travellers. If the folk hereabouts weren’t very used to seeing people, they might be less than welcoming.

‘What do you know of this place, Ivo?’ Baldwin asked their guide.

‘Cardinham? The normal haunt of churls and fools,’ Ivo said with the contempt of a town-dweller for a peasant community. ‘They are harmless, though.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let’s go and see what sort of reception we merit, eh, Simon?’