Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

Weapons. That was what he’d thought. They looked like the long bows which had been plaguing them all day, and he’d felt his bile rise to see these peasants flaunting their treachery. What could a man do? He ordered the charge, and spurred his horse on in a moment.

It was like a dream, or so it felt now; a slow-moving dream in which he wallowed onwards through treacle, his mace in his hand. The men turned and saw him, their faces blank in terror, and then one dropped his weapon and darted away, ducking under the lintel of a nearby cottage; a second slowly stepped backwards, appalled; the third stayed put, no fear on his face, only bovine resignation. And then the scenes came with a vividness that still woke Nicholas in his dreams.

The nearer man was felled by the iron mace, his skull so completely crushed that the spikes caught, and when Nicholas twisted it free, it pulled great slobbery lumps of brain with it. Blood dripped on his arm as he rode at the second man. He was still there, a look of pleading in eyes filled with tears. Nicholas saw his hands come up as though in supplication, but Nicholas knew no compassion. The mace swung, and the spikes raked down his cheek, puncturing his eyeball, which turned to a bloody mess in an instant. A second swing and his face dissolved: the steel hit his nose squarely, smashing his features.

His bloodlust was still with him. He threw himself from his horse and pelted into the cottage. There was a naked woman with a rug over her breast, but he thrust her aside and he stood, breathing like a horse after a gallop, until he heard the sobbing.

Pulling away a curtain, he found the two children hiding in a recess in the wall. They stared at him, eyes wild like dogs with the rage, the drooling disease that made men fear water even when they were dying of thirst.

He reached in, hooking out the first, slamming the figure to the floor with a blow from his mace, then grabbed the other, lifting the mace high over his head to kill, when the bare woman grabbed his arm.

Christ’s bones, but she had some strength, that woman! She grabbed him so hard, he thought he must have his arm wrenched from its socket, and when he turned to face her, he saw she gripped a knife. He shattered the hand with his mace, the spikes ravaging her wrist, tearing down her hand and pulling off her thumb and forefinger. Still she came at him, a terrible expression of hatred on her face, eyes quite mad, mouth spitting in that lunatic gibberish they called a language! He swung again, and the fury and hatred died with her.

Turning to the last, he saw that he was too late. The figure had snatched the dagger from the floor, and had already used it on himself, thrusting it into his own breast. Except now he could see more clearly as the red mist left him, Nicholas saw that this was no warrior but a slim girl. Probably the dead woman’s daughter. Only thirteen years or so. Not more.

The boy at his feet was the one who had ducked inside, but now Nicholas looked, he too was hardly more than a child. He was her son. The woman herself was older, more worn, but there was something about her; the sweat and stench of the cottage was not just from the odour of animals or rank humans, it held something else, and when he looked at her more closely, he saw that she had a disease.

‘We went into the vill, and they had some people there,’ he said at last. ‘I had ridden with the men for miles, with bowmen taking their chances at us all the long way, and when I saw three men with bows in their hands, I thought these were some of those who had been attacking us. I rode them all down. A woman tried to protect one, too, and I killed her.’ He swallowed. It hardly expressed the reality of the slaughterhouse that was their home. ‘When I looked later, it wasn’t a weapon. They were all playing with wooden lances. Toys.’

‘You killed them for playing?’ Simon asked. His face registered incredulity.

‘We rode in, we saw what we thought were weapons, so we protected ourselves,’ Nicholas declared stiffly. ‘If it helps you, Bailiff, I have ever seen those faces before me in my nightmares. We fired the place once we had taken all we could.’ It was all he could do not to order that the vill be razed to the ground, he felt it to be so vile, but instead he ordered that the carts be filled, and while the sullen villagers watched, he took the first of the burning torches and threw it into the cottage, watching as the flames grew, the smoke rising, first green and yellow and foul, then thick and blue-black, the stink of burning flesh disgusting on the evening air. And they had left. But Nicholas bore the scars. He always would.

‘What has this to do with us now?’ Simon demanded harshly.

‘I left there soon afterwards. I grew ill with a sickness. Henry my lord was unwell too, and he and I left Wales to come here, to his home, to recuperate. It was here that I found some peace.’

‘With a woman?’ Baldwin asked, glowering.

‘She was willing!’ Nicholas protested at Baldwin’s tone, and then his eyes dropped. ‘When she conceived, I was delighted. My own child. And I saw to it that she and her family were looked after. When she decided to marry, I gave her money to help. Later, she and her husband and all their children died in a fire. Only my son survived, and he fled, but I was able to ensure that he wasn’t chased for being a runaway serf. Instead, I had him guided into the arms of Sir Henry’s retinue, where he was protected. He learned his skills as a warrior, and later he could come home again.’

‘This was Richer?’ Baldwin continued relentlessly. ‘You are his father?’

‘He is my only child.’

‘Be glad you have another coming, then,’ Baldwin said remorselessly. ‘Because I swear, if I find he is the murderer, I shall see him hanged.’

Nicholas stared at him, wanting to demand sympathy, but couldn’t. After a moment, he looked away again, and prayed that Richer might be safe.

Warin was noble by birth, and certainly didn’t fear this rabble. They made him want to laugh. There was none among them whom he would be concerned about individually, he grew aware of their eyes moving from one to another, like a pack of dogs working up the courage to make an attack. That was less amusing.

He couldn’t really permit them to take Richer, no matter what he had said before. Richer was his servant, and no one was going to take him against Warin’s will. The squire was more than powerful enough to prevent a small group from lynching his man. Still, he must also be seen to be fair. He didn’t want to be thought of as harbouring a fugitive from justice. That was not the way to gain the respect of the peasants.

A strange place this, when tempers were hot. The alewife was serving with a face like a wet week in Wales, while men fingered their stubble or hunched their shoulders and glowered.

In the far corner was an old man, hard to see at the other side of the room, just a dark smudge with eyes that twinkled as the firelight caught them. Then he sat forward, and Warin recognised Iwan. The old smith didn’t look away, but met his gaze calmly, a massive pot in his hand. Then he smiled, but somehow he still looked threatening. It was the eyes, Warin’s father had once said: the eyes told you about the soul. Watch his eyes and you’d see the attack before his hands could move. Warin wouldn’t want to have Iwan as an enemy … at least not if Iwan was younger.

Richer was anxious: Warin could sense fear oozing from his pores like sweat. Couldn’t blame him. This was the most dangerous situation Richer had ever endured. Going into battle with friends at his side was one thing: sitting and waiting for a man who was sworn to see his destruction while on all sides his enemy’s friends fenced him in, that took courage.