The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (3 page)

Now Nicholas must get home to his darling wife, though. And with that thought, he clapped spurs to his mount and trotted down the lane.

Aye, his wife: my Lady Anne. Anne of the dark hair, the slender body, the almost boylike figure, the small, high breasts, the perfectly oval features, the warm, soft lips … Anne, his own lady, his love. She was enough to make an old man like him want to give up fighting. He might be a grizzled old warrior of six and forty years, while she was only two-and-twenty, but she swore that he pleased her more than any lad her own age, and by God’s heart, how she had proved it! He was exhausted by her when she had taken too much wine.

He was still smiling to himself when he saw Athelina walking ahead of him on the road.
Beautiful
Athelina, as the men had always known her … now past her prime. Even Gervase wouldn’t look at her, these days. He now had a new strumpet, so village gossip said.

Athelina lived out on the road towards Susan’s tavern. She stopped at the sound of his horse. A tall woman, she was still striking, in a shabby way. At her side were her two sons. One, the twelve year old, held on to her hand, while the other, a couple of years younger, clutched at her skirts as he stared at Nicholas.

Poor Athelina had been widowed some while before. Her husband Hob had contracted a wasting disease that killed him within a fortnight. Now she had nothing: only a rented, tumbledown cottage, insufficient food for herself and the boys, not even the solace of a man. It was very sad. She depended utterly on the generosity of others.

Yes, Nicholas had cause to be proud. His own wife would never be a beggar – he’d see to that. Anne would never want for anything while he lived.

Nor yet, he hoped, when he died.

To the west of the vill, Serlo the miller scratched first at his beard, then at his groin. The last of the flour was trickling into his sacks while the rumbling of the great wooden water-wheel continued behind him. He glanced at the deeply engrained bloodstains on it, then at the bright white oak of the four new teeth.

Milling was not the easiest of jobs when the harvests were poor, and Serlo had much to do to make up the losses of last year. Damn all apprentices! The idiots! They were none of them worth their upkeep. Danny, the last one, had never worked as hard as he should, and then, last year, the miserable churl had slipped as he passed by the machine.

Serlo kept reliving it in his nightmares. For months afterwards he had a sickly fear of going to his bed. When Danny had stumbled, his left hand was holding a full sack at his shoulder. As he toppled, Serlo could read the thought in his startled, fearful eyes: If I drop this, he’ll thrash me to death!

Serlo was furious when he kept dropping the sacks. Dan had wasted so much good flour, it would have been cheaper to tip away a twelfth of all his millings than to keep the apprentice on. The next time Dan let a sack slip, Serlo warned him, he’d thrash him until there was no flesh left on his back. And so poor Danny had kept a good hold as he went over, and this was his undoing. His right hand grasped the first thing that came to him – the moving, toothed wheel – and before he knew what was happening, his arm was caught by the great teeth and crushed between the upper and lower wheels.

Serlo had tried to prise the lad free, to slow the wheels and save his life … but he was fighting against the power of the mill
and the river. He could do nothing, and Danny was chewed inexorably into the machine, his face contorted in a final scream of terror. Then a great gush of blood spewed upwards, covering the miller, his apprentice and the wheels which had destroyed him.

At least his body hadn’t ruined the mill. Four teeth had to be replaced, which cost some money, but the seven-year-old bones weren’t hard enough to do much damage to the machinery.

The real expense came from that interfering old git, Sir Simon of Launceston, the Coroner. He’d hurried there at the first sniff of money, and fined Serlo instantly for removing the body from the machine, then fined him again for not calling the Coroner personally. Finally, and punishingly, he had fined him the
deodand
. Whatever the material or animal that had caused a death, it was always
deodand
, its worth forfeit for the crime of murder. If a man killed with a knife, if a maid was crushed by a bull, if a mill killed a boy, the knife, the bull or the mill were assessed so that their value could be taken. The mill had crushed the boy: the mill-wheel, the water-wheel, the two great cogs – all had led to Danny’s death, so all must be
deodand
.

That was the Coroner’s argument, and it took all of Serlo’s eloquence to persuade him that it was only the wheel which was at fault. You couldn’t blame the water-wheel or the shaft or the building, it was just the cogged wheel. The Coroner countered that it was both cogged wheels at least, for the lad was crushed between the two, and although Serlo tried to point out that one had captured Dan and dragged him in, so only one was guilty, the Coroner would have none of it. If Serlo wanted to argue further, he said, Serlo could do so in the King’s court.

Not that it was all down to Sir Simon. At each argument the knight conferred with his clerk, a greasy little toe-rag called Roger who stared at Serlo like a man studying a dog’s turd on his boot.

And now Serlo had a thundering debt on his hands. He had been forced to borrow heavily just to be able to pay the
deodand
. Eighteen whole pennies, for one wheel alone! Christ’s cods, that was a huge amount for one cretinous apprentice who couldn’t even walk straight. Then there were the extra charges – the one for the grave, the cost of the services held in the brat’s memory, the fee for the mourners … as the apprentice’s master, Serlo had to foot the whole sodding bill.

Danny had cost Serlo dearly, and yet the miller couldn’t help but miss the little devil. His cheery smile, his prattling … Not that he’d let people realise that. He didn’t want them thinking he was some weak, sentimental fool. No, if he did that, they’d all assume that they could get away with fleecing him. He knew that many of the locals considered him a fool, a few sticks short of a bundle. They respected his brother, but only because Alexander was ruthless, so Serlo copied him as best he could. At the Coroner’s inquest he’d pretended to be unaffected by Danny’s death. Maybe he ought to have shown his sorrow, but then people would have sniggered at him.

Life, he sighed to himself, was a shit.

Hearing a shout, he glanced up. Someone was trying to cross the bridge. Serlo grunted and made his way up the stairs to the bridge, where he had erected a gate. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded suspiciously, his hand straying to his cudgel.

‘Travellers, miller. What’s this thing here?’

‘Can’t you see the board?’ Serlo asked sarcastically. ‘It’s a toll. You want to cross the bridge, you have to pay. It’s two pennies.’

‘Why should we pay?’

‘It’s no business of mine, master. If you won’t, you won’t, but then you’ll have to ride back to the other road, a good two miles west, and approach the vill again. That’ll take you a good couple of hours.’

‘There never used to be a toll here.’

This voice was lower, more malevolent. Peering at them shortsightedly, Serlo felt a sudden twinge of fear. Both men were on horseback; their mounts were large beasts – good, expensive-looking horseflesh. One of them was so dark it was almost black, the other was deep chestnut, but it wasn’t the horses that caught his attention so much as the riders. Both, now he studied them, had the aura of wealth, like servants in a rich man’s household. The bigger of the two was wearing a green tunic and hosen, while his companion was clad in a red tunic; there was a richness to its colour where the sun caught it, like a fine silk. Here, some distance west of Cardinham, Serlo was more than a little exposed. If these two were of a mind, they could vault the gate and chase after him on their mounts. He’d not be able to escape them.

‘Lordings,’ he said with more respect, ‘it’s not my choice to charge honest men to cross the river, but my lord’s. We built this bridge with our own strength, and still owe money for the work. What else can we do? My lord said that we must ask travellers to pay for our efforts, because the thing’s not here for our benefit. It’s for yours.’

‘Scant benefit to me,’ shrugged the rider wearing the green tunic. He was the larger of the two, and as he ambled his mount forward, Serlo saw that he had a massive frame, with a right shoulder that held muscles like knots in an oaken board. The tendons of his neck were as thick as ropes.

‘Miller, open that gate!’ the man commanded.

‘Look, give me a penny if you like and I won’t tell my master that I—’

‘Silence! We could push the thing over if we wished,’ the first man said. ‘If you have any complaints about us not paying, let me know later when I’m in a mood to listen.’

‘It sounded as though this miller was asking us to pay him instead of his master,’ said the second pensively.

‘Is that what you wanted, man? You’d embezzle money due to your master?’

‘No, of course not. That would be treason! But my master will want me to settle any missing debts. I’ll have to tell him that you both passed by without paying the toll levied here.’

‘Your master? What’s his name?’

The man-at-arms made an irritable gesture.

Reluctantly, Serlo moved forward and slid the bar from its rests, swinging the gate wide. ‘Sir Henry of Cardinham, lord of this manor. Not that he’s here right now; he lives in his own big palace near the King, so I hear. He’s part of the King’s household, so you shouldn’t cross him. Nicholas is his castellan. He’s there in the castle now, I expect, and he has a foul temper – so I shouldn’t try to plead ignorance about the tolls and evading them.’

‘Oh aye? Then we’ll be careful, won’t we, Richer?’ the larger man said. ‘If our new master is so brutal, we’ll have to watch ourselves!’

Serlo heard his laughter, and felt the shock of the words like a wave that broke over him. He peered at the second man, and recognition kicked in his bowels. It was mutual.

‘So,
little
miller, it’s you! You weren’t a miller when I was last here.’

‘Some of us have bettered ourselves in the last years, I suppose,’ Serlo said defensively.

‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ the man called Richer said softly.

As the two meandered away, up the lane eastwards towards the castle, Serlo could only wonder what Richer atte Brooke was doing back here in Cardinham.

After all, it was fifteen years since he’d fled the vill, when all his family had died in a fire.

Gervase, steward of Cardinham Castle, watched Nicholas leave with a sense of relief. It was hard enough keeping the men working
without
having the master of the castle hanging around, watching everything with that stupid grin plastered all over his face. It made Gervase feel queasy. Nick had once been his best friend, but now … Well! It was better that the fool should go and leave his steward to do his work without interruption.

He sighed, leaning on his staff. Before Nicholas had married the pair of them had grown into an easy, comfortable relationship; they had become close. As castellan, Nicholas was responsible for the law all about the manor, while Gervase was in charge of the maintenance of the estates. Under them, the manor had flourished. And then, six years ago,
she
had arrived, the Lady Anne, and Gervase had lost his companion.

Cardinham Castle had, until then, been a quiet place. Sir Henry had won favour with the King, and was today a member of Edward’s household, surviving the many twists and turns of politics. He had been given an estate in Kent, once the possession of a man who had been proved to be a traitor, and lived with the King. He had not been to Cardinham for at least twenty years, so the place was more or less under the permanent control of Nicholas and Gervase his steward.

Anne had been a forlorn traveller, only sixteen years old, orphaned by the Scottish wars and half-starved by the famine. Nicholas had seen her, this sad little chit, and apparently been immediately smitten. His heart was hers. It was a strange sight, the grizzled old warrior so besotted. It was more than simple lust. If it had been only that, he could have taken her and been satisfied, but there was something else about her that attracted a man. Gervase had felt it too. She was fresh and fragrant –
lovely
; bewitching to any man with red blood in his veins. Even her melancholia was entrancing. It made a man want to slay dragons to lay at her dainty feet. She was adorable.

When the two made their oaths at the church door, Nicholas holding her hands with reverence, as though he was holding the
hands of an angel, Gervase had felt his heart swell with pride, a sense that the manor was honoured. He had looked at his friend’s smiling face, glad to see him so happy. Nicholas had lost the frivolity of bachelorhood and gained the stern duty of responsible manhood. He now had a woman to serve and protect, a duty and honour he would relish, Gervase knew.

At the time, Gervase had not realised that he had lost his companion for ever.

Stumping into the vill later that day, Serlo frowned at all about him. He was in no mood for a chat. He had a task to perform – not a pleasant one, either.

Serlo had tried figuring out all the ways he could of earning a little more money. There were the tolls, of course. He’d done what he could with them, but the fact was that the threatening clouds of war were putting travellers off. Even the merchants who normally came this way had stopped. Serlo had borrowed heavily to buy ‘the farm of tolls’ – the right to charge – and it was all wasted. It was so bad, he’d gone to speak to Gervase, but the steward had only grinned smarmily at him, saying that once he’d bought the right to charge tolls there was no mechanism to reduce it or give him a refund.