Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Aye, Richer thought, the two had come a long way from the young lads who had been so fearful of their father, a man so drunken and stupid, he couldn’t even keep his sheep in their fold.

Warin appeared to think he had made his point and was silent for the rest of their march, but Richer was not persuaded that he was happy. Warin did not like the mess that was this little manor. There was too much corruption, and too many intense rivalries.

And they still had business with Nicholas, of course. Perhaps that was what occupied the squire’s thoughts: how to make him bow to Warin’s will.

On the Monday following these events, Simon and Baldwin bade farewell to the morose young ostler; they sent him on his way with two pennies instead of the one they had agreed on as a fee. When he received the money, he stared at the coins as though in disbelief at their niggardliness, before shaking his head in disgust and mounting his horse, leading the others away with him.

Soon Simon and Baldwin were on their way again, this time with a fellow who was as different from their last stony-faced companion as he could be; this one appeared unable to keep his mouth shut.

Ivo was an engaging youth, perhaps fifteen years old. He wore a pair of hosen that were far too large for him and which rumpled about his knees alarmingly. They were tied to his belt underneath his tunic, a bright blue-coloured wool garment which looked warm and comfortable. On his head he wore a coif with a hood, which he was constantly pulling up over his forehead, and then shaking it free, as though he was practising the best method of removing it whenever he had an opportunity.

When the hood was down, Simon saw that the lad had an unruly shock of tallow-coloured hair over his long, thin face. It was the sort of face Simon would have expected to see on a clerk: pale, with hooded eyes, high cheeks and a long nose, small mouth, and a chin which was all but non-existent — but for all that Ivo was enormously cheering company. He plainly enjoyed telling and hearing stories, the more bawdy the better. Already Simon had heard two tales of an alewife and her lovers, together with a couple of crude verses based upon a miller who tried to rob a pair of northern clerics of their grain, but who was bested by them when they slept with the miller’s wife and daughter before the daughter took pity on them and showed them where their grain had been hidden.

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.