Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘Is there something troubling you?’ she asked. ‘You look upset.’

‘It’s poor Athelina,’ Angot burst out. ‘She’s killed herself and her children.’

‘Oh, the evil woman!’

Letitia felt Iwan’s glance flare at her like red-hot cinders. ‘Her in’t evil, mistress, only sad. Her’s dead because of money. ’Twere that made her do it.’

‘That’s true. When Serlo asked for more rent for the cottage, she couldn’t find it,’ Angot said sombrely. ‘He put her rent up, and she couldn’t scrape anything together. So that’s why she’s dead now: her and her children.’

Letitia gasped with some annoyance. ‘It’s ridiculous! There’s no need for someone to commit self-murder, nor to murder their own children. There’s a church here, and plenty of alms can be given. Why, she’s made use of the church’s money before now. And she’s had our scrapings and some bread, too. There’s no excuse, none whatever, for this horrible crime.’

‘That’s what some might say,’ Angot pulled a face, ‘but ’tis hard for a woman to live without a man to guard her and her little ’uns. She walked the rope for so long, and today she slipped.’

‘I scarcely think her life was one long tightrope,’ Letitia scoffed. ‘But has anyone told my husband? He should be there.’

‘You’ll see him at her house, mistress,’ Angot said.

She left them there, Iwan looking as grimly forbidding as a man-at-arms should, and less like a friendly old smith, and Angot merely looking confused and upset. He’d grown up with Athelina, Letitia reminded herself. He had probably been quite fond of her, as men and women could be in a small, close-knit vill like Cardinham.

The way to Athelina’s house took her down the lane towards the church, then left and across a muddy field. Already, from the front of the church, she could see the people gathering, and she had to stop her feet from hurrying. Too much haste would appear indelicate and ghoulish … yet she was fascinated!

As soon as Susan heard the cry, she went to the door of the inn, a cup of cider in hand. There she saw a couple of women running past, their skirts gripped in their hands as they pelted up towards the church.

‘What’s the matter?’ she called out, but either they didn’t hear her, or they were in too much of a hurry even to respond. Shrugging, Susan drained her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Probably a fight between men in the fields. Some of the lads working the scythes there came from the next vill, and natural rivalry often flared into actual violence. It was only three years ago that two men stacking the sheaves had suddenly set upon one another, and one fellow had died, stabbed in the heart. That had cost the vill dear.

She put the cup into the barrel of water to rinse it, and then sat on her stool in a patch of warm sunlight with needle and thread to mend a shirt which had torn.

This was a good vill. She had grown up here, initially as the daughter of the inn, and then, when she married and her father died, drowned in the vast quantity of ale he had consumed over the years, she and her husband had taken the place over. Wonderful. She would have been happy to live as her father had, taking part in all the vill’s events and making a fair sum from the sale of ales, but not Tom. He was a dreamer. That was the problem with some men, she knew. They had dreams which they constructed endlessly in their minds, but when it came to putting them into practice, they couldn’t do it. They just weren’t as practical as women.

It was the same all over. She’d been told that by her mum. ‘Don’t think that because a man’s supposed to be master in his home that you can’t guide him,’ she’d said once. It was half in jest, but then she had become serious. ‘It’s a foolish woman who won’t make sure she gets what she wants. You look at your father. He always knows what he wants and what he wants to do, but he doesn’t often end up getting his way when it’s important. I never tell him he can or can’t do something, I just ask him about it; keep questioning him until he thinks it’s not such a good idea. If you ask a man the right way, he’ll realise what he’s said is stupid. Or you make out that it’s going to be better for you than for him. Men can’t bear to think that their toys will be used by their wives instead of them. Don’t ever try to stop them by pointing out you can’t afford something, though. That’d make them buy it out of bravado!’

They had laughed at that, their amusement curtailed only by Susan’s father walking in to ask what was so funny. His bemusement was increased by their response, still more giggling. It wasn’t as though he was a hard master; he was a kind, generous soul. The trouble was, like all men, his mind ran on one road: what pleased him. Anything else was of no interest whatever. He adored Susan and went out of his way to make her happy, and would spend money they could ill-afford to buy her a trifle.

It was the same with her mother. Many was the time she sent Susan’s father to market to get an essential item, only to have him return without it, but with a pretty bolt of material or ribbons. Or he came home hangdog, having found a game of dice and blown all his money on ale and gambling. The two curses of an innkeeper’s life.

Men weren’t safe with money. It was what appealed to her as an alewife. If a man came into her house, she could fill him with ale, feed him some bread and cheese, flirt and make him happy, reassure him that he was desirable, and send him away smiling, while she pocketed all his money. It was a silly game, life, but she played it for all she was worth. She enjoyed it again, now that her fool of a husband was gone. Never again! She had no need of a man!

No, all she needed were punters walking through her door, that was all. But just now there was no one to serve. Usually by this time, she’d have had at least a few of the locals in, demanding ale or cider to soothe parched throats.

As though on cue, a shadow fell over her threshold, and looking up she saw Serlo. ‘Ah, an ale?’

He glanced at her as though hardly seeing her. Then he nodded, thoughtfully wandering to the stool near the window.

‘Quiet today,’ she said as she passed him a large jug.

‘Reckon there’s something happening folks want to see,’ he grunted.

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Athelina. Heard she’s been found dead,’ he said, his face still and unemotional. ‘Silly bitch! She was useless in life, and now she’s killed herself.’

Muriel watched the proceedings, fascinated by the sight of the strangers. Many of the women were scared, she saw, but she concentrated on the two men in quality clothes talking to the priest.

She had been to see the smith for Serlo. His old shovel had finally given up the ghost, the steel rusting away completely, and Serlo had grumpily accepted that he needed a new one. Once she’d put in her order, she returned past the cottage, and saw the people gathering. Since it was her husband’s cottage, she wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and stopped to gawp and listen.

Poor Athelina! She must have been so desperate to have done a dreadful thing like that. Muriel hoped that the recent rent increase hadn’t tipped her over the edge. No, it couldn’t be Serlo’s fault. Athelina had always been a nervous type, a scrawny wench, too much like a game chicken, Serlo used to say, with her thin thighs. Well, she spent so much time hungry, it wasn’t surprising. But to kill her boys, that was terrible … Muriel couldn’t have done that, not in a hundred years.

‘Who are they?’ she asked a neighbour. It was young Gregory, and he was staring with his mouth agape at the sight of these strange men talking to Adam.