Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

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.’