Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Only when she had walked right inside did she see his legs by the machinery, and the mashed-up mess that was his head. Even then her mind refused to respond. It was only when she was halfway home that her mouth sprang open as though of its own volition, and she began to scream and scream and scream …

Warin was already awake and had been out on his destrier for a five-mile ride before Simon had heard the first sounds of morning. Now returned, he left his mount with one of the stable-hands and strode towards the hall.

‘A good day, Squire.’

Warin turned and gave a slow smile. ‘I thought it was my duty to be the man who sprang upon you, Richer.’

‘It’s good to know there are times I can still make you jump,’ Richer said, and let himself down from the wall on which he’d been sitting. ‘Had a good ride?’

‘Fine. I think he’ll need a new shoe on his for’ard left hoof. It’s coming loose.’

‘The smith here’s a good lad,’ Richer said. ‘I am sorry for last night. I don’t know what the matter was with my head.’

‘Is it better now?’

Richer pulled a face. ‘After one of my migraines, it feels as though another threatens for days afterwards.’

‘Let’s hope there isn’t another, then,’ Warin commented. ‘Later today we should practise with our weapons.’

‘Not today, please. I am still a little enfeebled.’

‘Yes, today. You need your practice and so do I.’

Richer pulled a face and was about to respond when there was a sudden commotion behind them. A young lad had run to the gate and was gabbling to the gatekeeper.

‘I don’t care. I got to speak to the Coroner — I got to!’

Sir Jules had tied on his sword-belt as soon as the lad, Iwan’s grandson Gregory, had told him of the body.

He found it hard to believe: five deaths in a matter of days. To have another corpse on his hands was far more than he had bargained for. ‘I’m not up to this,’ he muttered to himself as he followed the boy to the vill.

‘Sir?’ Roger enquired.

‘Nothing.’

There was no way he’d admit to his clerk that he didn’t feel up to the task ahead of him. A knight always knew his own mind and his abilities as well as his responsibilities. Jules was fully aware of his duties. He had been given them by the Sheriff, his father’s old friend, and he had intended to show himself competent, but that was before all these deaths. A hanged woman and her dead sons, that was all he had anticipated here; now he had a scalded brat and a dead man as well. There was something evil at work here in the vill.

For a moment he wondered about asking Roger for his advice. There were cases of demonic possession, he recalled. Sometimes a woman was found to be a witch, or a man was discovered to be possessed. Terrible thought. It quite made his hair stand on end to think that he could be looking into a case like that. ‘Oh God, please help me,’ he murmured.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

As the lad took them through the middle of the vill and down the lane to the track that led to the mill, Sir Jules could hear Sir Baldwin muttering away to his friend behind him. Christ’s pain, it was bad enough having Roger here with him, watching his every move without those two coming along for the ride. Good God, what had he done to deserve this?

Sir Jules felt he had good reason to be discontented. What had been described as a pleasant little job with good remuneration, when the good Sheriff had offered it to him — as a mark of respect to his father, true, but Jules wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth — the idea had been that this little sinecure would provide some welcome additional funds. For a young knight, that was always agreeable. And to be fair, there weren’t that many knights in Cornwall who could take on the task. Especially since the last cull. Kings would keep removing all Coroners en masse from their duties just because of the odd complaint and accusation of fraud. Of course there was fraud! How else was a man to survive?

But he had three poxed experts on his tail now. It was not enough that he should be forced to actually view these bloated corpses, now he was lumbered with a team of men who actually wanted to find the murderer or murderers, rather than taking the fines and forgetting about it all.

He felt very small and insignificant, but also under a great deal of pressure. He was only a young man. Most fellows his age would have been lucky to have been made squire, but here he was: a full, belted knight. And in the presence of three men who were clearly more experienced and capable than he. It was a miserable position in which to be placed.

The mill loomed ahead, a squat black shape seen through the trees. He splashed on through the little puddles, feeling his head sinking on his shoulders like a tortoise. He’d seen one once when he was a lad, and the sight of the creature pulling legs and head into its shell in such a cowardly fashion had made him laugh at the time; it had certainly never occurred to Jules that he could ever liken himself to that same tortoise. He knew even then that he was to rise to greater heights than any of his companions.

It hadn’t happened though, had it? All through his training he had been a competent, unadventurous but skilful enough fighter, whether with lance at quintain, with sword, or staff. Yet as soon as the targets began to fight back, his martial spirit dimmed. There were men he fought who would think nothing of slaughtering him for an insult. Now, for him to take offence at some fool’s words and draw his sword, that was one thing. Many a peasant had learned to apologise to him, when a six-pound piece of sharpened steel was held at his throat, but when a similar, unrebated block of steel was held at Jules’s own neck, when it was flashing and gleaming in silver-white circles whipping in close to his face or his belly in the ring, that was when his ardour started to fade. To practise at weaponry was one of the duties of a warrior, but it was disquieting that a blade could lop off an arm without effort.

No, his warlike spirit was dissipated in the reality of a hot, sweaty metal suit on a dusty training ground. More, it was pounded out of him as his body was hurled to the ground by an opponent’s lance; it was drawn from him as he lay on his cot at night with tears streaming at the futility of his calling, as the bruises worried at him, the sores chafed and the blood of his wounds stung him. As his love for display and glory had faded, so had his father’s contempt for the King grown. Now even his father insisted that he shouldn’t risk his life in challenges and duels, which was why he had been given a job in which his brain could be used, rather than his arms.

Except he wasn’t as clever as his father thought. He was as incompetent a Coroner as he had been a knight.

‘Sir Jules! Wait one moment.’

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin?’ He was glad to have his thoughts interrupted, but he couldn’t help a slight petulance as he stopped and turned to face the man.

Sir Baldwin was staring down at the dark puddle in the roadway.

‘It may be nothing, Sir Jules. It may be nothing.’

Roger the clerk was already down on one knee, poking a finger into the soil. All the path here was wet, as Jules could see for himself, and he wondered what could have intrigued the two. As Sir Baldwin dismounted and crouched, Jules caught sight of a similar look of bafflement on the Bailiff’s face. Simon shrugged as though to say, ‘Best not to ask what they’re doing. They’ll let us know in good time.’

Baldwin and Roger were rubbing their fingers together and sniffing them. Both stared at each other for some while before standing again.

‘Well?’ Jules asked.

‘It’s hard to be sure. The soil is dank and smelly here, but I think that there’s lots of blood,’ Baldwin said.