The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (10 page)

‘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.