The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (34 page)

‘There is little chance that this Squire Warin is Sir Roger Mortimer,’ he said at last. ‘But I for one would be glad to learn what the man has to say about his presence. Who is he, and why is he here?’

At that moment, the focus of Sir Baldwin’s interest was in the vill with Richer; the two men were strolling along the roadway towards the tavern. They passed the lane which led down to Alexander’s house and the mill, and soon after there was the church. Richer was tempted to enter, but Warin reminded him that Serlo’s widow would probably still be inside, watching over the body of her son. Richer regretfully agreed to go there later, when the woman had gone home.

At the point where they must turn right to go to the tavern, Richer stopped and glanced back the way they had come. He was almost sure he saw a figure dart in among the shrubs and bushes which lined the roads, and for a moment, he nearly called Warin’s attention to it. However, the squire was already striding towards the alehouse, and Richer told himself not to be such a fool. It was his nerves, that was all. He was anxious because of the way his old enemy had suddenly died, leaving him as the clear suspect.

Richer was still shocked by the idea that Serlo could have fired his home and killed his family. Although he hadn’t admitted it even to Warin, those words of Serlo’s
had
brought on his migraine with full force last night. It was appalling to think that the devil could have wrought such damage. As the eldest, Richer had gone off to celebrate the finish of the harvest, while the others remained at home. They’d already taken too much cider and ale at the other parties and the castle’s own banquet for the vill.

Strangely enough, Richer could still remember some of those other parties, even though they took place so long ago. He often found that: he could bring to mind events of ten or even twenty years ago perfectly clearly, while forgetting those which happened
last week or last month. At least there was some solace in recalling the past: the sweet taste of Athelina’s lips, her lightness when he picked her up, her agility and her laugh, somehow innocent and exciting at the same time. Christ, how he had adored her! And just as he thought that they’d be partners for life, she was snatched from him …

During those sixteen years away his life had consisted of endless journeys with his master to the separate manors which made up Sir Henry’s demesne, enduring rough roads, lousy food, worse ale, and all in the name of his master without benefit to himself. Coming back, all that had been supposed to change; Richer should soon have found himself in a stronger position, and might even have been able to plan a marriage – and now he might lose his position and future because of damned Serlo again.

Warin was not concerned, from the look of him. He was an odd one, though. Richer had often wondered exactly where he stood in Warin’s mind: a mere churl who could be discarded at a whim – or a trusted companion? Until this last week, he would have said definitely the latter. They had been through fire and war together, experiences which forged a strong friendship. Yet Warin was always aware of his position in the world, and a man like that would find it difficult to maintain a solid bond even with the comrades of his youth. Richer had been a close
mëat
, or mate, as they said in the North, but now … Warin seemed ever more acutely aware of the problems of his position. He trusted Richer usually, but for how much longer was a good question.

The sun was still high in the sky as they walked along the roadway, and Richer could feel the heat seeping through his tunic, but for all that, he knew that a part of his warmth was caused by the accusing stares of the householders.

Before they passed the church it hadn’t been so bad. There had been men splitting hazel in a copse, and they’d stopped to stare as Richer walked by, but here, in the middle of the vill, it was worse.
A woman appeared in a doorway, only to slam it shut, as though to prevent any trace of Richer, even his shadow, from entering her room. At the top of the lane there came the sounds of women at work. There were many gathered at the Holy Well, and from the bottom of the road Richer could see the women walking back with filled pitchers in their arms, but all laughter ceased when they saw Richer. Their eyes followed him and Warin as they turned right to go to the alehouse, but even when they were out of view, Richer heard no return of their gladness. There was only a deathly hush, like the silence before a battle.

Warin as usual appeared unaware of the tension about him, but Richer could see that his master was keeping a keen eye on the woods and hedgerows about them, making sure there was no risk of some grubby-arsed villein taking a pot-shot at them.

The alehouse was a reassuring sight. Richer felt calmer just seeing it; it was so much like the house in which he had been born and raised, the one in which his family had perished. Suddenly he was struck with a premonition that, should he enter, he would suffer the same fate. Greyness swam before his eyes and he stumbled and all but fell.

‘What is it? You aren’t scared, are you?’

Richer felt the quick grasp of a fist at his upper arm, and the shock of the jerk as he was caught. The mists cleared and he grew aware of the sun again. As though to soothe his fears, a thrush began to sing in a nearby tree.

‘I’m all right.’ He released his arm from Warin’s hand.

The squire’s face was dark with suspicion and concern. There were deep gashes at either side of his mouth; now his brows came together. ‘Keep with me, friend. Together, I can protect you. Apart, I don’t know. Stay with me. We can face down your accusers and make them retract.’

‘Yes,’ Richer said, but he had already seen his ruin in Warin’s eyes: the man thought he had killed Serlo. For Warin, it would be
possible to defend Richer against the charge of murder if Richer could face down the men of the vill, but if Richer failed, Warin could do little to help him. His master couldn’t protect him. Not now. Perhaps never again.

That reflection brought tears to Richer’s eyes. Loathed by the people among whom he had grown, now he had lost the support of the man for whom he had worked more than ten years past. He would surely be killed here.

If he were to die, he could at least do so with honour, he told himself, and he forced his chin a little higher, fixed a look of pride upon his features, and pushed the door wide.

If his own master chose to discard him, he would at least make the whole vill remember him for a long time to come.

Lady Anne walked about her small orchard trying to settle her spirits, but it wasn’t easy. The child in her belly was squirming and kicking, apparently aware of her unease.

She knew the pressure on her husband was immense. When messengers came to speak to him, they often passed on snippets of information which could be fascinating to a man so far from the centre of politics and intrigue. Or woman, of course.

Many believed that a King’s court was a hallowed place in which beautiful men and women engaged themselves in courtly love or discussing great affairs of state, always rational and reasonable, always patient and purposeful.

She knew better.

Any great man’s household was like another’s, and the way a man got on was by stabbing others in the back, literally or metaphorically. In the King’s Household, the currency was favours and power, the same as anywhere else – the only difference being that the winnings were more tempting.

All knew that the King was in the grip of a devious and mendacious politician who would stop at nothing. If he thought
he could get away with it, Despenser would be happy to slit the King’s throat and take his realm. As he had already done with Mortimer’s lands.

Poor Mortimer. Once so powerful and trusted, now an outcast. He had lost his lands and his castles, but at least he was alive. Perhaps he could build a new life.

The messenger today had told of Mortimer’s daring escape, and the instruction brought was: arrest or kill him, but bring Mortimer to the King. Traitor and rebel, he must suffer the punishment due for his crimes. All the realm knew that his offences were against Despenser, not the King himself, but that was enough.
Despenser
had decided he must die.

Nicholas walked in and went straight to the jug of wine at the table nearest the fire. He poured himself a large cup and drained it in three gulps before sitting and pouring a second.

‘My love?’ she said. ‘What did the messenger say?’

It was painful to see her man in this sort of mood, gruff and unresponsive, but when she had seen Nick’s face blanch as he read through the message, she had known that the news was evil. Especially when he took the messenger into the solar to question him further.

Nicholas grunted. ‘It’s worse than I thought. No one knows where Mortimer is; the King has sent men all over the realm demanding that all strangers be questioned. It seems he believes Mortimer will try to make his way to Ireland. He was respected there after he rebuilt the country once Edward Bruce, the invader, was killed, and the King fears he may build an army. That means he could be around here. It would make sense for Mortimer to find a ship from Wales or Cornwall; to reach Ireland from Wales, though, he’d have to pass through Despenser’s lands, so that’s not likely. No, I think Cornwall would make most sense. That means he could well pass by us. And God help us if he does and we don’t catch him!’

Lady Anne nodded, but she wasn’t persuaded that this was the real reason for his black mood. She knew her husband too well after six years of marriage; he had never fooled her. She went to him now and placed her hands on the back of his neck, kneading his muscles firmly, the way he liked it. Then she leaned down and kissed his head. ‘Come, my love. What is it that concerns you so? Is it him, or is it the other one?’

He stiffened under her hands, but then gave a low, reluctant chuckle. ‘That is the trouble with you, woman, you always read my mind. Yes, it’s Richer. I don’t know what to do about him. I am sure he is innocent and he deserves the opportunity of remaining with Warin. After all, he was sent here with the squire, wasn’t he? Sir Henry must trust him; so should we.’

‘If your trust is misplaced, we could be risking other lives,’ Lady Anne said gently. ‘Richer may have slaughtered not only Serlo, but his past lover, Athelina, and her children.’

‘That wasn’t him,’ Nicholas grated, and she felt his muscles tighten again.

‘Perhaps you should make the Coroner aware of our doubts?’ she suggested. ‘He can take such action as he deems fit.’

‘You wish to have Richer hanged for something he didn’t do?’ Nicholas demanded.

‘No, of course not.’ Anne withdrew. ‘My love, I only seek to help you, you know that.’

He held his head, then shook it, like a dog clearing its brow of water. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ He finished his wine, turned and pulled her down to him. His lips tasted of the strong, sour wine, but she revelled in the flavour. She did love her man when she was with him like this.

As she smiled down at him, his face on a level with her breast, he gave a wolfish grin and buried his nose in her cleavage, rubbing his stubbly jowls up and down. She squealed and drew away. ‘Enough! Husband, you have work to do.’

‘Aye, I know. And you must rest,’ he said seriously, a hand patting her belly. ‘I don’t want you overdoing things. Take care of yourself for the child’s sake.’

‘I will,’ she promised as he rose and left the room.

She stood a while, her hand on her belly, smiling with satisfaction. Her man was prey to concerns at times, but her duty was to remain calm. She must uplift his spirits.

It was so sad she couldn’t tell him of her past. He knew much, of course – especially about the death of her parents and the hideous journey here with the lascivious friar – but nothing about that period of her life as a whore. She wasn’t sure he could understand or forgive that, any more than he could forgive her brief affair while he was away.

Yet it was all too natural that she should have panicked, convinced that he was dead. And seeking another man who might protect her had seemed so sensible. A woman who was without a husband or wealth was a woman in danger. She couldn’t return to the brothel; she would rather cut her own throat.

Outside there were voices, a relief from her grim thoughts, and she stood on the threshold from where she could see into the yard.

With a flicker of interest she saw that Sir Baldwin and his taciturn friend the Bailiff were both there, and she decided it would be diverting to learn how the two had fared. She knew they had ridden to see Father John at Temple that morning for there were no secrets in a small castle.

Standing on tiptoes, she waved to Sir Baldwin. The two men exchanged a glance, seeing her beckon, then she saw the Bailiff shrug and both made their way across the yard. Soon they were in the hall. She indicated the replenished jug of wine and cups, then took her own seat near the table. The two bowed and sat on a bench, filled cups in their hands.

‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. I heard you had travelled to see that odd fellow at Temple. Tell me, did he help you?’

It was Baldwin who responded. ‘Alas, he was little aid. He considered our questions impertinent, or perhaps he thought we touched on subjects which were more the domain of a priest than a King’s officer!’

‘John is very sure of himself,’ Anne agreed. ‘He is closely allied to the King’s cause, you know. His father died at Bannockburn, I believe. In any case, most priests would be reluctant to speak of their feelings about the miller. Most had reason to dislike him.’