The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (42 page)

‘No!’ Baldwin said, and although his voice wasn’t raised, it cut Alexander short like a whip. ‘There will be no more deaths here which are not sanctioned by the law. If a man is to be accused, he’ll stand before you and declare his guilt or innocence, and he’ll have his opportunity to call witnesses for his defence, just as you’ll have a chance to call your own for the prosecution.’

Baldwin spoke firmly, but he tried to show compassion. It was no surprise that Alexander wanted his brother avenged: the two had been inseparable and now that his younger brother, the brother whom he had always sought to protect, was dead,
Alexander’s life, Baldwin thought, was all but over. He couldn’t keep still. Even as Baldwin watched, his fingers were twitching, as though they had minds of their own and wanted to grasp Gervase’s throat and squeeze tightly. The man was twisted like a cable under tension, by his desire to see revenge wrought on his brother’s killer.

‘Come,’ Baldwin added more gently. ‘Better by far that we find the man responsible and make him pay the full penalty. You don’t want the killer to escape, do you?’

‘I want his head for what he did to Serlo.’

‘We understand that,’ Sir Jules said. ‘We’ll see to it.’

‘I want to see him punished! If you don’t take him now, he might escape! What then? The Hue and Cry rarely fetches back a man who escapes into Devon or beyond. What would you do, leave him to run free?’

Baldwin spoke firmly again. ‘Alexander, trust us. We shall find your brother’s killer and bring him to justice.’

‘Justice? Whose justice will that be? Give him to me and let me shove
his
head into the machinery until
his
eyes pop. That would be
justice
! But you won’t let me, will you? My kid brother is going to go unavenged. He’s only a villein, isn’t he? Not a rich servant to a knight,’ Alexander sneered, and he stood and lurched from the room, more than a little drunk, and very peevish.

‘I can understand his feelings,’ Warin said. ‘I have a younger brother. If someone were to harm him, I would let nothing stand in
my
way. I would personally punish the man and ensure that he felt that his end lasted a lifetime.’

‘But that is not what will happen here while the good Coroner and I are investigating the murder,’ Baldwin said with acid in his tone.

He was about to say more when Roger entered, panting slightly, his face flushed from the exertion of running. ‘Coroner, I think you should come.’

Pausing, he took in the faces staring at him expectantly, and felt a small surge of pride to be the centre of attention for once. ‘Master,’ he continued with a certain hauteur, ‘the priest has just tried to murder me.’

Gervase had left the room shortly after Anne, and he went down to the orchard which he knew she loved so much.

It had been changed so much by her presence. It was like the rest of the castle. Before she arrived, it had been a rough, uncultured place, just like any other outpost far from civilisation, but when Anne came and ensnared their hearts, she had an impact far beyond anything she could have imagined.

Gervase couldn’t have imagined it either. He could not have conceived losing his best friend so swiftly.

Six years ago, before he laid his heart at her feet, Nicholas wouldn’t have dreamed of putting a woman before his comrades. He was a man’s man – hearty, rugged, but honourable. The kind of good companion whom others would follow into battle joyously.

Gervase didn’t know what he could do now. Clearly he couldn’t stay here. He had hoped that Anne would leave with him. Yes, it was a forlorn hope, but he’d imagined that he could persuade her. However, that look of near-loathing on her face as she rushed off after her husband, proved that he had not won her heart. No, she only wanted her man. Nicholas was hers; Gervase was merely an interlude. Or, as she had sneered, he was a source of protection in case Nicholas never returned. The hard bitch! Gervase had honestly believed that she loved him. Shit, he’d been prepared to give up everything for her.

Well, there was no point weeping over it. She was not Gervase’s any more, and never would be. And a secret like theirs would be bound to come out, which would be … painful. Gervase had no doubts that Nick would seek to take his revenge.

He couldn’t punish someone miles away, though. No, and if Gervase left the manor, he wouldn’t have to endure the sight of Nick fondling and kissing the woman they both loved. It would be better that way.

Gervase sniffed and wiped at his eye. This was not how he had expected things to go. No, he’d thought that life was going to resume its even tenor. But now his life was altered for ever. He had certainly burned all his bridges. No Athelina now, no Julia, and certainly no Anne. His women tended not to last long, but he regretted the lack of a woman now. A woman who could soothe his anger and hurt.

Damn her! Her and him! Why hadn’t Nick been killed in the war, like so many others? Then she’d have decided to love Gervase, and the two of them could have been happy. She was bound to love him, had she got to know him better. It was pure misfortune that Nick had won her.

Jealous, bitter and angry, Gervase walked slowly from the orchard to the stables, and called to the nearest hand.

Simon dragged the priest from his church as soon as Roger had gone to seek Baldwin and Coroner Jules, lifting Adam by his belt and depositing him in the yard. He used the priest’s belt to bind him to a small sapling, and then sat back to watch his charge, chewing a blade of grass.

‘Simon, are you all right?’

He looked up into Baldwin’s dark, anxious eyes. ‘Of course I am,’ he said testily. ‘Did you think that streak of piss could hurt me? Now, did you bring a skin of wine like I said?’

Baldwin smiled to himself as he passed over the skin. Made from a kid’s entire skin, it had a leather strap sewn to it, which ran from one foreleg to the opposing hindleg. Clearly the possession of the lady of the tavern, Simon looked at it with a dubious eye. It
was rather too new, in his opinion, and a skin that fresh would surely colour the wine’s flavour.

He was right. The wine was harsh and strong, but there was a gamey tang to it from the poorly cured skin. Still, he reflected as he opened his mouth and poured in a decent amount, the flavour would probably grow on him.

‘So this is the fool?’ Sir Jules said, glaring at the unconscious priest. ‘He dared attack my clerk?’

‘Yes,’ Roger said. ‘Yet I have absolutely no idea why he should suddenly take it into his head to do so.’

‘We shall ask him presently,’ Baldwin said. ‘Richer – is there a spring nearby, or a brook?’

Richer smiled in response and set off towards the mill. The stream was only a short way beyond Alexander’s house, and he banged on Alexander’s door as he passed.

‘Letitia, I need some water. May I borrow a jug or bucket?’

‘Um … yes, I suppose so,’ she said, distractedly.

Over her shoulder he could see her husband sitting on a stool beside the dead fire, his hands covering his face. Two men from the vill stood at his side and stared back at Richer coldly.

‘They refused,’ Letitia said.

‘Refused what?’

‘Refused to storm the castle and pull out the steward for killing Serlo. None of the vill wants to offend your master.’

Glancing at her, Richer nodded understandingly, and gratefully took the proffered bucket. ‘Thank you.’

‘Just go!’

Later, as he walked past with the freshly filled bucket, he could hear laughing, as though a madman was shrieking with delight – or perhaps more like a demon laughing at the death and destruction all about Richer. That reflection made him hurry his steps towards the men around the priest.

Adam woke to the sting of freezing water, the annoying torrent running down his back, the swirl of moisture in his eyes. Trying to wipe it away, he realised his hands were bound, and he gave a whimper of fear.

His head hurt appallingly. If someone had possessed a poleaxe at that moment, Adam would have welcomed their use of it on him.

‘So then, priest. What would make you decide to launch an unprovoked attack on my clerk?’

The whole scene reappeared gradually before his closed eyes. That messenger, telling him in hushed tones that he had a missive from John, and the feeling of delight mingled with trepidation with which he took the note from his love. Written notes were rare from John, ever since that afternoon when Adam had declared his love for him.

That afternoon would be printed on his memory for ever. They had been down at the river not far from the mill, searching for fish, but neither had anything to show for it. Then Adam had stumbled and tipped headlong into the slow-moving waters. Gasping and blowing, he came back upright, overwhelmed with delight. It was mad, but what a glorious madness! He’d thrown his hands over his scalp, wiped the water from eyes and ears, and then put his head back and roared his pleasure to the world!

‘You, dear friend, are mad!’ John had said from the bank, but he was smiling.

That smile! So calm, but bright with contentment. If he could have kept one picture in his mind for all time and gone blind, it would be that one: John at the side of the river, the sun glinting off the waters, the trees dappled with golden light, and that wonderful, life-enhancing smile on John’s face.

It was then that Adam realised he adored his friend. More, he loved him – and not in a kindly manner, such as men usually
would, but totally, unswervingly, with his whole heart. He loved John as another might love a woman.

John helped him from the river, and aided him in removing his clothing, shaking his head and murmuring his irritation, but all the time with that amused smile. And when he was tousling Adam’s head to dry his hair with his tunic, Adam impulsively took hold of John’s face and kissed him on the forehead, nose, and then the mouth.

That was the end of the idyll. John stiffened and pulled away. Nothing was said – there was nothing
to
say – but from that moment, their relationship altered. John kept away. A double punishment for Adam, who at a stroke lost his love and his friend.

He had chosen to keep his secret and protect John. It might be unrequited, but Adam’s love for John was the most passionate affair of his life. Others might mock or ridicule him, but he didn’t care. He was in love, and that was enough. Like a squire serving a lady who was impossibly out of his reach, so Adam paid compliments to John, no matter how often John rebuffed him. It didn’t matter. Adam’s only fear was that the rural dean might learn of his infatuation and remove him from this place, so that he could never again be near his love …

He tore the seal from the scrap of paper and eagerly read the hurried writing inside. Then, and only then, did his smile fade.

‘Are you all right, Father?’

The messenger’s voice had brought him to himself, and he’d given the lad a coin, sending him off with his thanks.

Then, outside, he saw the agent of his lover’s destruction, and knew what he must do.

The man was only a clerk, when all was said and done. There was no possibility of Adam’s overwhelming the Bailiff as well as Roger, but he fancied he was able to kill at least that one, provided he could get him on his own. Adam tried to recall what happened next. He had beckoned Roger, that was right, and Roger told the
Bailiff to wait. The clerk stepped in through the porch, and immediately Adam leaped on him. But his blade went wide, and after a few moments of struggling, all went black. It was peculiar, like falling into a well.

‘Why am I bound like this?’ he asked pathetically.

‘Why did you try to stab this clerk?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I only … I don’t know.’

‘Really?’ Baldwin said. ‘Then we had best read out the note here, hadn’t we?’

Eyes snapping wide, Adam stared at them. ‘No, that’s a secret note!’

‘I am impressed that you can read,’ Roger said scornfully. His head hurt like hell. ‘Most shit-covered arse-for-brains like you can’t scrawl your own names, let alone another man’s.’

Adam was stung to defence. ‘I was well taught; better than most fools whose only task is to record where wounds may lie on a body!’

‘What does the note say?’ Baldwin asked.

‘So
you
can’t read it?’ Adam sneered. ‘I won’t tell you.’

‘Was it from Father John?’ Baldwin asked mildly. ‘There is surely no one else with whom you communicate up there.’

‘Just do your worst and be damned!’ Adam snapped. They had the evidence in their hands of his offences. It was known by that little bastard clerk, and he must have told all the others.

‘What made you attack me, though?’ Roger asked plaintively. ‘I still don’t know why you jumped upon me!’

Baldwin had spread out the small fragment of paper. It was much creased and wrinkled, because Adam had balled it in his fist before throwing it to the ground, and it bore the stains and marks of many hands, especially the villein who had brought it.

‘This says
Beware the clerk to the Coroner,’
Baldwin read out slowly.
‘He knows about my uncle, and you and me.
What does that mean?’

‘I won’t say anything. You can do what you want to me, I’ll not speak!’

‘Then you’ll be held in the castle until you see sense or the Bishop comes to collect you, Adam,’ Baldwin said, glancing at the Coroner, who nodded.