Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘My lady, I am deeply sorry to have brought any news of death with me into this charming home,’ Baldwin said, and Anne was sure he was sincere. His serious, dark eyes bored into hers for a moment, and then he smiled, looking down at her swelling belly. ‘It is good to see that new life is coming.’

‘Yes,’ Anne returned happily, and glanced over at her husband. For some reason he was staring down at his plate with an expression of pain and bitterness on his face. Anne almost touched his arm, but then she withdrew her hand and began to chat with her guests.

Her husband was quite certainly out of sorts, she said to herself. She only hoped he was not sickening for something.

Muriel heard the hooves quite late on the following Tuesday morning, and went to the door to ensure that her sons were nowhere near the roadway. If there was a danger, they’d be likely to find and embrace it wholeheartedly.

There was more than one horse, she realised as she stepped outside into the cool of the cloudy morning. She could hear this, rather than see it, as the view from their cottage was restricted. First there was a bend in the roadway, so they couldn’t see along it until they’d walked to the edge of the logpile, but there were also the enclosing trees. From here, down in the valley, she could see their trunks rising in ranks up the hills.

People thought it a dreadfully lonely place, but that was how she liked it. Some folk enjoyed the bustle and speed of the vill, but not Muriel. Here she was safe, she felt. The place was sufficiently far from the vill for them to be secluded, yet near enough should they need urgent help. Not that there was much help in the vill. If there was a broken bone or torn muscle, Iwan the old smith could sometimes help, but there was no one else with any knowledge of leech-craft. A few older women claimed to have some understanding of plants, but Muriel would prefer to ask the priest for a little prayer to be said for an injury. Somehow the idea of mashing plants together and using them as a poultice never appealed to her, and in any case, if the Good Lord had decided to take her, she was content with His decision. So long as her children were safe, that was all that mattered. And her husband, of course, she added loyally.

She stared along the roadway and saw her sons approaching. Hamelin was sitting in the small cart and Aumery was pulling it; both lads were gurgling with delight. The scene made her laugh aloud, for their enjoyment was very infectious.

The little cart had been made by a wheelwright some years before for his own children, and when they had grown too old for it, his wife had offered it to Muriel. A simple two-wheeled vehicle with six-spoked wheels, the man had made it for fun on his pole-lathe largely to prove to himself that he could do something so delicate. For a child as young as Aumery, a two-wheeled cart would have been too easily tipped up, so the man had set a peg in the base of the cart, so that it could be pushed about the yard easily. Now there were lines in the dirt all about the cottage.

‘Here, Aumie,’ she called, and the boy turned.

She smiled at him, crouching with arms open wide, and chuckling with laughter, he pushed the cart about until it was facing her, then started to run to her.

Then the noise of hooves suddenly grew louder. In her delight at the sight of her two sons, Muriel had forgotten the riders and now she realised with horror that Aumery was only partly across the track. The horses were coming closer, faster — too fast! They must arrive here any moment! They would run down her children!

With a cry of fear, she sprang up and ran across the path. The horses had come around the bend in the road and were almost upon her. With a last desperate cry, she snatched her sons, enfolding them in a close embrace to protect them from those terrible hooves.

She’d often heard that horseshoes could grow as sharp as a razor by cobbles and paving slabs, but it wasn’t until three years ago that she’d seen how evil a weapon a horseshoe could be. A girl had been struck a glancing blow by a stallion. Instantly her face was a mass of blood. Nobody was concerned at first, because they knew a head wound would bleed appallingly. Then someone wiped away the blood and saw the the bone, sheared through as though by an axe, and the grey mass beneath. Muriel had stared for an instant, then her stomach heaved.

Now she waited with dread. It could only be a matter of seconds. She gripped Aumery’s head and pulled it to her breast, tugging Hamelin to her lap and safety as he started to wail. Aumery was already sobbing in fear, and there was a terrible rending inside her which, she suddenly understood, was her own sobbing.

There was a rush of noise, a slamming of hooves, and then a hideous blow on her head … and she toppled forward into the dull nothingness that opened to swallow her.

Letitia was the first person people thought of calling whenever something bad happened. They went to her not because she was the wife of the Constable, but because she was one person upon whom everyone could count. Letty always knew the best way of dealing with a problem. It was her steadiness in an emergency that had her summoned to the difficult birthings, or to the child with a scalded arm, or the man with a stab wound. All would go to her, and she would deal with each eventuality as she saw fit.

Susan the alewife it was who appeared at her door, her face drawn and anxious. ‘Letty, there’s been a terrible accident.’

‘Who?’

She was already pulling on a shawl as she listened intently. There was no point in rushing off and then arriving without the necessary tools; better by far that she waited until she knew what was needed. There was satisfaction in being prepared; just a few moments of her time could make the difference between a person suffering and surviving.

‘It’s poor Muriel,’ Susan said breathlessly. ‘She’s been run down — by the Coroner of all people!’

‘Poor Muriel,’ Letitia echoed, appalled. ‘Is she dead?’

‘She lives, but her head is cut open. She heard the horses and sheltered her sons. They were playing in the road.’

‘She would.’ Letitia nodded approvingly. ‘We can only hope that she isn’t too badly hurt. Head wounds can be so dangerous.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ Susan guessed. ‘The skull looks unharmed, but her flesh is cut away.’

Letitia nodded. She could wash out the wound with some oil, and then put on a poultice to draw out the evil humours. ‘And there are the boys, of course?’

‘Yes. You’ll have to look after them. Serlo won’t be capable on his own.’

‘Huh! Not that arse!’

‘Aha! What has your marvellous brother-in-law done this time?’

There was always a comfort in talking to Susan. She was a confident, sensible woman, independent and bright. Although she was a tavernkeeper, she could hold her tongue when asked. Not that there was anything secret in this. It was woman’s talk. ‘He came to our house last night. Told us that Athelina was little better than a slut because she had two children in as many years. Surely he knows Alexander and I have been trying …’

‘It’ll come for you surely, Letty,’ Susan said, patting her hand consolingly. ‘It’s just some folks find it takes longer than others.’

‘The way he spoke of her! You’d think he hated all women, especially those with children.’

‘He’s just a fool,’ Susan said. ‘I’ll refuse to serve him in my alehouse if he’s not more polite.’

‘Do that and you’ll lose all your profits,’ Letty joked. ‘I can’t help thinking that he despises all women — perhaps because he never knew a mother when he was a child. All he knew was Alexander.’