The Tolls of Death

Chapter Five

Having few duties that morning, Richer walked with his companion to the house which had a bush of furze tied to a post above its door. ‘Ale!’ he shouted.

‘If you want ale, you can ask for it like a man of manners, and not bellow like a lovesick ox,’ the alewife Susan called out firmly.

‘Woman, you have two men dying of thirst out here,’ Richer said.

‘I doubt it. Oh, so it’s you, Richer.’ A small, mousy-haired woman appeared, with a gap between her front teeth and a few too many wrinkles, but attractive nonetheless. ‘Who’s your friend?’ she asked.

‘This is my master, Squire Warin.’

‘It is, is it?’ said the woman, peering at the man. ‘I’ve heard much of you, Squire.’

Richer knew that there was good reason for her to stare, just as there was good reason for Serlo to be fearful at the sight of the man beside him. Squire Warin was a sight to behold, the stuff of some women’s dreams. Tall, with the broad shoulders and thickened neck of one used to charging with the lance, he had thighs as thick as a woman’s waist, and a chest like a barrel. His features were craggy and square, the jaw heavy, as though he could bite through stone. When he was angered, Richer had seen the great muscles at the side of his head knotting until his entire head looked like a clenched fist.

Now he was not angry, and feeling safe enough from the scrutiny of a woman like this, Squire Warin was content to treat her to a wide grin. ‘Lady, do you object to serving men of common fame like me?’

‘No,’ she said, although doubtfully. ‘I suppose not. Although I’m surprised you’ve not been in here before. You’ve been living in Cardinham more than a month.’

‘The ale at the castle is good,’ Warin smiled, ‘but if I had known that your tavern held such an obvious attraction, I should have come here much sooner.’

Sue winked at Richer. ‘You taught him well, Rich. He can flatter as well as you! What’s it to be? A quart of ale each?’

‘That would be good,’ Richer said easily.

She went off, and was soon back carrying a great jug and two mazers. ‘Try some of this. It’s good, I’ll wager. It was made for the harvesting, and it’s near perfect.’

Squire Warin took a long swallow. ‘It is good,’ he said, his approval echoed by Richer. ‘It is your own brew?’

‘Who else would make it?’

‘Your husband? I had heard you were married?’

‘To a wastrel, yes. He lived here for a while,’ she said, her face setting rigidly for a moment. Then, like a cloud passing from the sun’s face, the mood left her and she chuckled slightly. ‘Then I booted him out. He drank all the ale he could, spent money on buying drinks for others, took my purse when he had little left himself, and near lost me this house. It was my parents’ place, you see. Well, he’s gone now. I won’t have him back.’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt it. So, that’s my story … why are you here?’

Richer coughed into his ale. ‘Woman, don’t think to question a nobleman!’ he spluttered.

‘Why? What’s so wrong about asking that?’ she asked with a sly glance.

‘I think you know already,’ Squire Warin said. ‘My lord died, and I was without a master for a while, but then I was sent here, and Nicholas at the castle has taken me on as a guard.’

‘You are lordless?’ she asked, eyeing his rich clothing. ‘And yet you seek to make trouble.’

‘Me?’ Warin rumbled.

‘Richer does, and you’d support him, wouldn’t you?’ she countered.

Richer smiled at her. ‘We seek no trouble at all.’

‘Really? Yet you want to pick a fight, don’t you?’

‘You mean Serlo? He has been robbing the vill for too long. If he steals from your lord, the lord will fine everyone here. But he takes money from strangers as gifts so that they don’t have to pay tolls; when he is discovered, everyone else will be forced to pay. Is that fair?’

‘As fair as life usually is,’ she countered. ‘Ah, but I don’t know. I can’t care. I don’t know how many summers I’ve seen in my time, but I don’t suppose I’ll see many more. What is it to me if you pick a fight with him?’

‘I don’t want to fight him, just expose him,’ Richer said. In truth he didn’t want either. All he wanted was for Athelina to be safe in her home, secure from Serlo’s threats and unreasonable demands for money. It was Serlo who’d suggested that she should whore for the money. Richer could remember the rising fury when she had told him that. It had made him want to go and slaughter the miller on the spot.

He hadn’t seen her for some days now. He’d been busy, of course, with his duties as a man-at-arms, but when he had gone to the house, it had been empty. Only last night he’d banged on the door, but before he could push it open, he’d seen old Iwan watching him, and the awareness that entering a woman’s home uninvited was improper and could give rise to rumours of her incontinence, made him stop and walk away.

Susan was watching him carefully. ‘If you upset those two, it’ll end in a fight, mark my words. And even you might find it hard to defend yourself against both together.’

As Sue spoke, had she but known it, three travellers were approaching the tollgate over the miller’s bridge.

Serlo heard them from his little cottage and cocked his head. Aumery, his older son, was whining about something or other, but a flick from Serlo’s hand to the boy’s head and, ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about!’ soon made him silent. Muriel hurried to the snot-nosed brat and soothed him, watching Serlo with wide, bitter eyes.

Yes, it was horses. Hopefully, Serlo rose and hurried out through the door and over to the gate. Once there, he leaned on it and gazed westwards down the lane. The road bent immediately after the bridge, and although there were few trees there lining the stream’s banks, they stood rank behind rank, obliterating any view of the roadway.

Surely this must be merchants, or a pair of fellows hurrying to a market? Serlo’s face was wreathed in smiles at the prospect of making a little money. And Christ’s tears, he could do with it! Muriel was always on at him, as if he needed that sort of nagging when he was already worried about Richer. She should learn to keep her trap shut.

There was a flash of colour through the trees. Yes, it was two — no, three men on horseback! Serlo felt his mood slip a little, because so many might be able to dispute his right to charge anything, just as Richer had. Then he shrugged. If they did, there was little he could do to change that. They shouldn’t, anyway. Most didn’t.

The leading rider was a bluff-looking fellow, big in the saddle, wearing a green tunic with pale red hosen. Behind him was another man, one with a thin line of dark beard following his jaw, wearing a blue tunic, red hosen and a floppy-brimmed green hat. The last rider was clearly a servant, clad in tatty ochre-coloured tunic and hosen. No other men, no one on foot. Yes, Serlo reckoned, this was an easy mark.

‘Masters!’ he roared as the men approached. ‘Godspeed!’

‘Godspeed,’ replied the leading man, his eyes all about the place as though suspecting an ambush. ‘What is this, friend?’

‘My master built this bridge from his own funds, and he collects tolls to help pay for it.’

‘Does he have permission?’ asked the second man. He spurred his horse on, and studied Serlo. His eyes seemed black and intense, and Serlo felt nervous of meeting that flat, determined stare.

‘Permission, master? I suppose so. This is his manor, after all.’

‘I should like to speak to him about this, then, and see the authority which permits him to charge travellers at will.’

Serlo smiled and ducked his head. ‘If you don’t want to pay, masters, maybe I could help? Give me a halfpenny, instead of the penny toll each, and I’ll forget you passed this way.’

‘So you would halve our fee?’ the bearded man asked quietly. Suddenly his horse jerked his head, and Serlo found that the man had approached the gate with an angry set to his face. ‘Do you mean to say that you would betray your master’s trust, churl? Would you forget his tolls in order to make your own profit?’

‘I am trying to help you, that’s all,’ Serlo said. He regretted not bringing his cudgel with him now. ‘If you don’t want my help, go back the way you came, and find another route. It’s nothing to me!’

‘My name is Sir Baldwin of Furnshill. I command you to open that gate now, fool, before I ride both it and you down! Be silent! Open the gate at once in the name of the King! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I swear this to you now: when I see your master I shall enquire as to the legality of this tollgate, and if I learn that it is not legal, I shall return to question you.’

He was leaning low over his horse’s neck now, his eyes fixed upon Serlo like a snake’s upon a rabbit, and Serlo was petrified. The movement of the rider’s hand towards his sword-hilt decided him. There was nothing he could do to defend himself against a knight trained in battle. With a bad grace, he lifted the bar once more and hauled the gate wide, keeping behind it. ‘I’ll tell my master of this,’ he muttered sulkily. ‘He won’t be happy.’

‘When I have told him you are stealing from him, I should doubt that he will be,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘And I have little doubt that his mood will match mine perfectly.’

It had all happened — her marriage, security, and then the child — as though by accident: that was how Anne thought of it, when she did at all. She considered her past life only rarely. Some superstitious instinct warned her that such things might again become reality, were she to consider them too deeply, and she had no desire to relive her life. For her, now was all. She asked no more than this.

The manor where she had been born was by the coast, a windswept place of moors and woods, wonderful to play in. Anne had many friends, and now, recalling those times, she could see Sal, Emmie and Chris, always smiling. Each summer was filled with laughter beneath the bright heavens.

But then the King attacked the Scottish. Her father went to join the King’s host, as had so many, but he never came back. He died without even seeing the battlefield, for a man told Anne’s mother that he had fallen prey to a disease, and was buried in a church in Exeter.

Disaster was striking all, not only Anne’s family. The rains, which had been expected during the winter, never stopped through the following summer. The men went to work the fields, and returned encased in mud. Their faces, hands and bodies were smothered in it. Boots rotted, hosen became loose, flapping things, and even the men’s legs became whitened and wrinkled like hands left too long in a stream. There were few men to labour, for many had died in Scotland, so the women must help, and the children. Anne and her mother spent their days in the fields.

First to die was Chris. It was a surprise when one of their party disappeared; it was hard to believe. They all knew what death meant, of course, they saw it all about them, but it happened to the very young or ancient, not to a girl of nearly marriageable age like Chris. Her thin frame worked hard to help bring in the harvest, but as the crop rotted black on the stems, she lost all hope. One day she simply didn’t waken.

Next was Sal. She died early the following year as the rain continued unabated. There had been little grain to keep back for planting the following year, but the vill had, by starving themselves and rationing, saved sufficient. The lord of the manor had to buy in grain; his farms wouldn’t support him, and if there wasn’t enough for him, there was less to share amongst his peasants. At least he could afford to buy food; Anne’s mother couldn’t. She died one day while working. Anne saw her crouch and cough, a hand over her mouth. Then she settled herself at a tree and closed her eyes. When Anne went to wake her later, she saw the eyes wide in the skull-like face, the mouth slack, the hands like claws resting in her lap. There just hadn’t been enough energy for her to continue living.

That was when hopelessness overwhelmed her. She believed she would die too, and when she was told that the vill couldn’t afford to feed her — the food was needed to keep the men working — she accepted the decision without complaint. Taking her mother’s shawl and a knife, she walked into the rain. She was sure that she was walking to her death, and hoped that she would soon see her mother and father again in Heaven.

Her luck was about to change. A man met her on the road and offered her shelter at his inn if she agreed to service his clients. For a while at least she had food, if no rest or peace, but then the innkeeper evicted her — she ate too much, he said — and she was left to wander again. She sat mournfully at the roadside outside his inn, wondering what to do, once more anticipating, and almost welcoming, death.

But the idea took hold that she might at least see her father’s grave before she died. She set off eastwards, and soon was overtaken by a band of strangers. There were pedlars, pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, a brace of men-at-arms, and a friar, all seeking to escape starvation. Gladly she joined them, and the warriors shared a loaf with her, but later the friar tried to rape her. Fleeing, she ran into one of the men-at-arms, who protected her, but told her that she wasn’t safe. ‘The man’s desperate to have you, wench. You’d best be gone, ’cos by Christ’s passion, if you stay in the same group as him, he’ll take you, and you won’t be able to accuse him. No one wins by accusing a goddamned friar.’

His words made her want to seek safety away from the group, but she didn’t know how. Shortly afterwards, they happened to pass the castle at Cardinham.

It was mere good fortune. The rain started again as they left Bodmin, and Cardinham was the first place they reached. Although the Constable — this was before Alexander’s time — had said that they could sleep in the Church House, one of the pedlars had known of the castle and asked that the castellan be told of their plight. He hoped that not only would they be granted a warmer room to sleep in, but that they might also be given food and drink.

As soon as she saw this place, Anne had felt safe. It exuded stolid reliability in a way that she hadn’t known since her father’s death. She felt its all-encompassing sense of sanctuary like a warm blanket. Surely there must be a place for her here.

An old-fashioned strongpoint, Cardinham Castle was a simple tower on its own great mound of earth and rock, enclosed within a broad courtyard surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. The gateway gave out onto a long corridor that followed the line of the outer palisade to a barbican, which had its own doors at the farther end. Any man intending to break into the castle would have to force those doors, run the gauntlet of the corridor while weapons rained upon him, and then try to break down the second doors into the bailey. Not an easy task. This place had the appearance of a stronghold that was impregnable without a large force and heavy artillery, but on that day as she approached it for the first time, Anne saw only a place of serenity.

There was no one on the walls in this weather, with the rain tipping down, but at the southern entrance of the arched gateway there burned two torches, cheerily illuminating the gate. It made her feel glad just to see them, even though the rain drummed ever more loudly and the trickle of damp running down her back became a small torrent.

Inside was a gatehouse with a smiling, sympathetic keeper. He sent a boy for the castellan, and the man who was to be her husband came to meet them.

To Anne, Nicholas was a bearlike fellow, strong, hearty, sure-footed and calm. He looked a lot like her father, with the same bold features and quick eye, but was more cultured and more gentle. Anne noticed that he avoided her after a brief introduction. He glanced at her when they first arrived, he looked at her again when she was dried and when they sat down to eat, but for the rest of the time he spoke to only the men from her party. Even the pedlars were treated respectfully, which appeared to surprise some and scare others, but Anne was ignored, probably because she was nothing more than a bedraggled peasant. It wasn’t hurtful. Any great man would ignore the lowliest wench unless he wanted her to warm his bed. It was a relief in some ways, after her experiences at the brothel, and on the road with the monk.

Gervase, the steward at the castle, was different. She saw him on the first afternoon, when he arrived to offer the travellers dry clothing. There was a laundress with him, who took their old stuff to be dried on lines in the stables. As soon as Gervase saw her, he smiled broadly and began to make fun of her. Before long he had her laughing with him. It made her happy simply to be there, but being the target of such an accomplished flirt was delightful. For a while he made her forget her hideous existence in the brothel.

She could feel only gratitude that she was free of the friar’s insistent overtures. He tried to fondle her, but Gervase happened by, and the friar withdrew. Then he attempted to rape her once more just before the party left — and she stayed.

It was the day after the friar’s first attempt on her at the castle that she had met Nicholas walking in the yard. That had been a wonderful day, and a perfect night, and as they talked, the sky had darkened and then assumed an astonishing pink and golden hue that made her catch her breath. It was incredibly beautiful, and for love of it, she began to sob, reminded of evenings before she had been thrown from her home — evenings when her father and mother were both alive.

Even before her tears he had been quiet, after shyly mumbling his thankfulness for her arrival because it allowed him to show her his hospitality, which pleased him. Once more he avoided her eye, although she caught sight of his sidelong glances that flitted towards her and then away. She had wondered at it, thinking perhaps he knew of her past and was wondering whether to offer her money to lie with him. If he had, she would — she had no coins in her purse — but he made no such suggestion. And later, when they parted, she was aware of a sadness in her heart, as though she was reminded of her solitude and loneliness.

Later she had heard him marching slowly up and about the yard and walls. Even late into the night she could hear his steps, a steady, unhurried pace. They continued even as she dropped off and sank into a deep sleep. It was comforting, like a heartbeat.

Gervase was Anne’s closest friend during those first days. He brought her sweetmeats made by the cook, gave her access to the bath with the water already heated, and passed her a tunic that was hardly faded, let alone frayed or torn. She would never forget that tunic: it was a dull shade of red, and set off her features to perfection. So much nicer than the scraps she had owned before. Somehow Gervase procured a bone comb too, and she was at last able to care for her hair. Although she lacked the basic trappings of a lady, at least she could dress and present herself as one.

That first night with her new tunic, she sat up late simply looking at it, occasionally reaching out and touching it, stroking the material, tracing the line of the throat and the shoulders, even sniffing at it and burying her face in the softness of the bunched cloth. It was so lovely she could have wept for sheer joy.

By the next morning, she had realised what she wanted to do. She acquired some thread and a needle from a maidservant, and set to work. By lunchtime she had embroidered the hems and the breast with a small pattern of leaves picked out in white thread, and then set off to find Gervase.

‘My dear, you look like an angel,’ Nicholas had breathed, his voice choked, when he saw her enter his hall.

Only then did she appreciate his feelings. Suddenly she understood that his sadness was mere proof of his knowledge of the futility of his unrequited adoration, and she left his hall filled with confusion. He was kind to her, he was protecting her here in his castle, and yet she felt sure that she couldn’t return his love. She had never experienced a grown man’s love before. Only lust.

Father Adam finished working on his little glebe and was about to go home for a late lunch when he saw the three large rounseys appear. His guilt was always at the forefront of his mind, and seeing them, he instantly wondered whether the rural dean had already heard of his sins and had sent these fellows for him, but he soon dismissed the idea. No, the rural dean couldn’t call on a belted knight and his men to help him. These must be travellers. That was what they looked like: a knight, his man-at-arms and a forester or bowman to guard them.

Of course, some mercenaries would kill as soon as look at a man, especially one with a price on his head. It was such an alarming thought, he almost dropped his basket of beans and Good King Henry, all freshly picked for his pottage. Adam slipped back into the protection of the doorway. He would hide there and let the men pass by. Better to treat all strangers with caution. Since the war, after which the Despensers had returned to the realm, there were all manner of tales of knights becoming outlaws, and whole shires being ravaged by trail bastons and murderers. Even priests were treated no better than peasants.

To his horror, he saw that one of them, a tall, rugged-looking man with a bright blue tunic and red hosen, was looking straight at him. He pointed at Adam, and all three headed towards him.

‘Father, I am Sir Baldwin of Furnshill and this is my friend Simon, Bailiff of Lydford. We are riding to Devonshire. Is this the right road?’

‘I am told so,’ Adam responded. He glanced over the three, and although he saw that the two were armed and capable-looking men, he had a feeling that they were not dangerous. ‘I … ah … I live over there. If you would desire a break in your journey, I would be happy to give you some lunch.’

‘That is most kind, but we have a long way to go,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps we could take a little ale or wine though, if you have some to spare, Father? Something to slake our thirst would be gratefully received.’

Adam grinned with relief that these were no wandering outlaws. ‘In a place like this, we rarely see decent wine, Sir Knight, but I can promise you the best ale in the vill.’

‘Then we should be delighted.’

‘Please follow me.’

His house was timber-built, a small place but comfortable, at the northern tip of the churchyard. At the westernmost end lay the buttery and pantry, with a small chamber over them for guests, while the eastern bay held another chamber over a small byre in which the vicar’s animals would live. At present there was nothing there.

Seeing Baldwin’s interested glance, Adam said, ‘The oxen are out with my villeins. There’s always more work to be done.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘Tell me, what is the lord of this manor like?’

‘Sir Henry has been absent for many years,’ Adam said. ‘He is a member of the King’s household, so he rarely comes this way.’

‘Who looks after the manor in his absence?’

‘There is the steward, Gervase, and the castellan, Nicholas. Both hold responsibility for the estates.’

‘Are they honourable?’

‘Why yes, I believe so,’ Adam said with genuine surprise.

As Baldwin nodded, a young woman in her early twenties entered, a baby at her breast. She took a long look at the men in the room, and then walked to Adam, a hand resting on his forearm while she talked. Soon he was nodding, and she left him there, hurrying from the room to fetch drinks.

Baldwin shot a look at Simon, who met his gaze unblinkingly. Both were sure that the woman was Adam’s ‘priest’s mare’, his concubine. Simon was not bothered by this, but Baldwin found it repellent that a man should swear chastity to God and then sink into the arms of a woman. When he had been a Knight Templar, he had taken the vows of poverty, obedience and chastity like other monks, and he never knowingly broke them until his Order was betrayed. Only many years afterwards had he been persuaded that his oath was redundant, and even then it had taken some while before he could face the thought of marriage. It felt like treason. Not that he could regret marrying Jeanne — he adored her.

But it was different for a priest who yet remained in Holy Orders. He wondered that the priest should be so blatant with his bastard. It was shocking.

Looking at Adam, it was surprising too. Baldwin wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. But there, the man was probably attractive to women with his slender features and pale complexion. The large eyes could be thought pleasant, he supposed, and the man’s gentle manner might appeal. To Baldwin’s eye, he looked rather effeminate.

‘Lordings, please be seated,’ Adam said hesitantly. He was aware of a sudden tension in the room, and he nervously ignored it, busying himself fetching stools. Soon there was a rattling sound, and he hurried to the buttery door. ‘Come in, Julia. Let me help you … Ah, that smells good.’

He took the heavy pitcher from her, grabbed the wobbling cups from her tray, and poured ale for them all. ‘Julia is looking after me. I am afraid I cannot cook to save my life, and it’s pleasant to have someone to talk to. Sir Baldwin? Here is your ale.’

Baldwin nodded ungraciously, and sat so that he couldn’t see the girl any more. He wanted to be out of here as soon as possible.

‘Where have you been?’ Adam asked innocently, and Baldwin groaned to himself. Sure enough, Simon instantly leaped into an explanation of their adventures, starting with the crazed monk of Gidleigh, and then leading on to the tale of their pilgrimage.

It was a whole four months or so since they had left their homes, he realised. Terrible to think that he had not seen his darling wife in such a long while.

‘Father! Father!’

Father Adam looked as though he was never an entirely calm man, to Simon’s mind. He had the thin, almost gaunt features of one who carried a community’s sins on his shoulders, and Simon saw that his nails were all bitten to the quick. Hearing the cry, he shot up, scattering drops of ale like seeds from the sower’s hand. ‘Gregory? What is it, in God’s name?’

The boy ran in, slipped on the rushes, and fell headlong. Before anyone could reach him, he sprang up again and gasped, ‘It’s Athelina! Oh, good God in Heaven, please come, Father!’