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

The little cart had been made by a wheelwright some years before for his own children, and when they had grown too old for it, his wife had offered it to Muriel. A simple two-wheeled vehicle with six-spoked wheels, the man had made it for fun on his pole-lathe largely to prove to himself that he could do something so delicate. For a child as young as Aumery, a two-wheeled cart would have been too easily tipped up, so the man had set a peg in the base of the cart, so that it could be pushed about the yard easily. Now there were lines in the dirt all about the cottage.

‘Here, Aumie,’ she called, and the boy turned.

She smiled at him, crouching with arms open wide, and chuckling with laughter, he pushed the cart about until it was facing her, then started to run to her.

Then the noise of hooves suddenly grew louder. In her delight at the sight of her two sons, Muriel had forgotten the riders and now she realised with horror that Aumery was only partly across the track. The horses were coming closer, faster –
too
fast! They must arrive here any moment! They would run down her children!

With a cry of fear, she sprang up and ran across the path. The horses had come around the bend in the road and were almost upon her. With a last desperate cry, she snatched her sons, enfolding them in a close embrace to protect them from those terrible hooves.

She’d often heard that horseshoes could grow as sharp as a razor by cobbles and paving slabs, but it wasn’t until three years ago that she’d seen how evil a weapon a horseshoe could be. A girl had been struck a glancing blow by a stallion. Instantly her face was a mass of blood. Nobody was concerned at first, because they knew a head wound would bleed appallingly. Then someone wiped away the blood and saw the the bone, sheared through as though by an axe, and the grey mass beneath. Muriel had stared for an instant, then her stomach heaved.

Now she waited with dread. It could only be a matter of seconds. She gripped Aumery’s head and pulled it to her breast, tugging Hamelin to her lap and safety as he started to wail. Aumery was already sobbing in fear, and there was a terrible rending inside her which, she suddenly understood, was her own sobbing.

There was a rush of noise, a slamming of hooves, and then a hideous blow on her head … and she toppled forward into the dull nothingness that opened to swallow her.

Letitia was the first person people thought of calling whenever something bad happened. They went to her not because she was the wife of the Constable, but because she was one person upon whom everyone could count. Letty always knew the best way of dealing with a problem. It was her steadiness in an emergency that had her summoned to the difficult birthings, or to the child with a scalded arm, or the man with a stab wound. All would go to her, and she would deal with each eventuality as she saw fit.

Susan the alewife it was who appeared at her door, her face drawn and anxious. ‘Letty, there’s been a terrible accident.’

‘Who?’

She was already pulling on a shawl as she listened intently. There was no point in rushing off and then arriving without the necessary tools; better by far that she waited until she knew what was needed. There was satisfaction in being prepared; just a few moments of her time could make the difference between a person suffering and surviving.

‘It’s poor Muriel,’ Susan said breathlessly. ‘She’s been run down – by the Coroner of all people!’

‘Poor Muriel,’ Letitia echoed, appalled. ‘Is she dead?’

‘She lives, but her head is cut open. She heard the horses and sheltered her sons. They were playing in the road.’

‘She would.’ Letitia nodded approvingly. ‘We can only hope that she isn’t too badly hurt. Head wounds can be so dangerous.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ Susan guessed. ‘The skull looks unharmed, but her flesh is cut away.’

Letitia nodded. She could wash out the wound with some oil, and then put on a poultice to draw out the evil humours. ‘And there are the boys, of course?’

‘Yes. You’ll have to look after them. Serlo won’t be capable on his own.’

‘Huh! Not that arse!’

‘Aha! What has your marvellous brother-in-law done this time?’

There was always a comfort in talking to Susan. She was a confident, sensible woman, independent and bright. Although she was a tavernkeeper, she could hold her tongue when asked. Not that there was anything secret in this. It was woman’s talk. ‘He came to our house last night. Told us that Athelina was little better than a slut because she had two children in as many years. Surely he knows Alexander and I have been trying …’

‘It’ll come for you surely, Letty,’ Susan said, patting her hand consolingly. ‘It’s just some folks find it takes longer than others.’

‘The way he spoke of her! You’d think he hated all women, especially those with children.’

‘He’s just a fool,’ Susan said. ‘I’ll refuse to serve him in my alehouse if he’s not more polite.’

‘Do that and you’ll lose all your profits,’ Letty joked. ‘I can’t help thinking that he despises all women – perhaps because he never knew a mother when he was a child. All he knew was Alexander.’

Susan smiled but there was nothing to say.

Soon Letty sniffed, wiped her nose, and stood. ‘Right!’ she said briskly. ‘Is Muriel at her home?’

‘Yes. We didn’t want to move her after the accident. But the boys …’

‘They can come here, and so can she. I can look after them, although I don’t know how we’ll cope with Serlo as well. That would be too much.’

They were soon done. Letitia packed her bag, hesitated over the basket of eggs, and then selected the freshest she could find. Muriel deserved careful protection and egg-whites could help clean deeper cuts. Ready, she led the way at a fast trot to the mill.

Outside were a pair of dark brown mounts, one a large rounsey, the second a smaller pony with a splatter of light brown coat on his flank. Letitia scarcely gave them a glance, but instead shoved at the door and walked into Serlo and Muriel’s house.

It was a small, rather noisome place, filled with the odours of a home: a baby’s excrement, sour milk, vomit, and the smell of sheep from the small fold at the farther end of the long, narrow cottage. The fire sat in the middle of the earthen floor on a hard clay base, and it had been carefully tended, Letitia saw with an approving nod. A clerk squatted at its side, a doleful little man with a pasty face washed free of any semblance of cheer. He glanced up. There was a sombre look about him, as though he was waiting to be accused of murder, and Letitia assumed he was the rider who had struck Muriel.

Muriel’s bed was a low wooden frame with a thin mattress stuffed with fragrant herbs and hay, and she lay on it with her head flung back like a corpse. Her eyes were closed and her face dreadfully pallid, so much so that Letitia wondered immediately whether she had dallied too long and was here to witness the death of her sister-in-law. Yet even as she turned to whisper to Susan, Muriel’s eyes opened. For all that they were dull and had bruises beneath them, there was none of Athelina’s despair or madness in them.

That at least was a relief. Letitia crossed the floor and squatted beside her. ‘This is not going to hurt too much,’ she said, and Muriel smiled faintly up at her, as though recognising the dishonesty of the statement. Then she closed them tightly as Letitia began to examine the wound.

Later, when she had cleaned it and rinsed it first with oil, then with a little egg-white, she wrapped a clean linen towel about her head. Only then did Letitia glance at Susan. ‘Where are the boys?’

‘They’re out with their father,’ said a deeper voice. A man in a faded grey tunic appeared from the darkness near the doorway. He was young, with olive skin, of slender build for a knight, but he wore the spurs and belt like a man born to the noble class. He stepped forward until he was close to Letitia. His eyes were dark as soot, set rather close together about a hawk-like nose. Now he looked unutterably sad. ‘I ordered that the miller should come and collect them while their mother was seen to. Will she be all right?’

‘She should live, unless she’s unlucky,’ Letitia said, holding Muriel’s hand gently. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you? Godspeed, Muriel. Sleep well. I’ll look after your sons.’

There was a subtle reciprocation of pressure on her fingers, and then she put Muriel’s hand back down on the blanket.

‘So your clerk managed to knock her down? He must have been riding very fast,’ she said accusingly, staring at the whey-faced fellow by the hearth. ‘I hope you will compensate this woman for her suffering.’

The man glanced at his clerk, then turned back to her with a little grimace. ‘It wasn’t him, I fear.’

‘It was
you
. Always the same: it’s the wealthy and careless who inflict pain on others,’ she said uncompromisingly.

‘In this case, it wasn’t frivolous, madam. I was hurrying to another body. A woman who died in the vill here?’

She looked at him. ‘You are the Coroner?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘You think me too young?’

‘I do not care about your age, sir, but I fear the inexperience of a man who might cause one death while investigating another.’

He winced, she was glad to see, and apologised. ‘It was this summons, madam. I had to come and view the body, but I also
have two other suspicious deaths to investigate. I was in a great hurry … and now, because of my haste, I could have killed a young mother protecting her children. It is a miserable man you see before you, madam.’

‘That’s all very well,’ she said, glancing once more at Muriel. ‘You may also have made a widower of her husband and taken away the mother of two sons.’ I have seen what that loss can do to a man, she thought to herself, and was vaguely disquieted by the reflection. There was nothing wrong with her man, nothing wrong with Alex. The only one who had grown ill-favoured and unpleasant was Serlo.

‘My apologies. I only hope she recovers. In the meantime …’ The Coroner reached into his purse, pulled out a few coins and studied them carefully, the coins close to his nose, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Here.’ He handed her one.

She could feel by its weight that it was a valuable coin and thought she should give it to Serlo, but then rejected the idea. That would be madness indeed, giving that wastrel and spendthrift money – she might as well pass it straight to Susan. No, she must keep it safe, she thought.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. Then: ‘Susan, I must see to the boys. Can you remain here until I have fetched Jan from home?’

‘God’s blood! Of course I can wait to help poor Muriel. I’ve got to get back before too long, though. There’ll be the harvesters arriving.’

‘Good. Do you remain here then, and I shall send my maid to take over shortly.’

‘We should be continuing our journey, then,’ the knight said. ‘Come, Roger, we have to go and view this body.’

Julia, the young woman who acted as housekeeper for Father Adam, had woken later than usual this morning. The death yesterday had shocked her, but she knew that she must continue as though nothing
was altered; otherwise the priest might notice and wonder. When he returned after his services, she had to hurry to prepare his food; her thoughts had been so tangled, caught up with Athelina and her miserable end, that she hadn’t noticed the passing time. Mind, she had time to consider the new fellow – Ivo, the lad with the winning grin, the smutty sense of humour and strong frame. If she were ever in danger, this fellow might rescue her.

‘I’ll have an egg today, Julia,’ came the call from the little hall, and Julia leaped to her feet, startled, before setting her child on the floor and hurtling about the room. She readied a platter, cutting bread into rindless sheets, and set a pot of dripping beside it on a tray. Going out to the nesting place of the irascible white hen, who shot off angrily to the other side of the yard after pecking viciously at her hand, she rescued the egg and took her prize back into the house, only to see the baby crawling off through the doorway into the parlour. Hurrying, she gathered up the tray with the bread, a wooden board and knife, and carried them to the priest’s main room.

It wasn’t large, but at least it smelled wholesome in there. He didn’t have a dog so his reeds weren’t infested with bones and shit, and Julia was happy that her boy was safe in there, although when she had set the tray on the table by Adam, she heard his swift intake of breath, and spun round to see her son crawling towards the fire. She swept him up and set him back on her hip. ‘You little bugger, you’ll be the death of me,’ she said with exasperation.

‘You shouldn’t swear at him,’ Adam remonstrated, but she gave the priest a glare.

‘What else can I do? He’s into everything right now, and I can’t do anything but smack him to warn him.’

‘He’d be happier with a little gentle persuasion, I expect.’

‘Father, you stick to what you know and I’ll look after this one. He’s a little animal, just like any other, and he needs
training.’ She chucked the fellow under the chin. ‘In’t that right, Ned? So keep off the fire, you little devil, or I’ll tan your hide for you.’

She plonked him down again and fetched a griddle, sitting it straight on the embers. There would be enough heat to cook Father Adam’s egg. She broke it onto the warm disk, and waited until it was whitened through, the yolk a pale yellow in its midst, and then picked the griddle from the fire and brought it to him, using a knife to prise the egg from the metal and slide it onto his platter. Then she sat on his bench and watched him eat.