Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Serlo kept reliving it in his nightmares. For months afterwards he had a sickly fear of going to his bed. When Danny had stumbled, his left hand was holding a full sack at his shoulder. As he toppled, Serlo could read the thought in his startled, fearful eyes: If I drop this, he’ll thrash me to death!

Serlo was furious when he kept dropping the sacks. Dan had wasted so much good flour, it would have been cheaper to tip away a twelfth of all his millings than to keep the apprentice on. The next time Dan let a sack slip, Serlo warned him, he’d thrash him until there was no flesh left on his back. And so poor Danny had kept a good hold as he went over, and this was his undoing. His right hand grasped the first thing that came to him — the moving, toothed wheel — and before he knew what was happening, his arm was caught by the great teeth and crushed between the upper and lower wheels.

Serlo had tried to prise the lad free, to slow the wheels and save his life … but he was fighting against the power of the mill and the river. He could do nothing, and Danny was chewed inexorably into the machine, his face contorted in a final scream of terror. Then a great gush of blood spewed upwards, covering the miller, his apprentice and the wheels which had destroyed him.

At least his body hadn’t ruined the mill. Four teeth had to be replaced, which cost some money, but the seven-year-old bones weren’t hard enough to do much damage to the machinery.

The real expense came from that interfering old git, Sir Simon of Launceston, the Coroner. He’d hurried there at the first sniff of money, and fined Serlo instantly for removing the body from the machine, then fined him again for not calling the Coroner personally. Finally, and punishingly, he had fined him the deodand . Whatever the material or animal that had caused a death, it was always deodand , its worth forfeit for the crime of murder. If a man killed with a knife, if a maid was crushed by a bull, if a mill killed a boy, the knife, the bull or the mill were assessed so that their value could be taken. The mill had crushed the boy: the mill-wheel, the water-wheel, the two great cogs — all had led to Danny’s death, so all must be deodand .

That was the Coroner’s argument, and it took all of Serlo’s eloquence to persuade him that it was only the wheel which was at fault. You couldn’t blame the water-wheel or the shaft or the building, it was just the cogged wheel. The Coroner countered that it was both cogged wheels at least, for the lad was crushed between the two, and although Serlo tried to point out that one had captured Dan and dragged him in, so only one was guilty, the Coroner would have none of it. If Serlo wanted to argue further, he said, Serlo could do so in the King’s court.

Not that it was all down to Sir Simon. At each argument the knight conferred with his clerk, a greasy little toe-rag called Roger who stared at Serlo like a man studying a dog’s turd on his boot.

And now Serlo had a thundering debt on his hands. He had been forced to borrow heavily just to be able to pay the deodand . Eighteen whole pennies, for one wheel alone! Christ’s cods, that was a huge amount for one cretinous apprentice who couldn’t even walk straight. Then there were the extra charges — the one for the grave, the cost of the services held in the brat’s memory, the fee for the mourners … as the apprentice’s master, Serlo had to foot the whole sodding bill.

Danny had cost Serlo dearly, and yet the miller couldn’t help but miss the little devil. His cheery smile, his prattling … Not that he’d let people realise that. He didn’t want them thinking he was some weak, sentimental fool. No, if he did that, they’d all assume that they could get away with fleecing him. He knew that many of the locals considered him a fool, a few sticks short of a bundle. They respected his brother, but only because Alexander was ruthless, so Serlo copied him as best he could. At the Coroner’s inquest he’d pretended to be unaffected by Danny’s death. Maybe he ought to have shown his sorrow, but then people would have sniggered at him.

Life, he sighed to himself, was a shit.

Hearing a shout, he glanced up. Someone was trying to cross the bridge. Serlo grunted and made his way up the stairs to the bridge, where he had erected a gate. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded suspiciously, his hand straying to his cudgel.

‘Travellers, miller. What’s this thing here?’

‘Can’t you see the board?’ Serlo asked sarcastically. ‘It’s a toll. You want to cross the bridge, you have to pay. It’s two pennies.’

‘Why should we pay?’

‘It’s no business of mine, master. If you won’t, you won’t, but then you’ll have to ride back to the other road, a good two miles west, and approach the vill again. That’ll take you a good couple of hours.’

‘There never used to be a toll here.’

This voice was lower, more malevolent. Peering at them shortsightedly, Serlo felt a sudden twinge of fear. Both men were on horseback; their mounts were large beasts — good, expensive-looking horseflesh. One of them was so dark it was almost black, the other was deep chestnut, but it wasn’t the horses that caught his attention so much as the riders. Both, now he studied them, had the aura of wealth, like servants in a rich man’s household. The bigger of the two was wearing a green tunic and hosen, while his companion was clad in a red tunic; there was a richness to its colour where the sun caught it, like a fine silk. Here, some distance west of Cardinham, Serlo was more than a little exposed. If these two were of a mind, they could vault the gate and chase after him on their mounts. He’d not be able to escape them.

‘Lordings,’ he said with more respect, ‘it’s not my choice to charge honest men to cross the river, but my lord’s. We built this bridge with our own strength, and still owe money for the work. What else can we do? My lord said that we must ask travellers to pay for our efforts, because the thing’s not here for our benefit. It’s for yours.’

‘Scant benefit to me,’ shrugged the rider wearing the green tunic. He was the larger of the two, and as he ambled his mount forward, Serlo saw that he had a massive frame, with a right shoulder that held muscles like knots in an oaken board. The tendons of his neck were as thick as ropes.

‘Miller, open that gate!’ the man commanded.

‘Look, give me a penny if you like and I won’t tell my master that I-’

‘Silence! We could push the thing over if we wished,’ the first man said. ‘If you have any complaints about us not paying, let me know later when I’m in a mood to listen.’

‘It sounded as though this miller was asking us to pay him instead of his master,’ said the second pensively.

‘Is that what you wanted, man? You’d embezzle money due to your master?’

‘No, of course not. That would be treason! But my master will want me to settle any missing debts. I’ll have to tell him that you both passed by without paying the toll levied here.’

‘Your master? What’s his name?’

The man-at-arms made an irritable gesture.

Reluctantly, Serlo moved forward and slid the bar from its rests, swinging the gate wide. ‘Sir Henry of Cardinham, lord of this manor. Not that he’s here right now; he lives in his own big palace near the King, so I hear. He’s part of the King’s household, so you shouldn’t cross him. Nicholas is his castellan. He’s there in the castle now, I expect, and he has a foul temper — so I shouldn’t try to plead ignorance about the tolls and evading them.’

‘Oh aye? Then we’ll be careful, won’t we, Richer?’ the larger man said. ‘If our new master is so brutal, we’ll have to watch ourselves!’