Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘I cannot believe he killed anyone. He’s too gentle.’

‘Athelina was Gervase’s woman. It is possible that Gervase grew convinced that Serlo had murdered her and her sons; that enraged him, and he exacted retribution.’

‘But why should he kill the miller in that terrible way?’

‘Many say Gervase was father to the apprentice Dan who died in the mill at Serlo’s hands. Gervase thought Serlo had killed his son as well as his lover.’

‘No!’

‘So, as I say, I think you should look to finding another protector, Lady Anne. Because there is good reason to doubt that Gervase will have that potential for much longer.’

‘I am lucky that my husband is returned,’ she said with a cool smile. ‘He will protect me.’

‘Even when you give birth to a bastard?’ Baldwin asked, and her face shattered like a window struck by a stone.

Simon was intrigued as they returned to the hall. He said, speaking low so that no one above could hear him, ‘What do we do about this, then, Baldwin? Did Warin give convincing reasons for thinking Nicholas murdered these people?’

‘He said that Nicholas probably guessed that he wasn’t really the father of his wife’s child, and deduced that his own friend Gervase, a known philanderer, had been disloyal. He was hurt and offended, and wanted to destroy Gervase’s happy memories. That was why he killed Athelina, but also why he killed Serlo, producing “evidence” which would appear to show that Gervase killed Serlo in a fury because of the death of his own son.’

Baldwin fell silent, his face creased with concern, and Simon sucked his teeth. ‘You think that makes sense?’

‘Not really. If he wanted to avenge his son’s death, Gervase would have done so sooner. The drive for revenge is less after a year. It could only be credible if there were another reason for him to kill.’

‘I suppose a man could allow his desire to avenge his son’s death to lie dormant until a suitable opportunity arose,’ Simon suggested.

‘Hardly likely, but possible,’ Baldwin said grudgingly. ‘Apart from that, the idea was sound. Nicholas kills Athelina and her children, presumably hoping that people will assume Gervase was trying to remove an irritation — this woman who kept demanding money from him. And then he kills Serlo because of the death of his son some months ago.’

‘The alternative is, of course, that Gervase himself was guilty,’ Simon said.

‘Yes — which magnifies our existing reservations about Nicholas’s guilt,’ Baldwin grunted tiredly.

‘We mustn’t forget Richer. He believed that Athelina was murdered by Serlo, so it may well be he murdered Serlo in his turn.’

Baldwin nodded unwillingly. ‘Except that Richer would never have had the imagination to thrust Serlo’s head into the machine: that displays more thought than I would expect from a warrior like him. Ach, I don’t know! Let us wait until morning, then pray that we find Gervase and learn a little more from him, because otherwise we’ll end up with that fool of a Coroner coming to his own conclusions, and I doubt that the guilty man would then pay for his crimes!’

In Adam’s house, Julia banked up the priest’s fire, and then stood gazing about her at the room. Poor Adam, being held at the castle — but from what she’d heard, he’d tried to murder a man. It was hard to believe, although Julia knew well enough that any man was capable of violence if he got into his cups. Perhaps he’d been drinking a little too much of his wine in the church. She only hoped that he’d soon be released, because if he wasn’t, her future looked uncertain. Where would she live if she was thrown from this place? It didn’t bear thinking of.

Still, all was quiet for the night, and being a pragmatic woman, she put her fears from her. Taking a foul-smelling tallow candle from its spike in a beam and shielding its flame from the draughts, she walked from the hall into the parlour, and through that out to her little room beyond.

She set the candle on the spike and peered down at her baby. Ned lay quietly, snuffling a little in his sleep, but looked well enough, and she pulled up the old blanket a little, tucking it over his shoulder, before starting to untie her belt and make ready for bed herself.

It was a cold night, so she took off her overtunic, but left on her shirt and shift. With a shiver, she went to the door and dropped the wooden slat into its two slots, one on the door, one on the wall, which served her as a lock, and then went to her stool and ran her old bone comb through her hair a few times. It snagged and caught on the knots, but she persevered.

She was almost done when she heard something. There was a slight rattle, as though a stone had been kicked against her wall by an incautious foot. It was odd enough for her to pause, head tilted, listening intently, but she heard nothing more, so she shrugged to herself and pulled the comb through her hair again.

There was a stumble. She heard it distinctly, the slip of a leather sole on loose gravel, then a muttered curse. It made her leap up, ready to demand who was wandering about Adam’s yard, but then a little caution came to her. Athelina’s death had affected many in the vill, and suddenly Julia felt a faint expectation of danger. She caught her breath, thinking of Athelina’s children, and threw a nervous look at her own sweet boy, before walking stealthily across the room to her clothes. On her belt there hung a little knife, not much protection, but better than nothing at all.

The door was moving. She could see the timbers shift, could hear the wood scraping on the packed earth of the threshold, the hinges protest. Gripping her knife firmly, she stepped forward, her brow tight with anticipation and fear. ‘Who is that?’

There was no answer, but suddenly the door was struck a huge blow, and the planks rattled, the slat almost jumping out of the sockets. She screamed. Behind her, her baby moved, jerking awake, but she paid no attention. Her whole being was focused on the door, the door which leaped and bounced as blows were rained upon it.

And then, suddenly, there was silence, apart from the noise of her child sobbing with terror, and her breathing, ragged and fast. Her eyes moved about the room, but there was nothing; only the door gave access. That and the roof. Her eyes were drawn upwards, and even as she heard the first sounds of the thatch being attacked, she screamed again, a primeval shriek of a hunted animal.

There was a renewed pounding on her door, and she nearly died of fright, but then she heard Ivo’s voice, and with a blessed burst of relief, pulled the slat aside to let him in.

Baldwin woke with a tearing pain in his flank, and he pulled a grimace as he rolled sideways off the bench.

‘This is too much!’ he groaned.

There had been a time when he would have been happy to roll off a bench in the early morning. When he had been a Knight Templar, he would have woken earlier, and fresher, even if there had been neither bench nor rug. He would have been able to spring awake, leaping from his mat on the floor with the excitement of the new dawn. Not now. He was grown lazy and fat, and the last few weeks of travel had tired his frame. Even his bones seemed to ache and complain.

This wrenching pain was a little different, though. It felt as though he had torn a muscle in his side and he felt the area gingerly as he sat on the bench. It wasn’t serious, he thought, but it would slow him today.

It was still dark. From here, at the top of the steps, Baldwin could see the thin glimmering on the eastern horizon, but as yet the only light here came from the torches and braziers, their yellow and red hues flickering, throwing up occasional sparks. The castle was already awake. There was a shouting and the clattering of hooves from the stables, which showed that Nicholas’s men had heeded his command that they should all be ready to leave at first light, and there was a swirling rasp of metal from the smithy, where some squires and others were whetting their blades with the great spinning circular stone.