Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

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?’

‘Who else would make it?’

‘Your husband? I had heard you were married?’

‘To a wastrel, yes. He lived here for a while,’ she said, her face setting rigidly for a moment. Then, like a cloud passing from the sun’s face, the mood left her and she chuckled slightly. ‘Then I booted him out. He drank all the ale he could, spent money on buying drinks for others, took my purse when he had little left himself, and near lost me this house. It was my parents’ place, you see. Well, he’s gone now. I won’t have him back.’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt it. So, that’s my story … why are you here?’

Richer coughed into his ale. ‘Woman, don’t think to question a nobleman!’ he spluttered.

‘Why? What’s so wrong about asking that?’ she asked with a sly glance.

‘I think you know already,’ Squire Warin said. ‘My lord died, and I was without a master for a while, but then I was sent here, and Nicholas at the castle has taken me on as a guard.’

‘You are lordless?’ she asked, eyeing his rich clothing. ‘And yet you seek to make trouble.’

‘Me?’ Warin rumbled.

‘Richer does, and you’d support him, wouldn’t you?’ she countered.

Richer smiled at her. ‘We seek no trouble at all.’

‘Really? Yet you want to pick a fight, don’t you?’

‘You mean Serlo? He has been robbing the vill for too long. If he steals from your lord, the lord will fine everyone here. But he takes money from strangers as gifts so that they don’t have to pay tolls; when he is discovered, everyone else will be forced to pay. Is that fair?’

‘As fair as life usually is,’ she countered. ‘Ah, but I don’t know. I can’t care. I don’t know how many summers I’ve seen in my time, but I don’t suppose I’ll see many more. What is it to me if you pick a fight with him?’

‘I don’t want to fight him, just expose him,’ Richer said. In truth he didn’t want either. All he wanted was for Athelina to be safe in her home, secure from Serlo’s threats and unreasonable demands for money. It was Serlo who’d suggested that she should whore for the money. Richer could remember the rising fury when she had told him that. It had made him want to go and slaughter the miller on the spot.

He hadn’t seen her for some days now. He’d been busy, of course, with his duties as a man-at-arms, but when he had gone to the house, it had been empty. Only last night he’d banged on the door, but before he could push it open, he’d seen old Iwan watching him, and the awareness that entering a woman’s home uninvited was improper and could give rise to rumours of her incontinence, made him stop and walk away.

Susan was watching him carefully. ‘If you upset those two, it’ll end in a fight, mark my words. And even you might find it hard to defend yourself against both together.’

As Sue spoke, had she but known it, three travellers were approaching the tollgate over the miller’s bridge.

Serlo heard them from his little cottage and cocked his head. Aumery, his older son, was whining about something or other, but a flick from Serlo’s hand to the boy’s head and, ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about!’ soon made him silent. Muriel hurried to the snot-nosed brat and soothed him, watching Serlo with wide, bitter eyes.

Yes, it was horses. Hopefully, Serlo rose and hurried out through the door and over to the gate. Once there, he leaned on it and gazed westwards down the lane. The road bent immediately after the bridge, and although there were few trees there lining the stream’s banks, they stood rank behind rank, obliterating any view of the roadway.

Surely this must be merchants, or a pair of fellows hurrying to a market? Serlo’s face was wreathed in smiles at the prospect of making a little money. And Christ’s tears, he could do with it! Muriel was always on at him, as if he needed that sort of nagging when he was already worried about Richer. She should learn to keep her trap shut.

There was a flash of colour through the trees. Yes, it was two — no, three men on horseback! Serlo felt his mood slip a little, because so many might be able to dispute his right to charge anything, just as Richer had. Then he shrugged. If they did, there was little he could do to change that. They shouldn’t, anyway. Most didn’t.

The leading rider was a bluff-looking fellow, big in the saddle, wearing a green tunic with pale red hosen. Behind him was another man, one with a thin line of dark beard following his jaw, wearing a blue tunic, red hosen and a floppy-brimmed green hat. The last rider was clearly a servant, clad in tatty ochre-coloured tunic and hosen. No other men, no one on foot. Yes, Serlo reckoned, this was an easy mark.

‘Masters!’ he roared as the men approached. ‘Godspeed!’

‘Godspeed,’ replied the leading man, his eyes all about the place as though suspecting an ambush. ‘What is this, friend?’

‘My master built this bridge from his own funds, and he collects tolls to help pay for it.’

‘Does he have permission?’ asked the second man. He spurred his horse on, and studied Serlo. His eyes seemed black and intense, and Serlo felt nervous of meeting that flat, determined stare.

‘Permission, master? I suppose so. This is his manor, after all.’

‘I should like to speak to him about this, then, and see the authority which permits him to charge travellers at will.’

Serlo smiled and ducked his head. ‘If you don’t want to pay, masters, maybe I could help? Give me a halfpenny, instead of the penny toll each, and I’ll forget you passed this way.’

‘So you would halve our fee?’ the bearded man asked quietly. Suddenly his horse jerked his head, and Serlo found that the man had approached the gate with an angry set to his face. ‘Do you mean to say that you would betray your master’s trust, churl? Would you forget his tolls in order to make your own profit?’

‘I am trying to help you, that’s all,’ Serlo said. He regretted not bringing his cudgel with him now. ‘If you don’t want my help, go back the way you came, and find another route. It’s nothing to me!’

‘My name is Sir Baldwin of Furnshill. I command you to open that gate now, fool, before I ride both it and you down! Be silent! Open the gate at once in the name of the King! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I swear this to you now: when I see your master I shall enquire as to the legality of this tollgate, and if I learn that it is not legal, I shall return to question you.’

He was leaning low over his horse’s neck now, his eyes fixed upon Serlo like a snake’s upon a rabbit, and Serlo was petrified. The movement of the rider’s hand towards his sword-hilt decided him. There was nothing he could do to defend himself against a knight trained in battle. With a bad grace, he lifted the bar once more and hauled the gate wide, keeping behind it. ‘I’ll tell my master of this,’ he muttered sulkily. ‘He won’t be happy.’

‘When I have told him you are stealing from him, I should doubt that he will be,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘And I have little doubt that his mood will match mine perfectly.’

It had all happened — her marriage, security, and then the child — as though by accident: that was how Anne thought of it, when she did at all. She considered her past life only rarely. Some superstitious instinct warned her that such things might again become reality, were she to consider them too deeply, and she had no desire to relive her life. For her, now was all. She asked no more than this.