The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (12 page)

The door consisted of four rough planks pegged together. To prevent as many draughts as possible, an old piece of material had been stretched between them, like a new cloth on tenterhooks, set there to dry after milling so that it wouldn’t wrinkle or warp. Except this was no new material; it was a revolting piece of thick fustian, sodden and stinking of horses. Baldwin assumed it had been a horse blanket, saved when it was no longer good enough for the beasts but adequate for a poor widow. That thought made him set his jaw.

He pulled the door wide. It grated on the dirt threshold, the leather hinges groaning quietly. To Baldwin, there was a sad tone to the sound, like an old woman moaning about pain in her limbs, knowing the pain would always be there, that there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Grief and pain were woman’s birthright ever since Eve’s betrayal.

The interior had a fusty odour, but over it Baldwin could detect the harsh, metallic tang to which he was grown so accustomed –
blood
.

‘Sweet mother of God,’ Simon breathed.

Baldwin nodded. Then the two entered, Baldwin leading the way.

Inside, it was cool, with a strange atmosphere. Even Baldwin felt claustrophobic in the quietness, and both men found their eyes straining in the darkness after the bright daylight outside. Stepping forward, Baldwin struck a rafter with his forehead, and
then was more cautious. Gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, but before they could discern the interior, the boy Gregory had poked his head around the door and called to them.

‘She’s there, sir,
there
!’

At last Baldwin could see her.

‘Poor soul!’ he heard Simon mutter, and Baldwin nodded to himself.

She was a tall figure in a cheap woollen dress. Her head was thrust forward, the knot of the hemp at the back of her neck suspending her so that her feet dangled a foot or so from the ground; she swayed a little in the still air. Thick hair fell about her shoulders, uncombed and lank. Simon and Baldwin went to her without hurry, for it was clear that any attempt to save her would be in vain. She had been dead for some little while. There was no breath in her, no twitch of muscle clinging to life.

While Baldwin steadied her, his arms about her waist, Simon drew his sword and hacked at the rope bound to the rafter above her. It soon parted with a crack like a whip, and Baldwin had her full weight. He took a step backwards and almost tripped over the stool which lay near her.

Simon saw. ‘She stood on that, then stepped off …’

Baldwin was about to nod when his foot knocked something else. ‘What’s that, Simon?’

As Baldwin half carried, half dragged the body out into the bright sunshine, Simon reached down and picked up a dagger. He took it with him as he followed Baldwin, and once outside he had to close his eyes in the glare. Gradually he could open them again, and then he gave a short grunt of revulsion.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked, settling the woman down on the ground.

‘Is she bleeding much? Christ Jesus, why’d she stab herself as well?’

Baldwin stared down at her. ‘She’s got blood on her hands, but there’s none elsewhere,’ he said, lifting her hands and studying her wrists.

‘Then whose blood was this?’ Simon demanded, showing him the dagger, its blade all besmeared.

It was Adam who answered in a hushed tone. ‘Where are her children?’

Baldwin and Simon re-entered. That was when Simon saw the blackened river of congealed blood that seeped from beneath the palliasse.

Lady Anne heard the noise as she left her chamber. It sounded as though all the men in the castle’s yard were shouting at once, and she stood near the opened window in her solar to listen, a hand resting softly on her rounding belly.

It was rare indeed for such a commotion to be raised in the castle. Generally things were calm and ordered. It was the way that her husband, God bless him, liked to run his life, and the idea that someone should be here causing such mayhem was more than a little disturbing. There were only twelve men-at-arms here, when all was said and done, and that was hardly enough to cope with a real attack, even with the help of their servants.

Then she forced herself to be rational. There was no clash of arms, only the roaring of commands and the answering shouts of men.

Soon she heard feet pounding up the wooden staircase, and her husband hurried in. Nicholas was dressed in his normal tunic of rough red wool, and the shade matched the colour in his face.

‘Dear heart,’ she murmured, and swiftly she went to him, bending her head to rest it upon his breast. Once more she felt secure, protected in his warmth, just as a child might. That was the effect of his love on her, the sense that she was entirely safe with him. As soon as his arms went about her, all memories were
gone. She could sigh with comfort, forgetting that she had been a
whore
.

‘I have to go, my dear.’

‘Where?’ she asked, looking up at him. ‘Is it all that shouting?’

‘The priest sent a man – a woman’s dead. I have to go and see that it’s not murder, send a man for the Coroner, arrange the guards about the body – all that sort of thing.’ She shivered suddenly, and he bent over her with compassion. ‘My love, don’t worry! This is just a poor woman who seems to have killed herself from despair.’

‘Killed herself?’

‘Don’t worry yourself.’ There was already that subtle distance in his tone, as there occasionally was when he spoke of matters which he felt could upset her. It was as though he was protecting her from the trials of his job here in the castle. He had taken it upon himself to guard her from those who could cause her grief; but today she wanted to know what was happening outside in the world.

‘Who was it?’ she asked, a faint frown at her brow. It was horrible to think of someone dying when she’d been sitting here enjoying herself.

‘The madwoman – you know her, Athelina. She’s apparently killed herself and her children. Hard to conceive how—’

‘My precious, don’t,’ she said quickly, putting two fingers over his lips. There was a cold worm in her bowels. Nicholas felt the lack of an heir so keenly, she knew. It was terrible for a man to have reached his age and still not have the certainty of his name going forward. Forty-six years old, and he had no one to whom to leave his treasure. She would give him an heir soon, she swore to herself. ‘Anyone could see that she was a lunatic.’

He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

His tone was enough to make her lift an eyebrow in query. ‘It is the full moon, isn’t it? I suppose her humours were unsettled.
Anyway, she’s been teetering on the brink of destruction for a long time, hasn’t she? This was probably the last straw, when the moon affected her.’

‘To kill her children, though. Such a terrible crime … and then herself, too.’

She shuddered, a hand going to the child in her swollen womb. ‘You should be gone. Don’t worry about me, just see to her and return as soon as you may. Perhaps I should come too?’

‘No, my love. You stay here.’

Nick tried to smile at her, but there was a terrible absence in his eyes where usually she would have seen his love shining.

‘You stay and forget all about this. Just concentrate on our son.’

He attempted another smile, but Lady Anne could see on his face only the awareness of man’s potential for hideous cruelty.

Alexander’s wife Letitia heard the rumours spreading about the town. She was in the middle of cheese-making, using a spare gallon of milk, the remnant of last night’s milking, mixed with fresh milk from this morning. It was curious that cheese always tasted best when it was made from two milkings; she sometimes wondered about it, and why that should be, but it was God’s way of doing it, and that was enough for her.

The pot on its trivet had been warmed to blood heat, the curdled milk from a calf’s stomach added, and she had stirred the pot carefully away from the heat to let the curds form. The other pot, her cooking one, was over the fire now, the fine muslin boiling. She’d use that to strain the curds from the whey before wrapping the cheese in it and binding it. There was a nail in the beam near the wall where she could hang it to cure and drip itself dry.

Curious at the noise, she left the pot and went to the door. There, she saw old Iwan and his son Angot talking. They looked serious and more than a little alarmed, standing in the track and staring back towards the church.

She was hot from her cooking on this warm day, and intrigued to learn what they were discussing, because although the good God knew she was no gossip, there was sometimes something to be learned from the sort of talk that flowed about the vill; especially if it had any bearing upon her husband. That was, of course, a perfectly valid reason for her listening to the chatter of others.

Quickly, she busied herself. The pot with the forming curds could be safely left now. She wrapped straw about it to keep it warm, holding it in place with an old tunic of Alexander’s, and wiped her hands on her apron before giving detailed instructions to Jan, the foolish child who served her as maid. She was so stupid that even the simplest of tasks would challenge her, and Letitia went through the small jobs that needed doing, all the while watching Jan’s face to see that she understood. With a grimace, Letitia finally waved her away. The girl Jan would somehow mess it up: she always did. That was the trouble with peasants like her – they had no sense!

Still, as she left her house and felt the sun’s warmth on her face, she could allow a small smile to pass over her features. This was a good vill, her man the Constable of the Peace was important and growing wealthy, and they had a pleasant life. Only one thing marred the tenor of their lives – the lack of children – but, as she reminded herself, there were many with the same problem, and perhaps God would soon favour them.

‘Godspeed, Iwan, Angot. It is a fine day,’ she said to the two men.

‘Aye, for some,’ Iwan said.

She smiled at him. He was a funny old devil, but she rather liked him. He was rumoured to have been a ferocious soldier in the old King’s armies when they marched through Wales to quell the rebellious churls over there, with their fraudulent usurper, but now all she could ever see was the twinkle in his eye as he spoke
to her or one of the other wives in the vill. Iwan may have been a fine fighter, but she was sure that he had been keener on other forms of fencing. She’d seen him often enough, whenever the vill had a celebration and the ale had flowed freely, making up to any woman within reach. None would really want him for a lover – he was ridiculously old – but he had a roguish grin and was always ready with a compliment. For some women, that was enough to let a man lie with them.

‘Is there something troubling you?’ she asked. ‘You look upset.’

‘It’s poor Athelina,’ Angot burst out. ‘She’s killed herself and her children.’

‘Oh, the evil woman!’

Letitia felt Iwan’s glance flare at her like red-hot cinders. ‘Her in’t evil, mistress, only sad. Her’s dead because of money. ’Twere that made her do it.’

‘That’s true. When Serlo asked for more rent for the cottage, she couldn’t find it,’ Angot said sombrely. ‘He put her rent up, and she couldn’t scrape anything together. So that’s why she’s dead now: her and her children.’

Letitia gasped with some annoyance. ‘It’s ridiculous! There’s no need for someone to commit self-murder, nor to murder their own children. There’s a church here, and plenty of alms can be given. Why, she’s made use of the church’s money before now. And she’s had our scrapings and some bread, too. There’s no excuse, none whatever, for this horrible crime.’

‘That’s what some might say,’ Angot pulled a face, ‘but ’tis hard for a woman to live without a man to guard her and her little ’uns. She walked the rope for so long, and today she slipped.’

‘I scarcely think her life was one long tightrope,’ Letitia scoffed. ‘But has anyone told my husband? He should be there.’

‘You’ll see him at her house, mistress,’ Angot said.

She left them there, Iwan looking as grimly forbidding as a man-at-arms should, and less like a friendly old smith, and Angot
merely looking confused and upset. He’d grown up with Athelina, Letitia reminded herself. He had probably been quite fond of her, as men and women could be in a small, close-knit vill like Cardinham.

The way to Athelina’s house took her down the lane towards the church, then left and across a muddy field. Already, from the front of the church, she could see the people gathering, and she had to stop her feet from hurrying. Too much haste would appear indelicate and ghoulish … yet she
was
fascinated!

As soon as Susan heard the cry, she went to the door of the inn, a cup of cider in hand. There she saw a couple of women running past, their skirts gripped in their hands as they pelted up towards the church.

‘What’s the matter?’ she called out, but either they didn’t hear her, or they were in too much of a hurry even to respond. Shrugging, Susan drained her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Probably a fight between men in the fields. Some of the lads working the scythes there came from the next vill, and natural rivalry often flared into actual violence. It was only three years ago that two men stacking the sheaves had suddenly set upon one another, and one fellow had died, stabbed in the heart. That had cost the vill dear.