The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (9 page)

Simon’s amusement was only enhanced by the often repeated expression of shock on Baldwin’s face. It was rare that a villein on Baldwin’s land would have dared utter such talk in his presence, Simon realised, and although the knight was used to hearing such language from convicted felons, he was entirely unprepared to hear it from a boy who was his servant.

They had slept well at Bodmin, and found that their route out of the town took them up a hill and over a pleasantly sheltered
way, with spreading oaks and beech trees high overhead, and strong turf hedges at either side. Soon, however, these started to disappear, and the path, although well-trodden, became noticeably less well-maintained. This far from the town, the farmsteads and vills were more widely separated, and Simon couldn’t help but wonder how safe it was. His eyes were drawn to tree-trunks and bushes, looking for ambushes.

‘The Keeper of the King’s Peace down here doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the law on keeping the verges clear,’ Simon noted.

Baldwin, who was himself the Keeper for the Crediton area, smiled. ‘Perhaps he feels it is far enough from danger down here?’

‘More fool him, then. A felon can attack here as easily as in Buckinghamshire. Vigilance isn’t a matter of relying on good fortune,’ Simon grunted. ‘Pirates could land at the shore and attack; a peasant can turn outlaw here as easily as a man from Exeter.’

‘True enough,’ Baldwin nodded.

‘Did you ever hear the story about the apple-selling girl who accused the vintner of taking her virginity?’ the ostler asked eagerly.

Simon was taken off-balance. ‘What was that?’

‘See, she’s teased by him into his bed, right?’ Ivo continued happily. ‘She wouldn’t have gone with him, but he promises her five pounds in gold, he wants her so much. So afterwards, next morning, she says, “Right, you’ve had your fun, where’s my money?” but he says, “Last night was so good, I’ll have you again tonight. Stay here, pretty maid, and let us play again.” She says, “I can’t stay, and I won’t stay! Pay me like you promised,” but he isn’t having any of that. He says, “If you won’t stay, I’m not paying.” So she goes to the court, says this vintner he promised her five pounds in “cellarage” for a night, and she wants her money.

‘Well, the Justice sends for the vintner, and he responds quick, like, to explain why he hasn’t paid up. The vintner says, “I would have paid on possession, but didn’t use it. I never put anything into her cellar, other than one poor pipe of wine.” Right? Get it? To this she says, quick as a flash, “You had two full butts with you which you left at the door – why ever didn’t you bring
them
in?” See? He’d two butts outside – you get it?’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look.

While Ivo roared his delight at the joke, Baldwin muttered, ‘This fellow is more degenerate than many a man twice his age.’

Serlo hadn’t been away from the mill all day. There were no travellers so far, and his wife Muriel was alarmed to see his mood. There were days when he could be a devil, and if this was one of them, she’d give him as good as he gave. She’d had enough of being trampled on like a slave.

In the late morning she called him for his lunch. He came stomping into the house, standing at their fire and staring down at the flames. The mill was warm enough for him, because running about and lifting the heavy sacks made his blood course faster, but when Muriel herself went in, she felt the cold eat into her bones. The air was always icy that close to the water, and even on a hot summer’s day, the sun couldn’t warm the mill.

Once, she had asked her husband why he didn’t light a fire, and he had sneered at her foolishness. The fine powder would explode, he told her. If he had a fire in the mill, just the merest spark could set the whole place ablaze.

It was a terrible thought. Muriel had stared about the place with alarm, suddenly struck with a fear that her sons could come in here and be hurt. Of course Aumery was only four years old, and Hamelin a matter of eight months, so they wouldn’t be likely to play with fire yet, but young boys were always trouble,
and they might, in the future, be silly enough to do something stupid. This was just one more thing for her to worry about.

‘Do you want some drink, Husband?’ she said at length. Hamelin was settled against her, nuzzling at her breast. Without thinking, she opened her tunic and let him suckle, smiling down at him, feeling the warmth of her love for her child.

‘Yes. Ale,’ Serlo responded, busy with a jammed block and tackle.

Still feeding her child she filled a jug one-handed and took it back to Serlo, setting it down on the table near him. There was a loud rumbling and the constant sound of water from the mill nearby, but they were reassuring sounds. While she could hear them, she knew that there was food for them, that there would be a store through the winter, and that they should survive through to the spring. Hunger was a terrible affliction, and Muriel could all too easily remember the horrors of the famine.

Yes, sitting here, she could be content. As the trees swayed gently outside in the soft breezes, occasional gleams of sunlight darted in at the window, making the dusty interior glow with a godly light, as though He was indicating His own pleasure. Meanwhile her child supped at her, instilling that feeling of maternal wonder and pride that always made her so happy.

Serlo ignored her, glowering at the block as he tried to release it. He said nothing as Muriel sniffed at Hamelin’s backside, which smelled again. She settled him on a mat near the fire and pulled his legs apart, untying the clout and throwing it from his reach before wiping him clean and binding a fresh shred of cloth about him. The old clout she put in a bucket out by the door ready to be washed later, and then she filled a pot with ale for herself and sank down to stir the pottage.

She spent much of her time these days feeling tired. The effort of looking after the two boys was draining, especially while she
was still breastfeeding. And their father was so sullen. He was more uncommunicative than ever since little Danny had died. As though that wasn’t bad enough, she had the clenching ache in her womb that spoke of her monthly time coming. She would have to wash all the clouts today to make sure that there were enough for her as well as for Ham. She longed for the baby to be clean. Some were clean at two years, she knew; her Aumery had been one of them.

If only her husband were prepared to help – even a little. Just to take the two boys off with him for a morning or so, so that Muriel could get on with her washing. But he wouldn’t, and to be fair, Muriel knew full well that she’d never trust him with her children …
their
children. He was too forgetful.

In the past he had been different. A kind, considerate lover to her when he wooed her, he had grown more distant since their wedding. Over the last year since Dan’s death he’d been really morose. Now there was seldom a chance for them to spend time alone together, apart from when he wanted her. Then he could be charming for a while. But only for a while. After that, when he was done, he’d roll over and start to snore, sated. A good meal, a pleasing congress, and he was content.

‘We need some—’ she began, but he cut through her speech like a saw through wood.

‘You always want more money, woman! When will you get it into your thick skull that we don’t have enough?’

‘We do quite well!’ she retorted, hurt. ‘We’ll have more when folk start bringing us their new grain.’

‘That isn’t going to be enough – not if you keep asking for more all the time! And those brats want feeding and clothing, damn them both!’ he shouted, his face red with frustration. ‘Christ’s balls, there must be a way to get more.’

His voice trailed off and Muriel watched him silently. Better to wait than incur his wrath.

‘I could try it,’ he muttered thoughtfully, his low brow creased with the effort.

‘What, dear?’

‘Ask Lady Anne to cough up – to pay me for my silence. She’s no better than any other, but she wouldn’t want her name spoiled by me.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked again. There was something in his cunning expression that alarmed her.

‘Don’t you worry, maid. She’ll pay – otherwise the castellan might learn what I know of his wife.’

‘The castellan … Husband, be careful! Nicholas would have you in his court as soon as look at you, and then where would we be?’

‘Don’t be a fool, woman! The castellan’s wife will do anything to make sure others don’t hear of her adultery. What, would she allow her husband to find out he’s got a cuckoo in the nest? If he learned that another man knew his wife, he’d kill her.’

Aumery was listening, and he repeated slowly, ‘Another man knew his …’ before Serlo slapped him around the head.

He picked up his son and stared into his eyes. ‘Don’t ever say that again. Not while I’m alive, boy. You repeat that to anyone while I’m living, and I’ll break your head!’

Muriel took her son from him, now shivering with tiny sobs of terror and gentled him. ‘Daddy didn’t mean it, Aumie. He just didn’t want you to tell anyone what you heard. It’s secret.’

‘I meant it,’ Serlo grated. ‘While I live, I’ll kill anyone who talks about it.’

Simon and Baldwin had ridden alongside a river and continued up the trail. It was, like most of the roadways in Devonshire, a poor track. Grasses grew thickly all about it apart from the edge where horses’ hooves had cut into the turf. The soil was thick and dusty, even close to the stream, while every so often swirling flies
attacked their exposed flesh. At one point they passed a large byre, and here the buzzing of flies was deafening. Swarms rose into the air from the dung as they passed, and Baldwin put his arm about his nose and mouth. Flies were to him repellent; although he was immune to Simon’s dread of corpses, Baldwin had seen flies too often about the faces and bodies of dead men to want them to touch him. War had scarred him: the raking knife-cut on his face was the least of his wounds, but sometimes he thought that the scars were mostly in his mind.

Now, having passed through an area of thicker woodland, they found signs of coppicing. Although the road narrowed a little, they had better views afforded them by the thinning trees, and up ahead there was the unmistakable sight of smoke. This could only mean a village. There was too much smoke for it to have come from one homestead. Baldwin, like Simon, stared ahead keenly.

Villages should be places of safety, but all too often a stranger was viewed as a threat, even on a road which was, theoretically at least, as busy as this. This way was the most important route from Bodmin and the whole of the far western side of Cornwall to Devonshire, so it was supposed to be busy – not that Simon and Baldwin had seen much evidence of other travellers. If the folk hereabouts weren’t very used to seeing people, they might be less than welcoming.

‘What do you know of this place, Ivo?’ Baldwin asked their guide.

‘Cardinham? The normal haunt of churls and fools,’ Ivo said with the contempt of a town-dweller for a peasant community. ‘They are harmless, though.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let’s go and see what sort of reception we merit, eh, Simon?’

Having few duties that morning, Richer walked with his companion to the house which had a bush of furze tied to a post above its door. ‘Ale!’ he shouted.

‘If you want ale, you can ask for it like a man of manners, and not bellow like a lovesick ox,’ the alewife Susan called out firmly.

‘Woman, you have two men dying of thirst out here,’ Richer said.

‘I doubt it. Oh, so it’s you, Richer.’ A small, mousy-haired woman appeared, with a gap between her front teeth and a few too many wrinkles, but attractive nonetheless. ‘Who’s your friend?’ she asked.

‘This is my master, Squire Warin.’

‘It is, is it?’ said the woman, peering at the man. ‘I’ve heard much of you, Squire.’

Richer knew that there was good reason for her to stare, just as there was good reason for Serlo to be fearful at the sight of the man beside him. Squire Warin was a sight to behold, the stuff of some women’s dreams. Tall, with the broad shoulders and thickened neck of one used to charging with the lance, he had thighs as thick as a woman’s waist, and a chest like a barrel. His features were craggy and square, the jaw heavy, as though he could bite through stone. When he was angered, Richer had seen the great muscles at the side of his head knotting until his entire head looked like a clenched fist.

Now he was not angry, and feeling safe enough from the scrutiny of a woman like this, Squire Warin was content to treat
her to a wide grin. ‘Lady, do you object to serving men of common fame like me?’

‘No,’ she said, although doubtfully. ‘I suppose not. Although I’m surprised you’ve not been in here before. You’ve been living in Cardinham more than a month.’

‘The ale at the castle is good,’ Warin smiled, ‘but if I had known that your tavern held such an obvious attraction, I should have come here much sooner.’

Sue winked at Richer. ‘You taught him well, Rich. He can flatter as well as you! What’s it to be? A quart of ale each?’

‘That would be good,’ Richer said easily.

She went off, and was soon back carrying a great jug and two mazers. ‘Try some of this. It’s good, I’ll wager. It was made for the harvesting, and it’s near perfect.’

Squire Warin took a long swallow. ‘It is good,’ he said, his approval echoed by Richer. ‘It is your own brew?’