Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘No. All that matters is, Serlo’s dead. That’s all that matters,’ he said dully.

There was a loud sobbing from the bed, but neither moved. Poor Aumery would have to grow used to his loss, just as would Alexander himself. Both had lost their brothers.

She saw a figure approach and shook her head at the man, but even as she did so, Alex felt her movement and turned to face the door. There, shame-faced, was Wal from the farm near Holy Well. He shuffled a little under Alexander’s fixed stare.

‘Constable? Sorry to hear about Serlo. Some of us, we reckon it’s terrible what that bastard’s done.’

‘Thank you. He’ll pay.’

‘He’s at the alehouse now. We’ll help you, if you want.’

‘He’s come here? He’s flaunting himself in my vill?’ Alexander demanded, aghast.

Letitia clung to him. ‘Alex, don’t do anything — the Coroner and his friend will arrest him and see that he’s punished. Don’t go there, it’ll only end in you being hurt!’

‘Me? Hurt?’ Alexander gave a hollow laugh. ‘I have no children, no brother, no hope. All I have created will die with me.’

‘There’s me, Alex, and there’s still time! If we pray, He may send us a child to-’

Alex made a small gesture of dismissal. ‘We shall never have children, my love. And justice must be done. It was that son of a hog who killed my brother,’ Alexander said. ‘And now he will pay!’

Sniffing, Aumery watched as his uncle left. His father had spoken about the lady at the castle, as if the secret was important. ‘If he learned that another man knew his wife,’ his father had said, ‘it would be terrible.’ Aumery was not to speak about it, or his father would kill him. Now his father was dead.

He sobbed again. The rock of his life was gone, as well as his baby brother. He felt very lonely. He wanted his mother to come home and cuddle him. It was a relief when he felt Letitia’s arms go about him. ‘It’s all right, Aumie. Auntie’s here. Don’t worry. Poor Aumie. Soon I’ll take you to your mother, all right?’

Yes. That was what he wanted. Then he thought: his father was dead now, so he was master of the house. He was responsible for his mother, and he must protect her. He was big enough. He was nearly four years old.

Daddy was dead. So was Ham. He sobbed again and hid his face in his aunt’s rug.

‘There is no sign of Squire Warin or the man Richer anywhere,’ Baldwin said. ‘Have you sent them on an errand?’

Nicholas eyed him distractedly. ‘No. They may have gone out for some exercise.’

‘No,’ Simon said bluntly. ‘We’ve asked the grooms. All the mounts are there.’

They had gone to ask Ivo — against Baldwin’s better judgement — but all they had learned was that Warin and Richer had left the castle on foot. Sir Jules volunteered to seek them, and Simon and Baldwin gladly accepted his offer. Both were finding the Coroner’s company tedious. Baldwin, watching him leave with Roger, had a fleeting sense of compassion for the clerk, along with gratitude that it was not his task to look after the Coroner — and gladness that someone else was there to protect the young man from his blunderings.

‘I am concerned that Richer in particular might be in danger,’ Baldwin said. ‘He was known to dislike Serlo; if the Constable should take it into his mind to challenge him, or worse, attack him, there could be bloodshed.’

‘True,’ Nicholas said heavily. Since the death of Athelina, he had been prey to appalling doubts, and he was aware that his attitude must seem peculiar to these men. How could they understand!

‘Are you quite well?’ Baldwin asked.

Nicholas looked at him sadly. ‘I would see the boy safe, if at all possible,’ he said.

‘Boy?’ Baldwin asked, confused.

‘Richer atte Brooke.’

‘We shall protect him if we can,’ Baldwin said, but then he took a second look at Nicholas’s face. ‘But if you know something which may help us, you should tell us now. You do know something, don’t you? Tell us, please!’

Yes, I should. But how can I tell you the truth without earning your condemnation? Nicholas thought to himself. He rose from his chair, went to the door and called to a servant. ‘If anyone wants me, tell them they’ll have to wait,’ he ordered. ‘I want no one to come in here until I say so.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go!’

Nicholas returned to his table and poured himself a mazer of wine. Standing with it in his hands, he began to speak, not once glancing at the other two men.

‘When I was a lad, I was a cause of shame and embarrassment to my father,’ he said at last. ‘He was a cobbler, a simple but cheerful soul who wanted me to follow him. I hated the thought of being apprenticed; instead I set my heart on higher things. So when the King’s Sergeant came asking for men to join his Host, I volunteered.

‘I’d always been a hearty lad, full of piss and wind, and when there was ale flowing, I was there, mouth agape to drink it. After taking my fill, more often than not, I’d get into a fight. Many’s the time I’ve been knocked sideways by someone bigger than me,’ he said nostalgically, ‘but I usually got my own back on the bastards.

‘Anyway, I left my home and went with the King. I fought well in his service, and I made my way through his forces. Lord Henry was my master, and as he grew from squire to become a belted knight, I grew with him.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘It is the way with warriors.’

‘Yes. Still more so when they have been involved in evil.’

‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘When we were sent to subdue the Welsh, we had a hard time of it. They captured the King’s baggage train, and we spent a miserable few weeks in Conwy waiting for ships to come with food and drink. God bless the old bastard’s memory! The King was always a warrior first and politician second: he knew what it was to fight. When his supplies of wine were down to the last gallon, he insisted that it be shared among the men with him. While we waited, we were forced to go and seek provisions. We had to take whatever we could, before the enemy could starve us. You are a knight, you know what war is like!’

As he turned to look at Baldwin, he saw the cold expression on the other’s face. Baldwin looked like a man who had been turned to stone.

‘Yes, I have seen war,’ he replied, ‘yet I never robbed the poor unnecessarily. We always took what we needed at that moment, and left enough for them to survive.’

‘Enough? What is enough for a peasant?’ Nicholas cried. He flung an arm towards the south. ‘Look at them! They have a hard time feeding themselves when the weather’s good, let alone when it’s foul. There’s never enough to fill their bellies. They survive when they’re fortunate, but more often they starve. What we did was wrong, perhaps, but we were at war.’

‘You robbed them and left them nothing, then?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We took what we needed.’ He remembered the flames. When he closed his eyes, he could see them lighting his inner lids with amber vigour. The horror was still foul even after so many years.

‘We were told to fetch food from a vill a few miles from the castle. It should have been an easy job, but the land wasn’t safe. You know how these things go: occasionally sling shots, some arrows. A companion of mine suddenly fell, an arrow in his throat. That kind of thing wears you down, and I never had a good temper. I was in charge of the chevauchée because I was the more senior man there, and I grew more and more bitter and vengeful. The people were spiteful. Rebellious to the last, damn them all!’

He paused for a moment, remembering. ‘We rode into the vill and as we entered, I saw some men with …’