Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked, settling the woman down on the ground.

‘Is she bleeding much? Christ Jesus, why’d she stab herself as well?’

Baldwin stared down at her. ‘She’s got blood on her hands, but there’s none elsewhere,’ he said, lifting her hands and studying her wrists.

‘Then whose blood was this?’ Simon demanded, showing him the dagger, its blade all besmeared.

It was Adam who answered in a hushed tone. ‘Where are her children?’

Baldwin and Simon re-entered. That was when Simon saw the blackened river of congealed blood that seeped from beneath the palliasse.

Lady Anne heard the noise as she left her chamber. It sounded as though all the men in the castle’s yard were shouting at once, and she stood near the opened window in her solar to listen, a hand resting softly on her rounding belly.

It was rare indeed for such a commotion to be raised in the castle. Generally things were calm and ordered. It was the way that her husband, God bless him, liked to run his life, and the idea that someone should be here causing such mayhem was more than a little disturbing. There were only twelve men-at-arms here, when all was said and done, and that was hardly enough to cope with a real attack, even with the help of their servants.

Then she forced herself to be rational. There was no clash of arms, only the roaring of commands and the answering shouts of men.

Soon she heard feet pounding up the wooden staircase, and her husband hurried in. Nicholas was dressed in his normal tunic of rough red wool, and the shade matched the colour in his face.

‘Dear heart,’ she murmured, and swiftly she went to him, bending her head to rest it upon his breast. Once more she felt secure, protected in his warmth, just as a child might. That was the effect of his love on her, the sense that she was entirely safe with him. As soon as his arms went about her, all memories were gone. She could sigh with comfort, forgetting that she had been a whore .

‘I have to go, my dear.’

‘Where?’ she asked, looking up at him. ‘Is it all that shouting?’

‘The priest sent a man — a woman’s dead. I have to go and see that it’s not murder, send a man for the Coroner, arrange the guards about the body — all that sort of thing.’ She shivered suddenly, and he bent over her with compassion. ‘My love, don’t worry! This is just a poor woman who seems to have killed herself from despair.’

‘Killed herself?’

‘Don’t worry yourself.’ There was already that subtle distance in his tone, as there occasionally was when he spoke of matters which he felt could upset her. It was as though he was protecting her from the trials of his job here in the castle. He had taken it upon himself to guard her from those who could cause her grief; but today she wanted to know what was happening outside in the world.

‘Who was it?’ she asked, a faint frown at her brow. It was horrible to think of someone dying when she’d been sitting here enjoying herself.

‘The madwoman — you know her, Athelina. She’s apparently killed herself and her children. Hard to conceive how-’

‘My precious, don’t,’ she said quickly, putting two fingers over his lips. There was a cold worm in her bowels. Nicholas felt the lack of an heir so keenly, she knew. It was terrible for a man to have reached his age and still not have the certainty of his name going forward. Forty-six years old, and he had no one to whom to leave his treasure. She would give him an heir soon, she swore to herself. ‘Anyone could see that she was a lunatic.’

He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

His tone was enough to make her lift an eyebrow in query. ‘It is the full moon, isn’t it? I suppose her humours were unsettled. Anyway, she’s been teetering on the brink of destruction for a long time, hasn’t she? This was probably the last straw, when the moon affected her.’

‘To kill her children, though. Such a terrible crime … and then herself, too.’

She shuddered, a hand going to the child in her swollen womb. ‘You should be gone. Don’t worry about me, just see to her and return as soon as you may. Perhaps I should come too?’

‘No, my love. You stay here.’

Nick tried to smile at her, but there was a terrible absence in his eyes where usually she would have seen his love shining.

‘You stay and forget all about this. Just concentrate on our son.’

He attempted another smile, but Lady Anne could see on his face only the awareness of man’s potential for hideous cruelty.

Alexander’s wife Letitia heard the rumours spreading about the town. She was in the middle of cheese-making, using a spare gallon of milk, the remnant of last night’s milking, mixed with fresh milk from this morning. It was curious that cheese always tasted best when it was made from two milkings; she sometimes wondered about it, and why that should be, but it was God’s way of doing it, and that was enough for her.

The pot on its trivet had been warmed to blood heat, the curdled milk from a calf’s stomach added, and she had stirred the pot carefully away from the heat to let the curds form. The other pot, her cooking one, was over the fire now, the fine muslin boiling. She’d use that to strain the curds from the whey before wrapping the cheese in it and binding it. There was a nail in the beam near the wall where she could hang it to cure and drip itself dry.

Curious at the noise, she left the pot and went to the door. There, she saw old Iwan and his son Angot talking. They looked serious and more than a little alarmed, standing in the track and staring back towards the church.

She was hot from her cooking on this warm day, and intrigued to learn what they were discussing, because although the good God knew she was no gossip, there was sometimes something to be learned from the sort of talk that flowed about the vill; especially if it had any bearing upon her husband. That was, of course, a perfectly valid reason for her listening to the chatter of others.

Quickly, she busied herself. The pot with the forming curds could be safely left now. She wrapped straw about it to keep it warm, holding it in place with an old tunic of Alexander’s, and wiped her hands on her apron before giving detailed instructions to Jan, the foolish child who served her as maid. She was so stupid that even the simplest of tasks would challenge her, and Letitia went through the small jobs that needed doing, all the while watching Jan’s face to see that she understood. With a grimace, Letitia finally waved her away. The girl Jan would somehow mess it up: she always did. That was the trouble with peasants like her — they had no sense!

Still, as she left her house and felt the sun’s warmth on her face, she could allow a small smile to pass over her features. This was a good vill, her man the Constable of the Peace was important and growing wealthy, and they had a pleasant life. Only one thing marred the tenor of their lives — the lack of children — but, as she reminded herself, there were many with the same problem, and perhaps God would soon favour them.

‘Godspeed, Iwan, Angot. It is a fine day,’ she said to the two men.

‘Aye, for some,’ Iwan said.

She smiled at him. He was a funny old devil, but she rather liked him. He was rumoured to have been a ferocious soldier in the old King’s armies when they marched through Wales to quell the rebellious churls over there, with their fraudulent usurper, but now all she could ever see was the twinkle in his eye as he spoke to her or one of the other wives in the vill. Iwan may have been a fine fighter, but she was sure that he had been keener on other forms of fencing. She’d seen him often enough, whenever the vill had a celebration and the ale had flowed freely, making up to any woman within reach. None would really want him for a lover — he was ridiculously old — but he had a roguish grin and was always ready with a compliment. For some women, that was enough to let a man lie with them.