Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Baldwin nodded ungraciously, and sat so that he couldn’t see the girl any more. He wanted to be out of here as soon as possible.

‘Where have you been?’ Adam asked innocently, and Baldwin groaned to himself. Sure enough, Simon instantly leaped into an explanation of their adventures, starting with the crazed monk of Gidleigh, and then leading on to the tale of their pilgrimage.

It was a whole four months or so since they had left their homes, he realised. Terrible to think that he had not seen his darling wife in such a long while.

‘Father! Father! ’

Father Adam looked as though he was never an entirely calm man, to Simon’s mind. He had the thin, almost gaunt features of one who carried a community’s sins on his shoulders, and Simon saw that his nails were all bitten to the quick. Hearing the cry, he shot up, scattering drops of ale like seeds from the sower’s hand. ‘Gregory? What is it, in God’s name?’

The boy ran in, slipped on the rushes, and fell headlong. Before anyone could reach him, he sprang up again and gasped, ‘It’s Athelina! Oh, good God in Heaven, please come, Father!’

Of course the odd thing was, as soon as he’d realised that Nicholas had snared the girl, Gervase had seen that she wasn’t the spotless virgin that Nicholas took her for. Nick, bless him, always wanted to see the best in people. It would lead him into trouble one of these days. Well, it already had, hadn’t it?

Thing was, Gervase was more worldly wise than his castellan. He had always enjoyed the company of women, had had plenty of dealings with them and knew their ways. Nothing wrong with that. Any man would bed all the women in the world if he had a chance, and Gervase had simply more chances than most. He knew how to compliment females, and he was genuinely interested in their thoughts and moods. It wasn’t all just so that he could pull up their skirts and get in there.

However, his experience with women had led him to see through their wiles. That was the problem with people like Nick. The silly devil believed in love at first sight, even at his age, and thought that Anne adored him too. There was no fool like an old, besotted one.

Baldwin and Simon left Ivo at the priest’s house. He appeared content to chat with Julia and waved them off like a lord indulgently granting permission to a child. It made Baldwin want to thrash the youth, but only fleetingly. Gregory’s face stilled any annoyance. Baldwin left Adam’s house feeling only a grim expectation.

The cottage was a short way from the church and Adam’s home, a poor dwelling north of the main vill. Although the front garden was well cultivated, its walls were all but tumbledown, the rude cob failing where the thatch overhead had been twisted and pulled away by birds and rats. Green was the prevailing colour: the green of ivy and creepers tugging at what limewash remained; green mosses clinging to the thatch and all the cracks in the walls; green, foul water lying in the small pond in front of the place. The thatch had utterly failed some years before. It must have leaked and poured water in upon the miserable inhabitants whenever it rained. Baldwin felt compassion for whoever had existed in this miserable place.

Seeing his expression, Adam said apologetically, ‘There are always some poorer than others, even in a good vill like this.’

‘She was a poor woman? Not married?’ Baldwin asked. In a well-run manor like his own, all the peasants were made to help widows and the poor. It was also the duty of a churchman — of Father Adam here, for example — to assist those who were unable to look after themselves.

‘She was once, yes. Widow Broun, she was called.’

‘What happened to her man?’

Adam shrugged sadly. ‘The usual thing. He was ambling homewards from the harvest a year or two back along, and slipped and hit his head. Thought nothing of it, but then he caught a wasting disease, and in two weeks he was dead.’ He tapped his tonsure with an open palm. ‘It’s so sad when a father dies like that. Young family, of course, and …’

‘What of the family?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

Adam paled.

Gregory tugged at Adam’s sleeve. ‘Father, please! Athelina’s inside …’

Dispassionately Baldwin studied the priest. Now that they were here, Adam appeared fearful and reluctant to go inside. It added up to a weak figure for a man of God, Baldwin thought. Priests were usually stronger in the belly than this. Adam should be there to welcome new members of his congregation, and would invariably have to minister to those about to depart from it. It was all a part of his job, just as seeking killers was the duty of Simon and Baldwin.

Baldwin and Simon walked to the door, leaving Adam standing in the roadway alone, his face cracked and desolate, like a man who was suddenly ancient.

The door consisted of four rough planks pegged together. To prevent as many draughts as possible, an old piece of material had been stretched between them, like a new cloth on tenterhooks, set there to dry after milling so that it wouldn’t wrinkle or warp. Except this was no new material; it was a revolting piece of thick fustian, sodden and stinking of horses. Baldwin assumed it had been a horse blanket, saved when it was no longer good enough for the beasts but adequate for a poor widow. That thought made him set his jaw.

He pulled the door wide. It grated on the dirt threshold, the leather hinges groaning quietly. To Baldwin, there was a sad tone to the sound, like an old woman moaning about pain in her limbs, knowing the pain would always be there, that there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Grief and pain were woman’s birthright ever since Eve’s betrayal.

The interior had a fusty odour, but over it Baldwin could detect the harsh, metallic tang to which he was grown so accustomed — blood .

‘Sweet mother of God,’ Simon breathed.

Baldwin nodded. Then the two entered, Baldwin leading the way.

Inside, it was cool, with a strange atmosphere. Even Baldwin felt claustrophobic in the quietness, and both men found their eyes straining in the darkness after the bright daylight outside. Stepping forward, Baldwin struck a rafter with his forehead, and then was more cautious. Gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, but before they could discern the interior, the boy Gregory had poked his head around the door and called to them.

‘She’s there, sir, there !’

At last Baldwin could see her.

‘Poor soul!’ he heard Simon mutter, and Baldwin nodded to himself.

She was a tall figure in a cheap woollen dress. Her head was thrust forward, the knot of the hemp at the back of her neck suspending her so that her feet dangled a foot or so from the ground; she swayed a little in the still air. Thick hair fell about her shoulders, uncombed and lank. Simon and Baldwin went to her without hurry, for it was clear that any attempt to save her would be in vain. She had been dead for some little while. There was no breath in her, no twitch of muscle clinging to life.

While Baldwin steadied her, his arms about her waist, Simon drew his sword and hacked at the rope bound to the rafter above her. It soon parted with a crack like a whip, and Baldwin had her full weight. He took a step backwards and almost tripped over the stool which lay near her.

Simon saw. ‘She stood on that, then stepped off …’

Baldwin was about to nod when his foot knocked something else. ‘What’s that, Simon?’

As Baldwin half carried, half dragged the body out into the bright sunshine, Simon reached down and picked up a dagger. He took it with him as he followed Baldwin, and once outside he had to close his eyes in the glare. Gradually he could open them again, and then he gave a short grunt of revulsion.