Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

He could remember the pair of them from when he was young, and the stories about them and their father — and the death of their mother.

Their father, Almeric, had crowed over his firstborn, apparently, and had been prompted by the rector to name him after some King of ancient times; then, after many miscarriages, Serlo had been born too, their mother dying during childbirth and leaving their father broken-hearted. At once Alexander had taken responsibility for his sibling. A friend of Richer’s mother had given birth not long before and was still in pap, so she wetnursed the new baby. When Serlo cried for milk, Alexander fetched her; Alexander changed his soiled clouts and washed them. It was Alexander who fed the child when he was weaned, and Alexander who taught him to walk, to play, and later to use a sling to bring down pigeons for the pot.

It was a lot for a youngster to cope with, but Almeric had been useless. Devastated by the death of his wife, he became jealous and resentful, as though he blamed everyone else in the world for her going. He grew into a tight-fisted, grasping soul who saw any money as his own, and only relinquished it with difficulty, as though handing it over was more painful than drawing a tooth. It was no surprise that afterwards his sons should have become so money-minded.

In a small vill like Cardinham, a man’s behaviour towards his children was noticed and commented upon, and men often had to warn Almeric to stop chastising the boys. Richer could remember his own father going over there to restrain Almeric when he was drunk. The trouble was, Richer heard his father confide to the old blacksmith Iwan over a pot of cider, he had never forgiven Serlo for causing his wife’s death, and could scarcely look at the boy without cursing him. When Alexander defended him, Almeric took his strap to Alexander too, reinforcing the unity of the pair, until they became as one, like two pieces of steel forge-welded by a smith, crushed together by the blows of fate until no man could have separated them.

The two lads had grown like that, bullied by their father, who relied on other men’s wives to see to his children and growing ever more bitter. No matter how diligent he was in the search for more wealth, he remained poor. His general ineffectualness with his sheep and single ox meant that he was never in a position to improve his lot. Alexander had been loyal, though. He had defended his incompetent father before all the rest of the vill, resorting to fists from an early age. Once he had thumped Richer when he laughed at Almeric’s foolish rage after one of his sheep had escaped from his fold and wandered onto the lord’s lands. It ate the lord’s corn, and was thus forfeit at a time when Almeric could least afford it. Alexander battered Richer unmercifully for that, but he wouldn’t try that again in a hurry. Not now. Richer was stronger than both of them and had the protection of the lord of the manor.

Alexander was staring back at him now, with those curious, pale eyes of his. He had a way of staring that was unsettling; like a man who was so taken with concentrating on a single thought that normal human instincts were forgotten.

If it weren’t for having met Athelina again, Richer could regret ever coming back to Cardinham. There was nothing for him here; the brothers ruled everything. Or had done. Perhaps now Squire Warin would make a difference.

Glancing about him, Richer tried to spot Athelina, but there were too many people in the church as the priest stood intoning the strange words of the language which only priests and religious understood. Richer often wondered if the words actually meant something. Monks and canons said that they did, but if a man couldn’t understand words, didn’t that prove they were meaningless?

No, there was no sign of her through the press of bodies in the nave. It was a shame. Athelina alone made his return worthwhile. She was older, a little worn, beset by a thousand fears and regrets, but within she was still the same loving woman he had known before. Her smile could outshine the sun, and seeing him again, she had lost that hunted look. She was, for a few moments at least, his lover from fifteen years ago. He could love her again. Perhaps he could marry her … she might accept him, even after all this time.

As Richer mused, he saw Serlo nudge his older brother again. They were scared; both of them. So they should be! If Richer could, he would put the wind up them infinitely more before many hours were past.

There were times when Alex could cheerfully have put his hands about his brother’s neck and throttled him. The damned fool was so keen on antagonising other people.

However, it was hard to see what Serlo could have done this time. Richer had only recently reappeared, and he seemed to have taken up where they had all left off so many years ago, hating Serlo and Alex just as much as before. He couldn’t blame them for the accident, surely. Then he saw Richer gaze about him expectantly. Perhaps that was it — Athelina! Yes, he’d loved her before he left, and maybe he hoped to pick up with her again, all these years later.

Whatever his gripe. Alexander wouldn’t demean himself by exchanging nasty stares in the middle of the Mass. Instead he faced the altar again and relaxed. He was in God’s House.

If only he could have taught poor Serlo to be more self-possessed. The trouble was, whenever he tried to correct him, his brother got upset — wore a confused, hurt expression as if to say, ‘Can’t I be praised even this once?’ For Serlo, there could never be enough praise.

Perhaps it was all because he was so spoiled when he was younger. He didn’t have to work as a child — not so much as Alexander — and didn’t appreciate the efforts needed to protect himself and his family now that he was grown up.

Still, no matter what, Alexander would continue to protect him. Alexander knew how to, and knew he must. There were always ways. And if Richer atte Brooke thought he could march back to his old vill and start throwing his weight about, he had another think coming.

As Father Adam lifted the cup of wine high over his head and muttered his incantation, Alex promised himself that he would personally draw Richer’s guts if the man posed any threat to Serlo. He’d kill any man who threatened his little brother.

As Father Adam broke the bread, in the cottage nearby, beyond the broad green, there was a creaking. A rat scuttled under the door and squatted, sniffing, his nose twitching at the rich odours. Soon he lowered himself again and pattered silently along the edge of the floor until he reached the palliasse. There he stopped and sniffed again, and his tongue shot out to lick at the mess on the edge of the rough mattress.

When a gust of wind blew, the door rattled and the rat hesitated, but it wasn’t that which made him pause and then scurry from the place: it was the slow and mechanical squeak from the rafter overhead.

The slow squeak of the hempen rope bound tightly about the woman’s neck.

The view here, so high on the moors, was splendid, and John never tired of it. His little Mass complete, he stood in the small churchyard at Temple and gazed about him as the tiny congregation departed homewards.

Here, staring out over the peaceful countryside, John was filled with a sense of ease, of all being well in his world. Strange to think that even a short time ago this had been such a sad place. On the orders of the Pope himself, the King had confiscated the manor and forcibly evicted those living here, for this had been the site of a flourishing little manor owned by the Knights Templar, the Order to which it still owed its name.

John was some eight and thirty years old now, so when the Knights were all arrested in France, he would have been twenty-one; that was back in 1307. The Knights were tortured to confess to their sins. Terrible they were, too — so foul, so heinous, as to deserve the censure of the whole world.