Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Warin knew why he had been picked for this job, but he was also aware of the desperate need of Sir Henry to know the mood of the county. A single man could be an irritation in a vill; a vill like Cardinham in revolt could prove to be an annoyance for the Sheriff; a few places like Cardinham rising up could mean a civil war.

Many of the men from the Marches had been arrested and thrown into the Tower or executed since the last abortive uprising. The King had been defeated and his most trusted aides exiled, but then he had planned, as only a man like he could.

Warin was no cretin: he knew how devious King Edward II could be. He’d seen Edward and his lover, Hugh Despenser, plotting the overthrow of one man after another, even to the exclusion from his affections of his own Queen. At the first opportunity, Edward had baited his trap. One by one, the men who could have threatened his power were caught in his nets, even the most powerful, Lord Mortimer of Wigmore, who now mouldered in the Tower of London. He had been arrested eighteen months ago, and at first was threatened with execution, although he was later reprieved. However, Warin knew that Hugh Despenser, the son of the Earl of Winchester, was pissing in the King’s ear again, demanding Mortimer’s death.

Mortimer, as Despenser knew, was a risk as long as he was alive. One of a few men who were competent to lead others, as he had proved in Ireland, he was a threat to the rule of the Despensers. For that reason, Roger Mortimer would be dead before the end of August. That was the rumour. Despenser had demanded his head.

In this year of 1323, the Despensers, father and son, held sway. There was no theft, no act of brigandage, no extortion, which could persuade the King to remove them. Of course, it was likely that the King didn’t hear the murmurings of unrest. All the reports he received came through his most trusted adviser, Hugh Despenser, and all Hugh ever wanted was more money, land and property. The man got away, literally, with murder, since none would dare to speak ill of he whom the King most trusted — and loved.

Another reason for Warin’s being sent so far from the court was to protect him in the event of a fresh coup in the King’s Household. Such things, Warin knew, could suddenly spring up. In the last decade he had seen the deaths of many men. And when such men were executed, they left behind them the disgruntled and the avaricious, who craved vengeance or their own rewards. Knowing this, Warin was only too happy to be away from court.

Especially now, in mid-August. If the rumours were true and the traitor Mortimer was to be executed later in the month, Warin knew that the end of so powerful a nobleman, once the King’s trusted friend and ally, could cause mayhem on a scale unforeseen by either Edward or Despenser. London no longer felt like a safe city. The apprentices were always an unruly band, and just recently they had been worse than usual. There had been reports of gangs of them wandering the streets just before he and Richer had left Kent.

He clattered along a stretch of almost metalled track, and then found himself on a well-made road which, although it had not been properly maintained for some while, was still perfectly usable. This took him past a few small buildings, and then he was in a wooded area. The road led on straight ahead, but he took a well-used track southwards, and here, a short way down the path, he found the church. He swung himself down lightly, and tethered his mount.

It was a small church, some six and twenty feet long, maybe fifteen wide. The altar was a simple slab of moorstone, while the walls were decorated with vivid scenes from Hell: there were beasts of all sorts, reptilian, human in body but with animals’ heads, or scaled and twisted, all wielding tridents and bills, pushing the wailing, weeping naked souls of the damned into the flames of the pit.

Warin studied the pictures with some interest for a few moments, but then he heard a cough, and he looked up to observe a slender figure beneath the small tower. ‘Godspeed, Father.’

‘Godspeed, my son. If you wished for a prayer on your journey, I can help you shortly, but …’

‘No, Father John.’

‘You know me?’

‘I have heard much about you. I am not here for a prayer,’ Warin said. He watched as the priest approached him, smiling a little uncertainly.

‘No? Then how can I help you?’

‘You can talk to me about the wench living with the priest at Cardinham, for a start,’ Warin said, and then he smiled wolfishly as Father John’s smile froze on his lips.

It was no noisome hovel, this tavern, but as soon as Baldwin, Simon and Jules entered, the lusty singing and roaring which they had heard from outside died down and the whole room became as quiet as a church at dawn.

There were many vills where those in a tavern would behave in a similar manner, but here, Baldwin was sure that there was a reason other than the usual one of local suspicion of foreigners. Here it seemed more likely to be alarm at finding three men-at-arms in the doorway.

That was true except for one man: Serlo. The miller was slumped on an old barrel, his legs spread wide and a pot gripped in his fist. About him was a small group of local men, from the look of them.

‘What, come to demand more questions of me, have you?’ he slurred rudely at Baldwin. ‘Thought you’d get a poor miller when he’s down on his luck and his brat’s been scalded? Or do you want to accuse me of his murder — is that it, you curs whelped by devils!’

Baldwin set his jaw and walked to a heavy table, sitting with his back to the wall so he could see Serlo and the door. He could not blame the man for his mood after all he had endured that day, but he wasn’t sure that Simon or Sir Jules would be capable of controlling their anger should Serlo continue to insult them. He considered walking out again, but to do so would leave them open to ridicule. Their offices required respect.

In preference, he beckoned the only woman in the place. She made to go to him immediately, wiping her hands on a grubby cloth bound about her middle by a piece of string. ‘Master-’ she began anxiously, but he cut her off.

‘Mistress, fetch me a jug of your best wine, and my friends here will have …?’

Sir Jules ordered wine, but Simon, who was desperately thirsty, demanded a quart of cider. When they had done, Baldwin leaned forward. ‘Mistress, we shall be here for one drink, and we shall not leave under the threats of the miller, but please order him to be silent. We are officers of the King, and if he abuses us, we shall have to respond.’

‘I’m sure he’s not serious, master,’ she replied, wiping her hands more vigorously in agitation. She was a pretty woman, Baldwin thought, with a round face, bright blue eyes and hair the colour of straw at harvest-time, more yellow than gold, which hung in natural ringlets about her features, unflattened by her coif. ‘He lost his son today and-’

‘We know, but he cannot insult a Coroner and a Keeper of the King’s Peace with impunity. Make him silent, or command him to leave.’

‘I will.’

She threw Serlo an anxious glance and made her way back towards him. She had set up her bar at the far end of the room, near to where he sat, and as she served the cider and drew off two jugs of wine, she leaned towards Serlo and spoke.

There was silence. At first Baldwin thought that the man had taken the hint and would leave them in peace, but then he saw the slow dawning of anger on Serlo’s face. The miller reddened, then his scowl grew into a ferocious glare. He said nothing, but sat staring fixedly at Baldwin and the other two while the woman served them.

She returned to the table and set their drinks before them, saying in an undertone, ‘I hope he’ll be sensible, master. Don’t think too harshly of him. He’s been very unlucky today. To lose a son …’