Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

It was then, when he had gone only a short way, that Gervase saw the tiny figures breasting the hill.

‘The bastard! There he is!’ Nicholas shouted, waving his hand, and then he clapped his spurs to his horse and sped away.

Baldwin kicked his own beast, but he was exhausted. They had covered at least ten leagues without pause, mostly at a good pace, and Baldwin’s and Simon’s rounseys were feeling the distance. It would be fortunate indeed if they could make the return without suffering strains.

‘Warin, keep with him, in God’s name!’ Baldwin bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t let him kill the man!’

Warin gave him a negligent wave of his hand, and then snapped his reins and set off after the castellan. Baldwin patted his horse’s neck, and then tried to urge him on again. The horse was game, and after tossing his mane, he started at a loping pace down the long shallow incline towards the men at the bottom. Simon’s horse trailed after them.

Baldwin could see that Gervase was in no better condition than them. He was sore-footed, from the look of him, and he stepped towards them with a gingerish manner, as though he was testing his feet. Baldwin couldn’t make out what he was doing, until Simon pulled up alongside him and roared to Nicholas and Warin: ‘He’s on a bog! Beware the marshes!’

But Nicholas and Warin were too far away to hear. Baldwin feared that they might run headlong into the mire and be swallowed, but even as he and Simon thrashed at their mounts, Gervase suddenly slipped beneath the crust, his legs and belly sinking below the green thatch.

His horse panicked, and leaped back as he disappeared, and then, as the reeds and grasses wobbled about him, he tried to jump. His momentum carried him over one patch, and he gathered himself and flung himself into the air again. This time, his landing was in the midst of a pool, and he reared, his hindquarters already disappearing in the filth that sucked him down. He splashed with his forelegs, but it could avail him nothing. All he achieved was a more speedy destruction. As he flailed, the mire’s grip grew more strong, and by the time Baldwin and Simon caught up with Warin and Nicholas, the horse was already so worn out that he could scarcely lift his forelegs. He looked at the men with eyes maddened with fear, and Baldwin could read the plea, but he had no bow to put him out of his misery.

‘Help!’

Nicholas glanced at Gervase with a sardonic expression. ‘It’s a shame you brought that mount. He was worth something. A good horse is hard to find, and you’ve thrown him away.’

‘Do you have a rope?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I wouldn’t let you use it if I did,’ Nicholas replied, his forearms crossed over his horse’s withers as he watched Gervase slipping relentlessly under the surface.

Baldwin glanced back at Gervase. He was petrified. This was surely one of the most hideous of deaths: slow suffocation as the body was taken down into the mire. It made Baldwin shudder to think of it, and as he did so, he saw Gervase’s horse rear one last time. The brave mount was fighting, but his efforts were doing him no good, and were even helping Gervase to die more swiftly. The ripples from his straining were lapping the mire ever higher on Gervase’s breast now, and the waters were almost up to his armpits.

‘Please!’ he begged.

It was piteous. The horse’s head alone was visible now, and the eyes, red with terror, stared at the men standing so still at the edge of the mire. He looked at them accusingly, as though they could do something to save him, and then his head disappeared quite suddenly. It burst upwards once, a black froth blowing from both nostrils, a jet of mud from his mouth, and then he sank down again, and the bog moved twice, thrice, and then was still.

‘Please! Sir Baldwin — Squire! Won’t you save me?’

‘Die, you bastard!’ Nicholas roared. ‘Why should we save a murderer and adulterer? Die there, and take your time. I want to enjoy this.’

Baldwin was looking about him, but there was no hope of assistance. There were no buildings in sight, not even a small plume of smoke to betray a tin-miner’s camp. Reluctantly he accepted that they must either watch the man die, or try at least to reach him somehow.

He dropped from his horse. They were more than fifty yards from Gervase here, and Baldwin had no idea where the mire began. Gervase had managed to cross from here, so it must be relatively safe. He pulled off his cloak and untied his belt. With luck, the two together would give him the reach to rescue the steward if he could get close enough. He looked up at Simon, and Simon nodded, pulling his own belt free and joining Baldwin.

‘Simon, I’ll go over there, and try to reach him with my cloak. It’s five feet long, and if he catches it, I can perhaps haul him free.’

‘You’re too heavy. I’d best go,’ Simon said shortly.

Baldwin was going to argue, but Simon was serious, and Baldwin had to agree that he had right on his side. He was lighter, and could go farther on the rippling thatch than Baldwin. The knight nodded. ‘Be careful, Simon.’

‘That has to rate as one of the most pointless comments you’ve ever made,’ Simon said thinly.

This was the aspect of the moors which he found most frightening. There was something about mires which brought out dread in any man with sense. They shifted and moved every year, like animals seeking fresh prey, and even when they dried up in the summer’s heat, they were dangerous. A patch of firm grass could become a lethal trap for the unwary as a man fell into a hole that could be yards deep, from which the water had drained.

But the water was not drained from this one. This was at its most lethal, full to the brim, and working with that strange ability of mires, pulling on a man’s feet to suck him beneath the surface. Gervase’s expression was waxen, corpse-like. His eyes, terrified, stared at Simon with the full knowledge of his doom, should Simon fail.

If there was one breed Simon hated, it was murderers who hurt women. This man, he knew, might have killed Athelina and cut her children’s throats. But he might be innocent, and Simon was no judge. Swearing under his breath, he eyed the land between him and Gervase. He could walk a certain distance, and continued until he felt the telltale springiness underfoot and saw the tussocks of grass and rushes bouncing with each of his footsteps. Then he cautiously crouched down and inched his way forward.

It was painstaking work. The ground so close to his nose reeked of foul exhalations. Every movement reminded him of his own danger, as a shift of his knee made the carpet under his chest move. He swore under his breath and moved again, trying to unsettle the ground as little as possible. Then, when he was within a couple of yards of Gervase, there was a belch of gas from where the steward’s horse had been swallowed, and Simon felt the ripples expand outwards, jigging him up and down. Gervase was more obviously affected. The tears streamed down his cheeks, both now at water-level. His expression was one of simple anguish. He was convinced of his impending death, certain that nothing Simon could do might save him.

‘Take the fucking thing!’ Simon swore.

Gervase looked at him and lunged at the belt that lay within his grasp. He overbalanced and then almost drowned. His face sank below the water, and it was only by a lucky chance that he caught the belt.

‘God save us from sodding stewards,’ Simon muttered to himself as he began to haul on the belt, moving backwards, then pulling, then moving back again. Gradually, the sodden figure of Gervase emerged from the bog, gasping for breath and sobbing in relief.

‘So why did he come back to scare me?’ Julia asked again.